The coach takes a couple of little-traveled roads. You must see the ocean, says José, the view of the cliffs at Chorrillos. I’ll bet you don’t have seashores like these in Philadelphia, he adds, and he’s not wrong, though only because the states of Maryland, Delaware, and New Jersey stand between Philadelphia and the Atlantic. On some stretches it seems as if the road might dive into the sea, but always at the last moment, on the last outcropping of land, it retreats.
“It’s so beautiful,” says Elizabeth, barely looking out the window.
They have stopped atop one of the cliffs. They admire the jagged profile of the cliffs, the sandy slopes and precipices that plunge into the sea. Perhaps José, gesturing toward the horizon, recites a few verses he has prepared. Elizabeth listens to them in delight, and after that she no longer sees the disk of the sun sinking into the water but rather what the poetry says the twilight really is or should mean.
“What is that?” asks the younger sister in English, pointing.
At the foot of the cliffs they can see a small cove framed by sheer rockfaces. And in the cove there is something moving: dark and yellow blotches, tumbling amid the foam of the waves. They all shield their eyes with their hands as the light of the setting sun shimmers on the water and blinds them.
“They look like wild ducks,” says Elizabeth.
“They look like fishing boats,” says José.
But then, little by little, they begin to look like something else. Like naked women swimming, splashing, cavorting in the water, for instance. But nobody says that. And when they finally realize what they are seeing, José and Carlos stare even more intently while the girls blush and cry out in unison.
“Heavens!”
The two sisters raise their hands to their mouths and turn their eyes away at the exact same moment, as if their reactions were synchronized by some hidden mechanism. Ultimately, the decency of every young woman must include a bit of studied theatricality learned through countless governesses’ lessons and parish priests’ sermons. Elizabeth, perhaps letting herself be carried away in her performance by an excess of inspiration, even hastily raises her fan before her eyes, but through the ribs, through the slats and flimsy paper, something of the immodest spectacle can still be glimpsed.
At that moment, José’s body seems to be possessed by a sudden decisiveness. He grasps her shoulder with the determination of a romantic hero. He tells her not to be afraid, that the women are probably prostitutes from the Panteoncito brothel, who come to bathe in the sea. (Indeed they are; Gálvez knows their faces and names quite well.) That there is nothing to fear from them, that though they may be fallen women, they are perhaps secretly worthy in their poverty — are not they themselves, men and women of position, in some way responsible for the moral and physical depravity of those who have nothing? That what they are seeing is not dangerous or fearsome, only women frolicking in the water and displaying the voluptuous truth of their naked bodies. That he is there to protect her from that, from the truth.
He says all this, or something like it, murmuring very close by her ear. But whatever it is he says, it seems to have some effect, and after a moment’s hesitation Elizabeth slowly lowers her fan. She swallows hard and says, quite softly, that it’s all right. That if he asks it of her, she won’t be afraid. That if he says so, perhaps there is no sin in contemplating the innocent beauty of a human body. And so she moves to the window and watches the women without condemnation, without fear, without guilt. It goes basically like this: Elizabeth looks at the whores; José looks at Elizabeth; Carlos looks at José; Madeleine looks at Carlos.
As that look stretches on, Elizabeth strives to seem dignified and beautiful at once. And perhaps she manages it, because José has just bent down to kiss her. She submits docilely to his kiss. Artlessly, the way the whores are taking in the last caress of the sun and the spray of the waves. Every bit of her shivers, softens with the heat of that contact; his body moves slowly over hers — the carriage creaks, wallows — and an underground, aquatic movement seems to uncoil in that embrace. As if something of the sea, of the provocative beauty of the bathers, had slipped in under the checkered blanket.
Carlos averts his eyes; it seems that he too has in him a bit of scandalized maidenhood hiding behind a raised fan. And when he looks away, his eyes meet Madeleine’s. The eyes of the homely sister, who is no longer looking at the floor, who is looking at him — the homely sister, at him — and smiling at him at that. Maybe she is expecting something. Or perhaps she too is trying to seem both dignified and beautiful at once, though surely she knows it would require a miracle to achieve the latter. In any case, it is a performance without a public, because Carlos shifts uneasily, clears his throat; he’s already stopped looking at her. He hesitates a moment. Then he strikes the roof with his cane and shouts to the coachman that it’s getting late, it’s time to go home.
~ ~ ~
◊
From that point on, Georgina changes rapidly. More rapidly even than José loses interest — after only two or three dates with Elizabeth, he decides he’s had more than enough. Though those clandestine encounters leave no mark on his life, they leave one on Georgina’s. José amuses himself by incorporating Elizabeth’s attributes into his letters: her insubstantial chatter, her naive coquetry, her almost endearing credulity, her concern for the disadvantaged. Even a light touch of her natural inclination toward melodrama (“Why are you doing this to me, José? If you leave me, I am capable of anything! Anything, I tell you!”).
But he concentrates most of his attention on including more and more references to the little mestiza housemaid, who for him has always been Georgina. And the others do more or less the same thing: fill the letters with any woman who comes to mind, especially those they know well. When somebody, let’s say a vaudeville dancer, sits on Ventura’s knee and murmurs some indelicate phrase in his ear, he softens it a bit and assigns it straightaway to Georgina. Maids, prostitutes, cabaret singers, florists: they all throw in their two cents — the modest ration of words allotted to each. A Georgina who evokes less and less the innocence of the Polish prostitute and more the eagerness with which the Gálvezes’ maid groped between the young master’s legs. Her letters are different now:
But I must tell you that I am also impulsive and fervent, and at times I feel my chest consumed by the bonfire of an unknown passion… Something like a mad desire to live and be happy. A feeling of which the rest know nothing and that I can only barely mask. Except with you, my friend! You who with each letter are gradually unraveling all my secrets…!
Or perhaps:
Sometimes I think a woman is a little like a flower that blooms, hoping for something that it does not know and yet desires, desires so fiercely!
Or even:
I do not know, my dear Juan Ramón, whether what I am saying is right or wrong: I know only that the body sometimes feels strange and beautiful things of which the spirit knows nothing, and that disregarding such beauty might itself also constitute some category of sin…
Carlos is reluctant to copy down these fancies. No, that sentence isn’t going in the letter, not a chance; Georgina’s not like that, over his dead body. But in the end he always gives in. What else can he do? His character has ceased to belong to him, and José is becoming increasingly inflexible in his decisions. Sometimes Carlos thinks of Georgina, the real one, as if she were a friend who has died, and many nights he wants to weep for his friend — his friend? — just as years ago he allowed himself to be flogged for the sake of muses who existed only in books. I’ve been telling you to think less and screw a little more, José says, emboldened by his friends’ laughter; maybe that chubby American girl, you know who I mean. You had the whole back seat there to do her the favor and you didn’t, Carlotita, you ungrateful lout. If a woman’s value were calculated by the ounce, you’d have been letting a real treasure get away.