Naranja dulce, limón partido, dame un abrazo
que yo te pido.
Si fueran falsos mis juramentos, en otros tiempos
se olvidarán.
“Don’t move, just stand like that for a minute.” Doctor Marín peered through the lens of his camera for what seemed to Blanca Estela like a very long time, during which she tried to hold a smile while Mario, standing next to her, continued to look calmly into the camera. They were posing for their First Communion pictures, and they both looked quite magnificent. Mario wore a short-sleeved white shirt and long white trousers, both impeccably starched, and held before him, for the photo, the white Communion candle. Blanca Estela, for her part, looked as pretty as she felt in her white silk dress with the long row of pearl buttons in the back. On her head she wore a white lace veil that floated around her like a cloud, anchored by a headband which was also covered in white silk and embroidered with tiny pearls. Panchita, María Eva’s best embroiderer, had fashioned the headdress, embroidering the band and attaching the veil to it, which was particularly precious to Blanca Estela because it had been cut from Lilia’s wedding veil. Even her feet were well shod in brand new white shoes, which had been bought with money sent by her uncle, Raúl, as his First Communion gift to her. What princess could be better outfitted than this?
Posing for the photograph, Blanca Estela held in one hand the Communion candle, like Mario’s, while in the other she displayed a dainty prayer book covered in mother of pearl, the gift from her godmother, Rosalía. Blanca Estela wanted Doctor Marín’s camera to capture every important detail of their First Communion regalia, although she realized that Mario’s gift from his godfather, Doctor Marín, was probably too heavy to hold in one hand (it was a book with colored illustrations depicting the lives of the Apostles), and that must be why Mario had left it on the parlor table. To complete the cycle of photographs, Doctor Marín asked his brother-in-law, Leopoldo, to hold the camera while he, Doctor Marín, and Rosalía posed with their godchildren, Mario and Blanca Estela.
When they were finished recording the event, they went into the dining room for the Communion breakfast, which Doctor Marín and Rosalía were giving. There were several people already there waiting for them to arrive, so they could sit down to eat. Father Mirabal had been invited, of course, and there was Mamá Anita, as well. Mario’s mother, Delia, was there, too, although it had been uncertain whether she would accompany them because she had had a migraine the day before and was still looking weak. Nereida and Mimi were there, too, as was Pedro, who had assisted Father Mirabal at Mass. María Eva and Evita had also been asked and were there, as was Perla who, as usual, was helping Rosalía attend to the guests. Leopoldo came in last, still holding the camera.
The large dining table was covered with a long white tablecloth on which rested platters of little pastries: fruit-filled empanadas and shortbread cookies, like those made for weddings. A round, silver tray was also piled high with tamales, and a large, porcelain pitcher, decorated with blue flowers, held steaming, hot chocolate. A silver pot at the other end of the table held coffee. Blanca Estela gazed at the laden table and was surprised to note that she was not as ravenously hungry as she had expected to be after fasting for Communion. Perhaps it was all the excitement that had made her forget her hunger.
Doctor Marín came up to her and, putting a hand on her shoulder, said softly, “When the photographs are developed, we’ll save some prints to show your mother how pretty you look today.”
Blanca Estela felt a knot at her throat and quickly looked down, so no one would see the sudden tears that trembled on her eyelashes. She nodded, not trusting herself to thank this kind, gentle man who had divined her feelings. How she longed for her mother to be with her now. Instead, she would write to Lilia and tell her about the flowers and the candles on the altar in church, about walking up the aisle to the altar, side by side with Mario, to receive the host. It had been only the two of them because the three rowdy boys had not shown up, after all, for some reason, and Aminta... well, better not to think about her.
The day before receiving Communion, they had also made their first confession. Father Mirabal had sat in a little chair inside the confessional, which looked like a large wardrobe. To each side of Father Mirabal were purple curtains that shielded the priedieu where you knelt to confess. She had had a moment of panic when she had stepped inside the little recess, which was suffocatingly hot and smelled of the dust that clung to the curtains. She feared that she was going to faint, even more so when she heard Father Mirabal’s voice behind the little mesh-covered screen, asking her if she wanted to confess. She could not remember the words that she was supposed to say. Father Mirabal had cleared his throat and prompted her, “My child, what do you want to confess?”
Then she remembered to cross herself and say, “Bless me Father, for I have sinned.”
Beforehand she had made an inventory of her transgressions, debating with herself as to their frequency and degree. Had she been disrespectful to her mother or her grandmother? She couldn’t really remember having been particularly bad in this area, but it was probably safe to say that, at some time or another, she had talked back, or argued with them. What about lying? She had not exactly lied to Mamá Anita about planning to go picking cotton; she had just not told her the complete truth. Better put that in, so she could be forgiven for doing whatever wrong that had been. What about being angry? Which commandment did that go under? Probably the one about loving your neighbor as yourself. That’s where Aminta came in.
Once she was in the confessional, however, she had forgotten her inventory and began pouring out to Father Mirabal the story of the quarrel with Aminta and then, somehow, that led to realizing that she had also been angry with her mother for going away and with her grandmother for holding her back when she had wanted to run after the car that was taking away her mother.
Father Mirabal had listened without interruption until she had exhausted herself and then asked, “But you repent, my child, for having been angry with your mother and grandmother and with your friend?”
She had answered, “Oh yes, Father,” without even pausing to realize that, in this manner, she had admitted that Aminta had been her friend. Then Father Mirabal had told her that she was forgiven, but that she had to do penance by saying one “Our Father” and one “Hail Mary” before going home. She had done so, willingly, and then gone home feeling strangely light and clean, as if she had just bathed. And now, here she was, not only confessed and absolved, but also a first-time communicant, which Father Mirabal had explained meant being part of a community.
As they were getting ready to sit down to breakfast, Leopoldo said, “Wait, Blanca Estela, I have a surprise for you, a gift.”
