Nacha Regules

by Manuel Gálvez

October now. A month and a half had passed in useless searching. Discouraged, he thought of giving up all hope, and returning to his former way of life, since he had failed in his first duty, that of finding Nacha. He tried to discover arguments to justify his abandoning what he called his "duty." What was Nacha after all? Well then—was he going to fall in love with that kind of a woman, and make her represent an ideal, a duty, a reason for living? Had he brought ruin upon her? Why did he want to see her?

He began to think that he would never find her, that she was irrecoverably lost. And it was his fault! It was he who had gone to see her, tried to influence her, caused trouble between her and her lover. It was only just that he should help her to regain her moral independence, the right she shared with every human being to hope and to love. He could not let her continue in slavery, any more than he could allow any other human beings whom he, personally, knew, to remain enslaved! But he hoped also, in saving her, to save himself. It was not exploitation by others that threatened him, but his own coldness of fear, and the uselessness of his empty life. He wanted to free himself from the clutch of vanity, from the all-enveloping net of human selfishness. He must accomplish something good and great! To redeem the slaves of degrading labor, of destructive passion, of vice and greed, there was a man's task. Well, the opportunity for that might come....

But meanwhile there was a girl who was unhappy, who needed his help. Would it be such a small thing to save her? He could imagine himself quite content were that accomplished. Suddenly hope sprang up in the midst of his discouragement. If his tenants refused to allow the improvements he had wanted to make in the tenement, he would use the forty thousand pesos of his mortgage in carrying on a thorough search of the city. Surely Nacha would be found! Before long, however, he had to part with a considerable sum to pay off his mother's debts; and to buy from Celedonia some letters of Eugenia's which the mulatto intimated she could profitably sell to the newspapers. Monsalvat had an uneasy feeling that this procedure of hers had been suggested by that enthusiastic admirer of his, Moreno.

One October afternoon Torres, whom he met on the street, exclaimed, "I have some news. Nacha has gone back to the profession. A few days ago she was at Madame Annette's." This was a blow as well as a relief. But his friend's words seemed to summon Nacha from the air. All that afternoon, all night, all the next day, and the days following, Nacha was with him, and in the midst of intense suffering he felt a new, strange joy....

CHAPTER XIII

During the ten days when Nacha lay ill in bed her story reached the ears of everyone in the boarding house and aroused general interest. The girls of this calling, who are not yet hardened by cynicism and despair, are for the most part sentimental, even romantic, and invariably sympathize with the hero or the heroine, as the case may be, of a moving love story. Nacha was reported to be suffering from a passion for a man who had spoken to her only once; it was asserted also that she knew neither who he was, nor where he came from; but the fact that she must needs be unfaithful to this platonic and strange love, could not fail to arouse the liveliest sympathy among all these girls. They pitied her from their hearts, and considered it quite natural that she should be ill under the circumstances. When a girl loved a man as much as this, it was a shame that she should have to live as Nacha was living! What did this man look like, they wondered, and what could he and Nacha have talked about in that one fatal conversation? Then from trying to imagine what this love story must have been, they began to recall others in which they had played a part. But none of them was like Nacha's which, they agreed, surpassed even the "daily love stories" of the newspapers. And they envied Nacha, and hoped for an experience like hers, even though, like her, they might have to suffer hunger and sickness.

The owner of the house, Doña Lucía, was a silent little old woman. She kept two rooms, spotlessly clean, and entirely unattractive, for her own use. She never ate with her boarders and was too timid to call on them in their rooms or make any advances to them. Of a good provincial family, she concealed her name, for she thought it discreditable to have such lodgers in her house. Her family was little known in Buenos Aires, and as a matter of fact, she had little affection for any of its members; nevertheless she had a superstitious respect for "good blood" and would have suffered anything rather than disgrace an old name. Poor and alone, forgotten by her relatives, this widow of an officer who had died insane, had taken up her quarters in a boarding house kept by a friend. Even then lodgers of doubtful respectability were frequenting it. Doña Lucía was aware of this fact but never dared mention it to her friend, and when the latter died, she kept the house going. She had resolved to take in no one without references, but she was too timid to insist on this point. Moreover she always found it hard not to believe what she was told. After awhile she grew accustomed to the class of boarders who sought her house; and the girls had a genuine respect for this old lady who went to church so often, and looked so severe.

When Nacha was well enough to get up, she went to call on Doña Lucía, to thank her for kind attentions such as goblets of port wine, and the paying of her medicines at the drug store during her illness. Doña Lucía revealed that all this had been done at the expense of three of the lodgers, Julieta, Sara and Ana María. These girls barely knew her and Nacha was touched by their generosity. She was well aware that Sara earned little having recently had difficulties with the police; Julieta was a quiet little person who made barely enough to live on, and Ana María's own bad health required a considerable expenditure for medicines. Their care of Nacha must have been at the cost of their own necessities.

Nacha could not but admit that she would have done as much for Julieta and Sara, who were already her friends; but it surprised her very much that Ana María should have shared in this expense. Ana María had visited her only twice during her illness. The first time she had come in with Julieta, and Nacha had been disagreeably affected by her presence. She was painfully emaciated, her cheeks sunken and yellow and her wide eyes looked frightened. Nacha decided she must be consumptive. She noted that her features were fine, of an aristocratic caste. During that first visit Nacha could not keep from staring at Ana María's wasted form, her prominent shoulder blades, her sunken chest, the transparent skin of her hands. The girl spoke slowly and there was in her voice a haunting melancholy. No one knew much about her. She claimed that her name was Ana María Gonzalez, but offered nothing to prove it. She seemed destitute of plans, of desire to live, of interests. Julieta had heard, from a friend, that Ana María had once possessed every luxury. A success in the "profession," she had owned a fine house, plenty of money, her own automobile; but quite recently, and very suddenly had come the decay of fortune and health. There was something mysterious about her which excited Nacha's curiosity. The second time she saw her, Nacha was alone in her room. Ana María, staring at her with her wide strange eyes, questioned her about her life. Nacha's answer appeared to interest her but little; indeed, she seemed at times not to be listening. When Nacha began to talk about Monsalvat, however, Ana María suddenly became all attention. She seemed to be absorbing this part of the story with all her senses, with all her soul; yet, when Nacha had ended, she left the room without a word.