The Inheritance of Orquídea Divina

by Zoraida Cordova

  Sheriff Palladino approached the three of them. His bright blue eyes went from Rhiannon’s forehead, to Rey’s hand where a red, red rose had sprouted between his thumb and index finger. Marimar, too, had a green bud at her clavicle. Marimar didn’t have time to wonder why her flower hadn’t bloomed like the baby’s and Rey’s. She watched Sheriff Palladino stare at the flowers, but he was used to Orquídea’s inexplicable life in Four Rivers and he did not ask questions they couldn’t answer.

  They gave statements, and he took off his hat at the news that Orquídea had perished in the fire. He looked at the tall tree that had appeared straight through the center of the house. Its species, a ceiba common in the Amazon rainforest, did not belong in the hills of Four Rivers. But just like the house that had appeared one day from thin air, he could not refute its existence.

  As they readied to load Tatinelly in the ambulance, she looked at her cousins. “What are you going to do?”

  Marimar surveyed the damage. She ran her fingers through her hair. A hummingbird appeared, and flew close to her throat, then disappeared into the night.

  “I don’t know, yet,” she said, but Marimar felt it. The familiar pull of the night, the whisper of the earth. Those times her grandmother had told her to find fairies in the hills, to listen to the stars, Marimar had always come home defeated. Now she knew she hadn’t been listening. They had been with her all along. The dragonflies shimmered with light, rising all around the twilight valley, with the magic of fading stars and the wild mountains.

  They were here for her.

  They screamed at her, and Marimar did what she’d wanted to do since she returned home. She screamed back.

  12

  ORQUÍDEA MONTOYA BECOMES ORQUÍDEA DIVINA

  Part II

  HIBERNATION

  13

  LA VIE EN ROSE

  When Orquídea Divina arrived at the Londoño Spectacular Spectacular, she was offered a single ticket and a seat with an obstructed view. She’d never been to the circus before, though the Buenasuertes had gone every time one rolled around. Wilhelm Jr. loved the elephants and Greta would save her candied apple and eat it little by little, like a rabbit gnawing away at a carrot too big for its size.

  When the lights inside the tent dimmed, the barking chatter from the crowd ceased. There were whispers. Children getting in their last curious questions. Is that a real lion? When does the flying woman come out? Do they really have a living star?

  Orquídea wondered all of those things. Leggy women danced in a line. They looked like a row of marionettes moving as if the same person was pulling the strings. They were followed by clowns on bicycles, which she hated because the heat was making the diamonds painted around their eyes run. There was an elephant that ran around like a dog, and she felt his heavy steps deep down within her. She was most fascinated by the long-legged woman who walked across a tightrope. Orquídea held her breath until the young woman crossed to the other side, and all she could think was that she had finally witnessed the living embodiment of what it was like growing up in La Atarazana to walk that long road to and from the river. Hadn’t she done her best to be a good girl? Hadn’t she tried to do right by herself and her mother? Orquídea imagined herself in the bodysuit covered in rhinestones, her hair pulled back into an elegant bun. She pictured herself walking across the high wire without a net.

  The Spectacular Spectacular went on into the night, but it felt like no time had passed at all. She laughed at the jugglers who dropped their things on top of each other, the men lusting after the woman who swallowed swords. Watched mothers cover the eyes of their children as a mermaid was brought out to the center of the stage in the bed of a giant pink clam. She had long braids piled up like a crown atop her head and pearls that dripped over her shoulders and across her chest, covering her nipples but nothing else. Her abdomen was soft, and the tail that she was wearing created the illusion that she was truly half woman, half fish. Boys dressed like sailors pushed her around the circus grounds so that everyone could witness her. Orquídea and the mermaid made eye contact. She was sure of it, even if it was dark and Orquídea’s face was just one among hundreds.