She looked at Mamá Anita with a question in her eyes, but her grandmother merely smiled. Leopoldo brought out a square package some twelve inches in size. It was wrapped in brown paper. Leopoldo showed her that it was addressed to her but in care of Dolores Guerra, the big woman who ran the store across the river. Then she noticed the return address. Her mother’s name was on it. All of a sudden her heart was pounding and her hands trembled as she tried to tear the paper. Leopoldo took out a small pocket knife and tore off the wrapping. She quickly opened the box, completely at a loss as to what her mother could have sent her. Inside the box, cushioned in tissue paper, was a white handbag, a small one but with a handle that you could put over your arm—a grown-up handbag, like her mother carried, only smaller, of course. She looked up at all the guests around the table, and they smiled at her, expecting her to say something, but she could not find her voice.
Rosalía took the bag from her, saying, “Let me see. Oh yes, it is a most elegant handbag, and it is so useful. Look, we will put your prayer book inside it.” She opened the bag and, after depositing the prayer book in its interior, she snapped it shut, commenting, “It has a very good clasp,” and gave her back the handbag.
“Do you like it?” Evita asked from the other end of the table.
“Oh yes,” was all she could say, but her eyes were shining.
“Lilia sent it in care of Dolores because she knew that it would reach you faster that way than by international mail. When I was at the store yesterday, Dolores asked me to deliver it to you. I’m very happy I brought it, especially since it has made you so very happy,” Leopoldo concluded, smiling at her.
Blanca Estela put the handbag in her lap and kept it there throughout breakfast, during which she ate a remarkable number of tamales and pastries and drank two cups of chocolate. She had not realized until then how hungry she was.
Three days later they received a letter from Lilia. It was only a short note, but it contained wonderful news. Lilia said that she would be coming home soon, in two weeks or less, and she would tell them then about all the things that she had been doing. Blanca Estela was wildly happy: her mother was returning to her. Now they would be together again, the two of them, no, the three of them, because now Mamá Anita was part of her life, too. She promptly went out and told all her friends that her mother was coming home.
Waiting, though, was agony. Two weeks was such a long time, but perhaps it would be less. Perhaps Lilia would arrive sooner. Every day Blanca Estela would wake up to the happy possibility that she would see her mother that very day. By Saturday, she was so impatient waiting for her mother’s arrival that even Mamá Anita seemed to wish for something to distract them from counting the days until Lilia’s return. Perhaps that was the reason why she agreed so readily to let Blanca Estela go to the movies that evening with Mario and Mimi. Nereida was taking them, and, at the last minute, Evita went along, too.
Going to the movies in Revilla was different from what it had been like in the United States. In Revilla, they showed only one movie, on Saturday night, in a building next to the church which was referred to as the “old school” by some people and as “the theater” by others. When she had first arrived in Revilla, Blanca Estela had thought that the building was abandoned, because it had a padlock on the massive doors. Now she realized that it was only open when there was a movie to show or when there was some kind of theatrical presentation.
When they walked into the theater, she saw by the yellowish light of the bulbs that hung from the high ceiling that there was a raised platform, like a stage, at the opposite end of the room. A white screen had been placed in the center of this platform, in front of some draperies that hid about half of the stage from them. In the seating area there were rows of wooden seats that folded up and were bolted to each other like those in real theaters. They chose to sit in the middle of a row, fairly close to the stage. Behind them, in the back of the room, there was a small wood cubicle raised several feet above the floor, with little openings for windows cut at various levels.
“That’s where the movie projector and the projectionist are,” Mario told Blanca Estela, pointing to the cubicle. “The projectionist is my brother, Tino,” he added. “Nereida sometimes helps him.” And, indeed, Nereida got up then and left them to go inside the little room with her brother.
Blanca Estela noticed another difference between the movie theater in Revilla and the ones back home—no, not back home, she corrected herself. Revilla was home now. Here there was no concession stand where you could buy popcorn or candy. As if reading her mind, Leopoldo suddenly appeared next to them holding several small paper cones filled with hard candy. “I thought you might enjoy some candy,” he said with his friendly smile, gently patting Blanca Estela on the head, while ruffling Mario’s hair.
The four of them, Mario and Mimi, Evita and Blanca Estela, sucked on the candy in silence while the room filled with people. Finally, the lights went out and the black and white movie began, the images dancing a little on the screen and the music sounding a little scratchy, but no one seemed to mind. Blanca Estela noticed that her three companions seemed to know all about the actors in the movie and were familiar with the characters and the plot of the film, as if they had seen it before. She whispered to Mimi, asking her if this was the case. Mimi nodded, but did not elaborate until Mario intervened, explaining, “This is the second time that the movie comes to Revilla, and it was very popular the first time.”
Blanca Estela was not able to follow all the dialogue, because the actors spoke with a different accent from the people in Revilla and used some words that she had not heard before. But she understood most of the story, which was about a group of people who were very poor and lived in the same neighborhood. The title of the movie was precisely that, “We, the Poor.” When a young woman with a pretty face and a sweet expression appeared on the screen, Evita leaned forward and said, “That’s your namesake, Blanca Estela.”
She did not know how to respond. After a moment, Evita continued, “Didn’t you know? I am sure that you were named after her. My mother says that she was your mother’s favorite movie star. And don’t they make such a good looking couple?” This question was in reference to the handsome man with the mustache who now appeared on the screen with the girl.
Blanca Estela still did not reply. She felt a little resentful, thinking that Evita seemed to know things about herself that she had not even guessed. She had wondered sometimes why she had not been named after her mother. If she had, she would probably have been called “Lili” for short, which was pretty. Instead, she had been encumbered with the awkward double name, which, especially in the United States, had caused no end of confusion. If she had been named for her mother’s favorite actress, and if the handsome actor, who was now singing, looked a bit like that photograph of her father, then perhaps her mother, herself, had wished that she had been named Blanca Estela. Since that was not possible, she had done the next best thing: she had given her daughter her favorite name. Blanca Estela sighed with contentment feeling that, little by little, here in Revilla she was beginning to know her mother and her own origins.
Evita leaned forward again, whispering, “I have an extra movie card of Blanca Estela. Would you like it?”
Blanca Estela nodded, smiling, and said, “Yes, thank you. I would love to have it.”
