The Inheritance of Orquídea Divina

by Zoraida Cordova

  “One time,” Rhiannon said at the same time as Tatinelly said “No.”

  They all turned to the little girl, content at her feast. “It was only for a moment. At the park, a man tried to talk to me, and my head felt itchy. My friend Devi said that my rose turned black, but I couldn’t see it because it’s on my forehead, but the man vanished into thin air.”

  They were all silent, a collective held breath until Tatinelly let loose a whimper. She held her daughter, squeezed her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Daddy didn’t believe you, so I thought I was imagining things too. Besides, when I went home, my head wasn’t itchy anymore, and my rose was back to normal.”

  “What man?” Ana Cruz asked, and Tatinelly and Rey told their stories of the stranger who’d appeared out of nowhere. “We have the best security here, I assure you. I won’t leave your side.”

  “That’s one of the reasons we came here together,” Marimar said, absently pressing her thumb against the thorn at her throat. “We think this stranger was from our grandmother’s past. Only we don’t know anything about her past.”

  Jefita nodded reassuringly and held up a finger, like a threat to the universe. “No one will hurt Orquídea’s babies. We will help, right, Ana Cruz?”

  “Of course, although, it’s been so long, the stories of my Orquídea feel like legends now. I’ll dig through my mother’s things.”

  “How did you meet Mamá Orquídea, Jefita?” Marimar asked.

  “My mother and I worked for Señor Buenasuerte. They called her Jefa, and I became Jefita.” The woman spoke with her hands, like she was making her fingers dance to her words. “We came down from the Tungurahua province after the earthquake. I almost considered leaving when Orquídea did, too, but I didn’t know anyone. It was very scandalous. I remember the day she left because it was the city’s independence day. In the morning, they sent out a search party and everything. The fishermen all combed the rivers even though no one would have believed she could have drowned. I alone knew she’d run away. I couldn’t tell them, but I was nervous and Señor Buenasuerte saw that I knew more than I said. He told me I had to tell the truth or risk going to hell, and I knew Orquídea would understand that it was the price of my soul and she would forgive me. So, I told them. He beat me with the belt, but my mother reminded me that it was because I’d lied to our employer.”

  “That’s horrible,” Marimar said.

  Rey’s eyes cut to the austere older man whose face hung in a portrait. He’d contain his curses for later. “It’s hard to imagine why our grandmother ever left.”

  “My father was a tough man to love,” Ana Cruz said, sadly. “He was raised in different times.”

  Tatinelly wanted to say that it was no excuse for beating someone, but she was a guest and they’d be leaving soon.

  “My father’s discipline was violent with my siblings, but for Orquídea it was something more. I shouldn’t remember this because I was so little, but when she held me, I felt how small she made herself because she thought she was trapped. I escaped my father’s attention most of the time because I was the youngest. I was an accident, you see. Number six. He always said it would have been better if I were a boy. That the cost of my mother’s health would have been worth it. So, I made myself scarce. I was only three when Orquídea left, but I always remembered her face. Her voice.”

  “You only stopped screaming when she sang to you,” Jefita said.

  Marimar cleared her throat, then forced a smile. “She never stopped singing.”

  * * *

  After lunch, they got ready to take the ashes to the river. When Tatinelly went to check on Mike, he was warm to the touch. Beads of sweat dotted his pale forehead, like dew clinging to leaves. When he blinked around the room, he was unsettled. He didn’t remember where they were or what time it was.

  “We let you sleep in. It’s time to scatter the ashes.”

  “I’m up.” Mike tried to yank off the covers, but he was overcome with a bout of phlegmy coughing.

  “You’re not getting up. We can do it later,” she said softly, but she could not hide the worry from her face.

  He took the bottle of water she offered. “No, you should go. This is important. This is about you and Rhiannon. I must’ve caught something on the plane. Hand me my emergency kit. I’ll be fine if I just rest a bit longer.”

  Tatinelly observed him for a minute. He looked a little pale. But she’d been with him all night. Why wasn’t she sick? Or the others? “Are you sure?”

