her mother as they neared the outer gates.
“Don’t be silly. Do you think God can’t see you dance everywhere else? There’s hardly a time during the day when you’re not
dancing. When don’t you dance? In your sleep?”
“No, I dance in my dreams. I dance best in my dreams.”
“Well, if God hasn’t minded so far, then I don’t think the sisters will, either.”
They wore the traditional outfits: black velvet vests and satin aprons over long-sleeved white blouses, their scarlet satin
skirts lined with horizontal black stripes at the hem. Their hair was channeled back by cinched white scarves; the laces of
their peasant slippers wound over white stockings up their calves and were tied below the knees, accentuating their lean lines.
Sister Terese led them through the outer courtyard and into a large, empty anteroom in the main building. Along the inner
wall, a grated double door sent light into the sisters’ dining quarters. Through the arabesque wrought-iron gate, Miren could
see vague dark figures, a cluster of mute, ominous shadows, motionless as stalagmites. She had danced at festivals before
the entire village; she had danced without anxiety in front of drunks and strangers and amid the glares of young men. But
to spin her skirts for the brides of Jesus was another issue.
When Marie-Luis, one of Mariangeles’s sisters, who was accompanying the dancers on the button accordion, eased open the bellows
and pressed the first spirited notes, Miren thought nothing of her audience or the consequences. If Saint Peter called for
an accounting someday, she’d dance a jota for him and let him judge for himself.
Miren and Mariangeles began spinning in mirrored orbits, doing triple kicks and turns, side kicks and turns, arms upraised
and fingers snapping. With each spin, their skirts rose outward only to gather tightly when they stopped and reversed, creating
swirling eddies of red satin.
Between dances, Miren noticed that a girl, perhaps her own age, had entered the far end of the room through a side door. Dressed
in a workman’s shirt and a peasant skirt, with an apron ornamented by random stains, the girl began moving when the music
resumed. She didn’t spin or kick or snap her fingers but weaved sensuously in one spot. She was neither nun nor novitiate,
but she also was no one Miren had seen in school or in the village.
After several dances, Sister Terese signaled to Marie-Luis that one more would be sufficient. For the first time, Miren focused
on the figures behind the grated archway. When her spins brought them into her scope of vision, Miren detected motion behind
the screen. The sisters were no longer ominous black shadows but flashes of movement, arms upraised in dance. Sister Terese
had not told her about this. Yes, they were nuns, fully devout and willing to renounce plea sure to abide by their covenant
of hardship. But they also were Basques, and when a jota was played on an accordion, they were compelled to whirl in their habits, wimples fluttering, snapping their fingers in time.
With that vision, Miren felt absolved; she wasn’t offending the sisters, she was performing in front of fellow dancers. She
told her mother she’d happily dance at the convent as often as they were asked. Miren was particularly eager for the next
performance and was determined to learn more of the curious girl swaying to her own rhythms in the corner of the room.
The fish attacked as Miguel slept. Giant mackerels splayed their jaws wide in his face and sprayed jets of caustic, fetid
slime. Ghosts of slaughtered sea creatures visited in exaggerated and distorted forms. Octopi with dozens of adhesive tentacles
clutched and then engulfed him with their huge soft heads, and he would awaken to find himself wound tightly in his blankets,
head buried in his pillow.
He never actually said the words to his family, but Miguel Navarro despised fish, live or spectral.
It was
“Don’t be silly. Do you think God can’t see you dance everywhere else? There’s hardly a time during the day when you’re not
dancing. When don’t you dance? In your sleep?”
“No, I dance in my dreams. I dance best in my dreams.”
“Well, if God hasn’t minded so far, then I don’t think the sisters will, either.”
They wore the traditional outfits: black velvet vests and satin aprons over long-sleeved white blouses, their scarlet satin
skirts lined with horizontal black stripes at the hem. Their hair was channeled back by cinched white scarves; the laces of
their peasant slippers wound over white stockings up their calves and were tied below the knees, accentuating their lean lines.
Sister Terese led them through the outer courtyard and into a large, empty anteroom in the main building. Along the inner
wall, a grated double door sent light into the sisters’ dining quarters. Through the arabesque wrought-iron gate, Miren could
see vague dark figures, a cluster of mute, ominous shadows, motionless as stalagmites. She had danced at festivals before
the entire village; she had danced without anxiety in front of drunks and strangers and amid the glares of young men. But
to spin her skirts for the brides of Jesus was another issue.
When Marie-Luis, one of Mariangeles’s sisters, who was accompanying the dancers on the button accordion, eased open the bellows
and pressed the first spirited notes, Miren thought nothing of her audience or the consequences. If Saint Peter called for
an accounting someday, she’d dance a jota for him and let him judge for himself.
Miren and Mariangeles began spinning in mirrored orbits, doing triple kicks and turns, side kicks and turns, arms upraised
and fingers snapping. With each spin, their skirts rose outward only to gather tightly when they stopped and reversed, creating
swirling eddies of red satin.
Between dances, Miren noticed that a girl, perhaps her own age, had entered the far end of the room through a side door. Dressed
in a workman’s shirt and a peasant skirt, with an apron ornamented by random stains, the girl began moving when the music
resumed. She didn’t spin or kick or snap her fingers but weaved sensuously in one spot. She was neither nun nor novitiate,
but she also was no one Miren had seen in school or in the village.
After several dances, Sister Terese signaled to Marie-Luis that one more would be sufficient. For the first time, Miren focused
on the figures behind the grated archway. When her spins brought them into her scope of vision, Miren detected motion behind
the screen. The sisters were no longer ominous black shadows but flashes of movement, arms upraised in dance. Sister Terese
had not told her about this. Yes, they were nuns, fully devout and willing to renounce plea sure to abide by their covenant
of hardship. But they also were Basques, and when a jota was played on an accordion, they were compelled to whirl in their habits, wimples fluttering, snapping their fingers in time.
With that vision, Miren felt absolved; she wasn’t offending the sisters, she was performing in front of fellow dancers. She
told her mother she’d happily dance at the convent as often as they were asked. Miren was particularly eager for the next
performance and was determined to learn more of the curious girl swaying to her own rhythms in the corner of the room.
The fish attacked as Miguel slept. Giant mackerels splayed their jaws wide in his face and sprayed jets of caustic, fetid
slime. Ghosts of slaughtered sea creatures visited in exaggerated and distorted forms. Octopi with dozens of adhesive tentacles
clutched and then engulfed him with their huge soft heads, and he would awaken to find himself wound tightly in his blankets,
head buried in his pillow.
He never actually said the words to his family, but Miguel Navarro despised fish, live or spectral.
It was
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