The Lightning Queen

by Laura Resau

  Grandfather said, “We are planning a special occasion in your honor … the Romani Business Appreciation Event.”

  Once I translated, Ivan’s eyebrows shot up. After a stunned moment, he said, “Señor, before I was born, my father came by boat across the ocean. All the way from Hungary he came, to find a safe place for his family. Back then, he did metalwork.” The Duke paused and reached over to touch his wife’s coin necklaces. “My father’s art,” he said proudly. “Despite his extraordinary talents, we were often refused service in the cities … unjustly arrested … spat upon.” The Duke traced a jagged scar on his cheek. “Some people have even thrown stones at us.”

  I strained to understand his Spanish, as tangled as overgrown bean vines, past and present intertwined. But the meaning behind the scar was clear, and it set off a wave of fire in my center. I felt like a brittle, fragile twig, set aflame and tossed in a flooding river. Burning and drowning at once. Powerless.

  I looked away from his scar, into my amber tea. My heart thudded. Sweat broke out. I couldn’t breathe. And all the while, I tried not to think of the other time I’d felt like this, after what had happened to my father.

  After a pause, the Duke continued. “So we mostly stay away from cities. Since we moved from metalwork to the traveling cinema, we only go there to rent reels and sell hats and baskets. We travel to the tiniest of tiny villages, where we are treated best.” He smiled, patting the coins over his chest. “And your Hill of Dust, this is the first place to hold an event in our honor. For that, we are grateful.”

  I sipped the golden tea, and it calmed me just enough to sputter a translation.

  Grandfather’s eyes crinkled with compassion. “My people embrace you as true friends. We, too, have suffered such indignities.”

  I held my breath, wondering if he, in turn, would tell details of these indignities. The first, the biggest, the most terrible would be about my father. My insides began to burn and drown again. I gnawed at the inside of my cheek.

  Thankfully, Grandfather moved the topic back to our invitation. “Three nights from now, we will join together in respect and gratitude. The event will occur at our house, over there, three houses west of the church.”

  Ivan returned his smile, then raised his shoulders and sighed. “Thank you for this great honor, my friend, but we must decline. We leave tomorrow morning. You see, we’ve already shown all the films we’ve brought. We would have no way of making money for three more days. Alas, we would lose money, as we must rent these films by the week.”

  Grandfather sipped his tea, unruffled. “My people would happily offer more baskets and hats to watch the same movies again.”

  The tips of Ivan’s swirling mustache rose. “Why thank you, kind sir, but we would have nothing to eat. We’ve already told your fortunes in exchange for food. We have nothing else to offer.”

  Again, I translated, sweat pouring from my armpits. I glanced at Esma, but she didn’t look concerned. And Grandfather only smiled, as if he’d expected this glitch.

  “Our family,” he said, “has a fruit grove not far from here. Oranges, mangoes, limes, papayas, avocados. You are welcome to eat as much as you can pick.”

  Ivan sighed, fingering the rim of his hat. “Thank you, friend, but we cannot live on fruit.”

  Again, my heart caved. Living on fruit gives you terrible stomach cramps, it’s true. Lucita and I had tried it the first time our mother crumbled. After what happened to our father, we stayed in his village for months. His relatives tried to help us, but there was a drought, and the corn harvest was bad, providing hardly enough for even half the tortillas we needed. Our mother forgot to feed us, so Lucita and I scavenged for fruit, making ourselves sick. That’s when Grandfather journeyed to the village and, finding us half-starved, brought us to my mother’s native home on the Hill of Dust.

  “True, one cannot live on fruit,” Grandfather agreed, sipping his tea, “but we’ve had a good corn harvest, enough to share with you.” His eyes twinkled. “We also have a patch of wild onions. The sweetest you’ve ever tasted. The biggest you’ve ever seen. You’re welcome to as many as you like.”

  This caught the Duke’s attention. You could almost see him drooling at the thought of pocketfuls of onions. He raised a finger, pausing to confer with the Mistress of Destiny.

