At first he had tried to convince himself that the child wasn’t his, but that was useless wishful thinking. There was no mistaking that the child was his, it couldn’t have been anyone else’s, not only because of the timing which
confirmed the summer conception, but because he knew Estella. She wasn’t the type to sleep around. That in itself made him wince. He had seduced her and then abandoned her. That would have been bad enough, but he had abandoned her with child. Even he was repulsed by his own conduct. He had longed for morning, but every time he had looked at his clock it was always only a few minutes on from the previous time. He would have gone there and then had it not been for the curfew that prohibited anyone from leaving their houses between two and six a.m. Finally, when dawn had torn apart the night’s sky and the light had poured in, he had grabbed his bag, clambered into the car and set off. It was six in the morning.
It was only when he caught sight of himself in the rear mirror that he realized he hadn’t shaved or washed his face. He looked like a tramp with long knotted black hair, a dark shadow across his face and weary, bloodshot eyes. He would normally have stopped along the way, had a cup of coffee or a lemon soda, then he could have splashed his face with water and wet his hair, but he didn’t have time. He didn’t want to leave Estella alone for another minute. He pressed his foot on the accelerator pushing the limit as far as he could go without risking being caught by the police for speeding. When he arrived finally at
Zapallar he hurriedly parked the car and strode out into the bright morning sunshine.
He didn’t know where to look. He didn’t even know Estella’s last name to ask, and anyhow he didn’t want the entire village to know about it. He would surely be recognized by someone. He wandered up the beach hoping that perhaps she might be there, that perhaps he might pass her on her way to buy the bread or simply taking a stroll. But there was no sign of anyone. An early spring was beginning to inject the surrounding trees and bushes with a new vitality and the air was distinctly warmer. He half expected to smell her scent of roses and follow it until he found her. But that was the kind of romantic notion he might have written into one of his novels, it wasn’t real life. After walking up and down the beach for a while he realized that he would simply have to ask someone. He’d have to describe her and risk the whole village knowing about it. There was no other way. He was desperate.
When he saw an old man sitting on a bench gazing out to sea he suppressed his embarrassment and approached him. ‘Good morning, Señor. I’m looking for a young woman called Estella. She’s heavily pregnant, long black hair, down to her waist, about so high,’ he said, indicating her height with his hand.
The man eyed him bleakly through tiny black eyes that watered and blinked at him dispassionately. He leant with brown leathery hands on a knobbly wooden stick and chewed on his gums for he had no teeth to grind. ‘She lives with her parents, must be about twenty or so. She used to work in Cachagua. She’s very beautiful,’ he continued, then sighed in disappointment. ‘You’d recognize this description if you knew her,’ he added, turning away. The man continued to chew without muttering a word. Then something prompted Ramon to add that she smelt of roses and suddenly life returned to the old man and he began to mumble something about her scent reminding him of his mother’s funeral.
‘They buried her in a grave full of rose petals,’ he said wistfully. ‘They said it would soothe her in the event of her waking up and not knowing where she was.’ He turned and cast his eyes over to where Ramon was standing hopefully in the shade of a eucalyptus tree. ‘Your Estella lives up the road, about half a kilometre, on the hill overlooking the sea. You’ll recognize the house because it’s yellow,’ he said, nodding to himself. ‘Whenever I go to the cemetery I can still smell them. One day I’ll go there and never come back.’
‘One day we’ll all go there and never come back,’ Ramon said to the old man’s astonishment. He didn’t think the young man was still there. He waited
Ramon walked up the hill with hasty strides. It was still early. A light mist smudged the edges where the sea joined the sky so that they merged into one shimmering blue horizon. As he looked about him for the yellow house he remembered those lazy days the summer before when he had loved Estella without distraction, without guilt, without remorse and without this terrible fear of entrapment.
When he saw the house he stood on the dusty track and watched. It was still and shaded beneath the budding trees that were beginning to reveal the almost phosphorescent green of their new leaves. The house was a small bungalow with about two or three rooms. It was neatly kept with a little garden that looked well tended and cared for. He could hear a dog barking in the distance and the staccato voice of a mother berating her child that sent a ripple of commotion through the sleepy village. He continued to watch but still nothing moved. Finally impatience led him to her door where he stood anxiously and knocked. He heard a light rustle of movement come from within. For a moment he panicked that he might have got the wrong house, but then he smelt