The Other Side of the River, page 14
“Let’s finish up,” Sister Nora said. “And I’ll show you my hidden treasure.”
Thirty-Two
Stories, Planets, and Treasures
I grabbed an iron handle and, inch by inch, I dragged out Sister Nora’s trunk from under her bed. Dust flew into the air, giving my nose a sudden itch.
Sister Nora popped the latches open and lifted the top. She removed a top layer of folded linen, and underneath were large white paper envelopes. Each was stamped with the image of a dog looking into a large horn.
“What are those?” I asked.
“They’re records. You place them on a Victrola, a talking machine, and music comes out.”
“Music?” I peeked inside one of the envelopes and saw a thin black disc the size of a plate. “How?”
“I’d show you but…” Sister Nora gave a sigh, “We don’t have a Victrola here. But as soon as I come across one, I’ll show you how it works.”
Sister Nora continued to dig into the trunk. Beneath the records, protected by soft blankets, was a small box that held a wooden spyglass, or what she referred to as a telescope. She also pulled out two small tin boxes filled with coins from all over the world, and beneath it all, at the very bottom of the trunk, were Sister Nora’s hidden books.
Her eyes glimmered with every book she pulled out. “These books,” she said, “have changed the way people see themselves, the world, and the universe.” She read out names I’d never heard before: Copernicus, Galileo, and Darwin. She explained what science and math were and told me about how these men had studied many things from celestial bodies to the origins of life.
“So the Earth spins like a top?” I asked. My head tingled with numbness.
“Not only does it spin, but it also moves around the sun like this.” Sister Nora’s finger traced a circular line that represented the Earth’s path around the sun.
“How do you know so much?” I asked, feeling dizzy.
“I’ve read many, many books.” Sister Nora patted the stack of books next to her. “Books have taught me most of what I know.”
My hand reached for a stack of books and touched the golden letters along each spine. “What about these books?” I asked.
“These books are fiction. The stories in them aren’t real. They’re made up.”
“Can you still learn from them?”
“Por supuesto, m’ija,” Sister Nora said. “You can learn from them just as much. Fiction books take you on adventures. Some show you human despair and resilience.”
“This one is my favorite,” Sister Nora said. She grabbed a thick maroon book from the stack. “It’s called The Miserable Ones.”
I thought about the title and couldn’t think of anyone more miserable than the people escaping the war in Mexico.
Sister Nora handed me the book. “Take a look inside. It’s illustrated. It has drawings.”
This was the first time I’d ever held a book. My trembling hands cracked it open, and an ocean of words appeared in front of me.
Some of the book’s black-and-white drawings portrayed a city with smoke-filled streets and bodies of soldiers lying about. Others showed people dressed in fine clothes inside cozy homes. I turned the pages but took my time when they showed poor people. I knew they were poor because of their ragged clothes and bare feet. In one drawing, a woman holding up a flag was so poor, her entire top was ripped open, exposing her chest.
One image stopped me from turning the pages. It showed a frail little girl about Amelia’s age. The fear on the girl’s face was one I’d seen before on Amelia and Luisito. What struck me the most was the girl’s fair skin and light-colored hair.
“Who’s this little girl?” I asked.
Sister Nora stretched over to see. “That’s Cosette.”
“Why is she barefoot? Is she poor?”
Sister Nora nodded.
“But she’s white.” Before Sister Nora could answer, I snickered. “I’ve never seen a light-skinned girl be barefoot or wear ragged clothes. They always wear silk.”
“I grew up barefoot,” said Sister Nora. “Róisín and I both did.”
I nodded then grimaced as shame came over me.
“When I was a child, Ireland was very much like Mexico, but instead of haciendas and hacendados, we had English landlords who owned entire communities.”
“Were your houses small like ours?”
“They were exactly like yours—one-room cottages made out of mud with thatched roofs.”
Sister Nora went on to describe the potato blight, the day the crop they’d relied on for generations had gone bad. She said the stench of field upon field of rotting potatoes was something that would turn your stomach in the blink of an eye. Everyone had thought it was a curse, except for Róisín, of course. According to Sister Nora, she blamed everything on the English.
“My father grew oats, barley, and wheat,” Sister Nora continued, “but we couldn’t eat any of it because it was used to pay the English landlord for the rent. But when the potatoes kept turning to mud, Father let us eat it, and we were quickly evicted.”
“Is that when you came to America?”
Sister Nora gave a heavy sigh. “No. We lived in a ditch in the woods when Mother and our infant brother died. We moved to a city afterward, and Father starved to death soon after finding work.”
I crossed myself. I couldn’t imagine watching my father waste away.
“I don’t know who the English are,” I said. “But I hate them.”
“Don’t,” said Sister Nora. “Hate’s never good. It clouds your mind and doesn’t let you think straight.” She placed the books back inside her trunk. “Remember I told you that people are like books? There are good ones and bad ones, but they all teach a lesson. Don’t ever let anyone convince you that one book is good or that another’s bad. You read it and decide for yourself.”