  I studied their expressions and movements, remembering what Grandfather always said about gestures speaking louder than words. I peered past Duke Ivan’s grandiose mustache and saw the uncertainty in his eyes, the torn movements of his mouth. He looked to his wife for guidance, and she, miraculously, seemed to be convincing him to stay.

  The Mistress of Destiny waved her pipe in the air, said something bold. Then she walked over to Esma and tugged on her braid, speaking in a gruff voice melting with tenderness. Gently, she tapped the side of Esma’s head. She said something to Duke Ivan, and the commanding look in her eyes made it clear that Roza, Mistress of Destiny, was the true leader.

  Doing his wife’s bidding, Duke Ivan turned to Grandfather. “It would be our honor to attend the Romani Business Appreciation Event.”

  “Thank you,” Grandfather and I said at the same time.

  Duke Ivan continued. “Please send your grandson tomorrow morning to show our women where to gather the food. Our granddaughter, Esma, will come along to translate.”

  Grandfather nodded. “My grandson, Teo, will help them gather as well.”

  As we bid the Rom good night, I saw Grandfather and Roza exchange glances, and I wondered if she, too, saw the world in full color, saw outside the frame that limited the rest of us. Once we left, violin notes and Esma’s voice flew up into the night, far above any stones and scars and burning and drowning. Her song was free and joyful, a rising flock of birds. The magic of the tea lingered on my tongue, the taste of possibility.

  On the way to the fruit tree grove the next morning, the toddlers followed me like baby ducks, sputtering “Da? Ga? Ba?” and tugging at my clothes and reaching for Thunder, who they knew was in my sling. The Mistress of Destiny twitched her nose at me and muttered something in a low voice to Esma.

  Esma eyed me cautiously. “My grandmother said she’s not even going to ask how my cousins are already friends with you and your duck.”

  Thank goodness the toddlers couldn’t talk. I met Roza’s suspicious gaze and offered her an innocent smile.

  When we reached the onion patch, we dug them up with sticks and knives. The women looked impressed at their size, but grumbled as they stuck the onions in sacks.

  “They’re not fans of my grandfather’s stench,” Esma whispered. “But it’s true, he never gets sick.”

  Later, in the woods by a mostly dried riverbed, we picked low-hanging mangoes from trees and gathered the ones on the ground, stuffing them into burlap sacks. Some mangoes were already old and rotten, filling the air with a sweet scent of decay. Plenty were ripe, small but full of juicy, honeyed promise.

  An hour or two passed quickly, and although I couldn’t talk openly to Esma, we exchanged the secret glances of best friends. When the young women said they were tired and ready to go, I pointed out mangoes higher in the branches. “You all can rest beneath the trees while I climb up and toss more down.”

  “I’ll help!” Esma said.

  One of the young women scowled at her and said something sharply. She pointed to Esma’s lame leg, her curled-up fingers. Her meaning was obvious: You can’t climb trees.

  Esma raised her chin and loped over to the biggest mango tree in sight. She grabbed a low limb and heaved herself up, tossing her weak leg over the branch. Panting with the effort, she paused to catch her breath. It took her a while, but she managed to climb halfway up the tree, until she was hidden in the canopy. I scampered up after her, careful with Thunder asleep in my sling.

  As birds chirped in the branches, Esma and I talked softly, occasionally tossing mangoes down to the women below. Wrapped in a cocoon of leaves, I felt like it was only Esma and me, in our own green
world.

  After devouring three rosy-orange mangoes, Esma asked, “Why does your family let this fruit fall and rot?”

  “My mother used to bring Lucita and me here to gather it and sell it at the market. But since my sister died, my mother stopped caring. About the fruit, about me, about anything. It’s like she died with my sister.”

  Esma’s face grew tender as a new leaf. “What about your father?”

  Her question was a fireball that knocked me into a raging river. At least, that’s what happened inside me. On the outside, my face turned stony and my fist clenched a mango.

  Could I tell her the truth? It would hurt; it would burn; it would steal my breath away. Still, I had to. This was my loyal friend for eternity.

