He’d wanted to do that when they came for her, but hadn’t been able to. The three armed men who asked after her by name hadn’t given him the chance. They’d tied him up with the women who cooked the workers’ meals and beaten him so he’d tell them where she was hiding on the farm, or where she lived. He said he didn’t know: so many people came and went from the farm and he couldn’t be expected to know them all. He didn’t know where they lived. Didn’t know when they’d come back. They were paid by the day so as to avoid any trouble, especially from the women, who were unreliable and always grumbling.
She didn’t have to ask why they were looking for her or who they were. She assumed they were relatives of the men who’d tried to take her to the hills when she was fourteen, come to seek revenge after someone there had recognized her and said she was to blame for their death. She’d always known they’d come, just not when. Luckily, their encounter was postponed because the second daughter under her roof had gotten up to something at school that required her presence. She’d sent her to ask if some other day or time would do. They’d said no: the school had its own hours, and they had to be respected. The teachers couldn’t be expected to wait around till the parents were free: they had their own homes to attend to, their own obligations. It was the parents’ duty to handle matters pertaining to their children. They wouldn’t understand at work. If she requested permission, they’d just say no, that school things weren’t important, and tell her to sort it out, or to send somebody else in her place. It wasn’t like anyone at school could tell the difference. What’s more, they ought to take into account that she was a single mom. She might not like the term, but she preferred it to widow. When they called her that, it made it sound like the man who’d died had left her financials in order. The school must have thought that was the case, because they wouldn’t accept her refusal to have her daughter crowned queen of her class. They informed her that the girl would need the kind of dress she couldn’t afford at the time, plus flowers to flaunt at the parade, and money to pay for the float that would carry her through the streets. This was the reason for the appointment they’d made with her. They couldn’t hold off any longer, the fiesta was around the corner. They had just time enough to pull everything together.
She tried to persuade the teacher to take the girl out of the competition, but the teacher said it wasn’t possible: the girl had signed up for it herself, had sold more ballots than any of her classmates—including one whose father had bought entire lists so that she’d win—and had already been named the class champion. She hadn’t said anything, wanting to surprise her. She’d even had help from her sisters. She’d sold her little sister’s dances and songs throughout the community. The teacher thought there was a chance she might even beat the older girls, who always ended up taking the crown. It was a unique opportunity for her class. She asked her not to take it away from the girl.
Her plan, then, was to ask the farmer for an advance, but she couldn’t. Once she saw her workmates’ terror from being bound and interrogated, she decided not to go back to the farm. She didn’t want to bring them any more trouble. Also, it was a way to keep the men who’d come after her from pursuing her: she knew they wouldn’t dare try anything anywhere else. They didn’t have the courage.
16
The third daughter raised by her side will be the one to protest. When it’s time to discuss her future and she hears university isn’t on the cards, she’ll be upset. Her mother’s so sorry, but she can’t afford a second set of fees or another set of exorbitant books, or different clothes than the ones they wear where they’re from. She’ll ask why she’s still supporting her sister in the capital when she hasn’t been getting good grades. Everybody knows she flunked a subject in her first year. She’d studied as much as she could, cleared up all her queries and tried to be as calm as could be when taking the test, but failed even so. She hadn’t passed a single exam. The professor said that was what happened to people who didn’t study hard enough. But she wasn’t convinced: it had happened to her and she was always lugging the course notebooks and texts around with her. Her friends said it had to do with her high-school education. Things would’ve been different had she graduated from one of those fee-paying schools. She wanted to believe them but couldn’t, because other kids from high schools like hers had passed. Some only at the very end, but even so they’d managed. Her friends said not all high schools were created equal. Maybe hers was worse than the others. Maybe if she’d left her village earlier and completed her final year in the capital, she wouldn’t be having this problem now. Why hadn’t it occurred to her? She’d never dreamed of it. She’d never even dreamed she’d be there right then. Her mother had told her she couldn’t pay for her studies, so she couldn’t go to university. Her plan had been to apply to the police academy, receive her training, and work for the police for the rest of her life. She’d have preferred the military, but the army didn’t take women, no matter how brave they said they were or how resilient they proved to be.
