In contradistinction to the chronicles of her time, legend made out Malinche to be a promiscuous slut; and some said, Ricardo maliciously among them, that for this very cause Cortés married her off to Juan Xaramillo de Salvatierra; but now that Ricardo could no longer hate women, excepting of course Adela, whom he proposed to stop remembering if only she could be buried deep, instinctual passion enthralled him, for La Llorona, being immortal, was still fresher than the fringed arches of banana leaves: never satisfied, therefore everloving. The myriads whom she had devoured, their own preciousness extracted and then disregarded, rotted for very joy, a doom which Ricardo yearned to endure. Only the earth prevented him from pressing his groin against hers — for he was not yet dead, belonging but incompletely to her. Sometimes when he lay awake at his aunt’s house, he whispered to himself: Why won’t she cut me into pieces?
But while he remained alive with her in that mildewed old house on Avenida Nicolás Bravo, he was happier than he had ever been; rightly or wrongly he believed that because he had become conscious of love and of himself (grand certainties for which we should excuse him), he pleased her more than at least some of her other victims. Sometimes he vomited and frequently he felt dizzy, but whatever disease possessed him declined to devour him just then. So happily addicted to her green vulva, and therefore, as he would have said, in love with her, he daily strode ever handsomer and bolder to his aunt, who remarked that life was finally bestowing on him what he deserved; you may be sure that she had done everything required to forget that this sweetheart was La Llorona, to whom some Veracruzanos attribute a ghastly horse’s head, and whose kiss all say is fatal. Indeed, one day he entered her foul old house only to find some previously unsuspected other lover lying on his side with his head hidden behind his elbows while vultures minced through the puddle of vomit and blood and cadaveric fluid around his torso. La Llorona squatted over him, carefully inserting a jade bead between his teeth.
Although he said nothing, Ricardo felt jealous. Why wouldn’t she consummate their marriage? For some days afterward they met in the “castle,” until the authorities had removed his rival’s corpse. He began to understand that were she to spare him, she must feed on others in the meantime. They altered the time of their rendezvous to dusk, because it was easier for her to lure in others by day. Thinking about her, he pined away every afternoon and sometimes began weeping; then as evening drew near he would rise up out of bed and look happier. His aunt began to wonder whether he might be bewitched, perhaps even by Adela, who must have turned away the bruja’s spell, but since he was not wasting away, and since, moreover, he had become kinder and more patient, even listening to her long stories about his mother, Aunt Bertha continued to hope that all was well. In truth he found it heavenly to give himself to La Llorona. Unlike Adela, she never turned away from his need. The next time that sweet fever redescended from the ceiling of his aunt’s house to whistle in his ears like a harbor wind, warming his forehead and the backs of his hands, he found himself thinking: I’m doing it all for her, so that I can be her and she can be me; I’ll heal her and make her happy. — But what this meant was obscure even to him, and he sank deeper and deeper into his bed, listening to a single mosquito. His aunt beseeched him to eat more; he was studying too hard, she said, reminding him, as she frequently did, of the ominous career of his great-uncle’s great-great-grandfather Don Roberto, who while preparing his illustrated dictionary of trabucos, percussion guns, blunderbusses and other weapons of the conquistadors had strained his mind so perilously in the mildewed reading room of those selfsame Archives of the Ayuntamiento de Veracruz (in particular, he grew fixated on the question of why some words remain untouched, others become outlined in dark brown, and the rest vanish away) that he commenced to be haunted by a gaunt brown manuscript demon whom only the thrice-uttered name of Saint Santiago would keep at bay, until finally not even this availed, and the poor man was found dead one night with his face resembling a royal seal poxed by worms; but at this juncture, kissing her sweet old hand and thanking her for her consideration, her nephew now hurried out to drink an unaccustomed cocktail at the zócalo, watching the double rows of dark green soldiers flipping their scarlet drums, clashing their drumsticks and blowing their trumpets, while passersby lifted up their children; then came the Mexican national anthem as a half-dozen of Veracruz’s bravest carried the long limp flag to bed, while Ricardo sat playing with the engagement ring in his pocket.
La Llorona stood with her hands on her hips, turning her pale face toward him, while in a puddle of dark fluid her latest lover lay glossy and swollen like a roasted chicken, ants all over him, a great leaf on his face, his knees drawn partway in, his fists closed like a baby’s. She began to laugh. — And seeing this, you hope to marry me?
Come what may, he replied.
Drawing near, she breathed her cool foul breath on his face, and he bowed his head.
She inquired: Do you imagine that you don’t deserve to live?
After you devour me, will you remember me?
Not at all. Neither will you.
Do you remember anything at all?
I was born at Painalla. Before that I blossomed and fell, blossomed and fell.
Please, Malintzin,* let’s make a child!
No one ever asked me for a baby before!
Will you?
Why don’t you ask a woman?
What are you?
A goddess.
I did, but she—
Very well, then we’ll marry.
That very day she came home with him, to be introduced to Aunt Bertha, who thought her marvelous, although it did seem peculiar that she declined to live with them. Ricardo and La Llorona had agreed to keep their marriage secret, to avoid explanations. Of course Aunt Bertha noticed that she was wearing a ring, and the instant that the girl’s belly began to swell, that too she perceived, with the sort of hungry titillation which so often breaks out like mold in such circumstances. The next time the ghost lady visited them, Aunt Bertha said: I may be mistaken, my dear, but is there something you haven’t told me yet?
Oh, you’re not at all mistaken about that, replied La Llorona, who was standing at the kitchen counter, grinding corn in a lava metate.
Well, then, darling, if it’s not too delicate a subject, have you and my nephew made any plans?
That depends on him.
If you’d like, I can speak with him, because he shouldn’t leave you unprovided for.
Don’t trouble yourself, aunt. I’ve provided for myself for a good while now.
But, well, excuse me for keeping on with this—
You see, said the lovely woman (whose greatest drawback, in Aunt Bertha’s opinion, was the fact that she sometimes smelled a trifle unclean), when we discuss this subject, your nephew always says that he’s not sure how long he’ll live.