  “One day,” I began, “when I was little, we were selling palm hats in Mexico City—my parents and sister and me. We were crossing a really wide street. The cars were whizzing by so fast, and there were so many lanes … like the river flooding in the worst storm of rainy season. We were all holding hands, running across … then Lucita dropped her orange.”

  I paused. I’d never talked about this with anyone but Grandfather. But Esma was listening with her raindrop eyes wide. “The orange, it rolled backward. Lucita ripped her hand from mine. She tried to pick it up. I stopped to help her. My hand—I felt it tear out of my father’s. He turned back. And his face was—it was all fear. That’s when I saw the car. So close, racing toward us. My father pushed us out of the way.”

  Esma was leaning in close now, her face wild with concern. She’s here with me, I realized, right here inside this burning-drowning memory. And her gaze was like a hand holding on to mine, tight and determined.

  My voice lowered and crackled and almost didn’t make it to the end. “There was a screech and a thump. The car—it hit my father. And then everything goes fuzzy. I remember blood and tears on his eyelashes. I remember that orange, round and perfect. I remember the driver standing over my father, talking to another driver. Calmly. Too calmly. And most of all, I remember their words.”

  Esma’s head was cocked, waiting. “What?” she said finally.

  The words came out of my mouth, stinging and smoking. “ ‘It’s just an indio.’ Then the other man—he shrugged and said, ‘What’s one less indio?’ They dragged my father to the side of the road. They wiped his blood from their shirts with handkerchiefs. Then they got back into their cars and drove off.”

  “And your father?” Esma whispered. Her voice was a rope I hung on to so I wouldn’t drown.

  “I tried to stop his bleeding. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t save him.”

  Once I finished, I felt something dripping over my hand. I looked down. I’d squeezed the mango so tight that juice had burst out like blood.

  Esma took the scarf from her hair and wiped the nectar from my hand, gently, as if it really was blood and I really was hurt. Then she looked me straight in the eyes and said, “You couldn’t save him, but you’ll save other people. Lots of them.”

  “I’m too weak, Esma.”

  “Weak? Look what you did to that mango!” she said, balling up her sticky, wet scarf and tucking it in her pocket. “And you saved Thunder! Nothing is impossible for you!”

  She settled back into the crook of two branches, peeled another mango, and bit into the juicy tip. With her headscarf off, her hair flew out in wild waves. “My mother’s dead,” she said matter-of-factly. “She died in childbirth. I was her first and only baby. My dad remarried. See that woman down there?” She poked her head through a gap in the leaves and pointed. “The one in the green dress?”

  I spotted her and nodded. She was the one who whacked Esma and called her a squash head the most.

  “That’s my stepmother.” Narrowing her eyes, Esma dropped a mango, which fell through layers of leaves, landing squarely on the woman’s head.

  “Ow!” came an annoyed shout. And then something like, “Watch out, squash head!”

  Esma smiled, satisfied.

  It was mean, but the woman deserved it. I said, “I’ve been watching how they act around you, Esma.”

  Her face darkened. “And?”

  “They’re jealous.”

  She nearly spit out her mango. “Jealous?” she said, wiping nectar from her chin.

  “They wish they had lightning inside, too.”

  She barked a laugh. “I don’t think so.”

  “And your grandmother, the Mistress of Destiny,” I continued.

  Esma looked at me, her expression suddenly vulnerable. She cared what her grandmother thought, I realized. That was whose opinion mattered.

  “When she taps your head, it’s like a hug. When she tugs your braid, it’s like a kiss. And when she calls you squash head, it’s like she’s really saying ‘I love you.’ ”

  Esma’s eyes shone, and she blinked quickly, then sniffed. Softly, she said, “I wish we could stay up here all day.”

  “Let’s do it!” I said.

  “Spending all day in a tree with a gadjo would definitely make me marime.” Quickly, she added, “At least, that’s what they’d say.”

  I remembered that word. Unclean. Impure. It still made blood rush to my face, hot and indignant.

  “And if that happened, my grandfather could disown me, kick me out of the family. Then I’d never see my grandmother again.”

  I took this in. “Your grandmother’s the one who’s really the boss.” I paused. “You know she’s on our side, right, Esma?”

