The Hummingbird's Daughter_ A Novel - Luis Alberto Urrea [24]
Tomás came hurrying out of his office, waving a letter of credit over his head, already starting to call out for someone to fetch Segundo, and remembering that his spurs were still on and Loreto did not allow spurs in the house, when he skidded to a halt and beheld Teresita in congress with his big clock.
“How in the devil did you get in here?” he demanded.
She looked up at him serenely. “I followed you.” She turned back to the clock. “This tree has a heart,” she said.
He blinked. Looked at her more closely. He knew he’d seen her before. If Loreto saw her dirty bare feet on the rug—well!
“What, might I ask, are you doing?”
“I have been talking to this tree, but it won’t answer me.”
He smiled.
“It must be a very rude tree,” she said.
He laughed.
He stepped up to the clock and looked at it. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “Clocks are rude.”
“This is a clock?”
“Yes, it is. It is a grandfather clock.”
She seemed delighted by this information.
He thought he should be having her whipped or something, but he reached into his vest pocket instead. He didn’t know why. “Look here,” he said. He pulled out his pocket watch and clicked open its lid. It played a small bit of Mozart. She gasped.
“It is the grandson watch!” Teresa exclaimed.
He laughed once more.
“Make the music again.”
He clicked the lid shut and reopened it.
“Be careful,” she warned. “When it grows big like the grandfather, it won’t fit in your pocket.”
What an amusing little creature, Tomás thought.
Teresita looked around the room.
“Patrón?” she said.
“Yes?”
“Where do you keep your chickens? Do they sleep here?”
“No, no. They sleep in the henhouse.”
“Your chickens have their own house?” she whispered.
He noticed the appalling chamber pot on the couch. His eyebrows rose. His household was, apparently, falling apart. He would have words with the maids about it as soon as he dealt with this small invader. He clapped his hands twice. The harried woman stormed out of the hall and cried, “Sí, señor?”
“This young lady,” he said, “seems to have wandered into the house by mistake. Could you fetch her a cool glass of juice, then see her out?”
The maid goggled at Teresita.
“I like juice,” Teresita said.
“It looks like this is your lucky day,” Tomás said.
The maid stepped forward to grab Teresita.
“Sir?” Teresita said.
He looked at her.
“Does Huila live here?”
He bent to her and said, “Huila. What do you want with Huila?”
“I need to ask her something.”
He squatted before her, careful not to impale his buttocks with the starry rowels on his spurs.
“What do you need to ask her?”
“I don’t know who I am,” Teresita said. “My aunt told me Huila would know who I am.”
Tomás stared into the face of this strange little girl. Then he looked up at the maid. Then he looked back at Teresita.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Teresa.”
“All right, Teresita,” he said, rising. “Let us go find Huila for you. Let’s find out who you are.”
He took her hand and led her down the hall toward the kitchen.
She said, “Do you have any cookies? I like cookies.”
He laughed again.
Teresita was amazed to see huge black cooking pots hanging from hooks on the walls of the kitchen. Tía had one big pot, one dented small tin pot, and a pan. Here, there were skillets, and there were pots as small as coffee cups, pots as large as bathtubs. A metal ring hung from the ceiling, and on hooks all around it hung more pots.
Tomás looked around and said, “Where is Carmela?”
“Carmela the cook, sir?” one of the girls asked.
“Right. Is she sick?”
“She no longer works here, sir,” the girl said. “She left us three years ago.”
He stood there