The mother didn’t approve of either option. Never mind that the war had ended and the ads said they were all brothers now and social harmony reigned, she didn’t want her daughter in the army. She couldn’t think what the girl’s father would’ve said had he known she was on the side of those who’d persecuted, corralled, and killed them. She doesn’t want to imagine what her own father would’ve said had he known his own granddaughter had joined the ranks of those who’d burned down his house and left his children homeless. Her daughter said it was just a job. What else would she have her do? She couldn’t study, couldn’t work on a coffee farm because her mother still wouldn’t let them, she didn’t want her working as a live-in maid in the capital, like other local girls did, or traveling north for work like the boys. She couldn’t expect her to get married, have kids, and stay there for ever, looking after the children, the fields, and the chickens. Why not? She would’ve liked to do that herself. She would’ve preferred it to going about the mountains, weapon to shoulder. But she’d done it so they could have everything she was claiming not to want. Why couldn’t they appreciate the sacrifices she’d made? In part, because she’d never shared any of the particulars. Not with her or with any of her daughters. They knew she’d fought in the insurgency because everyone in the community said so and because everyone in the community had, but they didn’t know much else. All their mom ever told them about was the episode with the daughter who’d ended up in France. She could discuss the war with her brothers and neighbors who’d fought beside her, but only when the girls weren’t around. She didn’t want them knowing about that time in her life. She said it filled her with sadness and that she preferred not to dwell on it. They realized it must have been difficult, considering how she occasionally woke up in an awful state. She’d dream she was at war again, she said, except holding her five girls by the hand. Not one of them had been lost and they were all the same age. She kept trying to hide them from the military planes overhead. They were so close that if she’d turned around she could have glimpsed the pilots’ faces and ordered them to stop and let their planes plummet, but she never did because all her attention was on protecting her girls. She’d wake up in a sweat with tears in her eyes because she always lost one of them in the dream. Sometimes it was the eldest girl she’d raised; sometimes, the littlest. Sometimes she lost the girl she’d actually lost, and sometimes the girl lost her. The only one she never misplaced was the third girl she’d raised. Her daughters asked why. She could never say. The girl in question said it was because she loved her more than the rest of them, though she’d later complain that she loved her least of all: she didn’t spoil her like she did the littlest or support her like she did the eldest daughter she’d raised; she didn’t search the world for her like she had the first girl she’d given birth to or let her study in the capital like the second sister she’d been brought up with. She also whined about how she hadn’t let her take part in the pageant for school queen. She’s certain she would’ve
won. She was prettier than the second sister and could sing and dance better than the littlest, even though she never actually sang or danced. She didn’t like people to stare or applaud or form circles around her. Things would’ve been different with a crown on her head, even a fake diamond one like the kind her sister had worn on the day of the award. She tells her mom she’s denied her the opportunities her sister was given and that it isn’t fair. Her mother agrees, it’s not very fair, but she just couldn’t take on another expense like that one. The flounced dress and sparkling shoes had already cost her several dinners and most of the chickens she’d set aside to sell in case of a real emergency. The girls hadn’t felt it because they’d kept on eating all three meals and because, thankfully, they hadn’t gotten sick or gotten into any accidents at the time. If something had happened, she’d have had to manage somehow. She can’t think how but she knows she would’ve done it, no matter what it was. She would never let any of her daughters suffer. Not being in a pageant didn’t strike her as a kind of suffering, even if her third daughter said it was. It seemed more like a whim, a frivolous expense she wouldn’t put up with a second time. She said as much to all the girls. She sat them down and explained that they couldn’t afford to compete again. It didn’t matter how many people told them they were the prettiest and that they’d definitely win, she didn’t want any of them signing up for the pageant anymore: even if they told them they’d buy all the ballots, the girls should keep in mind that no one would help them with money for their party dresses or high-heeled shoes, and that in their household they couldn’t afford to buy things they’d only wear once in their lives. And they mustn’t expect her to help them buy their wedding dresses when they got married. There were so many other expenses to cover. She begged them to cooperate.