A few days later, during the morning grocery shopping, Blanca Estela ran into her four friends at Chabela’s. Mario and Mimi were buying the usual rice and beans (and bubble gum for Mario). Evita wanted coffee and candy, the latter for herself, and Pedro had brought some squash from the ranch to sell to Chabela. Blanca Estela, still distracted and impatient, was trying to remember Mamá Anita’s instructions while wondering if Manuel’s car would bring Lilia that day. She barely understood Evita’s suggestion when she said, “Why don’t we put on a show, a musical program?”
“I can play my harmonica,” Mario said quickly. “I just learned to play ‘Adelita’ on the harmonica.”
Even Mimi and Pedro seemed to know what Evita was talking about, but Blanca Estela remained in the dark until Evita, noticing her confusion, explained, “We sing and dance and recite poems, and my mother lets me borrow necklaces and earrings and even clothes for costumes, and she allows me to put on lipstick.”
“You mean, on the stage, in the theater where they show the movies?” Blanca Estela asked, still puzzled.
“Oh no, the theater is only used for big occasions, like the celebration of national holidays or Mother’s Day. We put on our shows in the patio or in one of the rooms of a house. Let’s ask your grandmother if she will let us do it in your house,” Evita suggested.
“I don’t know,” Blanca Estela answered doubtfully. “Who comes to watch the show?”
“Friends, or some of the grown-ups, sometimes nobody, but it is still fun to get dressed up in costumes and sing and dance. We can be quite good because we rehearse properly until we get it right. You know what would be very nice? If we could put on a show to welcome your mother home,” Evita concluded in a cajoling tone.
Blanca Estela immediately agreed to ask her grandmother for permission to use the house for the show. Mamá Anita was hesitant at first to let them turn the house into a theater, but she finally allowed them to rehearse and perform in the entryway where, she even pointed out, there were already hooks on the walls from which they could hang the sheet or bedspread or whatever they would use for a stage curtain. She did lay down one condition though, that they were not to rehearse when she was taking her afternoon nap or get underfoot when she was doing her housework. Blanca Estela promised to keep to those limits faithfully and to report to her friends what her grandmother had said.
They met that same afternoon, after Mamá Anita’s nap, and began by discussing the difficulties of dancing on the uneven floor of the entryway. They agreed that it would have been better to dance in the parlor, where the floor was level chipichil stone, but, since that was out of the question, they would have to make do with what they had, because other houses were even less suitable. The largest room in Evita’s house, for example, was used as the sewing workshop and, therefore, could not be used for anything else. As for Mario and Mimi’s house, Blanca Estela had not gone beyond the front room, and this was small and dark because it had been partitioned off to separate it from the other half, where Nereida had set up a barber’s chair for her haircutting business. The rest of the rooms in the Balboa house, like everywhere else, were used for sleeping, cooking or eating and were, therefore, out of bounds for games.
The entryway of Mamá Anita’s house it was to be, then, and here they began to rehearse a dance number. It was “El Jarabe Tapatío,” and it was to be performed by the two couples of Mimi and Pedro, and Mario and Evita. Mimi generously offered to drop out of the number and let Blanca Estela take her place, but Blanca Estela declined since she had no idea of how the dance was performed. It had been nice to be included, though, and now she did not feel left out, even if she did not take part in that number.
During rehearsal of “El Jarabe Tapatío,” Mario played the tune on his harmonica, and Evita sang along “tra-la-la-la” since there appeared to be no words that went with the music. The dance steps, however, were quite complex, and Blanca Estela was surprised that the four knew them so well. They explained to her that “El Jarabe Tapatío” was a folk dance, probably the best known in Mexico, and that all the children learned it in school. She commented that it was a shame that they did not have a record with the music for it. Mario replied that they would have one for the performance, that they would borrow it from one of the teachers. There was no point, however, in borrowing the record early and running the risk of getting it scratched, and besides, Tino still had to work on the phonograph to rig it up to a battery in case there was no electricity when they put on the show.
They also began rehearsing to sing “Cielito Lindo” a cappella, since Mario could not both play the harmonica for accompaniment and sing at the same time. Blanca Estela had just memorized the lyrics of “Cielito Lindo” when Evita remarked that, since the program was in honor of Lilia’s return, Blanca Estela should perform something on her own. Blanca Estela was horrified. Sing or dance all by herself? Never. She could recite a poem, Evita suggested. She did not know any poems and had difficulty memorizing anything, Blanca Estela argued. Nonsense, Evita countered firmly, adding, “I can find a poem that your mother will like, and you can at least memorize a couple of stanzas.” There was no way to refute Evita, especially since the recitation was to be in honor of Lilia.
The following day, Evita came to rehearsal with two stanzas marked out of a poem, which she had copied from a book. The poem was about a very rich and powerful king who had a mischievous daughter who had taken a fancy to a star, which she wanted to wear as a brooch. One day the princess had left the palace without permission from her father and had gone to explore the gardens of the Lord in the heavens. There she had plucked her favorite star and pinned it to her dress, where it shone with brilliant light, surrounding her in a halo. The poem went on to relate the outcome of the princess’ celestial excursion, but mercifully, Evita had not found it necessary for Blanca Estela to memorize the rest of the lines. She merely showed her the text and encouraged her to read it all.
Blanca Estela read the poem haltingly, for she had never formally learned to read Spanish. Evita then showed her how it should be recited, and Blanca Estela found herself carried away by the cadence of the sounds and the rhythms that conjured palaces, jewels, light and mystery:
Este era un rey que tenía
un palacio de diamantes,
una tienda hecha del día
y un rebaño de elefantes...
She later asked her grandmother if she knew the poem, and Mamá Anita said yes, that it was a poem written by a famous poet named Rubén Darío for a little girl named Marguerite. Did Lilia also know the poem, Blanca Estela also wanted to know. Of course, replied Mamá Anita. Most children learned that poem in school, or even before, and Lilia had liked it very much when she was little. Blanca Estela was now inspired to learn at least the fragment assigned to her by Evita, so that she could welcome her mother home with her favorite poem, and perhaps later, when she started school in Revilla, she would learn it in its entirety.