I helped Sister Nora place the tin boxes, the records, and the last layer of linen back inside the trunk. I thought about her childhood in Ireland. I wondered about other people I knew who, like Sister Nora and I, had come to America seeking a better life. How had Don Wong’s life been before coming here? Or Herr Schmidt… what had he been through before coming to America?
Suddenly, a noise at the door made us both pause. Whoever stood behind it turned the knob slowly and didn’t realize the door had been locked. The knob stopped turning, and the shadow at the bottom of the door stood still.
A jingling of keys broke the silence, and my eyes darted to Sister Nora, down to the open chest, and back to Sister Nora.
Her blue eyes never flinched. Instead, they locked on the door and narrowed.
Thirty-Three
Potful of Chicken Mole
I pointed to the chest and asked as quietly as I could, “Should we put this away?”
Sister Nora raised a hand, telling me to wait. She called out something in English toward the door.
The jingling stopped, but no one responded.
Sister Nora spoke again, this time in Spanish. “Can I help you?”
Noises of someone clearing their throat came through. A man’s nervous voice followed in Spanish. “Sister Nora, I, uh…I didn’t realize this was your room.”
The voice came from Father Amaro, the new priest. According to Sister Nora, he’d been sent from Mexico City as a temporary substitute for the parish priest who’d recently fallen ill. Sister Nora wasn’t too fond of Father Amaro because he often bragged about his Spanish ancestry and boasted about being born into one of Mexico’s most prominent families.
Sister Nora scowled. “Is there something I can help you with?”
The shadow under the door remained still, and after a moment, Father Amaro cleared his throat once more. “I…I wanted to know what the plans are for tomorrow. What plans do you have for the guests’ dinner?”
Sister Nora shut her eyes for a second and exhaled.
“Just a moment,” she said and gently closed the lid to her chest. She signaled me to help push the trunk back under her bed.
I tilted my head, making sure the trunk had been pushed all the way in and was out of sight. Sister Nora dusted her hands before approaching the door as I remained on the floor.
“Good afternoon, Father Amaro.” Sister Nora held the door open. “For dinner, Petra and I plan to cook tomato basil soup, roasted lamb chops, potatoes au gratin, and a vegetable medley.”
The priest, with hands behind his back, didn’t seem to be listening to Sister Nora. Instead, he leaned in, stretched his neck, and scanned the room.
“Did you have a special request?” asked Sister Nora.
“What’s for dessert?” asked the priest, not looking at Sister Nora.
Sister Nora gave me a glance. “I’m sending Petra to fetch some pan dulce—”
“No,” Father Amaro chuckled. “Our guests deserve something more suitable to their taste.” Father Amaro’s gaze shifted to me. He gave a quick grimace before turning back to Sister Nora.
“What do you propose?” Sister Nora said.
“How about an almond torte, like the one you baked a few weeks back? Those generous contributions we received surely reflected your excellent cooking skills.”
I knew what Father Amaro was trying to say. The guests who came to dinner at the church, the political exiles from Mexico, were wealthy, and it was important to keep them happy so they’d make donations.
Sister Nora showed no expression. “Almond torte it is.”
“Wonderful,” said the priest with a smile stamped across his face. He remained inside the room, shifting his eyes between Sister Nora and me, attempting to peek at the rest of the room.
“Anything else, Father Amaro?” asked Sister Nora.
“That’s all.” The young priest bowed his head and walked away.
The shuffling of his feet grew quieter the farther he got from us. Sister Nora left the door open and sat on her bed.
“Now that’s a book I wish I could stop reading,” she whispered.
“Is he a bad book?”
“No, he’s not bad. Just annoying. All he ever does is talk about money or complain about people.”
“Are we in trouble?”
Sister Nora shook her head. “The parish priest knows about the books. All he asked of me was discretion.”
“Why? Does the church not like the books?”
“The church forbids certain books because it believes they will alter people’s faith.”
I thought back to all the things Sister Nora had taught me from the books. My faith didn’t feel altered. If anything, it felt stronger. Only my mind had changed. New ideas and visions buzzed in and out of my mind, and I couldn’t wait to share it all with Abuelita, Camila, Amelia, and even Nina and Luisito. Maybe Abuelita’s mind would change too and she’d be less afraid of new moons and smoking stars.
***
That evening, as I helped Abuelita and Camila with dinner, I told them all I’d learned about planets, comets, and stars. I told them about la Vía Láctea, the Milky Way, and how it got its name.
Amelia sat on a chair with Luisito on her lap. Nina, sitting across from them, fed Luisito spoonfuls of arroz con leche while sneaking one for herself every now and then. I’d made Amelia promise me not to ask anything until I was done talking, but her feet twitched and jittered in anticipation. As I continued to talk, Camila gasped and gave me wide-eyed glances as if I were sharing the juiciest gossip ever. Abuelita, on the other hand, shook her head and crossed herself constantly as if I were sharing nothing but bad news.
“I never knew the Earth spun,” said Camila. “No wonder I feel so dizzy sometimes.”
In my excitement, I continued to talk and then said something I probably should’ve saved for later. I talked about the man named Darwin, and when I tried to explain evolution, Abuelita almost dropped the big pot of chicken mole.