  He squeezed her hand in his. “I promise.”

  The rest of them piled into the car. Tatinelly sat in the front clutching her father’s urn. In the light of day, the city was brighter, livelier. Businesswomen walked quickly in sensible heels. Gaggles of students, all in uniform, flooded tiny cyber cafés and shops. Men, women, and children ran into stalled traffic to sell everything from bottled water to gum to phone chargers. Reels of green oranges and bags of candied popcorn. There were water fountains spouting from parks, and this time, when they passed by the Guayas y Quil monument, Tatinelly couldn’t help but think of their story. Tragic. Melancholic. She thought of Mike laid up in bed and held her father’s urn tighter.

  The minivan turned down a paved road that led to the river. The houses were run down and many of them had dark windows, boarded up. A team of surveyors watched them drive past, and Ana Cruz simply waved but didn’t stop. Tatinelly tried to imagine her grandmother running down this unpaved road. She imagined Orquídea with her head held high. Those defiant, midnight eyes. She imagined that when these houses were torn down and new ones erected, that this road might be gone, and so would be another little piece of her grandmother.

  They parked as close to the river as they could, and when they disembarked, local kids crept up around them, pointing at the flowers that always made people so curious. Jefita made quick work of snapping at the little ones, and though they scattered, they still lingered. Others walked over, recognizing Ana Cruz and wanting to shake hands with Orquídea’s family. Tatinelly didn’t understand everything they said, but she smiled, and it warmed her whole heart when these strangers said “¡Orquídea!” One of the middle-aged women grinned deeply. “She always had a fish for us, so we’d have something to eat.”

  What a strange feeling it was, to learn about their grandmother in this way, as if they gathered enough anecdotes, enough smiles and memories, they’d be able to complete the pieces of Orquídea Divina Montoya.

  The locals let the family get on their way, but not without offering prayers and well wishes. Tatinelly held Rhiannon’s hand tightly as they walked up to a rickety pier. There were rusted canoes and wooden barges that were more splinters than vessels. Fishing nets covered in algae and muck. Bottles, cans, and broken glass littered the ground. But the view of the distant bright horizon, and the wide river was a beautiful thing.

  “There’s a monster in the water,” Rhiannon whispered to Rey, who only patted her head and said, “That’s nice, kid.”

  Tatinelly thought of the first time her dad had taken her fishing. He’d play his old songs, and dreamed of one day learning to sail, really sail. Félix Montoya’s heart didn’t belong on land with the others, but he’d never get to follow that dream. Not living, at least. Her father had given her so much love. He’d taught her how to fish, how to be patient. He taught her that one love was enough. That when she found it, she should reel it in, not rush it, hold it tight. When she’d left home so young, started a family so soon, he’d only reminded her that she was her own person. If she passed that down to Rhiannon, then she’d honor him. Tears ran down her cheeks and onto the pier.

  “This is where Orquídea fished as a little girl,” Ana Cruz said.

  Rhiannon squeezed her mother’s hand. “You can do it. Grandpa says he’s ready to swim.”

  With her family, old and new, gathered around her, Tatinelly twisted open the urn. She tipped it over above the water and returned her father to a place he’d neve
r set foot in before but was connected to because of his mother. He’d been a part of her trying to get back.

  They watched the river run.

  A silver fish leaped out of the water, and she knew, Félix Montoya had said his last farewell.

  20

  THE FORTUNE-TELLER WHO IS NOT ALWAYS RIGHT BUT ALSO NEVER WRONG

  Agustina Narvaez did not make predictions because she thought others would believe them. She made predictions because she had been burdened with the ability to read the heavens, to decipher the whisper of planets as they related to the affairs of humans. Agustina had never enjoyed it, but she knew, more than anyone, that no matter what people believed to be true, at least she would always be able to make a living without having to be on her back. Not that she looked down on people who did, but she saw the toll it took on the body and spirit after years of watching her mother do the very same at the turn of the century.