Friday came, and still they had no word as to when Lilia would arrive, but they knew it would be any day. Blanca Estela had learned her lines, but anxiety about her mother’s return was beginning to distract her, so that she began to stumble over the recitation, seeming to regress in the quality of her performance. The others were also impatient to get on with the show. They had added another singing number, and Evita had also decided to present a recitation of another poem, one which she had given earlier, during the school year, for the celebration of the Cinco de Mayo, which commemorated the victory of the Mexican forces over the French troops that had invaded Mexico almost one hundred years before.
To quell the nerves and the stage fright brought on by the delay, Evita called for a dress rehearsal that evening. She explained to them that this meant that they had to wear the costumes and set up the stage as for a real performance. Mamá Anita was forewarned of what was coming, and she accepted it, even getting into the spirit of things by providing them with a heavy velvet coverlet of faded gold color to serve as a stage curtain. Mario brought a small ladder on which he stood while he hung up the curtain over a rope, which stretched from one side of the entryway to the other, anchored by hooks on each wall. After hanging up the curtain, Mario set up a small, portable phonograph connected to a battery on which they would play the record with the music for the dance numbers.
Pedro brought a pair of straw hats and two red bandanas for the boys to wear as part of their dance costume, while Evita provided hers and Mimi’s. The girls’ costumes consisted of very full skirts of brightly patterned cotton and white, peasant-style blouses. To make the look even more festive, Evita added several ropes of glass beads in amber and red, which they wrapped around their necks. Evita’s goal had been to approximate the richly decorated folk costumes usually worn for the “Jarabe Tapatío,” the China Poblana costume of the women and the Charro outfit of the men.
Blanca Estela, of course, did not wear a costume because she was not part of the dance number, but she decided to wear her nicest dress, which was her First Communion dress. This Mamá Anita would not allow her to do. She should not risk getting it soiled or torn before Lilia had had a chance to see it, Mamá Anita said firmly, and there was no room for discussion. Blanca Estela then opted for her next best, the pale yellow dress that had been her Easter dress. When she put it on, she was surprised to notice that the dress, which had previously fit her loosely and long, now pulled across the shoulders and exposed her knees.
As the girls prepared to dance, Blanca Estela saw Mimi and Evita swirling their skirts around them, setting in motion the red and orange flowers that were printed on the fabric. She also noticed with amazement the transformation of her friends’ faces into vivid masks of painted cheeks and lips. At that moment she stopped being an onlooker and a reluctant participant in the performance and wanted nothing more than to be part of their world of make-believe. She asked Evita to paint her lips and put rouge on her cheeks, too, and knelt down in front of her, lifting up her face to receive from Evita the gift of fantasy that an inspired make-up artist can confer.
The rehearsal went smoothly, with very few corrections or repetitions, and at the end of it Evita pronounced that they were ready to present their performance to the public. The only thing holding up the opening now was Lilia’s arrival, and it finally happened the following day.
At noon, Manuel’s car rolled to a stop outside Mamá Anita’s house, and the driver tooted the horn to announce his presence. Almost immediately, the front doors burst open, and Blanca Estela flew out through them in time to see Lilia getting out of the front seat of the car. She hurled herself at her mother and threw her arms around Lilia’s waist. She remained like this, with her face pressed against her mother’s body, listening to her mother’s heartbeats, her own breath rising and falling in unison with her mother’s, until Lilia gently disengaged herself. Lilia gave a shaky little laugh and, taking Blanca Estela’s face in her hands, kissed her several times, leaving a moist trace where her tears had brushed against Blanca Estela’s cheeks.
Mamá Anita appeared then, and Lilia stepped forward to embrace her. Manuel, without waiting for directions, took the suitcase from the back seat and carried it inside the house, leaving the three still on the sidewalk. Mamá Anita then said, trying to recapture her usual brusqueness, “Let’s go inside, children. What are we doing out here, trying to get sunstroke?”
Lilia paid Manuel as he was leaving, and the three walked on to the kitchen where dinner was already cooking.
“I have some cool lemonade, hija,” Mamá Anita said. “Do you want a glass?”
“Oh, yes please, Mamá,” Lilia replied, sinking wearily into a chair. “I have been traveling since four o’clock this morning, with only a short stop for a quick snack. I am so hot and thirsty.”
“Four o’clock in the morning!” Blanca Estela exclaimed in amazement, leaning against the table next to her mother’s chair. “You must have seen the Morning Star at that hour.”
Lilia seemed a little disconcerted for a moment, but then she smiled and said, “Perhaps I would have, if I had been looking for it, darling. In the big cities it is difficult to see the stars. They don’t shine as brightly there as they do here in Revilla.”
During dinner, Blanca Estela let loose a torrent of words, telling her mother about the things that had gone on during her absence. She described the First Communion ceremony and offered to show her the dress immediately, but Lilia said that she would see it later. Lilia asked her if she had liked the handbag, and Blanca Estela said, “Yes,” reverently, and added that she kept the mother-of-pearl prayer book in it. She also told her mother about the show which they planned to stage in her honor and added that, immediately after dinner, she would run to tell Evita to prepare for the performance that evening.
“No, Blanca Estela,” Mamá Anita interposed firmly. “Your mother is very tired, and she must rest today and this evening.”
Blanca Estela looked closely at her mother and noticed that Lilia’s face looked thin and pale, particularly against the hair, black as raven wings, which framed it.
“Yes, you must rest,” she told her mother, diffidently. “But, tomorrow, tomorrow you will watch our show?”
Lilia smiled and caressed her head. “Yes, darling, tomorrow I will watch the performance that you and your friends prepared.”
While Lilia and Mamá Anita still napped, Blanca Estela stole out of the house, very quietly, to go across the street, to look for Evita. She found her in the workshop, singing “Tú, Solo Tú” along with the seamstresses as she sewed pieces of ribbon on the peasant blouses for the dance number. Blanca Estela told her that their performance would have to wait until the following evening, and Evita nodded, seeming more intent on not losing her place in the song, saying only, “Until tomorrow, then. I’ll tell the others.”