  When the stage had been cleared, a spotlight shone down on a man. Orquídea felt a pang under her ribcage, a twisting sensation that she’d never had in her life, because she’d never seen a man like this before. He wore a blue velvet tailcoat trimmed in gold. His trousers hugged the thick muscles of his thighs and calves. When he removed his matching blue top hat and held it over his chest, there was a murmur of pleasure. Orquídea had not been the only one to notice his beauty. Black waves slicked back in a way that made him appear polished, but not manicured. His beard was neat, trimmed in clean lines around a sharp jaw. He looked like the Devil himself had come to Ecuador to find her. Maybe that had been the voice she’d heard. Maybe, because he was watching her with sapphire eyes framed by thick black brows. She peered over her shoulder, but when she looked back, he flashed a smile that gutted her.

  “Ladies and gentlemen! People of the center of the world!” His voice was deep and booming, melodic in a way that made the audience answer with delighted cries. Orquídea found herself sticking her thumb and index finger against her teeth and letting out a sharp whistle that cut through the reverie. He noticed her again and this time he floundered, for a breath of a second. He looked like he’d forgotten where he was or what he was supposed to say next, and all he could do was look at her, Orquídea Montoya.

  When he recovered, he said, “The Londoño Spectacular Spectacular has been all over the world and I’m here to tell you that no crowd had shown us as much love as you have tonight.” He pressed his hand over his heart and accepted the applause, the kernels of popcorn, and even a lace brassiere.

  He chuckled, like he was flattered, and gave that general direction a wink. “This is our first event since my father, the great Pedro Bolívar Londoño Asturias II, left God’s green earth. I don’t think I will ever fill my father’s very large shoes, but by God, I will try. We are a family. For decades my father has brought together the most marvelous, curious, inexplicable people from around the globe. But tonight… tonight we bring you something from the heavens.” He paused and waited for the crowd to lean in, just a little bit more. “I present to you—the Living Star!”

  The tent went pitch black. So dark, Orquídea couldn’t even see her own hand in front of her. There were yelps of fear and excitement. She’d seen the advertisement outside, but she hadn’t known what to expect.

  A living star.

  Before she could think about how in the world that would be possible, a pulse of light shone from the center of the circular stage. It looked like a heartbeat made of light. A firefly alone in the dark. Then it grew brighter and brighter, filling the entire tent. It was so bright that every single person in the room averted their eyes, looking away because, for a very real moment, it felt like they had looked at the sun.

  Orquídea chanced another glance, and this time, she stood. She rubbed her eyelids to get rid of the dancing red light in front of them.

  The outline of a person appeared from the shadows. She thought of the times she made her own dolls by taking two panels of cloth and snipped the outline of a person, then she’d stuff it with dry lentils or cotton and sew it shut. That’s what this was, the shape of a person made of light, and when the star moved, it rippled with a prism of color.

  She looked for the wires, the tricks, the magician’s precision that was needed in order to make them all see this. It wasn’t possible, but there it was. The crowd roared its approval, it’s fascination and wonder.

  After, the audience rushed out to the fairgrounds, to the fortune-teller tables and games and popcorn stands. Orquídea sat alone in her gifted seat and replayed the last hours.

  “Did you enjoy yourself?”

  She turned around at the rich sound of his voice. It was really him, the master of ceremonies, still dressed in blue velvet. Up close, she could see that he wasn’t p
erfect at all. There was a scar that cut across his right eyebrow and his roman nose was wide at the bridge, like it had been broken, then broken again.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this,” she said. “I didn’t know it was here. I went for a walk, and here it was.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Orquídea.”

  “Bolívar Londoño, at your service.” He approached her slowly, the way the lion tamer had done to the lioness not a few hours ago. Like he thought she might bite. She was suddenly aware of her battered shoes, her eyes puffy from crying.

  “The Widow said you were looking for work.”

  A rush of hope came at her quickly. She pressed the ticket against her stomach. “I am—I can learn anything.”

  “Do you have any talents?” he asked with a coy smile.

  “Fishing.”

  He started to chuckle, but then he realized she was serious. He ran his fingers along his beard. There was a striking ring with a coat of arms on his middle digit. “La Sirena Caribeña is retiring today. We need a replacement. We’re leaving for our European tour tomorrow.”

