Aura by Carlos Fuentes, Lysander Kemp

By Carlos Fuentes, Lysander Kemp

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 air of secrecy and his sluggish discovery of the genuine courting among the younger lady and her aunt propel the tale to its amazing conclusion.

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In the dining room your breakfast is already on the table, but this time only one place has been set. You eat quickly, return to the hallway, and knock at Se-nora Consuelo's door. Her sharp, weak voice tells you to come in. Nothing has changed: the perpetual shadows, the glow of the votive lights and the silver objects. "Good morning, Senor Montero. " "Yes. " The old lady waves her hand as if in a gesture of dismissal. "No, no, no. Don't give me your opinion. Work on those pages and when you've finished I'll give you the others.

She insists on growing her own herbs in the garden. She says she is not deceiving herself. " Later: "I found her in a delirium, embracing the pillow. She cried, 'Yes, yes, yes, I've done it, I've re-created her! " It was necessary to call the doctor. " 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.

But she never . " "Yes, sometimes she does. She makes a great effort and goes out. She's going out today. For all day. You and I could . " "Well . . perhaps not yet. I'm under contract. But as soon as I can finish the work, then . " "Ah, yes. But she's going to be out all day. " "I'll wait for you this evening in my aunt's bedroom. " You put on your shirt and coat and follow the sound of the bell calling you to the dining room. In the parlor the widow Llorente comes toward you, bent over, leaning on a knobby cane; she's dressed in an old white gown with a stained and tattered gauze veil.

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