The following day was Sunday, and Blanca Estela, Lilia and Mamá Anita went to Mass. This time the three of them received Communion, and after Mass they hurried home to breakfast. They stopped only briefly to greet Father Mirabal in the church atrium, but on the street they also encountered Leopoldo. He met them with a timid smile, falling in step with them, saying how happy he was to see Lilia home again. Since neither Lilia nor Mamá Anita seemed much inclined to conversation this morning, Blanca Estela felt that it was left to her to make the suitable responses to their friend. In an attempt to contribute something to the discourse, she told Leopoldo about their performance that evening and invited him to come and watch them. She sensed that Mamá Anita and Lilia had exchanged a quick look and that they were not wholly pleased with her suggestion, but Leopoldo accepted the invitation readily.
He said, as they approached Doctor Marín’s house, “I must leave you now, since I have promised to have breakfast with Rosalía and my brother-in-law, but I will see you this evening. Thank you for asking me. I am very fond of musical evenings.”
After he left them, Mamá Anita pursed her lips and said, “Well, it can’t be helped. I know you don’t encourage him, but still, he is a very good person. Your brother will be happy for his company.”
Blanca Estela was immediately alert. “Is my uncle coming to see us?”
“I hope so, child. God grant us that he has a safe trip here. Now, let’s hurry, so we can eat breakfast and then clean house and start preparing dinner for him,” Mamá Anita replied.
Raúl arrived shortly before dinner, and they soon sat down to eat. When they had finished their dessert of rice pudding, Raúl and Lilia’s favorite, they remained at the table while Raúl told them about the roads that his company was building and about a dam that they were going to build later. Blanca Estela looked around the table and sighed with contentment. It was so good to be all together again, her family, half of whom she had not known until this summer. Coming out of her thoughts she sensed again, like that morning with Leopoldo, a certain tension in Lilia and Mamá Anita. Again, she felt that she should try to dispel it and came up with the same solution. She told her uncle about the performance that evening. Raúl laughed with delight.
“A variety show? A musical evening? What a talented niece I have.”
Mamá Anita clicked her tongue and said, “Don’t be silly, hijo. It was just a way to distract these children. Blanca Estela was so impatient for Lilia to come home... Anyway, I am glad that you will be here this evening. This child invited Leopoldo to attend, and Lord knows who else they have asked to come.”
“I haven’t told anybody else, Mamá Anita,” Blanca Estela protested, “only...”
“Yes, yes, child. Nobody is blaming you. Evita will have told everyone, though. I suppose I should prepare some refreshments to offer the visitors, but first, let’s get some rest. Lilia, you still look very tired. It will take you days to recover from your trip. And you, son, you must be fatigued also. Blanca Estela, why don’t you go lie down for a little while?”
She slid out of her chair groggily and went to kiss her mother as if she were saying good night and then, shyly, also approached her uncle, kissing him lightly on the cheek and saying, “I’m going to take a nap with Domino.” When Raúl looked puzzled, she explained, “The cat that you gave me.”
Raúl laughed, “You still have that toy?”
She looked at him reproachfully and said, “Of course,” and left the grown-ups still at the table, where they went on with their conversation. She continued to hear the murmur of their voices like the faint humming of a beehive while she recited her poem for that evening under her breath until she drifted off to sleep.
When she woke up, she quickly washed her face and put on her yellow dress. Mario arrived as the sun was going down, ready to set up the stage. Raúl helped him hang up the stage curtain while Pedro carried chairs from the parlor and the kitchen to the patio. In the parlor Evita concentrated on making up her face and then doing the same for Mimi and for Blanca Estela. Nereida arrived soon after to run the phonograph, and shortly afterwards the audience began trickling in. María Eva was there and so was Delia from next door. Doctor Marín, Rosalía, Perla and Leopoldo arrived in the doctor’s car, where Leopoldo also carried a case of cold soda pop. Blanca Estela asked Pedro if his mother was coming to see them, but he said that she had to stay home with his little brothers. She felt a little sorry for him because the rest of the cast, especially herself, had their families present, but Pedro, himself, did not seem perturbed about his situation.
When everyone had been seated, they began with the dance number involving Mario, Evita, Mimi and Pedro. It went quite well and received enthusiastic applause. Blanca Estela followed with the recitation of the poem. She was proud that she did not stumble over it at all, even though she had learned an additional stanza at the last minute. The poem must have, indeed, been Lilia’s favorite, for when Blanca Estela finished reciting it, she looked in her mother’s direction, and saw that Lilia’s face was radiant and her eyes were shining. Mario followed with a harmonica solo, and they closed with two songs by the entire cast.
The audience rewarded them by applauding warmly and congratulating them. After the performers had taken a bow, Raúl removed the stage curtain that blocked the flow of the breeze through the open entryway, and refreshments were served: Mamá Anita’s lemonade and Leopoldo’s cold sodas.
Leopoldo stood close to Lilia, looking as if he would like to talk to her alone, but she directed her comments to all those around her.
“That music is so pretty, and I missed it so much when I was across the river. Of course, I haven’t felt like listening to music recently, being in mourning,” Lilia was saying to Rosalía, who responded with her usual kindness.
“Mourning customs are changing, and it is a good thing. There is enough sadness already in this life that we shouldn’t wrap ourselves in any more gloom that we create,” said Rosalía.
“It is my daughter that I have to think of. I cannot allow her childhood to be darkened by sadness. That is why I did not object to the children wanting to sing and dance in the house,” Lilia continued. “Do you know what I missed most while I was away? I longed to hear again the children’s voices singing the rondas in the evening. Doña Blanca, for example, and... what was my favorite? Yes, it was Naranja Dulce.” She turned to look for Blanca Estela, who had been standing behind her, listening closely. “Estelita, I know you were learning rondas and games when I left. Have you learned Naranja Dulce yet?”
Blanca Estela looked to Mario for an answer. He shook his head. “No, I don’t think we’ve played that for a long time. Do you want to learn it?”
If that was her mother’s favorite, of course she wanted to learn it. “Let’s play that,” she said. “Teach me.”
“Go outside, children, if you are going to play,” Mamá Anita said. “There is not enough room here.”
