The Spanish Daughter(62)

His lips were wet and salty, too hard. Our mouths didn’t belong together, like a lid trying to cover the wrong jar. His fingers squeezed my cheeks, his growing beard scratched my chin, and I stared horrified how he closed his eyes, immersed in this kiss that only produced in me a desire to run away.

What was wrong with me? I’d been wanting for years to have the affection of a man, but this was a mistake.

I didn’t love Franco. I pitied him because he had nothing and knew very little. His parents never paid him any attention. Nobody did. He’d been my project, my lost cause, but I couldn’t imagine a life married to him. Having his children. Living under the same roof. Goodness, when was this kiss going to end? I didn’t want to be the one to end it, but I didn’t want it to continue any longer. This was all I could take.

He was breathing hard now, pushing his body against mine. I had to stop him. Angélica told me years ago the consequences of being intimate with a man. I didn’t even want to think about Franco, naked, on top of me.

I didn’t know where the miniature violin went, I must have dropped it because my hands were suddenly empty when I pushed them against his hard chest.

“Franco, please.”

But he ignored my plea and found my mouth again. “Catalina, mi Catalina, I’ve loved you for so long.”

What had I done? I’d given him the wrong idea for years.

This had to be a punishment from the Virgin for all my lies. I was losing my only friend. I could see it happening already because I was not going to let this go on for much longer. My sister Angélica used to say I was a romantic; someone who didn’t see reality. I now understood what she meant. How stupid I’d been to think that Franco’s feelings for me were just as innocent as mine.

“We should stop,” I said weakly.

He seemed to be in some sort of trance. He pushed me toward the bed.

“I love you so much,” he was saying against my mouth.

“Franco, listen . . .”

As these rational thoughts muddled in my mind—how wrong this was, how I didn’t love Franco as a man, how our friendship would be ruined—something unexpected was happening to me.

My body had turned into a noodle, a slave to someone else’s will. Whereas seconds ago, I’d been somewhat repulsed by Franco’s intimacy, I now craved his proximity. Oh, God, I was being taken over by carnal desire.

My mother’s face came to mind. Frowning.

The Virgin’s sculpture in the Saints Room.

And Satan laughing.

I shook my head and pushed Franco.

“What’s wrong?” he said, his chest heaving. “I thought you were enjoying this.”

I sat up. “I’m sorry, Franco, this is wrong. I should have never let you kiss me.”

“But don’t you love me?” he said, his eyes looking sadder than ever.

Don’t give me that look. Please. For once I let my brain govern my heart.

“I do. But not like you’d like me to,” I said as softly as I could. “You’re like a brother to me.”

He was about to say something but didn’t. He sat up, his face stone cold. I reached out for his arm.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

He recoiled. “Don’t touch me.”

Oh, no. It was already happening. I’d lost my friend. He would never forgive me.

“Franco, you deserve someone who loves you the same way you do.”

“Stop lying! I know exactly what this is about.” He hit the mattress with his fist. “You’re ashamed of me because I’m not rich like your father, or elegant like your sister’s husband, or one of those fancy Europeans who roam around with their chins up, their fancy clothes and champagne glasses.”

My eyes were burning and a smell of smoke was becoming stronger as he spoke.

“I’m nothing but a low-class montubio,” he said, standing.

“Do you smell that?” I said.

Franco tucked his shirt back inside his trousers with hasty motions.

“Franco, what did you do with your cigarette?” I looked around for mine, but I’d left it downstairs, hadn’t I?

He paced the room. “I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid all these years. Dreaming about you. Believing that one day you’d be mine. To think that I would’ve done anything for you! Soy un imbécil.”

What had I done with my cigarette? There had been an ashtray downstairs, on top of the end table, but I couldn’t remember putting it there. And what about Franco? When we came upstairs, he didn’t have his cigarette, either.

I jumped out of bed and opened the bedroom door. Flames and smoke emerged from the first story and fanned up to the ceiling. I screamed.

On impulse, I shut the door. The blue smoke filtered into the room through the gap between the door and the floor. Holy Mother, the entire house was made out of wood!

“The window!” Franco said. “Quick!”

He undid the window latch and attempted to lift it, but it was stuck. Franco banged on the glass, then tried to lift it again until it slowly gave in. The glass trembled on its way up.

We heard coughing nearby. Someone else was in the house!

Franco looked at the door.

“My father!”

He turned back to me. “You’re going to have to jump,” he told me. “I’ll get my father.”