The House of Impossible Loves by Cristina López Barrio

saw that it was Bernarda, lit up like a saint. In one hand she held fresh tomatoes and in the other a dish of salt, as if she were about to eat. The cook smiled and looked up at Manuela with docile eyes.

6
    W HEN MANUELA LAGUNA first saw the flat sea on the horizon through the train window, she believed a field had frosted over and taken on a bluish tinge.
    “What about the cows?” she muttered to herself. “They must have left in search of better grazing.”
    But as the train drew closer, Manuela could see the roiling waves, and the stories of her childhood burst in her chest. She pressed her hands and nose to the window, fogging up the glass, not moving until the train entered a tunnel and the view went black. By the time the train exited, the sea had disappeared, giving way to typical Galician country houses surrounded by vegetable gardens and farmland. Manuela sat back on the wooden bench, smoothed the wrinkles from her dress, straightened her spine, and placed her hands demurely on her lap, holding her bag. Her fingerprints, a nose print, even a smear of the outline of her mouth remained on the window. She glanced at them, gripped her bag tighter, and studied the passengers across from her, an older woman and her daughter. Manuela smiled despite the stern expression on the woman’s face.
    The train pulled into La Coruña station. Manuela’s hands shook as she picked up her suitcase.
    “Goodbye,” she said to the woman and her daughter. “Have a nice trip.”
    Neither replied but Manuela continued to smile.
    The moment she reached the platform, her legs began to shake, too. She teetered as if her knees were about to shatter beneath her dress. The engine whistle blew, spewing smoke, filling the platform with the smell of coal.
    “Can I take your bags, señorita?” a porter asked.
    “Not yet. Thank you.”
    Through the smell of burning coal, Manuela sensed a thick, salty aroma that stuck to her skin and knew at once he had come to greet her. She sat on a wooden station bench, suitcase on the ground beside her, and inhaled the humid breeze he sent. Around her, porters carried bags, women helped children onto train cars, men helped women, family members embraced, and lovers stared into each other’s eyes. No one but Manuela was aware of the smell of the sea. It was noon on a gray day, and frothy clouds dotted the sky.
     
    Manuela Laguna found a hotel near the port. It was small, inexpensive but clean—although at times the tarry smell of sailors lingered in the hallway. She had chosen this particular hotel because of its covered patio with a stone balustrade right across from the beach. There were tables and chairs where guests could read the paper or play cards, even when it rained. Manuela spent every afternoon there even though it was early February. The weather seemed warmer than where she came from, and she did not mind the dewiness; quite the opposite—she liked to feel it on her skin and in her bones for what it really was: the sea’s icy, penetrating breath. Manuela’s adolescence had taught her that love was uncomfortable, painful even, and her destiny as a Laguna woman was to suffer for love, that her soul would shatter, even though hers was already frozen.
    At first she stared at the sea for hours, distinguishing the blue and green tones, listening to the sound of the waves. A staircase led down from the patio onto the street and the beach just across the way. Some days, even if the sun had already set, she would walk over, her boots sinking into white sand, salty wind whipping across her smile. Seagulls cawed in the sky, spiraling down to catch fish. Manuela envied them.
    “You think you’re the only ones who can touch it,” she growled through her teeth.
    One day she ventured down to the water. Waves crashed, soaking her boots and the hem of her wool dress. Manuela crouched down and touched and sniffed them, licked her fingers and savored the taste of the sea.
    In the mornings Manuela wandered