They filed out and gathered in the street in front of Mamá Anita’s window.
“Let’s form a circle,” Mario told them and then, for her benefit, he explained, “We’re going to sing ‘Naranja dulce, limón partido, dame un abrazo que yo te pido.’ When we say the word abrazo, we stop, and you embrace the person next to you. Just listen at first, and you’ll catch on right away.”
She nodded and did as she was told, although the game was a mystery to her. What was this sweet orange or the sliced lemon? Ana why did you embrace your neighbor, as if you were saying farewell? What were the promises that would be forgotten if they turned out to be false? She sang along with her friends and embraced them all, at one time or another, and finally said goodbye as the music played, singing, “Toca la marcha, mi pecho llora, adiós, señora, yo ya me voy.” It was like a soldier taking leave of his beloved to go to war.
The moon rose late and hung suspended in the sky like an old gold coin, bathing them in its light and throwing their shadows against the sand that had now turned into powdered silver. The grownups began to leave, calling good night to each other and congratulations to the children, who also soon parted to go home and to bed. Later, Blanca Estela, lying in her cot, looked at the sky through the iron bars of the open window. The moon had climbed to the middle sky, and its light, filtering through the bars, turned them into silver ingots. The moon, she thought as she drifted off to sleep, had always been their playmate, the companion of their games.
Raúl was to leave first thing on Monday morning, and Blanca Estela got up early to have breakfast with him. She felt particularly talkative this morning, as if to make up for the silence that prevailed between Lilia and Raúl.
“Did you like my poem, Mamá? Mamá Anita said that you had learned it in school. Do you still remember it? When I start school in September I will learn it, too, won’t I? All of it. Will I be in the same class with Mario and Evita?”
“Estelita, stop,” Lilia interrupted. “You won’t be going to school in September... not here in Revilla.”
She stared at her mother, stunned. “But you said...”
“No, darling, don’t you remember, when I went away I told you that I would return to take you back with me?”
She had forgotten. So many things had happened since then.
Lilia continued, “We... your father and I... always expected that you would go to school on the other side. I don’t want you to forget your English and the things you learned there. You were born in the United States, and so was your father. He died for that country, so it is only right that you should be educated there.”
“But my friends... Mamá Anita... I will miss them...”
“You will be uprooting the child,” Mamá Anita intervened.
Raúl added, “This is your home, Lilia, and your daughter’s. Why must you leave it and undergo hardships in a strange place? Here you could work as a school teacher, if you wanted to work, or you could marry a man who loves you. You have no need to work in a factory or in a shop, as you will have to do if you go back to the United States.”
“We have already discussed all that, and you know my reasons. There is a better future for my daughter over there, better education, and, if in order to give her that I have to work in a factory, I will do it.”
Blanca Estela had never been in the middle of an argument among grown-ups before, and their raised voices frightened her. She ran out of the room and towards the only place where she was sure of being alone, the privy at the back of the patio. She wanted to cry, but she would not let the others see her in tears. Why, oh, why must they leave now? She wanted to be near her grandmother. How funny that she had been afraid of her at first. Mamá Anita was like a little steam engine, always huffing and puffing and never still, but so warm and comforting. And her handsome uncle, would she see him again? This reminded her that she wanted to say goodbye to him before he left, and she came out of the privy, drying her eyes.
He was already at the door, carrying his suitcase. She ran to embrace him. “You will not forget me?” Blanca Estela asked him.
He picked her up and held her in front of him, as if to see her better. He looked into her eyes and said, very seriously, “No, I will not forget you. I love you very much.” He kissed her on the forehead before putting her down and then embraced first Mamá Anita and then Lilia. He held her tightly and whispered, “God bless you, little sister.” Then he was gone.
After breakfast, Mamá Anita took all of Blanca Estela’s clothes (except what she had on and the First Communion dress), put them in a washtub and started scrubbing them against the washboard. Lilia protested, “Leave those clothes, Mamá. I should be doing that,” but Mamá Anita, looking very grim, just shook her head and went on scrubbing.
“I don’t know where I’m going to put all these things,” Lilia continued. “Blanca Estela has more clothes now than when we arrived. You are always sewing dresses and nightgowns for her, Mamá.”
“I made those things for Blanca Estela because I want my granddaughter to look nice,” Mamá Anita replied, still brusque. “There is an empty suitcase somewhere that you can take if you need more space to pack these newer clothes in. Oh, Lilia,” she added, dismayed, “I hope you know what you are doing. This poor child has already made friends here, and it’s going to be hard on her to pick her up and take her to a new place where everyone will be a stranger to her.”
Blanca Estela wandered off into the parlor, sat down in the rocking chair, and forlornly rocked herself while she tried to guess where she and her mother were going. Was it back to where they lived before, where her old friends, June and Linda lived? Blonde, English-speaking Linda and June seemed so long ago now. Perhaps she could teach them to sing “Naranja dulce” or “Doña Blanca.” Somehow she couldn’t see them holding hands in a circle under the moonlight, singing, “Si fueran falsos mis juramentos, en otros tiempos se olvidarán.” Besides, you needed more than three children to play those games, and most of the children she knew, her friends, were here in Revilla.
Perhaps she could stay with her grandmother again while Lilia went back across the river to work. The thought shocked her. She was being disloyal to her mother, even thinking of it. She loved her mother more than she loved anybody else (although her grandmother was a close second). How could she bear to be always separated from her, to not see her lovely face and to not have her hand to hold? No, if her mother wanted to go away, then she must go with her. Anything was preferable to the aching sadness that remained when Lilia went away.
She left the rocking chair and went in search of her mother. She found her in the kitchen, stirring a pot of beans, while Mamá Anita hung the laundry to dry over the clothes line.
“Mamá, she asked, “where are we going... is it where June and Linda live, where we were before?”
“No, darling. Now we are going to live in San Antonio. Before, we were in California, which is very far away. Now we’ll be much closer to Revilla. We’ll come and visit sometimes. You can come and stay with your grandmother during the long vacation. You’ll see, it won’t be so bad. You will make new friends in San Antonio, but you can still come and see your friends in Revilla when you visit here.”
