The mirror gave her no answers. Nor did it offer any hope or promises.
She had had to vow to Carmen that she would say nothing to Francisco. Beatriz had agreed both reluctantly and gladly. She did not like keeping secrets, especially from Francisco, but at the same time, what was the sense in worrying him so soon? And what if the Romeo of Monterrey had, in fact, died of flu? It was not that the future mother-in-law wanted the candidate for son-in-law to be dead—far from it—but it was possible that all of Carmen’s plans would evaporate in an instant.
Her husband was already weighed down with enough worry. On their return to Linares, she would of course find the best way and the best moment to give him the news. In the meantime, she would spare him this new source of anxiety.
For the time being, Beatriz was a new, albeit reluctant, accomplice to her daughter’s love life. When they sat at the table, between mouthfuls, Carmen would give her complicit looks and little smiles, to which she was expected to respond in some similar way. The problem was that Beatriz did not understand them; sometimes she wanted to answer, I’m very sorry, I don’t speak that language.
Not anymore.
She wanted to say to her: I think I remember speaking it, learning it, but at some stage, I don’t know when, I forgot it. Whether it was from neglect or because it’s a language to which only young people have access, I don’t know.
She said nothing, afraid to break the fragile connection.
As a young woman, Beatriz had always reflected on how it would feel to grow old. She observed her mother—old fashioned, elderly, diminished, prudish—and wondered if a person woke up one day saying, This is the moment my old age begins. Starting today, my brain will stop tolerating new ideas, my taste in clothing will stop evolving, my hairstyle will remain the same forevermore, I will read and reread the novels that brought me pleasure in my youth with nostalgia, and I will let the next generation—whom I no longer understand because I only speak “Old”—make my decisions for me, because I have nothing to teach them anymore. I’ll be company for everyone, but little more than that for anyone.
She was too young to be old, but when a mother has a daughter whose mind is set on marriage, she cannot help but conclude that the years are running away from her. At thirty-three, I’m beginning my old age. That would be another tough piece of news to share with her husband: Francisco, as of today, we’re officially old.
No. It would not be easy to give him this news.
With her new burden, the last two days had felt like an eternity. There was much to deal with as soon as they set foot on La Amistad. Now it was as if the three months of isolation, while not exactly pleasant, had at least given them the illusion that they could continue living a life in which their worries were not minor but were ultimately intangible.
They were returning, yes, even if, on the way to the hacienda, Beatriz could not stop thinking that they were not going back to the life they knew before October, that everything had changed, that they would have to explore their new life as if it were a new world, a new frontier. And now the intangible problems they had merely worried about would become palpable: they would become real. Now she felt an urge to tell the caravan of refugees to return to their exile, if that would mean they could prolong the illusion of the existence of the life that they knew before the Spanish flu and her young daughter’s childish romances.
She did not dare do it, of course, for the old Beatriz would never shrink from a problem or a responsibility. Then she thought that this would be one of her new challenges: to find the old Beatriz again, to rescue her from the miasma that enveloped her. As for adopting new hairstyles and fashions, she would wait and see: it would depend—she supposed—on the hairstyles and fashions. And as for nostalgia for the novels of her youth, that was a luxury she could allow herself once in a while. However, not even in her old age would she become anybody’s shadow or be left drifting, at the mercy of other people’s decisions. She would never allow herself to grind to a halt. And under no circumstances would she ever allow a grandchild of hers to call her anything other than Grandma Beatriz. No Gran, Granny, or Grandmom. She would make that very clear from the beginning.
What was more, bit by bit, if possible, she would reunite the two parts into which her consciousness had been split: the old one and the new one. She would be one again and would leave behind the stand-in that she had discovered in recent months.
The question, then, was: Which of the two—new or old—would win the battle to define Beatriz Cortés thereafter? The new Beatriz felt a special admiration for the old one—her character had had certain redeeming qualities—but she also hoped she would not reemerge with such force that she would cancel out the wisdom the new had gained.
When she arrived, the first thing the new Beatriz did for the old one was to walk into the house at La Amistad without shedding a single tear. Immediately, seeing its state of neglect, she ordered her mother, daughters, and servants to clean: Take off the sheets, don’t shake them inside the house, move furniture, fetch dusters. Don’t even think about complaining, Consuelo. Wash the dishes and pans, change the bed linens; it’s all filthy, and the dust will suffocate us.
Surprised when Francisco joined her on her rounds and at his repeated comments on how clean the house was, with so little dust, Beatriz told him that there was indeed remarkably little dust on the furniture and floors, but have you seen under the armchairs and beds? And on the dishes and utensils! It was as if all the dust had gathered there; mountains were forming.
She did not understand when Francisco went away looking upset. She supposed it must be because she had never spoken to him about dust or dirt before. Her mother had warned her before she married: never speak to your husband about everyday housekeeping, because he won’t be interested. Beatriz had heeded the advice and doubted that Francisco even knew where they kept the mops, brooms, and dusters.
Once the cleaning gang had been set to work, she opened the chest containing the collection of clothes she had sewn.
She hoped the blouse and skirt were the right size, though if they were not, she could easily make some adjustments. She put everything in a bag along with the doll she had made from the remnants of the fabric.
She had been surprised not to find Anselmo Espiricueta waiting for the procession’s return. She would have to visit him to offer her condolences. It was cold, and it was a long way to the Espiricuetas’ home, but the ground seemed dry, so she wrapped up warmly and decided to go there on foot. After a few steps, she noticed Simonopio walking beside her.
“You know I’m going to see the Espiricuetas, don’t you? Don’t come if you don’t want to.”
Simonopio kept walking, and Beatriz, while surprised, was grateful for his company. She did not want to face the widower alone.
From a distance, it was clear that Jacinta Espiricueta’s absence was taking its toll, even if she had never been very strict. The house looked sadder and more neglected than ever. They had never done much to improve its appearance: the shutters on the windows were more like fixed boards, with wide cracks that did little to protect from the light or drafts. But now there were also pots and pans and garbage everywhere, and weeds grew unfettered where the house met the earth. They seemed to sprout from the foundations.
Beatriz had felt very sorry for Señora Jacinta ever since she met her: famished, suspicious, overrun with children, devoid of hope. Beatriz had thought that by giving her husband work and the family a home, she would lift her burden a little. But she soon learned that the assurance of work, their own land, and good treatment would not soften Espiricueta’s wife.