A Long Petal of the Sea(52)
Father Urbina’s plan turned out to be extremely simple. Ofelia would spend the next few months far from Santiago, and then, when the size of her belly could no longer be hidden, she was to go to a convent, where she would be well looked after until she gave birth and would receive the spiritual aid she so desperately needed.
“And then?” asked Felipe.
“The boy or girl will be given in adoption to a good family. I personally will see to that. You must reassure your parents and sister and take care of the details. Of course, there will be some expenses…”
Felipe promised he would see to everything and reward the nuns. He asked that, when the delivery date was close, permission be given to Aunt Teresa, a nun in a different order, to be with her niece.
The months that followed in the family’s country property were a marathon of prayers, vows to the saints, penances, and acts of charity from Do?a Laura, while Juana Nancucheo took charge of the domestic routine. She looked after Baby, who had regressed to the days of diapers and had to be fed a pap of mashed vegetables with a spoon, and kept her eye on the fallen girl, as she called Ofelia. Installed in their Santiago house, Isidro del Solar pretended to have forgotten the drama taking place far away among the womenfolk, certain that Felipe had taken the necessary steps to silence any gossip. He was more worried about the political situation, which could affect his businesses. The Right had been defeated in the elections, and the new Radical Party president apparently intended to continue with his predecessor’s reforms. Chile’s position in the Second World War was vitally important to Isidro, as his wool exports to Scotland and Germany, which continued via Sweden, depended on it. The Right defended neutrality—why commit yourself if you might get it wrong?—but the government and general public supported the Allies. If that support became policy, his sales to Germany would go to the devil, he kept telling himself.
Ofelia managed to send Victor Dalmau a letter via the family chauffeur, before he was spectacularly sacked and she was sent off as a prisoner to the countryside. Juana, who detested the chauffeur, accused him without proof that she had seen him whispering with Ofelia. “I did tell you, patron, but you won’t listen. That oaf is the reason. It’s his fault ni?a Ofelia is pregnant.” The blood rushed to Isidro del Solar’s head so swiftly he thought his brain would explode. It was only natural that the boys in the family took advantage of the maids occasionally, but he couldn’t imagine his daughter doing the same with his pockmarked servant. He had a fleeting vision of his naked daughter in the arms of the chauffeur, that lowborn son of a bitch, in the room above the garage, and he almost passed out. He was enormously relieved when Juana explained that he was merely the go-between. Isidro summoned him to the library and shouted questions to get him to reveal the name of the man to blame; he threatened to have him arrested so that the police could beat and kick the truth out of him; when that had no effect, he tried to buy him off, but the man couldn’t tell him anything, because he had never seen Victor. All he could tell him were the times he’d left and picked up Ofelia from the art school. Isidro realized that his daughter had never been to her classes; she had always gone from the school on foot or in a taxi to her lover’s arms. The blasted girl was less stupid than he had imagined, or lust had made her cunning.
Ofelia’s letter contained the explanation she should have given Victor personally, but in the rare moments when she was able to call him, he didn’t answer at either his house or the Winnipeg. At their country estate she would be cut off from the outside world: the closest telephone was fifteen kilometers away. She wrote him the truth: that her passion had been like a drunken spree that had clouded her reason; that she now understood what he had always maintained—the obstacles keeping them apart were insurmountable. She admitted in a business-like fashion that in reality what she had felt was a loss of control of her feelings, rather than love; she had been swept away by the novelty of it, but couldn’t sacrifice her reputation and her life for him. She told him she would be going away on a trip with her mother for some time, and after that, when her mind had cleared, she would consider the possibility of going back to Matias. She ended the letter with a categorical farewell, and warned him not to try to communicate with her ever again.
Victor received Ofelia’s letter with the resignation of someone expecting it, and prepared for it. He had never believed their love would prosper, because as Roser indicated from the start, it was a plant without roots that was bound to wither. Nothing can grow in the shade of secrets, she would say, love needs light and space to flourish. Victor read the letter twice and handed it to Roser. “You were right, as ever,” he told her.
Roser had only to glance at it rapidly to read between the lines and grasp that Ofelia’s deathly cold tone only barely concealed an immense anger. She thought she understood the reason, which was not merely the lack of a future with Victor or a capricious young woman’s reaction. She guessed Ofelia had been kidnapped by her family to hide the shame of a pregnancy, but decided not to share her suspicion with Victor, because it seemed too cruel. What need was there to torment him with yet more doubts? She saw Ofelia as very vulnerable and na?ve, and felt a mixture of sympathy and pity for her; she was a Juliet swept up in the whirlwind of an adolescent passion, but instead of a youthful Romeo, she had become involved with a battle-hardened man.
She left the letter on the kitchen table, took Victor by the hand, and led him to the couch, the one piece of comfortable furniture in their modest house. “Lie down, I’ll scratch your head.” As Victor lay on the couch with his head in Roser’s lap and surrendered to the gentle touch of her pianist’s fingers in his hair, he felt certain that as long as she existed, he wouldn’t be alone in this world of misfortune. If with Roser the worst memories were bearable, so too would be the hole Ofelia had left in the center of his chest. He would have liked to unburden himself of the pain choking him, but he didn’t have the words to describe what he had experienced with her, or how at a certain point she had wanted them to run away together, how she had sworn they would always be lovers. He couldn’t tell her, but Roser knew him only too well and, doubtless, was already aware of it. They were interrupted when Marcel woke from his siesta and screamed for them.