Inocencia
by Irene DesGeorgies
What follows is an excellent example of dramatic prose from Irene DesGeorges,
the author of “Inocencia”,
available in Spanish and in English. This is an excerpt from her book for
those that missed Valentines Day – enjoy.
~Wolf~
Paris
A few minutes later, they entered a tall building arm-in-arm, and took the elevator to the top floor. On coming out, they found themselves at the entrance to a refined restaurant: white tables decorated with delicate candles, bouquets of fresh flowers, waiters balancing silver trays, a fine wooden counter covered by the best wines and liquors and, in the background, a white grand piano with a brown-skinned and honey-voiced pianist singing an old Edith Piaf song, La Vie en Rose. A waiter, very tall and thin and with elegant and mechanical mannerisms, took them to their table, which was located in a quiet corner of the terrace with a clear view of the River Seine and with the bulky shadow of the famous Cathedral of Notre Dame only a short distance away. While they walked, Julio made a comic gesture imitating the movements of the waiter. Inocencia let a spontaneous laugh escape her, falling on the ears of the diners and momentarily breaking the silence. One of them, intrigued by the sound of that voice, looked up toward the bottom of the terrace, following the girl. The darkness of the night did not allow him to see her face, but there was something familiar about that provocative silhouette, enveloped in black. With each step, he seemed to visualize her.
Inocencia came closer and, when she was dangerously near, the man raised his gaze. For a split second his heart ceased to beat. He got up, moved by a magnetism superior to his willpower, walked forward and placed himself directly in front of her.
One word escaped from deep inside his chest, “¡Inocencia!”
On hearing her name, the girl felt that, like a whiplash, she was returning to her youth, “Diego!”
Obeying a natural reflex of a whole lifetime, Diego pulled her to him, enclosing her in his arms. Inocencia felt the strong beats of Diego’s heart mingling with her own. They stayed thus for a long time, abandoning themselves completely to this capricious crossing of paths.
Diego took Inocencia by both hands and kissed her, saying, “Morena de mi alma! You look beautiful. What are you doing here, in Paris?”
“Diego!” Her voice trembled. She felt the warmth of his hands in hers, transmitting an uncontainable energy. “¡Eres tú! You have no idea how much I have thought about you!”
Neither of the two showed any intention of separating from the other. Julio, astonished, watched that scene from Romeo and Juliet unfold and did not know what was happening. Who was this stranger who appeared to have swept her off her feet with a single glance?
Impatiently, he went up to the girl, took her by the arm and said with a certain authority, “Inocencia. The waiter is waiting for us.”
Julio’s words broke the spell. For the first time, Diego became aware that there were other people present.
Inocencia took a step backwards, trying to dissipate her emotion, and said, “Diego let me introduce you to Julio, a …good friend.”
The men exchanged watchful glances and coolly shook one another’s hands.
“Mucho gusto. Soy Diego Montenegro De las Casas.”
“The pleasure is mine. Soy Julio Cesar Ballesteros García.”
To one side, Odette was sitting at a table watching everything, with her hand at her waist, asking herself to what this shameful outflow of attention to that dark-skinned stranger with the penetrating gaze was due. Diego began to come back to reality.
He went up to Odette and courteously said, “Morena, let me introduce you to Odette …. my fiancée.”
Inocencia felt that the gate of the dam, which had contained torrents of turbulent water for years, had suddenly overflowed and that the water was falling to the bottom of a deep abyss.
“Odette, let me introduce Inocencia…. a childhood friend who I have not seen for many years.”
Inocencia held out a cold and trembling hand, “Hola.”
“Encantada.”
Diego invited them to sit at his table, but Julio perceived the growing tension. He took Inocencia by the arm and, in a firm tone, told him that this was a very special night and they would prefer to be alone.
On hearing those words, Odette responded, “Tonight is also very special for us.”
Inocencia turned to Diego and said in a breaking voice, “You have good taste. Odette is a lovely girl. With your permission, Julio is waiting for me.”
And, so saying, Inocencia was taken on the arm of her faithful friend to a table at the other end of the terrace. The hands of the clock stopped still. Inocencia sat down in silence, like a mummy, with her gaze lost far away. Julio tried to forget the episode. He knew perfectly well who Diego was.
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He asked for a bottle of wine and said to Inocencia, “There is nothing more divine than to be in Paris, with you.”
When the color returned to the face of the distracted girl, she sipped the wine slowly, feeling that with each sip one of the flames she carried within her was being extinguished.
Diego watched Inocencia from his table, unable to take his eyes off her. He served himself a glass of champagne and drank it at one gulp. He served himself a second glass, and the heat of the liquor made him reflect a little on the situation. After so many years, his dreams had come true: there he was in Paris, with the woman he loved, on a terrace beneath the full moon. But that was the problem: the woman he loved was on the arm of a stranger and he… he was at the side of a woman to whom he was bound by bonds which he felt tonight like a rope around his throat. Thinking of the pathetic situation in which he found himself made him feel like bursting into laughter at his bad fortune.
On leaving, Diego passed by the table where Inocencia was sitting and said in a sarcastic tone, “Won’t you congratulate us? I have given Odette her engagement ring tonight. We leave tomorrow for Mexico where our parents will give us a dinner to celebrate the occasion. You cannot imagine how happy it would make me to see you there, in our house.”
Inocencia felt a dry scissor-like cut deep within her. Her legs felt like those of a rag doll which did not hold up her body. She stood up and, afraid of losing her balance, and clutched at Julio’s arm.
“Congratulations. I hope you are very happy.”
The girl excused herself and left the terrace, walking fast, leaving the three of them standing, astonished by her hasty and short farewell.
Julio went out after her and found her a short distance away, walking alone along the banks of the Seine. He went up to her softly and encircled her waist in a brotherly embrace.
Inocencia buried her head in his shoulder and cried uncontrollably.
“Are you still in love with him?”
“Yes. I believe I always will be, but after this night Diego will be part of history.”
That night, Inocencia observed the stars from the small window of her room and after the unfortunate crossing of paths they seemed to have lost their shine. After a long time, she let her face rest on the pillow. The following morning, when she awoke, she was surprised to see that the pillow was soaking wet. She did not remember having cried during the night.
Julio, sensitive to the delicate situation in which his friend found herself, allowed her to sleep, feeling himself impotent and guilty at having been responsible for such an unfortunate encounter.
In the afternoon, Inocencia emerged from the room with swollen eyes and a puffy face. Julio was alarmed at seeing her in such a terrible state. He brought her a coffee and a damp towel which he passed, softly, over her face. He felt an enormous desire to grab hold of Diego and give him a thrashing. The shattered girl sipped her coffee slowly, looking at the city through the window. With a spontaneous movement she took the black dress and angrily threw it out the window, watching it fall, like an old rag, on the pavement.
That afternoon she took her suitcase, which was still packed, collected her belongings and said to Julio, “Please take me to the airport. I will leave on the next plane for Madrid. Paris has lost all its charm. I don’t want to stay here one moment more. Please forgive me.”
On saying farewell at the airport, they embraced with all the affection of two souls suspended on the wings of a wounded dove.
Inocencia sighed deeply and said, “You were right, Julio. Paris is a poem. A poem of sad verses, for me. Nonetheless, it is still a beautiful poem.”
Irene DesDeorges
Author of "Inocencia"
Irene's website: Inocencia.com is engaging and interesting. (currently inop)
Thanks Irene for the prose... J.
Wolf