  Orquídea felt her neck heat up as his eyes took in her collarbone, the swell of her breasts, her small waist, and the bloom of her hips. He looked at her like she was someone who should not be ignored. He looked at her like he wanted to be consumed by her.

  “I—” Hadn’t she wanted this? It was so easy to fantasize while she was watching, to put herself in the role of these women dressed in fantastical clothes, performing miracles, defeating the laws of gravity. Dressing up as a mermaid who got pushed around on stage wouldn’t require anything from her except putting on a costume. Being another person. In Europe, no less!

  She could escape.

  All she would have to do was live with the circus. Any time her mother had returned home from a circus, after the night’s fun had been had and the spell of it washed away, she’d remark on the women who walked around nearly naked. Whores with loose morals and looser legs. After that night, Orquídea knew what her mother thought of her. What would be the difference?

  She could be someone new.

  The oddities that were spurned by God and creation.

  She could be.

  It was a dream, that’s all. Every insult and cruel word that had been thrown her way like arrows pierced into her skin. What would she have without her mother? She remembered her old friend from the river who had called her the Bastard Daughter of the Waves. If she went home now, perhaps her mother wouldn’t notice that she’d run away for the night. Perhaps there was time to fix things.

  “I can’t go with you. I’m sorry.”

  “We’re leaving for Paris tomorrow morning,” Bolívar said, flipping his top hat between deft fingers before securing it on his head. He took her hand in his and the skin-on-skin contact tightened a cord around her heart. His soft mouth brushed against her knuckles, then the inside of her wrists. “Ship leaves at four in the morning, if you change your mind.”

  That night, Orquídea ran home with the intention of apologizing to her mother, to Mr. Buenasuerte. But when she stepped in the house, she felt like an intruder, slinking around the dark. The party had long finished, and everyone seemed to be asleep. They didn’t even know she was gone.

  She did not belong in her mother’s new life with her new husband and new kids. She had no father to turn to. When she crawled into her narrow bed, she thought of Bolívar Londoño’s stare, the way he made her skin feel hot, like molten sugar turning, transforming into something to sink teeth into. She ran a thumb over and over her knuckles, the place where he’d kissed her. Had he meant it?

  She gave up on sleep and packed a bag. She owned very little, but she took what would fit in her leather school backpack. Three cotton dresses, a hand-me-down robe, slippers, two pairs of stockings two shades too light for her skin, a pair of socks, three hundred sucres, and a photo of her mother—black and white and faded at the edges. She thought about going to say goodbye to Ana Cruz, but didn’t want to chance the baby waking up and alerting the whole house. When she whirled around to go, Orquídea saw she was not alone anymore.

  “Don’t go, niña,” Jefita said. “I’ll have no one if you go.”

  Jefita. She’d had Jefita. She held her friend in her arms and allowed herself to cry for the life that was never hers. The one she’d leave behind without a trace.

  * * *

  Orquídea arrived at the port breathless, eyes scanning for him.

  There he was, dressed in a dapper green suit. He stood apart from his crew, like he’d been waiting for her. When their eyes met, Orquídea felt that tug beneath her ribs. This was her present, her future. Hadn’t that been her destiny all along? The girl who’d been born unlucky, a soul lost to the seas.

  Damn the stars and damn luck. Damn everyone and anything who thought her insignificant. Orquídea Montoya was going to rewrite her fate.

  14

  EPHEMERAL BEINGS

  After the fire died down and the ambulances took the Sullivans to the big hospital in the next town, and the animals returned to their hiding places in the valley, after the Montoyas dispersed once again across the country, and Enrique called to remind her that this wasn’t over, Marimar stood among the rubble with Rey.

  Orquídea had not prepared them.

  “What are we supposed to do?” Rey asked. He was out of cigarettes and out of booze and the moment wouldn’t allow him to go in search for either for a while. “You heard what Orquídea said. She was hiding from someone. Scared. Do we tell Sheriff Palladino?”

