The Distant Marvels by Chantel Acevedo Page A

little.
    â€œAnd you?” he asked. Still, his nose poked through the space in the door, which had widened only a little during their conversation.
    â€œIlluminada,” she said. The name Lulu she would keep to herself.
    â€œIt is a perfect name. I can barely stand to look at you without shading my eyes.” Aldo chuckled at his own joke, then sighed. Lulu looked down at her feet. She began to bounce me in her arms, shushing me. I cried heartily. My face, which had been as pale as a star, grew red. “Shh,” Lulu said and I stopped to listen. The wetness below gathered close to her skin. And still, the intolerable captain would not leave.
    â€œI must see the owner,” she said.
    At last, snapped out of his reverie, Aldo Alarcón said, “Of course, after you,” and drew wide the door.
    Lulu walked out holding me, taking small, cautious steps. How mortifying, she thought. Then she remembered Agustín being dragged away, and the stream of blood coming from his nose and dotting the earth. A shudder ran through Lulu, so she held me tightly as she walked. Later, she told me that I had given her strength all through my father’s imprisonment. “You were like an anchor. Or the railing of a ship. Meant for steadying,” she’d said.
    Aldo led her to the inn’s modest lobby—an airy place, though the tiling on the floors and walls was dark and intricate. A man in a cream-colored coat and matching waistcoat and trousers manned the front desk. His clothes were wrinkled all over, and the man’s thick neck bulged at the black tie, as if tiny hands were strangling him slowly. On the wall above the man’s head was a landscape painting of the mogotes in the Viñales Valley, all steep, round-topped hills that suggested another world. The painting was lovingly framed and kept dust-free, unlike the rest of the lobby. The man eyed Lulu and Aldo Alarcón nervously.
    â€œLa señora requires the presence of your wife,” the captain said a bit too loudly. Lulu suppressed a sigh. Why did such men find the need to shout when giving commands?
    The man, who happened to be the inn owner, stood up at attention. His lips worried over his teeth for a moment, then he stuttered, “I-I-I h-have no wife, capitán.”
    Aldo Alarcón slammed an open palm against the table in a show of frustration. Lulu was sure it was just a show. He’d wanted to startle everyone, impose his authority, but the wood was so thick that the sound was muted, and laughable. Besides, Lulu was fairly certain the captain had hurt his hand.
    â€œPerhaps you have a sister?” Lulu asked, interrupting. “I require the help of a generous woman. I have heard,” she said, calculating, “that the people of the Viñales Valley are the kindest in the world.”
    The man brightened. “It’s t-t-true,” he said, “Jesucristo should have b-b-been born in Viñales, not Bethlehem. Every home would have opened its d-doors! I’ll fetch my niece at once.” He disappeared through a narrow door.
    The captain drummed his fingers on the desk. They were red and cracked, like salted fish. He scowled at Lulu. “No wonder all the sailors on my ship were sad to see you go,” Aldo Alarcón said. “You were too kind to them.”
    â€œOnly as kind as human decency requires.” Lulu bit her tongue. She’d overstepped herself, saw Agustín again in her mind, bloody and limp, heard the captain’s whistle, remembered where Aldo Alarcón’s loyalties rested.
    The captain had been leaning on the front desk. Now he stood away from it, drawing up to his full height. “Decency,” he said, “What does a rebel’s woman know of that?” Then, he ran his pinkie finger down Lulu’s cheek, let it linger on her chin for a moment, then patted my head. “Sweet baby.”
    Lulu tried very hard not to huddle over me, but instead, she