  Agustina’s parents had fled Málaga during the height of the phylloxera plague. Without wine to make, they sought refuge in several South American towns before ending up in Santiago, Chile. Her own journey would take her to Medellín, Colombia, where she waited for the celestial coordinates to be right. For the boy to find a fallen star and begin her new adventure.

  She didn’t want to be right. Not always. When she’d met Orquídea Montoya, she saw a whisper of a girl who wanted to become a scream. She hated the future she saw for the girl, and most of all, that she was powerless to stop it. But Agustina wanted to try to save her some heartache, if she could.

  That was the problem with getting close to people when you were burdened with a magical gift. You wanted to help them. You wanted to save them. You wanted to make everything better because that’s what you tried to do when you had good intentions.

  When the Londoño Spectacular Spectacular made its way across eastern Europe, Agustina wanted nothing more than to stop Orquídea from making a mistake that would alter the course of her life. The girl had already been born under a cosmic whirlpool of bad luck. She didn’t need Bolívar Londoño III adding to it. Then again, she knew better than to try to alter destiny. The way she saw it, they were all fucked either way.

  On the eve of opening night for their tour across the Netherlands, Agustina and Maribella were fitting Orquídea for a new costume, a flower that bloomed as soon as the spotlight fell on her. It had been Bolívar’s idea, and the plans for the invention had simply spilled out of his pretty little brain after he’d made a wish. Handing it over to the show’s stage engineers, they created the glamorous, never-before-seen dress.

  Once it was only Agustina and Orquídea in the room, the fortune-teller seized her opportunity. She wasn’t going to change destiny. More foolish people had tried and failed. But there was nothing wrong with a warning.

  “Protect yourself, Orquídea,” Agustina said. “Protect your heart from brittle things.”

  Orquídea laughed her infectious laugh, clutching the delicate fabric of her dress. “You say the strangest things, Agustina.”

  “But I am never wrong.” She tapped the girl’s pert round nose and hoped she would listen.

  * * *

  She didn’t of course. Orquídea fell in love with Bolívar Londoño the way the sea falls in love with a storm. Nearly seven months after they’d begun their affair, she was convinced that her mother had been wrong. That she’d left her bad luck back in Ecuador.

  After their first performance in Amsterdam, Orquídea was supposed to spend a night out with the girls. But something Agustina said had thrummed through her. Protect your heart from brittle things. She had left the people who’d hurt her behind. What did she need protection from when Bolívar was the strongest man she knew, aside from the Londoño Spectacular Spectacular’s actual Strong Man? He doted on her. Spent every free moment he had with her. He bought her dresses and furs. Made her heart feel like the pop of a cold bottle of champagne. He’d given her a new name and chosen her face for the posters. Her, Orquídea Divina.

  And yet, she couldn’t shake the unease in her belly. She abandoned dinner with her friends, vowing to meet them at a pub later that night. Instead, she returned to the hotel in search of Bolívar.

  When he answered the door, he must have been expecting room service because there was a note folded in his fingertips. As it dawned on him that it was Orquídea at the threshold, he shoved the note back in his robe pocket. He barred the entrance to the door, pulling his robe closed but not before she could see his naked body beneath, the imprint of red kisses across his torso.

  “Mi divina,” he said, a strangled high pitch escaping his mouth. The blue of his eyes bright with panic. “You said you were going to the burlesque tonight.”

  Behind him several feminine voices called his name. She didn’t need to see them. Before he could reach for her, to beg her not to hate him—not to leave him—she ran. She took the stairs two at a time, the sharp click of her heels echoing in the corridor. When she finally stopped, she found herself in the basement of the hotel.

  She heard it then. A resounding boom. Once. Twice. Then the words susurrating on her skin. “Find. Me.”

  She’d heard that once before.

  Hurrying, she turned a corner. A looming figure was at the door—Lucho, whose sole purpose was to guard the cargo. What else was behind that door? He was nearly eight feet tall and his family was from every corner of Colombia. His father had been Bolívar II’s guard and Lucho was Bolívar III’s. He was blind out of one eye, and still sported a scar from the brawl that had nearly cost him both. When he realized it was her, he stood from the chair where he usually sat for hours.

