Alba ignored her brother and turned to the young maid. “Look in that drawer, Fernanda, for God’s sake. My uncle Arturo is bound to be here any minute now. Oh, and cut one of the carnations that are growing in the white flowerpots, the red carnations by the kitchen windows, not the pink ones in the back. Put the flower on the tray when you bring it in.”
“You’d think the Pope is visiting,” Tadeo said.
Tadeo did not care much for their uncle, calling him a snob and even “Uncle Catrín” when he was in a bad mood, but Alba disagreed ardently. Although Arturo Velarde was twenty-four, merely five years older than Alba, she considered him the most mature, sophisticated, and intelligent man in the entire nation. He spoke French fluently, had memorized verses by Verlaine, Manuel José Othón, Juan de Dios Peza, and many others, and had even published a few poems of his own.
For his sake she’d worn the green dress with the high waistline, because green was Arturo’s favorite color and she thought that the dress had a Parisian touch to it that he’d be sure to admire. On her finger she wore a delicate ring with a jade stone that her father had given her for her fifteenth birthday, and matching earrings framed her face. She wanted to look like the women who appeared in magazines, sleek and sophisticated.
“Mr. Quiroga, your uncle is here. I need help carrying his things,” Jacobo said. “Have you seen Belisario?”
Alba still winced when people called her brother “Mr. Quiroga,” though it was accurate. Now that their father had passed away, he was the only “mister” around, and yet he was less than a year younger than Alba, just eighteen years old.
“Belisario is on an errand,” Tadeo said.
“That’s a bad thing, then,” Jacobo replied, and scratched the collar of his shirt. “I don’t know how I’ll manage.”
“You can’t carry a valise by yourself?”
“He has two trunks, Mr. Quiroga, and two valises.”
“Of course he does. I’ll help you.”
Fernanda found the key to the cabinet and Alba told her to pour the chocolate while she hurried to the parlor. This was the best room in the house. On sturdy bookshelves rested the Quirogas’ books, everything from a fine encyclopedia to volumes on ancient mythology. Her father had not been much of a reader, but he’dhad a younger sister—dead of a fever many years now—who’d had a fondness for novels. Alba’s mother had added to this collection, and now Alba carefully dusted each book and catalogued it with care. When her uncle mailed her a new volume of poetry, shereverently placed it next to the others on a shelf designated for her most treasured reads.
The sofa in the parlor was upholstered in pink damask and the two armchairs facing it were of the finest leather. In front of a window there was a table with gilded legs and upon it a vase of fine china gifted to her mother on the occasion of her wedding. A few chairs were arranged by this window, and when they had company they moved them next to the couch so that everyone could listen while Alba or her mother played the piano. But they had not had many visitors since her father’s death four months earlier, and the parlor had become sad and dreary to her.
Now, as she walked in, Alba thought the room had been entirely changed: the sun shone bright through the open windows and the parlor seemed light and airy. Standing there, glancing out one of those windows, was her uncle Arturo. He wore a three-piece suit that served to emphasize his slimness. His jacket and his trousers were a dark gray color, and his vest, with its daring bright blue hue, was in sharp contrast to the subdued gray of the rest of his clothes.
His hair, of a rich brown that was almost burnished, flecked with gold, was slicked back with macassar. His eyes were a light, liquid brown, the eyebrows elegantly sketched, and his full lips granted him a languorous expression, which he often enhanced with a decadent half smile. He had an easy, relaxed air about him that seemed to match his handsome face.
She had thought so much about him in the last few months, wishing dearly he’d visit Piedras Quebradas. She had even cast a little spell she’d learned, summoning him. She did not often indulge in such practices, for fear of what others would think if she admitted she believed in folk magic. Her mother abhorred superstition and even though her father had believed in enchantments, in monsters and witches, she tried to be like her instead of him. Besides, Alba understood these games children played must be sloughed off as she became a worldly woman.
Arturo turned his head. “Alba,” he said, delight clear in his voice, and opened his arms to her.
Alba rushed forward and hugged him, closing her eyes. “Arturo! You’ve come! I so hoped you would come! Tadeo is terribly bossy, and Mother…it’s dreary.”
He was there! How she’d missed him. It had been well over a year, almost two, since he’d last visited Piedras Quebradas. But he was finally there, and she clutched him tight. For a minute they embraced and stood so close she was able to hear his heart beating in his chest, then he stepped back.
“I can imagine,” Arturo said, and began drawing her toward the sofa so that they might sit together.
“Mother is cross with me every day. I do my best, but I’ve never been good with the little ones, and now that Father isn’t around, Magdalena complains all the time and the twins are even more of a handful.”
As the eldest child, Alba kept an eye on the younger children, played with them or watched them when her mother was busy. But Mother was eternally irritated now, and Tadeo could hardly help her, busy as he was in the fields or with the animals. She sometimes believed Tadeo liked horses more than he liked people.
Alba found herself juggling household responsibilities and tending to her siblings. Lola was six, docile, and took her little brother, Moisés, by the hand, which at least meant she watched over him. But the twins! They were seven and didn’t want to learn their letters, wash their hands, or comb their hair. Alba was in a constant battle with them.
Magdalena was terrible in her own special way, always mumbling under her breath and pointing out Alba’s mistakes. Even though she was only eleven, she attempted to bully Fernanda and undermine her big sister. Alba would have had Magdalena chopping wood all day long, and the twins too, but their mother wanted them to practice their penmanship, read books, learn the names of faraway countries. Alba was no schoolmistress to teach all this, and yet her mother said this was a woman’s obligation: to handle the household and the children.
“Now, now, don’t look so sad. I’ve brought new sheet music anda trinket you might like,” Arturo said. “We’ll scrub this house free of any gloom, won’t we?”
Her eyes widened with delight. “Sheet music! And books? Have you brought any books?”
“Yes. Baudelaire, Rubén Darío, and Amado Nervo.That evening in the poplar grove, mad with love, the sweet one I idolized offered me the wild rose of her mouth,” he recited smoothly.
“You must read to me, and you must play the piano, and you must make me terribly happy.”
“I will,” he said, his voice soft as silk. She wished to throw her arms around his neck and hug him again, but then her mother walked in and Arturo smiled one of his dazzling smiles.
He stood up and took her hands between his. “Luisa, my deepest condolences. I’m terribly sorry that I couldn’t be here for the funeral.”
