their wedding, leaving him without children or a single coin of her parents’
money.
On Valentina’s wedding day, she wore a veil of golden lace and ivory
combs in her hair. Don Marius, gazing at their reflection in the watery
mirror propped against the wall in the front room of his home, had been
surprised by the jolt of lust that overtook him, inspired perhaps by his
bride’s hopeful eyes, or the sight of himself in his wedding clothes. But it’s
more likely he was moved by the brandied cherries he’d been eating all
morning, tucking them into his cheeks and chewing them slowly rather than
making conversation with his new father-in-law. That night he fell upon his
bride in a frenzy of passion, whispering poetry into her ears, but he had
managed only a few awkward thrusts before vertigo overcame him and he
vomited the plump half-chewed bodies of brandied cherries all over the
nuptial linen that Valentina had embroidered with her own hands over a
period of many weeks.
In the months and years to come, Valentina would look back almost
wistfully on that night, as Marius’s cherry-fueled ardor was the only sign of
passion or even interest in her that he had ever shown. And while it was true
that she’d simply gone from one loveless home to another, that didn’t mean
she didn’t feel the absence of love. Doña Valentina had no acceptable name
for the longing she felt, and no idea how to soothe it, so she filled her days
irritating their few servants with constant correction and existing in a state
of relentless dissatisfaction.
That was why she went down to the kitchen that morning—not once, but
twice.
The cook had grown increasingly erratic as her son’s obsession with the
playwright Quiteria Escárcega became known, so Doña Valentina made
sure to check on her every morning. That day, as she came down the stairs,
feeling the heat rise around her, she was greeted by the unmistakable odor
of burning bread and nearly swooned with the pleasure of something
tangible to complain about.
But the cook wasn’t there.
Valentina intended to remain, sweating in the heat from the fireplace, her
anger rising to a furious boil, refining a long rant against wastefulness,
negligence, and the cook’s general character. But a knock at the door
echoed above, and Valentina knew it might be someone who wished to
speak to her husband about his olives. It might even be an invitation—