  “Divina? What are you doing here?” He asked, concern in his voice.

  Lucho protected Bolívar, and she realized he must have known. They all must have known. Protect your heart from brittle things. But who could protect her from herself?

  She took a deep breath and gathered worry into her voice. “I just couldn’t find Bolívar. Have you seen him?”

  He scratched at his black beard and averted his eyes to lie. “Not in a few. I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.”

  “Not to worry,” she said. “Silly me. I checked everywhere but his room…”

  “Wait!” Lucho’s heavy baritone felt like a gut punch. “I’ll go find him. You shouldn’t wait here, it’s cold.”

  “Thank you.” She yanked him close and he peeled her off him, as if he was afraid to touch her because she belonged to someone else.

  Orquídea pulled her fur around her tightly and followed Lucho as far as the lobby bar. But as soon as Lucho’s back was turned, she returned downstairs to the storage room. A pulse of light spilled from the seams of the door.

  Find me, the voice had said once. Now it said it again, and Orquídea wondered if perhaps she’d been wrong. It wasn’t Bolívar or the circus whom she was supposed to find that night, all those months ago. It was the Living Star. But why? What did he want from her?

  She withdrew the key she’d pickpocketed from Lucho when she’d hugged him and turned the lock. Crates and suitcases were stacked inside. The lioness and horses and dogs were kept on the grounds, but this place was meant for only Bolívar to access.

  Within an iron cage stood the figure made of light that she’d seen at every show, every night, from a distance. A trick, she’d thought at first. But now she wondered at him. Beneath the light, she could see his eyes. Incandescent, like the swirls of a galaxy trapped within his irises. It was the only detail of himself that he revealed.

  “You found me,” he said, and his voice was like the haunting note of an organ.

  She stepped closer. “What do you want from me?”

  “Your help.”

  She went closer still. Wrapped one hand around the cool iron bar. Beneath the glow she could see that he was naked. Was he cold? When she blinked, he was in front of her. His fist above hers around the iron bar. She willed herself not to scream, not to jump back.

  “What can I do?” Orquídea asked. �
�I’m no one.”

  “You do not have to be. I could hear your wish from far away. It is what made me call to you.”

  She shook her head. “I never made a wish.”

  “You did not speak it out loud, but it was in your heart. It was in Bolívar’s heart, too. I knew his true love would free me from this place.”

  She thought of Bolívar. Her Bolívar upstairs with a room full of women. Every time she blinked they multiplied. She found the courage to laugh. “I am not his true love.”

  “Oh, but you are.” The light around him pulsed. “That is perhaps the cruelest part of it.”

  “If I am his true love, why would I do that?”

  “Because I can give you what he never will,” the Living Star said, letting the words hang between them. “My freedom for a taste of my power.”

  She smelled something burn, then looked down at the hiss of his skin against the iron. She swallowed the scream that swelled within her as the storage door slammed open.

  “You’re not supposed to be in here!” Lucho shouted, breathless as he barreled in. “Boss wants to see you.”

  Orquídea might have been born unlucky, born poor, born a bastard, but she was not born to take orders. Not anymore. She raised her head high and imagined her entire body was made of iron, of steel. “There’s a poster with my face on it. Tell him to start there.”

  She heard the haunting chime of the Living Star, followed by a scream as she stormed out. She ran down the damp streets of Amsterdam. Gas lamps lit her way along dark, humid canals until she found the pub where her friends were. She stayed with them until dawn broke but kept her ugly shame to herself. She was surprised to find that there was no amount of absinthe or cigarettes that could cure her of Bolívar Londoño.

  When she finally went back to her hotel, he was there, sitting outside the door of her suite. She didn’t know how long he’d been there, but he was asleep. He smelled clean, at the very least. She wondered if he’d showered alone. She wondered too many things.