  “Well, she did give us our true fortune,” Esma admitted. “After your grandfather asked her to. But then why didn’t she stand up for us? Why didn’t she argue with everyone who said it was impossible?”

  “She knows that if she tells you something is impossible, you’ll do it.”

  “True.” Esma plucked a few more mangoes and breathed in the flowery scent before dropping them below. She stuck out her chin. There, in our cave of fluttering leaves, her eyes met mine. “Thanks for everything, my friend for life. And I mean it. You really are. Even without the fortune, you would be.”

  I reached out and tugged her braid, then tapped her lightly on the head. It was the first time I’d touched her, and it felt like the opposite of burning and drowning. It felt like flying through a cool, bright, wide-open sky. “Thank you, squash head.”

  In the freshness of the next two mornings, I led Esma and Roza and the boria and toddlers along winding trails to more fruit trees and onion patches. The Duke was enchanted by the giant, sweet onions and eager for more. Grandfather had arranged for my cousins to cover my morning chores so that I could act as guide. Later, in the afternoons, when the Romani women were preparing peppery stews, Esma would tell them she was going to fetch fresh water and leave with the toddlers and a tin bucket. She’d find me and the goats, and together we’d all gather by the river.

  On our last full day together, she dipped her feet in the water, and then I dipped in mine, and then we were up to our knees and splashing and soaking wet and laughing. The currents were gentle and sweet and cool, and afterward we lay on the boulder and watched the leaves’ shifting patterns above us. Every so often we glanced at Da and Ga and Ba to make sure they weren’t indulging in more duck poo.

  I’d noticed that Thunder didn’t poo too much unless she’d recently eaten, so I let her crawl on me when she had an empty stomach. She waddled on top of me with her little webbed feet, over my chest, then nibbled at the collar of my shirt and hair and earlobe. Her personality had been coming out, more and more—feisty, demanding, and fiercely loyal.

  “She really thinks you’re her mamma,” Esma said. “I bet she’ll still be following you around when we come back.”

  “Next year?”

  She nodded. “Listen, Teo, we have to make it happen.”

  I agreed, but I didn’t know how. The onions would be a big draw, but they weren’t enough.

  On the way back into town, we took a detour so I could show her a cluster of rock mounds. “Look, Esma. These are ruins from ou
r ancestors, the ancient Mixtecos.”

  “It’s like buried treasure!” she cried.

  I scanned the ground, found small bits of obsidian knives and pottery. Archaeologists from Mexico City had taken the biggest statues away to put in a museum where folks from the Hill of Dust would never see them again. When I was little and we’d sell baskets in the city, I’d seen people lined up at the giant museum, eagerly paying to see our ancestors’ crafts. Yet on the street, these same people wouldn’t meet our eyes across the woven baskets we sold. And they would warn their children not to play with the dirty indio kids.

  Now that burning-drowning feeling was coming back, so I looked up at Esma’s face, all lit up with delight. It made me feel better and breathe better. I dropped the pieces of glassy obsidian and red pottery into her hand. “You can keep them,” I told her, knowing there were thousands more pieces just like them around here.

  Excited, she tucked the little treasures into her pockets. Biting her bottom lip in concentration, she dug around with a stick, overturning small rocks, searching for more. From underneath one, a scorpion skittered out, and I jumped back, pulling her with me.

  But it didn’t bother her. Bravely, she kept digging and, minutes later, uncovered part of a carved stone face.

  “Look, Teo!” Brushing away more dirt, she carefully pulled out an entire statue, unbroken.

  It was small enough for her to cradle in her palm. It looked like a raccoon wearing a giant crown of corncobs. “What is this?” she asked in awe, blowing off the dust.

  “We call them diositos—little gods. People say they’re good luck. Most of us have one or two at home. But don’t tell the priest about it,” I added with a smile. He wasn’t a fan of our diositos. “You should keep it, Esma.”

  Suddenly, her face blazed with an idea. “I’ve got it!” she shouted. “You and your grandfather can present this to our people. Tell them it’s a good luck gift from your village.”

  I eyed the statue, doubtful. “You think it will make them come back?”