Read Online The Invisible Mountain by Carolina de Robertis - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carolina de Robertis
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slight—Oh, look, Pajarita, she is brown, she cannot read, isn’t it novel? Coco was not like that. She came in close, bold as a hare. Sometimes, after siesta hour, Pajarita lingered alone with her, helping her clean up, listening to her chatter and confessions. She gave Coco herbs to ease her female cycles, her nerves, her secret impatience with husband and daughter. They were easy to concoct out of the stash she’d brought from Tacuarembó and the wild trees and weeds in the neighborhood. In return for these gifts, Coco helped her write letters home.
“ ‘Dear Tía Tita,’ ”
she dictated, as Coco wrote and eked the last weak flavor from the
mate, “ ‘How is home? I miss you. Montevideo is colder this winter than the last. It’s never as hot as in Tacuarembó. Ignazio is well. He has been promoted at the port. He says business is good these days, there are many exports, because of the—’ ”
“War in Europe? No, don’t say that. That’s not happy news. How about ‘because of his hard work’?”
“Ta. ‘
How is Papá? How is everyone? The town? The family? The chickens? Send everyone my love. Thank you for the wool. And please let me know if you hear from Artigas
. Con cariño,
Pajarita
.’”
The late-siesta sun seeped through the window, grudging and golden, taking its time. The room smelled of mothballs and fresh sausage and soap. Coco finished writing and then laughed, for no good reason, her laugh a warm brass bell.
“Mi reina,”
Ignazio asked in bed, “are you lonely all day without me?”
Pajarita fingered the curls on his chest. “No.”
“Why not? You don’t love me?”
“Don’t be silly. I just like the neighborhood. I’ve made friends.”
“Men?”
“No.”
More grimly, this time, “men.”
“Please, Ignazio—no.”
The lighthouse swept its beam through the silence. It swept again. Ignazio sat up sharply. His broad silhouette blocked out the window. “I wish you would get pregnant.”
Pajarita sat up too. She turned on the lamp beside her and waited until the electric light no longer jarred their eyes. She had been stalling, waiting for the right moment, unable to intimate its shape. “I am.”
Ignazio’s face went blank, then soft, then (just for an instant) pained, then he kissed her mouth, her cheeks, her body. The light clicked off.
Being pregnant felt like turning into an orange: her skin turned taut and round and she was full of potency. She ripened more each day. The thing inside her made her sick until it made her euphoric, full of tears and heft and motion: the strange being inside her turned and lurched and pelted in the middle of the night, making her ravenous for the future.
Birth came the day that men across the oceans signed a paper to end war. On November 11, 1918, while the streets of Montevideo filled with drums and confetti and loud sweat, Pajarita lay at home in white-hot labor. She survived the birth without injuries, with the small exception of a scolding from the doctor for having squeezed the baby out while he was gone from the room. He had left to confer with Ignazio in the kitchen, when they heard a cry and ran to the bedroom to find Pajarita, red-faced, heavy-breathed, a drenched blue infant wailing between her thighs.
They named him Bruno. Friends filled the house, including Cacho and his wife, Consuelo, who had sewn baby clothes adorned with sequins; Coco and Gregorio Descalzo, with Begonia and their new baby girl and the ribs of a whole cow; the Punta Carretas women with their baskets of hot food; the Spaniard and Bajo the midget, bearing poker chips; and Pietro (tall and sparkly) and his wife and baby. Their little house swelled with noise and laughter. Cacho did magic tricks that made Sarita gape and Clarabel cheer like a sailor. The Spaniard fawned on La Viuda like a fresh young suitor, making the old woman blush for the first time in twenty years. María sang baby Bruno an Arabic lullaby as he drowsed against her prodigious
“ ‘Dear Tía Tita,’ ”
she dictated, as Coco wrote and eked the last weak flavor from the
mate, “ ‘How is home? I miss you. Montevideo is colder this winter than the last. It’s never as hot as in Tacuarembó. Ignazio is well. He has been promoted at the port. He says business is good these days, there are many exports, because of the—’ ”
“War in Europe? No, don’t say that. That’s not happy news. How about ‘because of his hard work’?”
“Ta. ‘
How is Papá? How is everyone? The town? The family? The chickens? Send everyone my love. Thank you for the wool. And please let me know if you hear from Artigas
. Con cariño,
Pajarita
.’”
The late-siesta sun seeped through the window, grudging and golden, taking its time. The room smelled of mothballs and fresh sausage and soap. Coco finished writing and then laughed, for no good reason, her laugh a warm brass bell.
“Mi reina,”
Ignazio asked in bed, “are you lonely all day without me?”
Pajarita fingered the curls on his chest. “No.”
“Why not? You don’t love me?”
“Don’t be silly. I just like the neighborhood. I’ve made friends.”
“Men?”
“No.”
More grimly, this time, “men.”
“Please, Ignazio—no.”
The lighthouse swept its beam through the silence. It swept again. Ignazio sat up sharply. His broad silhouette blocked out the window. “I wish you would get pregnant.”
Pajarita sat up too. She turned on the lamp beside her and waited until the electric light no longer jarred their eyes. She had been stalling, waiting for the right moment, unable to intimate its shape. “I am.”
Ignazio’s face went blank, then soft, then (just for an instant) pained, then he kissed her mouth, her cheeks, her body. The light clicked off.
Being pregnant felt like turning into an orange: her skin turned taut and round and she was full of potency. She ripened more each day. The thing inside her made her sick until it made her euphoric, full of tears and heft and motion: the strange being inside her turned and lurched and pelted in the middle of the night, making her ravenous for the future.
Birth came the day that men across the oceans signed a paper to end war. On November 11, 1918, while the streets of Montevideo filled with drums and confetti and loud sweat, Pajarita lay at home in white-hot labor. She survived the birth without injuries, with the small exception of a scolding from the doctor for having squeezed the baby out while he was gone from the room. He had left to confer with Ignazio in the kitchen, when they heard a cry and ran to the bedroom to find Pajarita, red-faced, heavy-breathed, a drenched blue infant wailing between her thighs.
They named him Bruno. Friends filled the house, including Cacho and his wife, Consuelo, who had sewn baby clothes adorned with sequins; Coco and Gregorio Descalzo, with Begonia and their new baby girl and the ribs of a whole cow; the Punta Carretas women with their baskets of hot food; the Spaniard and Bajo the midget, bearing poker chips; and Pietro (tall and sparkly) and his wife and baby. Their little house swelled with noise and laughter. Cacho did magic tricks that made Sarita gape and Clarabel cheer like a sailor. The Spaniard fawned on La Viuda like a fresh young suitor, making the old woman blush for the first time in twenty years. María sang baby Bruno an Arabic lullaby as he drowsed against her prodigious
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