DOGS. Legacy Saga II

22

Castillano woke up by tea time. Through the persistent migraine, he realized he was lying in his own bed, wearing only his braies, a wet cloth covering his forehead. He had blurry recollections of waking up in the bathtub, full of warm water and covered with a sheet. The fresh flavor of milk down his throat. His turning stomach, bending him over a bucket that threw a rancid stink to his face. The window curtains were closed, leaving the room in a cool shade. The bed canopy was lifted on his side, and he recognized Alma sitting on a stool by the bed, smiling at him.

The child. He'd kissed her? Or had it been a dream?

He rubbed his face slowly, closing his eyes again.

No, it hadn't been a dream. He'd climbed to her window in the middle of the night like a snot with a crush. And he'd kissed her.

He pressed his belly, where the last embers of wine still burned. How much had he drunk? Why?

No, he had climbed to her window at midnight, but not to kiss her.

But he'd kissed her.

Yes. Her first kiss. It'd been his.

He tried to smile and a growl escaped his lips. The same lips that had kissed the child by the open window at midnight.

But, what had he visited her for, if not to kiss her?

Alma slipped her hand under his head and helped him drink more fresh milk.

Why had he visited her? He was already worse than the child, who didn't remember...

His father.

His father's journal.

He turned his face away from the milk and tried to sit up. He only managed to hoist himself to rest on his elbows.

"Go back to sleep, Hernan."

He shook his head.

The child.

"What?"

He'd said it out loud?

"The child," he mumbled.

"Lay down, Hernan. You're not in shape to get up."

Castillano was finally able to sit up and had to hold his head until the furniture stopped jumping. Then he flung the covers away and put his feet on the floor. Alma held him up, but didn't let him stand up.

"Let me get you dressed."

Castillano threw an arm around the bedpost and pressed his temple, as if he could force some clarity in the wreck of his muddled head. And he realized he didn't want any clarity. That was why he'd drunk so much the night before.

After kissing the child, back to his room without fat Garrido even suspecting he'd gotten out, he'd gone back to read his father's journal. Because the child had asked him to. She knew, but she'd asked him to read in order to know too. Else, he wouldn't believe it, coming from her. And she was right. His blue eyes were open like grapefruits, an awful lump up his throat as he remembered what he'd read.

"Hernan! What is it?"

Only Alma's alarm made him realize he was crying. He ignored her and snatched the clothes from her hands. She tried to help him, but he refused.

A moment later he staggered down the hall, his stomach about to turn again. He stopped before reaching the main hall and rested a hand on the wall for support. The sweet sound of the piano filled that side of the house, flowing from his mother's parlor, under the upper-floor gallery. He was about to walk out of the corridor when the music stopped and the parlor door opened. He heard Dolores and Segovia say goodbye to Marina. Alma caught up with him and he signaled her to keep quiet. They watched the other two leave, smiling. The piano resumed its melancholic tune.