The teachers insisted that her other girls could also be queens. And it was clear they were saying this to the girls, too, because they didn’t stop pleading, year after year, to be allowed to compete. The third daughter said she could wear the same dress her sister had worn, and the same shoes, even though they weren’t in her size. She asked her to let her try, just this once. This university business made her feel like she was reliving that whole episode. She feared it’d end the same way the pageant had, with her third daughter becoming furious, grabbing her things, shoving them into a blanket, and marching out, saying that she was leaving for ever. Now the girl was older, she feared she might keep her promise and walk farther than she had last time, when she’d made it only as far as their neighbor, who welcomed her before her mother’s smiling eyes and returned her that same night, sleeping and spent from so much crying. There was no way to make her understand that her sister had accomplished it all on her own. She had looked up the people, looked up the dates, and struck a course. She had found a way to get things without begging, which was her mother’s worst nightmare, and without doing anything undignified in exchange—which would’ve been her grandfather’s. If she wanted to have a go at doing this herself, by all means. All she asked was that she not do it at her sister’s expense. It wouldn’t be fair. Her sister had known how to make it work, she’d fought and toiled for it. Every day had been a struggle. If she looked closely, she’d see that her sister ate a lot when she came home, because she missed her mother’s cooking, even though she’d always complained about it when she lived there. Does she remember how everyone said she looked skinny the last time she’d come back? They’d wondered if she wasn’t being fed at the house where she was staying, if she didn’t have money enough for food, if maybe she’d gotten sick from the new stuff she ate there, or if she was buying street food that ate away at her insides. No, she said, she had enough to eat and the food was clean, though kind of bland. Even though it was the same sort of food, it tasted different. She also said she didn’t have the time. She was always having to choose between eating, sleeping, and studying. Sometimes she fell asleep by her plate. The señora who was putting her up said all the other students were the same. She had trouble believing this because she heard the kids from fee-paying schools going on about all the free time they had and the partying they did and the trips they took. She felt like the only one who didn’t have enough time: she had classmates who had jobs on top of everything else, even though people said it was impossible to work when you were studying for that degree and that students should all be full-time. It was around then that she started to think she was in the wrong place, that it would’ve been better to have failed the admissions exam because her neighbors’ and former schoolmates’ taunting would’ve hurt less than the feeling of being worthless, of taking opportunities from others, and of consuming resources that could’ve gone to her sisters. She told her mom, after finishing the first exam, that she was miserable and didn’t want to go on. She’d cried for hours before her visit so she wouldn’t do it in sight of her mom, but still she hadn’t managed to hold back her tears. Her mom said not to worry, that one exam wasn’t everything and that it wasn’t a sign either. She told her to take a deep breath and focus on what came next. It had helped her survive the war. She had no doubt in her mind that she was capable of passing: she’d already proved she could create a place for herself and get ahead without anyone’s help. Her mother was worried she’d lose her scholarship if she failed, but she didn’t say anything so as not to worry her more. But it was no use, because that was the thought filling her daughter’s head.
The terms were clear: if she failed a single subject, she’d lose her financial aid, no matter what front her mother had fought on or what state school she’d attended. Other kids had managed. In fact, one of her friends was from a state school that from what she told her sounded very similar to her own. She too was from a fatherless family, which had even more daughters than hers did. And yet she’d managed to pass the first exam. Though she hadn’t gotten the highest score, she would by the end of the course. She congratulated her, even though it made her feel worse. This friend would offer to help her study when she took the class a second time, but wouldn’t be able to make good on her offer because the new schedule kept second-years from seeing those students repeating the first. What’s more, she wasn’t sure she’d have a second chance. The family putting her up did so for a small allowance subsidized in part by the financial aid she got from the university. One of her friends, seeing that she risked failing, suggested she withdraw from the subject to keep from flunking it. The tutor she consulted said she couldn’t: the terms ruled out withdrawals. If she were to do so, the aid would cease immediately. She suggested the girl study as much as possible and pinch every penny she could to give herself a boost the following year. She didn’t want to say it aloud, but she was sure the girl wouldn’t pass. Not because of her face or her lack of nerve, but because of the number of others like her who’d come through that office with the same problem. She wished she could do more for them all, or at least for one of them, but her own resources were limited. Having taken kindly to the girl early on in the process, she shared an extra piece of information with her: she could reapply for financial aid after passing the subject she had failed. But she’d have to raise her grade point average. They insisted it be higher the second time around. The thought wasn’t much comfort right then, but it did give her some hope. It would be helpful when speaking with her mom. She could tell her they’d only have to buckle down for one academic year. Then, after she’d secured financial aid for the second time, everything could go on as before. She’d be able to afford her books and the symbolic fee payable for the accommodation she’d been found by the woman who’d helped her mother get the ticket to see her daughter.
Her mother wouldn’t have budged an inch on hearing this argument over the phone she’d bought to speak with her—the distance would’ve helped her say that she was sorry, but that she’d been given the opportunity she’d asked for and now it was time to come home and help raise her sisters—had the girl not, after saying that she had something important to tell her, burst out crying in a way that brought back the day
she’d been told her firstborn wasn’t in the place she was meant to be when the war ended. The other daughters and the eldest’s husband couldn’t bring themselves to object. They all took pity on her, hearing her on the speakerphone.
17
The señora she’s staying with says she’s very sorry, she really does want to help but she can’t afford to do it for nothing. She can’t lower the rent either—symbolic as it is—or allow her to pay it only intermittently, which the girl thought would be all she could manage without the financial aid. Her circumstances won’t allow it. She says she might’ve been able to accept those terms earlier on, back when life wasn’t as expensive and they had more to live off than her husband’s pension. They had gotten along more easily in those days, even with all their children at home and two live-in maids and hosting their kids’ friends and schoolmates, who to all intents and purposes lived there as well, studying there every night, eating all three meals at their table and even throwing their clothes in with their laundry. Back then, money was plentiful, and there was enough to go around.
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