Paula Read Online Free PDF Page B

I don’t know what she’s talking about. Nothing exists but you, Paula, and this space without time in which we both are trapped.
    In the long, silent hours, I am trampled by memories, all happening in one instant, as if my entire life were a single, unfathomable image. The child and girl I was, the woman I am, the old woman I shall be, are all water in the same rushing torrent. My memory is like a Mexican mural in which all times are simultaneous: the ships of the Conquistadors in one corner and an Inquisitor torturing Indians in another, galloping Liberators with blood-soaked flags and the Aztecs’ Plumed Serpent facing a crucified Christ, all encircled by the billowing smokestacks of the industrial age. So it is with my life, a multilayered and ever-changing fresco that only I can decipher, whose secret is mine alone. The mind selects, enhances, and betrays; happenings fade from memory; people forget one another and, in the end, all that remains is the journey of the soul, those rare moments of spiritual revelation. What actually happened isn’t what matters, only the resulting scars and distinguishing marks. My past has little meaning; I can see no order to it, no clarity, purpose, or path, only a blind journey guided by instinct and detours caused by events beyond my control. There was no deliberation on my part, only good intentions and the faint sense of a greater design determining my steps. Until now, I have never shared my past; it is my innermost garden, a place not even my most intimate lover has glimpsed. Take it, Paula, perhaps it will be of some use to you, because I fear that yours no longer exists, lost somewhere during your long sleep—and no one can live without memories.

    M Y MOTHER RETURNED TO HER PARENTS ’ HOME IN S ANTIAGO . A T THAT time, a failed marriage was considered the worst fate that could befall a woman, but as yet she did not know that, and returned with her head high. Ramón, the captivated consul, conveyed her, her children, the daunting Margara, the dog, and the trunks and boxes with the silver platters to the ship. As he bid her goodbye, he held her hands in his and repeated his promise to look after her forever, but she, distracted by the task of arranging her part in the limited space of the stateroom, rewarded him with the faintest of smiles. She was not unaccustomed to men’s attentions, and she had no reason to suspect that this insecure-looking official was to play an essential role in her future. Neither had she forgotten that he had a wife and four children. As for the rest, she was besieged by more urgent matters: the newborn was gasping for breath like a fish on dry land, the other two children were sobbing with fright, and Margara had lapsed into one of her surly, reproachful silences. Only when my mother heard the sound of the engines and the hoarse blast announcing the ship’s departure did she feel the first breath of the winds fast overtaking her. She could count on the refuge of her parents’ home, but she could not go back to her single days; it was as if she were a widow, she would have to assume responsibility for her children. She was beginning to wonder how in the world she would cope, when the slamming of the waves brought back the memory of the prawns of her honeymoon and she smiled with relief—at least she was nowhere in the vicinity of her bizarre husband. She was just twenty-five and had no idea how she would support herself, but it was not for nothing that the adventurous blood of that remote Basque sailor flowed through her veins.
    That is how I came to grow up in my grandparents’ house. Well, I say “grow” in a manner of speaking; the truth is that I never did grow much. With tremendous effort, I reached five feet, where I remained until a month ago when I noticed that the bathroom mirror seemed higher on the wall. “Oh, piffle, you’re not shrinking, it’s just that you’ve lost weight