The House of Impossible Loves by Cristina López Barrio Page A

through the port, among the fishing boats. She liked to watch the women mend nets and unload the fish pouring out of them, with their glistening scales and deep-sea smell. She envied the fish, too, even though they were dead, their eyes blank, and she was alive to gut, scale, and cook them as she pleased. More than anything else, Manuela missed cooking alongside Bernarda. One afternoon, overcome by homesickness, she headed into the hotel kitchen, where she found the owner busily preparing a dish of red sea bream.
    “Can I help?” Manuela asked, staring longingly at provisions scattered over the marble-topped table.
    The owner studied her for a moment, this young woman who had been there for over a month and never spoke to a soul, this dark-eyed girl, plain and unattractive, wearing coarse country dresses and old-fashioned wool hats.
    “I used to cook at home, far away from here, and . . .” Manuela began in her Galician accent.
    “You’re homesick,” the woman said. “But you’re from here or your parents were—it’s clear from your accent.”
    “No, no. I just lived with someone from Galicia. If you have chicken, I could fry it with onions.”
    “I do, but I was going to use it in a stew.”
    “Then let me make it for you. I make a delicious clay-pot stew.”
    Manuela put on an apron. She plucked and cut the chicken with a dexterity that surprised the owner.
     
    In spring Manuela began collecting shells and any other object the sea wished to give her. She kept them in boxes in her wardrobe, and at night, after her walk along the beach, she liked to sort them by color, size, and taste. She continued to befriend insects, too, trapping cockroaches in the hall and giving them perfumed baths.
    One day, as she was walking through the streets near the port, Manuela came upon a store that sold wool and sewing supplies. She bought a petit point pattern of a rose and began working on it in the afternoons as she sat on the patio, listening to news the sea brought her. When she was finished, she bought one with a boat design, then another, until embroidery became a routine part of her life.
    Summer arrived and with it bathers in swimsuits, children playing in the sand. Manuela was jealous of those who went into the sea, swam and leaped in the waves. She would watch from the hotel patio, annoyed by the racket, the shouting, the joy. More than one young man approached as she embroidered or walked through the port, wanting to talk or flirt with her, but Manuela was uniformly rude to them all. She had had enough of men forever.
    One August evening Manuela set off on one of her walks along the beach, going almost as far as the port. Her slight shadow reflected on the sand. She was carrying her boots, her feet bare to step on the moon. It was humid. She could hear men singing as they stumbled out of a bar. The songs were in a foreign language. Sailors, she thought. Fishing boats from around the world moored in the port, the crew getting drunk before setting out again. The songs grew louder; Manuela knew the sailors were on the beach now. The songs became whistles and shouts. She could make out a few flushed faces, a shiny cap soaked with grease. She hitched up her dress and walked into the sea so he could protect her.
     
    Manuela woke up in a sterile hospital room, in one of several metal beds lined up like the old women in her native town.
    “How are you?” a flat voice asked. “Is there someone we can contact?”
    Manuela shook her head no.
    “It’s over now. You’ll be fine.”
    Manuela still had the taste of the sea in her mouth and sand in her teeth.
    The hotel owner came to visit. They had grown close working together in the kitchen. The girl’s a marvelous cook, the woman thought. I should hire her, but after what happened, she’ll likely be scared and want to go home.
    “Feeling better?” the woman asked, running a hand over Manuela’s forehead. “I hear they were Norwegians off a boat moored