below where Rosalba lived. On the door of Isabel’s apartment were two hand-painted pink hearts, with Isabel’s and her daughter Milagro’s names intertwined.
Milagro let me in. She was a large, sturdy girl of aboutthirteen, as tall as her mother and almost twice her size, with gold baubles in her ears. A “Boss” Springsteen T-shirt clung to her burgeoning breasts. But she had her mother’s deep black eyes, her thick black hair that fell around her shoulders. “Mummy’s in here,” she said.
The apartment smelled of incense and mint tea. Flower petals were strewn across the floor as if some secret ritual was being practiced here. The rooms with the shades wide open were as light as Rosalba’s were dark, and the heat of the day poured in. Salsa spewed forth from the radio and a song called “Latin Lover” played. Milagro lip-synched the words as she led me into the middle of the sparsely furnished room, to a Formica table and a bouquet of plastic flowers.
Sunken on the couch missing its springs, Isabel sat, looking more like a child than her own daughter. Milagro touched her mother on the shoulder. “Mummy, here’s your friend.” Then Milagro raised her mother up as if she were helping an invalid.
“Oh, Milie,” Isabel said, “I’m not that old. I’m only thirty-five.”
Carved saints with pleading hands and despondent gazes lined the mantel. On the wall were pictures of Jesus, Marilyn Monroe, a Rosalba who looked like the Elizabeth Taylor of
la isla
, and Isabel with her daughter. Except for Jesus there were no pictures of men. There was none of her father, though there was a poster of a singing group, Hijos de Andalucía.
“Let’s go somewhere else,” Isabel whispered. She pointed to each of the four walls, making a circling motion with her hands. Milagro turned the volume up on the music, pressing her fingers to her lips. “It is best not to speak here,” Isabel said.
I don’t like whispering. I never have. When we were young, Lydia and I always spoke in hushed tones, afraid to be heard. “I don’t want to hear a peep out of you girls,” our father would say to us at night, “not a sound.” He aimed his finger our way so we knew he meant it. At home we spoke with a hand cupped to ear or in codes, by semaphore. A finger pointing downstairs, a thumb motioning outside. Whenever we could, we walked in the woods around our house. But even there we never raised our voices. Lydia now tells me how she remembers darkness, drawn shades, rooms without light. But what I remember are whispers.
Isabel led me down long winding streets, through alleyways where children played with a discarded bicycle wheel and sticks. They rolled the wheel down muddy streets, garbage-strewn alleyways. There were no sandlot baseball games, no one shooting hoops. No bats, no balls.
The streets were riddled with potholes. Huge craters pitted the roads as if they’d been bombed, and the few cars twisted past them as if through a maze. We passed a building with the first floor gutted, but a family living on the second floor. On the balcony a hen strutted; laundry of tattered undershirts and blue jeans flapped in the breeze.
Along the Miramar, people wore cardboard signs, attached around their necks with string. At first I thought this was some form of public humiliation. But then I looked closer. A young couple with a small child wore a sign that said they wanted a two-bedroom anywhere in exchange for their one-bedroom in the center of the city. A single man who wished to marry was trying to convince an old woman who wanted to leave her large apartment that his studio was near the sea.
We walked for a long time and I was hot and tired. ButIsabel moved like a dancer, her arms reaching before her into space. Sweat beads formed on the corners of her brow, but other than that she moved effortlessly. I followed and we did not speak.
At last we arrived at a café not far from the sea and the old cemetery. We sat down and
Milagro let me in. She was a large, sturdy girl of aboutthirteen, as tall as her mother and almost twice her size, with gold baubles in her ears. A “Boss” Springsteen T-shirt clung to her burgeoning breasts. But she had her mother’s deep black eyes, her thick black hair that fell around her shoulders. “Mummy’s in here,” she said.
The apartment smelled of incense and mint tea. Flower petals were strewn across the floor as if some secret ritual was being practiced here. The rooms with the shades wide open were as light as Rosalba’s were dark, and the heat of the day poured in. Salsa spewed forth from the radio and a song called “Latin Lover” played. Milagro lip-synched the words as she led me into the middle of the sparsely furnished room, to a Formica table and a bouquet of plastic flowers.
Sunken on the couch missing its springs, Isabel sat, looking more like a child than her own daughter. Milagro touched her mother on the shoulder. “Mummy, here’s your friend.” Then Milagro raised her mother up as if she were helping an invalid.
“Oh, Milie,” Isabel said, “I’m not that old. I’m only thirty-five.”
Carved saints with pleading hands and despondent gazes lined the mantel. On the wall were pictures of Jesus, Marilyn Monroe, a Rosalba who looked like the Elizabeth Taylor of
la isla
, and Isabel with her daughter. Except for Jesus there were no pictures of men. There was none of her father, though there was a poster of a singing group, Hijos de Andalucía.
“Let’s go somewhere else,” Isabel whispered. She pointed to each of the four walls, making a circling motion with her hands. Milagro turned the volume up on the music, pressing her fingers to her lips. “It is best not to speak here,” Isabel said.
I don’t like whispering. I never have. When we were young, Lydia and I always spoke in hushed tones, afraid to be heard. “I don’t want to hear a peep out of you girls,” our father would say to us at night, “not a sound.” He aimed his finger our way so we knew he meant it. At home we spoke with a hand cupped to ear or in codes, by semaphore. A finger pointing downstairs, a thumb motioning outside. Whenever we could, we walked in the woods around our house. But even there we never raised our voices. Lydia now tells me how she remembers darkness, drawn shades, rooms without light. But what I remember are whispers.
Isabel led me down long winding streets, through alleyways where children played with a discarded bicycle wheel and sticks. They rolled the wheel down muddy streets, garbage-strewn alleyways. There were no sandlot baseball games, no one shooting hoops. No bats, no balls.
The streets were riddled with potholes. Huge craters pitted the roads as if they’d been bombed, and the few cars twisted past them as if through a maze. We passed a building with the first floor gutted, but a family living on the second floor. On the balcony a hen strutted; laundry of tattered undershirts and blue jeans flapped in the breeze.
Along the Miramar, people wore cardboard signs, attached around their necks with string. At first I thought this was some form of public humiliation. But then I looked closer. A young couple with a small child wore a sign that said they wanted a two-bedroom anywhere in exchange for their one-bedroom in the center of the city. A single man who wished to marry was trying to convince an old woman who wanted to leave her large apartment that his studio was near the sea.
We walked for a long time and I was hot and tired. ButIsabel moved like a dancer, her arms reaching before her into space. Sweat beads formed on the corners of her brow, but other than that she moved effortlessly. I followed and we did not speak.
At last we arrived at a café not far from the sea and the old cemetery. We sat down and
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