Conquistadora - Esmeralda Santiago [120]
“Spain is over there.” Elena pointed to the horizon, as if she expected something to come from that direction. She looked sad, and when she noticed that he could tell, she turned him slowly toward the horseshoe harbor and brightened her tone. “We came on a ship like that one.” A tall-masted schooner floated toward port, its square sails puffed like huge pillows.
“Spain is far away,” Miguel said, but Elena knew this was a question.
“It took us a month to get here.”
“Nana Inés says that there are pirates in the ocean.”
Elena raised her eyebrows. “There used to be pirates in these waters, but not anymore.”
“Mamá said that there were horses on her ship.”
“Ay, your mamá was so funny!”
“What did she do?”
Elena sounded as if she wanted to laugh but shouldn’t do so in public. “She and your papá were on the same ship with horses for the soldiers. She teased him that she’d ride one of the horses over the waves like Perseus rode Pegasus.”
“Who is Per …?”
“Perseus was a hero in ancient stories and Pegasus was a horse with wings.”
Miguel looked at the harbor studded with tall masts like giant pins stuck into the shimmering water. He tried to imagine his mother upon a winged horse skimming over the ships and the smaller boats bobbing in the sun.
“What else did Mamá do?”
Elena’s V-shaped lips narrowed and smiled, even though her eyes were serious. “You miss her, don’t you?”
He lowered his head and breathed hard to keep from crying. He missed Nana Inés, and how she rubbed his back to help him sleep. He missed playing with Efraín and Indio, and the high towers they built from the blocks José made for them. He missed Nana Flora’s laughter, her songs to the trees, and her stories about where she lived when she was a girl in the forest. He missed José’s workshop, the smell of wood, the sawdust on the ground, the way shavings curled when José planed a board. He missed his father. Mamá told him that Papá was in heaven, and Miguel knew that meant he’d never see him again. He missed Papá’s long fingers through his hair, the way he held his hand when they walked, his tight embraces. He missed his soft voice and tender eyes. But in San Juan, every time his father’s name came up, Abuela’s eyes filled with tears and Abuelo cleared his throat.
“We can talk about your mamá anytime you like,” Elena continued. “I’ve known her since we were girls.”
Miguel furrowed his brow. It was hard to imagine either Mamá or Elena as anything but grown women.
“Did you know my papá, too? When he was a boy I mean.”
“Yes, of course. Doña Leonor is my madre de crianza. I grew up with your papá and your uncle. They were a little older. Your mamá and papá met at my birthday party.” She stopped, and her eyes again looked toward Spain. She moved her head side to side as if she both liked and didn’t like the thought. “Goodness, listen to the church bells. It’s fifteen minutes to twelve. Let’s go back.”
They hurried through the narrow streets, avoiding people on foot, soldiers on horses, wagons pulled by oxen or donkeys, vendors carrying baskets or sacks. “¡Carbonero! ¡Carbonero aquí!” called the coal seller. “¡Tengo yuca y malanga!” called the vegetable man; “¡Tengo ñame y yautía!” The kindling man carried a tall stack on his head, and his reedy voice soared over the whinnying horses: “¡Leña para la doña!”
As they walked, Miguel felt the difference between the fresh wind whirling around the seawall and the air down the hill. He could smell the lower city, the stench of animal droppings, the open sewers, smoke, meat grilling, sweat.
“When I have a house, I want it to look to