By Carlos Fuentes
Felipe Montero is hired in the home of an elderly widow to edit her deceased husband's memoirs. There Felipe meets her attractive green-eyed niece, air of secrecy. His ardour for charisma and his sluggish discovery of the genuine courting among the younger lady and her aunt propel the tale to its amazing end.
Read or Download Aura: Bilingual Edition (English and Spanish Edition) PDF
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Extra info for Aura: Bilingual Edition (English and Spanish Edition)
The sky is neither high nor low. " She takes off your shoes and socks and caresses your bare fegt. You feel the warm water that bathes the soles of your feet, while she washes them with a heavy cloth, now and then casting furtive glances at that Christ carved from black wood. Then she dries your feet, takes you by the hand, fastens a few violets in her loose hair, and begins to hum a melody, a waltz, to which you dance with her, held by the murmur of her voice, gliding around to the slow, solemn rhythm she's setting, very different from the light movements of her hands, which unbutton your shirt, caress your chest, reach around to your back and grasp it.
And finally: "Early this morning I found her walking barefooted through the hallways. I wanted to stop her. She went by without looking at me, but her words were directed to me. 'Don't stop me,' she said. 'I'm going toward my youth, and my youth is coming toward me. It's coming in, it's in the garden, it's come back . ' Consuelo, my poor Consuelo! " There isn't any more. The memoirs of General Llorente end with that sentence: "Consuelo, le demon aussi etait un ange, avant . " And after the last page, the portraits.
You sit for an hour in the tall, arch-back chair, smoking, waiting for the sounds you never hear, until finally you're sure the old lady has left the house and can't catch you at what you're going to do. For the last hour you've had the key to the trunk clutched in your hand, and now you get up and silently walk through the parlor into the hallway, where you wait for another fifteen minutes—your watch tells you how long—with your ear against Senora Consuelo's door. Then you slowly push it open until you can make out, beyond the spider's web of candles, the empty bed on which her rabbit is gnawing at a carrot: the bed that's always littered with scraps of bread, and that you touch gingerly as if you thought the old lady might be hidden among the rumples of the sheets.