“Why did we use to live in California?” She was trying to make sense of the things that grown-ups did and that you had to get used to. “Why did we leave California?”
Lilia sat down at the kitchen table and told her. “We lived in California because your father was a soldier, and soldiers have to go where they are told. They sent him to a military post there, and we went there to be with him. You were born in Texas, though. Your father was away when you came, and I was staying with his family, who are also your family. You will get to know them better when we live in Texas. I don’t guess you remember them, Don José and Doña María, your grandparents on your father’s side. You were still a baby when we went to join your father in California. Then Roberto, your father, went away. His superiors sent him to a place called Korea. He... he never came back. Soldiers go to war and sometimes... sometimes they die.”
Lilia gave a deep sigh and roused herself, as if she were coming back from far away. She stood up and said, “Now, Estelita, I have to finish cooking dinner because your grandmother has been working very hard washing your clothes.”
Blanca Estela got up from her chair and said, quietly, “I’ll be back in just a little while.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’m going to tell my friends that I am going away.”
“All right, but don’t stay out too long. It’s almost time to eat.”
Next door, she found Nereida, who told her that Mimi and Mario were out with their brother in the truck. “Did you want to see them about something?” Nereida asked her.
She felt shy whenever she was around Nereida, but this time she needed to tell someone her important news. “My mother and I are going away, to live across the river,” she blurted out.
Nereida was interested. “Are you going back to California?” she asked, a little wistfully.
She was glad that she could give a definitive reply. “No, we’re going to live in San Antonio.”
“Oh, San Antonio is pretty, but I still prefer Los Angeles.”
Blanca Estela remembered that Nereida had liked the hair styles that people wore in California and wondered if her mother would ask Nereida to cut her hair again before they left. Suddenly she, too, wanted her hair cut. Since she was going to a new place, with new people, she wanted to do something that would represent this new life. She asked Nereida, “Will you cut my hair?”
Nereida was surprised. “What? Cut off your long braids? Yes... you probably would feel better with short hair. What does your mother say, though? You haven’t asked her? Go ask her, and if she gives her permission, come back, and I will cut it in there.” Nereida pointed to the barber’s chair that could be glimpsed in the next room.
Blanca Estela went back to the house just in time to sit for dinner and told her mother that she wanted to cut her hair.
Mamá Anita was shocked at her announcement. “Your beautiful long hair! It’s such a pretty shade of brown, too.”
Lilia did not respond for a few moments, and then she said, thoughtfully, “Well, perhaps you’re right. It is hot, even if you wear it braided. It would be easier to keep it neat when you’re in school, and I am working and don’t have much time to look after things.”
Mamá Anita said nothing else, and they finished the meal in silence.
“Can I tell Nereida that she can cut my hair?” Blanca Estela insisted after they had cleared the table.
Lilia looked at Mamá Anita, but Mamá Anita only said, “You do as you think is best.”
Lilia caressed Blanca Estela’s long braids and said, smiling, “I will go with you when you have it cut. Is it Nereida who will cut it, or will you wait until we’re in San Antonio?”
“Oh, I want Nereida to do it, just like she cut your hair. Can I have it done this afternoon?”
“Fine,” said Lilia, “after three.”
Before going back to Nereida, she went to look for Evita and, when she found her, she was hard pressed to decide what to relate first, her approaching departure or her impending haircut. She got both things out in the same sentence. “My mother and I are going back to live across the river, and I’m going to get my hair cut before I leave. Nereida is cutting it this afternoon.”
Evita was uncharacteristically silent for a moment before saying simply, “Oh,” in a little voice. Then she seemed to collect herself and added, “Good, now you’ll be able to wear the hairclips that I gave you. Where are you going to live?”
“In San Antonio.”
“My married sister, who lives in Laredo, knows some people in San Antonio, and she goes to visit them sometimes. She says there are many beautiful stores there, very large stores. You will like it, I’m sure,” Evita concluded, as if she were trying to reassure her. She then went back to tracing a drawing of a bunch of flowers, which she had earlier explained were orchids, on to a pair of pillowcases for the girls to embroider.
Blanca Estela left, feeling a little deflated, to tell Nereida that she and her mother would be coming later to see her.
When Lilia and Blanca Estela arrived for their appointment, Nereida led them through the front room on tiptoe because Delia was sleeping in the back room, trying to get over one of her bad headaches. They followed her to the far side of the room, which had been partitioned off by means of a canvas and wood frame divider. Here, Nereida had her barber’s chair and a small dressing table with an attached mirror. Along the outside walls ran several rows of shelving where Tino and Néstor kept the radios and electric irons that people brought to them for repairs, another occupation in which they engaged.
Nereida had Blanca Estela sit in the chair, which was so big that Blanca Estela felt as if she would surely be swallowed up in it. She felt particularly small in it after Nereida pumped a pedal with her foot and raised the chair until Blanca Estela’s legs were left dangling in the air. Nereida then wrapped a white towel, which smelled of sunshine, around Blanca Estela and picked up a comb and a pair of scissors from the dressing table.
Suddenly Lilia took Blanca Estela’s braids in her hands, caressing the thick plaits, and said, “Cut them like this, so that we can save the braids.”
Blanca Estela closed her eyes as Nereida approached with the scissors and, after a long time, she heard a snipping sound and felt her hair being pulled below the ears. She wanted to cry out and tell Nereida to stop, but it was too late—one braid had already been amputated. She clamped down on her teeth and shut her eyes tighter until the second one was off too, and then, suddenly, she had an unexpected feeling of lightness. It was done. She started to get up from the chair, but Nereida pushed her back, saying, “Wait, I haven’t finished. I still have to even it all around and shape it.”
Mimi and Mario came in as Nereida was making the last trims. They were struck silent when they saw what had happened. “Why did you do it?” Mario asked, accusingly.
“Oh, it was just very hot and heavy. I wanted my hair short, so it would be easy to keep when I— when we—go back across the river,” she answered hurriedly, avoiding his eyes.
“You are leaving? You are going back?” Mario turned the question into a statement in a flat voice. She nodded.
“Why?”
