He nodded, and yet—maybe he was losing his mind—the torment appealed to him. To be sanctioned to love her and prohibited from it at the same time cast a powerful spell over him—the aphrodisiac of piety and devotion and an abstinence constantly at war with desire.

“Now listen some more. Lydia is a sister of Oshun. When I was with her, I confessed what was in my heart and asked her to seek the orisha’s counsel. She came here with me a little while ago and threw the oleinus and said the mayuba, the prayer, and … Will, strike a match, look at the mat beside me, and tell me what you see.”

He lit a match, its flare illuminating her face, glistening with sweat, and the pieces of a quartered coconut, all lying with the pulp side up.

“No entiendo,” he said, waving his hand to extinguish the match.

“The oleinus landed with the white side up. Alafia. That means yes in the old language. Oshun will bless us. Sangre de mi corazón. Sangre de mi sangre. Sangre de Usted, mi sangre. Uno,” Elvira said. While her expression was indistinct, he somehow sensed that it was the same one he had seen on her face the first day—intense, sagacious, leaving him with no refuge for his secrets even while it guarded all of hers. “Oshun consents that we can make each other man and wife without the priest,” she went on, in a tremulous whisper. “We do not need the priest now. The priest can come later.”

He felt like he was drowning. She straightened to her knees and, raising her arms overhead, pulled off her shift.

“Oh, my Christ,” he murmured in English. She wore only the bead necklace from which the small gold amulet hung between her breasts. He cupped them, tentatively at first, then took her nipples into his mouth. She drew in a breath, sharply, quickly, through clenched teeth and, taking his chin in her hand, lifted his face and kissed him while she unbuttoned his shirt without looking at it. No, she was no virgin.

He kicked off his shoes, fumbled with his belt, tore off his trousers, and they fell on the mat together, lying on their sides, her legs crossed over his, his arms around the small of her back, their tongues flicking inside each other’s mouths. She took the core of him in one hand; it was as if he had no flesh there, every nerve and vessel laid bare, and he softly pushed her away, fearful that he would burst instantly. He caressed her buttocks, the smooth mound of her belly, and touched the damp, fervid bristle between her thighs, piercing her with his finger.

Suddenly, she stiffened, clutched his wrists, pulled him out of her.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, choking. “Should I stop?”

“Lo siento. It’s difficult for me.”

“Should I stop?”

“No. Por todos los santos, no.”