Read Online This Too Shall Pass by Milena Busquets - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Milena Busquets
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them.
—You’re closed, hard as a rock, as if your heart were locked inside a cage.
—My mother just died, I answer.
—Ah, well. She keeps silent, which shows without a shadow of a doubt that she’s a complete phony. A real witch would have had more resources when confronted by death. —Well, she finally responds, —I have essential oils that help open the heart, you burn them at night, before sleeping—
—I’m sorry, but I really dislike that New Age stuff, I say, interrupting, thinking I should never have let her feel my tits up. —I don’t believe in natural medicine, or homeopathy, none of that stuff.
—Not even Bach flower remedies? she asks, horrified, clutching tightly at the little gold cross with a tiny ruby in the center that she’s wearing around her neck.
—No, not even that.
She looks at me with pity, apparently feeling sorrier that I don’t believe in her esoteric paraphernalia than that I just lost my mother.
—My grandfather was a doctor, a surgeon, and in my house we believed in science, I apologize.
She finishes her work in silence. She looks at my feet; my toenails are like little flames. When I leave, the beautician-witch gives me two small decanters of essential oil. —You’ll see, they’ll do you good. Take care now.
I’ll give them to the children, I think, so they can concoct their magic potions. They’re the ones who really understand.
Elisa shows up sporting a jean miniskirt, white sleeveless top, and silver sandals that just don’t match. She’s very tanned and her hair is down in a long, flowing cloud. She’s dressed for Damián, I think, a little begrudgingly. Dressing up for one particular man is very different from dressing up for men in general, or for nobody, which is how I choose my wardrobe lately. In any case, the most elegant people are those who dress for themselves. Elisa is not tall, but has a nice figure, she’s thin and feminine, and everything gravitates toward that butt of hers. When I tell her I like her hands, they’re thin and nervy, almost as big as mine despite our difference in height, she answers humbly, “They’re hands for getting things done.” And it’s true, they’re practical, realist hands, not the kind for slaying lions, like the hands of the men I like; neither are they hands for slaying souls, or for calling forth the gods and carrying old rings, like yours, Mom, although I’m sure they too can alleviate a fever and shoo nightmares away. If it weren’t for Elisa, I doubt anyone would ever eat. Sofía and I will nourish ourselves by way of yogurt, toast, and white wine, whatever it takes to avoid having to cook. And our children are so healthy and strong that sometimes I think all they need is a little water.
We’re having dinner at Carolina and Pep’s house and Hugo, Pep’s best friend, who is spending a few days with them, will be coming too. Another man I flirt with dreamily while Elisa and Sofía are talking about shoes.
Edgar comes up at that moment, long and flexible, his legs and arms bronzed. Nico is still a scrumptious little puppy, but Edgardo is already turning into a deer. His stride is drawled and languid, he sweeps the air as he drags his feet, which is how he’s been walking in my presence since becoming a teenager, as if every place we go is a tedium, as if he’s seen everything a million times before. He talks the same way, too lazy to finish his sentences, to relate, to explain, he’s just alive and that’s it. Suddenly he’ll have a talking spell—it happens about once a month—and he’ll spout on for two hours straight, telling me all his adventures at school. But since he’s almost lost the ability to express himself, at least with me, his words get all tangled up and he splits his side laughing at the same time he’s eating—his fits of grandiloquence usually occur precisely at dinner time; and despite making a staunch effort to concentrate and sharpen my ear, I never understand the
—You’re closed, hard as a rock, as if your heart were locked inside a cage.
—My mother just died, I answer.
—Ah, well. She keeps silent, which shows without a shadow of a doubt that she’s a complete phony. A real witch would have had more resources when confronted by death. —Well, she finally responds, —I have essential oils that help open the heart, you burn them at night, before sleeping—
—I’m sorry, but I really dislike that New Age stuff, I say, interrupting, thinking I should never have let her feel my tits up. —I don’t believe in natural medicine, or homeopathy, none of that stuff.
—Not even Bach flower remedies? she asks, horrified, clutching tightly at the little gold cross with a tiny ruby in the center that she’s wearing around her neck.
—No, not even that.
She looks at me with pity, apparently feeling sorrier that I don’t believe in her esoteric paraphernalia than that I just lost my mother.
—My grandfather was a doctor, a surgeon, and in my house we believed in science, I apologize.
She finishes her work in silence. She looks at my feet; my toenails are like little flames. When I leave, the beautician-witch gives me two small decanters of essential oil. —You’ll see, they’ll do you good. Take care now.
I’ll give them to the children, I think, so they can concoct their magic potions. They’re the ones who really understand.
Elisa shows up sporting a jean miniskirt, white sleeveless top, and silver sandals that just don’t match. She’s very tanned and her hair is down in a long, flowing cloud. She’s dressed for Damián, I think, a little begrudgingly. Dressing up for one particular man is very different from dressing up for men in general, or for nobody, which is how I choose my wardrobe lately. In any case, the most elegant people are those who dress for themselves. Elisa is not tall, but has a nice figure, she’s thin and feminine, and everything gravitates toward that butt of hers. When I tell her I like her hands, they’re thin and nervy, almost as big as mine despite our difference in height, she answers humbly, “They’re hands for getting things done.” And it’s true, they’re practical, realist hands, not the kind for slaying lions, like the hands of the men I like; neither are they hands for slaying souls, or for calling forth the gods and carrying old rings, like yours, Mom, although I’m sure they too can alleviate a fever and shoo nightmares away. If it weren’t for Elisa, I doubt anyone would ever eat. Sofía and I will nourish ourselves by way of yogurt, toast, and white wine, whatever it takes to avoid having to cook. And our children are so healthy and strong that sometimes I think all they need is a little water.
We’re having dinner at Carolina and Pep’s house and Hugo, Pep’s best friend, who is spending a few days with them, will be coming too. Another man I flirt with dreamily while Elisa and Sofía are talking about shoes.
Edgar comes up at that moment, long and flexible, his legs and arms bronzed. Nico is still a scrumptious little puppy, but Edgardo is already turning into a deer. His stride is drawled and languid, he sweeps the air as he drags his feet, which is how he’s been walking in my presence since becoming a teenager, as if every place we go is a tedium, as if he’s seen everything a million times before. He talks the same way, too lazy to finish his sentences, to relate, to explain, he’s just alive and that’s it. Suddenly he’ll have a talking spell—it happens about once a month—and he’ll spout on for two hours straight, telling me all his adventures at school. But since he’s almost lost the ability to express himself, at least with me, his words get all tangled up and he splits his side laughing at the same time he’s eating—his fits of grandiloquence usually occur precisely at dinner time; and despite making a staunch effort to concentrate and sharpen my ear, I never understand the
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