The House of the Spirits by Isabel Allende

on his horse. Normally it would have been his dinnertime, but he was not hungry. He was in no hurry, for he had already made his choice.
    He had seen the girl many times carrying her sniveling little brother on her hip, with a bag on her shoulder or a water jug on her head. He had watched her washing clothes, squatting on the flat stones of the river, her dark legs polished by the water, as she rubbed the faded rags with her rough peasant hands. She was big-boned and had an Indian face, with broad features, dark skin, and a sweet, peaceful expression. Her fleshy ample mouth still had all its teeth, and when she smiled her whole face lit up, but that did not happen very often. She had the beauty of early youth, although he could see that it would quickly fade, as it does with women who are born to have many children, work without rest, and bury their dead. Her name was Pancha García, and she was fifteen years old.
    When Esteban Trueba went out to look for her, it was already late in the afternoon and the air was crisp. He rode his horse slowly through the long stretches of green that separated the pastures, asking after her as he went, until he spotted her on the path that led to her hut. She was doubled over beneath the weight of a sheaf of hawthorn for the kitchen hearth, barefoot, her head bowed. He looked at her from high in the saddle and immediately felt the urgent desire that had been tormenting him for so many months. He trotted up until he was right beside her. She heard him, but she continued walking without looking up, following the custom of all the women of her kind who bow their heads before the male. Esteban bent down and removed her burden, held it in the air for a moment, and then hurled it violently to the side of the path. He threw his arm around her waist, swept her up with an animal-like grunt, and placed her before him in the saddle. The girl did not resist. He kicked his heels in the stirrups and they took off at a gallop in the direction of the river. They dismounted without speaking and looked each other over. Esteban unfastened his broad leather belt and she stepped back, but he grabbed her with a single stroke of his hand. They fell arm in arm among the eucalyptus leaves.
    Esteban did not remove his clothes. He attacked her savagely, thrusting himself into her without preamble, with unnecessary brutality. He realized too late, from the blood spattered on her dress, that the young girl was a virgin, but neither Pancha’s humble origin nor the pressing demands of his desire allowed him to reconsider. Pancha García made no attempt to defend herself. She did not complain, nor did she shut her eyes. She lay on her back, staring at the sky with terror, until she felt the man drop to the ground beside her with a moan. She began to whimper softly. Before her, her mother—and before her, her grandmother—had suffered the same animal fate. Esteban Trueba adjusted his trousers, fastened his belt, helped her to her feet, and lifted her onto the haunches of his horse. They headed back. He was whistling. She continued to weep. Before dropping her off at her hut, the patrón kissed her on the lips.
    â€œStarting tomorrow, I want you to work in the house,” he said.
    Pancha agreed without looking up. Her mother and her grandmother had also been servants in the main house.
    That night, Esteban Trueba slept like an angel, without dreaming of Rosa. He woke the next morning full of energy, feeling taller and stronger. He set off for the fields humming, and when he returned Pancha was in the kitchen, busily stirring marmalade in a huge copper pot. That night he waited for her with impatience, and when the sounds of housework fell silent in the old adobe house and the nocturnal scampering of the rats began, he felt the girl’s presence in the doorway of his room.
    â€œCome, Pancha,” he called. It was not an order, but an entreaty.
    Now Esteban took the time to savor her fully and made