  “And say what? File a report for a man with no name who might be a danger?”

  Rey deflated with a frustrated sigh. “I don’t know, Mari. Maybe this is why Orquídea never left Four Rivers. Maybe we would have been safe if we had stayed.”

  “If she had been safe, she wouldn’t have become this.”

  They turned in the direction of the ceiba tree among the rubble. The valley whistled, carrying away ash and embers in a strong breeze.

  “I’m open to suggestions,” Rey said.

  There was only one thing to do, Marimar knew. “Clean, like Tía Silvia told us to.”

  “Have you heard from anyone? Nice of them to leave us with the mess.”

  Marimar shrugged. She didn’t remind him that Orquídea had left her the house and so this was her mess. She was afraid if she did, he might leave, even though she knew he wouldn’t. She had one text message from Juan Luis that said, “Sick funeral.” And one from Tatinelly reminding her to keep in touch. What would her in-laws say when she showed up with her baby girl, a pert little flower growing out of her forehead? Florecida gave her an invitation to come live temporarily in Key West, but Marimar had declined.

  “It’s just you and me, kid,” she said, and he grinned. That was the same thing he’d said the day after his mother’s funeral when they sat in the living room with a bunch of sympathy food from neighbors and coworkers. Just you and me.

  Rey would leave five months later, but he stayed for her. He stayed because he couldn’t bare the idea of going back to New York and trying to work at his desk and tally up numbers and yell at clients for trying to expense their third jacuzzi. He just couldn’t, and Marimar saw that, too. She was afraid of being alone eventually, and so, to make her cousin stay as long as possible, she went to get provisions.

  While he was renting a tractor from old man Skillen twenty miles down the road, Marimar went out and bought a case of wine, three bottles of bourbon, six cases of cherry soda, a college student’s semester supply of 30-cent ramen packets, and locally made bison jerky.

  Rey brought his own provisions. He returned with two men, a tractor, and an industrial-sized garbage bin. “Bitch, you owe me two cases of wine.”

  The men in question were Christian Sandoval and Kalvin Stanley, two boys she’d gone to middle school with. Even though Chris had been two years older, she’d dropped a Valentine’s Day card in his locker and by lunch he’d been shoving hi
s tongue down one of the Mary Somethings right in the hall for everyone to see. It wasn’t a heartbreak for Marimar, more like prickling herself on a sewing needle, but it still stung.

  Typical of Four Rivers, Christian and Kalvin hadn’t wanted to go anywhere after graduation. There was nothing wrong with the community college in the next town, and Four Rivers had everything they needed. A house. Work. Free pie from the diner, though that would get old in a few years, when their looks went and the world beat the charming out of them, whatever small quantity they possessed.

  Chris and Kalvin spent most of their days alternating between the Home Depot and the salvage yard. At twenty-one, they were all corded muscle that came from hauling sheetrock and steel and lumber. They were just as dumb and beautiful as they’d been in school, but now that they had nowhere to go, they actually made small talk with Marimar and Rey. Tragedy. Wow, New York? What’s it like? Wow, no way. Wow, so you’re like back back? You hear about Coach Vincent? Talk about tragedies.

  As the Wow Guys began removing the scorched rubble, the remaining Montoya cousins sifted for anything salvageable. Even in the afterlife, Orquídea Divina was making them sort through her things to find answers.

  “So, while I was in town,” Rey said, “I discovered that the girl who tormented you in elementary school is now on her third child and her baby daddy just got picked up for indecent exposure at the mall two towns over.”

  “Is that supposed to make me happy?” Marimar asked, towing away a charred piece of bone. Upon closer inspection, it was the roasted pig.

  “Well, the two beefcakes I picked out for you aren’t helping. We have alcohol, an empty valley, and I’m pretty sure one of them is gay, so we could find out which.”

  She laughed, but it didn’t quite reach deep inside. “You know how much I want to support and enforce the gay agenda, but I don’t think that hooking up with the guy who once called me a Smelly Satan Worshipper is going to make me feel better. Plus, Orquídea is right there.”