Bane of Blood: La Gorgona

I (Prologue), Part 4

Whatever the kindly nun's reservations about Fernando's adoption, they were ultimately assuaged. If not by the evidence of him arriving with the family at Mass, well-groomed and well-fed and apparently well-satisfied with the arrangement, then surely by the generous offerings María Luisa made to the church. Fernando was, in fact, reasonably happy with his fortuitous change in circumstance. His earliest years had been so fraught that he probably would have been reasonably happy in almost any change of circumstance.

True to her word, María Luisa treated Fernando as one of her own in every ostensible way. He socialized with the family, traveled with the family. Lavish gifts were given him, extravagant parties were thrown for him, just as they were for his other half-siblings. He was sent to the most prestigious schools, provided with the finest tutors.

Still, despite all these outward trappings of inclusion, Fernando felt his separation as a sort of chill that prevented him from ever becoming close to the others, or ever feeling truly at home in his father's house. This chill, of course, emanated from his stepmother María Luisa. It had persisted from the first moment of their acquaintance. Fernando never felt at ease around her. Over time he came to understand that this was precisely her intent. Her every look, her every attitude toward him screamed what he was careful never to give her the provocation to say: that he was inferior, a disgrace, a worthless bastard son of a whore.

Had he proved her right about him, even in some small way, she might have forgiven him. But Fernando had inherited his mother's incorrigible spite. He struck back at María Luisa in the best way that he could: by proving her wrong about him at every turn. He kept his tongue in check, his temper in check. He was well-mannered, respectful always, even when she was at her coldest and most insidious. He was charming, good-humored—clever enough to make sure that whatever innuendos underscored his remarks would have to be given the benefit of the doubt. He excelled in his studies, was well-liked by his teachers and peers. He was athletic, a natural sportsman. He was humble, cordial and gracious—toward María Luisa most of all, which infuriated her to no end. In short, he was the perfect young gentleman.

As if Fernando did not outshine his insipid, finicky, indolent half-siblings enough in the eyes of the world, Juan Francisco blatantly favored him. His father's gross partiality toward him did them both more harm than good, as it fanned the flames of María Luisa's cold wrath. But discretion and foresight had never been Juan Francisco's strong suits. He forgot his other sons' and daughters' important events, yet routinely made a spectacle of presenting Fernando with gifts so grandiose as to be embarrassing. At gatherings large or small, he bragged endlessly of Fernando's seemingly infinite merits while deriding his other children in the same breath, calling them 'dull,' 'milquetoast' and 'witless.' Even if this was so, it was still uncouth to say it—particularly right in front of them.

Fernando did not share his father's gratuitous enthusiasm for him. He found Juan Francisco a rather repugnant character. Perhaps Fernando even disliked him more than María Luisa for his clownishness and excess. Perhaps a small black bitter corner of his heart could not forgive Juan Francisco for abandoning him for the first eight years of his life. Perhaps he saw that his father's over-the-top regard for him was merely an expression of his own flagrant self-love and desire to live vicariously through him, this younger, stronger, better incarnation of himself.

Nevertheless, they shared an undeniable rapport, superficial though it was on both their parts. Because of their initial estrangement, and because little about Juan Francisco was ever appropriate, it was not the customary dynamic between father and son. Their relationship was more fraternal than paternal. Juan Francisco was a bold and lusty man. Having never had a brother of his own to carouse around with, he appointed his long-lost son to the role. Even when Fernando was only a boy of ten or so, his father would pal around with him in this way, taking him to cafés to whistle and ogle at the women, slipping him sips of beer and liquor from his own glass with a conspiratorial wink or chuckling heartily while Fernando hacked over the cigars he'd been pressured to smoke.

"You'll take to it soon enough," the senator said, clapping Fernando on the back while his eyes brimmed and burned—not least of all with simmering ire toward him. Oblivious to this, Juan Francisco cuffed him on the cheek, grinning. "Well done, Fernando. Santa María lets your brothers snivel, but a real man holds his tears in check."

Fernando never took to cigar smoking. He only got better at schooling his distaste for it. In his father's shallow assessment, this show of acclimation was encouragement enough. To groom his young son into the perfect partner-in-crime was Juan Francisco's fondest wish.