“Who in God’s name is putting those ridiculous ideas in your head?” said Abuelita.
“They’re not ridiculous ideas, Abuelita,” I said. “It’s all real. It’s in the books.”
“Señora,” Camila turned to Abuelita, “Petra’s brain is growing. That’s a good thing.”
Abuelita’s face grew red. “Esas cosas son del diablo. Those are works of the devil.” She immediately crossed herself three times and whispered a prayer because the word devil had escaped her lips.
“What if Sister Nora found out about the things you’re saying?” Abuelita said. “About your talk of monkeys and nonsense? Imagine how upset she’d be.”
I remained quiet. My plan had backfired. Abuelita didn’t become less fearful. Instead, she was upset and believed my mind was full of evil inklings.
Night fell over our quiet shack, and after spreading my blankets on the floor, I made my way to the bed to cover a sleeping Luisito. I also tucked Amelia under the covers. She was still awake.
“Petra,” Amelia said. “Could you tell me more about what you learned from the books?”
I paused. Abuelita and Camila’s voices sounded relaxed as they chatted outside with one of the neighbors.
“You can’t tell Abuelita,” I said.
“I won’t. I promise.”
I knelt beside the bed. “We live in this big, beautiful planet called Tierra. It’s like a giant ball that—”
“Wait.” Amelia propped herself up on her elbows. “I forgot to tell you. Don Wong only has three slates left. Can we buy one soon before he runs out?”
“Not now,” I said. “We need to save money again.”
“Are you afraid Sister Nora might fire you like the chili queen?”
“No, Sister Nora is different. We just need to save money to go find Papa.”
“But you need a slate to learn to read and write—that’s your dream.”
“Sister Nora’s already teaching me a little.”
Amelia sighed and lay back down. “Maybe one day I can buy it for you.”
“One day,” I said and gently pinched her cheek.
Amelia scooted toward Luisito, making room for me to lie next to her. I began telling her about the Earth, the sun, and the moon. I would start slow, but eventually, I wanted to teach her and Luisito everything I knew. With all my heart, I believed every time we learned something new, we were one step closer to clearing our lives of ghosts, superstitions, and fears.
Thirty-Four
A Scent of Jasmine
When I arrived at the church the next morning, Sister Nora, sipping on a hot lemon tea in the courtyard, told me about the two special guests who’d be visiting and staying in the church quarters.
“It appears every hotel room in San Antonio has been booked,” Sister Nora said.
“How old are the girls?” I asked. If they were my age, we’d have more in common than just escaping the revolution.
“I didn’t ask,” Sister Nora said. “All I know is that one of the girls is a Bentacur—one of the wealthiest families in Mexico.”
With those words, I realized I probably wouldn’t have much in common with them.
“Today I need you to scrub the chapel floors then sweep the front of the church,” Sister Nora said. “Once you get done with that, come in and help me prepare the lunch for the two guests. Any questions?”
“No, ma’am,” I said.
“Before you go do your chores,” Sister Nora said, “let’s do our morning search.”
Two weeks before, after making sure I knew how to write my first name, Sister Nora had taught me to write my last name, Luna, and my father’s first name, Alonso. Every morning since then, before handing the Spanish newspaper to Father Amaro, Sister Nora and I would go over the section that listed the names of refugees seeking loved ones. Each message appeared in a little box. The message Sister Nora and I paid to have listed in the paper was always near the top. After making sure it was there, I would quickly scan through the other messages to see if I recognized my name or my father’s.
So far, it hadn’t happened, and this morning was no exception.
It was almost ten o’clock when I started sweeping the front of the church. I noticed my shoes had gotten muddy from the courtyard, so I stopped to take them off, along with my stockings, to dry off. I’d resumed sweeping when an automobile pulled in front of the church.
A man in a dark suit stepped out and walked around to open the automobile’s back door. He helped a young lady wearing a long, white silk dress step out. She seemed to be about seventeen, and her gloved hand went up to block the sunlight from her eyes as she took in the church bell towers. Her pose and her long neck were as elegant as a swan’s, and the soft waves of her auburn hair gently framed her face.
Another young lady stepped out of the automobile. She too wore silk, but her pose was less graceful, and her voice sounded like a duck’s dull quack.
She called out to the auburn-haired girl. “Aren’t you forgetting something, Victoria?”
Victoria—her name was as beautiful as she was. The duck-voiced girl handed Victoria a folded hand fan, which Victoria immediately spanned open and began to fan herself with.
It dawned on me that these were the two girls Sister Nora said would stay in the church’s quarters.
The man in the dark suit set two suitcases on the sidewalk and tipped his hat at them before returning to his automobile and driving away.
The young lady with the quack voice glanced over at me and winced when she saw my bare feet. She turned away. “Grab my luggage and take it in,” she said.
I glanced at my shoes sitting by the door. The mud on them still looked fresh, and I didn’t want to dirty the floor I had scrubbed earlier.
“Did you not hear me?” she said, placing a hand on her hip. “Grab my belongings and take them inside.” Her glare and her tone stung. It took me back to a time and place in Mexico where people like her scolded people like me.