She turned to her mother, wishing that she would answer that question, but Lilia was giving Nereida some money and speaking to her in hushed tones.
“My mother says we must go, that it is very important that I should go to school there...” Her voice trailed off, revealing even to her own ears the deep misery that she still felt at the thought of leaving.
Mario turned his back to her and peered into the insides of a large table radio that sat on a shelf.
Then Mimi asked, “Will you ever come back?”
“Oh yes,” she replied fervently. “My mother says that I will come back during the long vacation.”
“Well, don’t forget us,” Mimi said as she drifted out of the room.
“No, I will never forget you, and I am coming back,” Blanca Estela repeated, speaking to Mario’s back because Mimi had already melted away.
Lilia hurried her out of the Balboa house, saying, “Come, let’s go home and show your grandmother your new haircut.”
For some reason when Mamá Anita saw Blanca Estela’s short hair, she passed a hand over her eyes and remained like that for a moment before saying brightly, “Oh yes, what an attractive haircut. You look very pretty, Blanca Estela, very stylish.”
“We saved the braids,” she told her grandmother, as if trying to reassure her that the damage was not irreversible. “Look, Mamá, show Mamá Anita my braids.”
Lilia opened a white silk scarf and revealed the golden brown plaits, tied at the ends with pink ribbons.
“Would you like to keep them, Mamá Anita? That way you will remember me when you see the braids.”
“Oh, my darling, I will remember you every day. I do not need the braids to remind me, but yes, I do want to keep them, as a very precious memento of this summer,” Mamá Anita cried out and, to Blanca Estela’s surprise, she wrapped her arms around her tightly. “Let’s put them away somewhere safe. Here, let’s put them in this chest,” she added when she had composed herself.
Mamá Anita raised the lid of a cedar-lined chest where she kept delicate things, like Lilia’s wedding veil, which was now Blanca Estela’s First Communion veil. In there, too, was the beautiful blue doll that had been the cause of such adoration and anguish. Blanca Estela lifted the doll gently and surreptitiously checked the back of the dress. Mamá Anita had done a perfect job of mending it. Of the tear caused by the struggle between her and Aminta, there only remained a faint scar.
“Do you want to take her with you?” Mamá Anita asked her, indicating the doll. “I forget—what is her name?”
Blanca Estela shook her head, still looking at the doll. “No, I think that I want her to stay with you. Keep her for me until I come back. Her name...” She looked at her mother to make sure that she was out of earshot. “I don’t remember what her name was, but I am now giving her the name ‘Anita.’” And she carefully transferred the doll to her grandmother’s hands.
There was a knock at the door, and Lilia went to see who it was. She came back to the parlor, followed by Leopoldo, saying, “Look, Mamá, Estelita, Leopoldo brought some photographs. They’re pictures of your First Communion, Estelita. Doctor Marín took them with his camera and is giving them to us. How kind he is. Estelita, you look so pretty in your white dress. How I wish I had been here.”
Mamá Anita took the photographs and examined them, saying, “Come, Estelita, let’s go out in the patio, where the light is better.”
There were three photographs in all, one of Blanca Estela by herself, holding the mother-of-pearl prayer book in one hand and the Communion candle in the other. The second photo showed Blanca Estela with her godmother, Rosalía, while the third was a group portrait with Mario, Doctor Marín and Rosalía. “Do you want to keep these photographs, Mamá Anita?” Blanca Estela asked, her generosity now in full bloom.
“No, I saw you in person. Your mother did not. She must have them. Well, perhaps I could keep one, the one of you and your godmother. I know that you will want the picture with the four of you, especially because Mario is your friend, and your mother will want the one of you. Let’s go and thank Leopoldo for bringing them.”
They returned to the parlor in time to see Leopoldo release Lilia’s hand as he said, “I will think of that... that you will return, soon, at least next year, and then you can tell me...” He stopped when he saw them, and, stammering, he waved away their thanks and hurried out of the house.
Lilia, too, seemed flustered and began to speak rapidly. “Estelita, we have to start packing your clothes. Some of them I won’t even iron because they will only get wrinkled again in the suitcase.”
She turned to Mamá Anita and said, “Mamá, I am going to leave Blanca Estela’s First Communion dress here. It will be better cared for here, hanging in the big wardrobe, than if I crush it inside a suitcase. Is that all right?”
“Of course, leave it here,” Mamá Anita replied and then, turning to Blanca Estela, asked her, “Do you want to look at the dress again before I lock the wardrobe?”
“Oh yes, Mamá Anita,” she answered reverently, and a moment later she was touching her fingertips to the airy silk that she doubted she would ever wear again.
She then realized that she wanted to ask her grandmother for something. “Please, Mamá Anita, will you give me one thing?”
“What is it, child?” Mamá Anita was surprised.
“Your box of buttons. Your box with the pictures of the boats on the lid.”
“You want that? The buttons, too?”
“Well... some of them.”
Mamá Anita laughed merrily. “Take it, child, and take as many buttons as you like.”
And thus it was that when they rode again in Manuel’s car, which was taking them back across the river, she held in her lap the tin box with the boating illustrations that had been her grandmother’s gift to her. Inside it there was a wealth of buttons: make-believe pearls, gold and silver coins, glittering shapes of amber, emerald and ruby. Her treasure chest.
It was still early morning, and they were driving towards the east. As they left the town behind them, she turned back for one last look. Mamá Anita was still standing on the sidewalk, flanked by Mario, Mimi and Evita, and they all continued to wave, even as they grew smaller as the distance between them lengthened.
Evita had given Blanca Estela a picture card of the movie star who was her namesake. Mario and Mimi had no farewell gift, but she did not need one to remember them by. As Manuel was loading the suitcases, Mario had reminded her, “Remember, you are coming back next summer, and we will go picking cotton then. I will have a burlap sack ready for you, and I will show you how to pull the cotton bolls.”
“Yes, I will come back,” vowed Blanca Estela silently as a veil of dust—or was it tears—blurred the landscape behind her. The sun shone brightly, already striking the white walls of the houses of Revilla, and in the distance the stones glimmered in the light like pillars of gold and silver.