I Lived on Butterfly Hill

by Marjorie Agosín

  “See, your palm is like a map, Celeste. It’s a map of your heart. I can read yours easily because your heart is very open. And your heart holds the answers you need. It might not hold every answer you wish for, but every one that you need at this very moment. And just like a heartbeat is followed by another, each answer leads to the next question, and then another answer. It is like that until the day we die. What I read here on your palm is like a Morse code from your heart. I believe anyone can read it if they learn. It’s just that somehow no one ever had to teach me. I just knew.”

  I smile at him. I never realized how wise my friend was. “Cristóbal, could you read my palm like a map?”

  “A map of Chile?”

  “Sí. A map of Chile.”

  “Well, is Chile in your heart?”

  “You know it is.”

  “What do you want to see, Celeste?”

  “The road that leads to my parents! Please, Cristóbal, will you help me find them?”

  Cristóbal continues to trace his fingers on my skin. Then he lifts my hand up very close to his eyes. “There are two well-worn paths here.”

  Two paths? My heart starts beating hard. “What do you mean?” My voice wavers.

  “Your parents aren’t hiding together anymore. You have to choose one first.”

  “You know I can’t choose!”

  Cristóbal Williams looks at me carefully. “Yes, you can.” His voice is stern. “Sit quietly and listen to your heart.” Then he starts to draw a map of Chile in the sand. It is a very long and narrow map, surrounded by sea and mountains, totally self-contained. I sit and watch him for what feels like an eternity. The back of my mind mumbles something about before dark, dinnertime, Delfina . . . but I push that away. I want my mind quiet so I can hear my thoughts! Oh, why is my mind always full of so many words?

  “Look! Listen! Know what is right there in front of you,” Cristóbal says.

  I glance at him. He is intently tracing the tip of Patagonia in the sand. Then he looks up and repeats his words.

  “Know what is right there in front of you! Celeste, you can!”

  Where did this stern voice come from? It is a man’s voice. And then that tender smile that follows it. Just like . . .

  “My father!”

  I leap to my feet, sand raining all over the map of our country.

  “My father! Papá! Cristóbal, do you know where to find him?”

  Cristóbal smiles his old smile. “I know where to start. Remember, it’s you who just told me.”

  The Squash of Gold

  “Abuela Frida?” She raises her light blue eyes from her bowl of thick eel-and-potato soup. I am nervous, my voice high like a little girl’s. From the corner of my eye I watch Delfina leave the simmering pot of tomatoes, onions, and rice on the stove and sit next to my grandmother, whose eyebrow is arched like a bow, waiting for what I have to say.

  “Abuela Frida, you have always told me that anything is possible if you can imagine it. That the yellow of a squash could transform into the yellow of gold. You’ve told me how you came here to Valparaíso with nothing but faith. Now it’s my turn.”

  Abuela Frida and Delfina remain silent, watching me intently. I take a deep breath. “Abuela, I don’t know if I can convince you to let me, but I want to go look for Papá!” I hear my grandmother suck in her breath. The lines on her forehead deepen.

  “I would go with Cristóbal Williams. Tomorrow, if you let me. We would travel south by bus until it’s time to get out and look for Papá.” My words come out in a jumbled rush. “When Cristóbal read my palm, he saw that Mamá and Papá are hiding in different places now. I have dreams that Mamá is near, but Cristóbal’s pendulum has told us where we can start to look for Papá. I can’t explain how I’ll know where to find him, but I believe that I can do it.”

  Delfina clears her throat and glances at my grandmother. My nana’s eyes are the ocean on a starless night. These two women who have lived together nearly their whole lives gaze at each other for a long time, and then they nod in unison.

  Abuela Frida finally speaks. Her words are slow and wear a thick German cloak, as if the zzzzz s that live in her mouth are heavier at this moment. “Celeste of my soul, my grandmother’s heart wants to keep you by my side always, but it would be wrong to stop you. You are still young, but you are no longer entirely a child. If you feel deep inside that it is right to make this journey, then you must do it. I have faith in you.”

  Abuela Frida runs her wrinkled hand over the top of my head. “Delfina, please, go into my old wooden chest and find the hat I used to wear when my girls were just babies. The one you decorated with feathers that you said would bring me wisdom.”

  Delfina returns to the kitchen with an old-fashioned gray hat with a wide brim and a navy-blue satin ribbon. In the ribbons are stuck three owl feathers. “Screech owl,” Delfina tells me with a smile. “They are loud enough for you to hear their messages anywhere.”

  Delfina places the hat on my head, and I spin around for them to both admire it. “Oh, thank you both so much! What do you think?”

  “I zzzzzthink,” Abuela Frida says with a smile, “that you will return with your father quite zzzzsoon.”

  The Long and Narrow Search for Papá

  Cristóbal and I embark on our search before dawn. We carry backpacks stuffed with a blanket, bottles of water, two of Abuela Frida’s blue scarves, and six of Nana Delfina’s avocado sandwiches. “Now, don’t eat these all at once, Cristóbal.” Nana Delfina winks at my friend as she says good-bye to us in the bus terminal near the port. “And take care of Delfina’s girl!”

  Cristóbal and I climb aboard the rickety green bus and sit in the back. I’m rearranging the windblown feathers on Abuela Frida’s hat when a man’s booming voice from a few seats behind catches my attention. He is telling his companion about a group of women in a town in the north who’ve lost their husbands, children, grandchildren. . . . “Every morning they go to the sand dunes with fine-toothed combs. They kneel there for hours, running the combs up and down the sand, searching for fragments of bone . . .”

  I begin to imagine them, the women with the sun on their foreheads. They are women searching for signs of human life, maybe a hand or a leg. A few years ago I didn’t know what such cruelty was, and now we are reminded of it everywhere. I lean my head on Cristóbal’s shoulder. “I could never imagine searching for my father with a comb!” I whisper. As the bus lurches toward the south, I close my eyes and begin to pray Abuela Frida’s Hebrew prayers in my head.

  The rickety bus makes its way south along the narrow coastal road. We ride for almost the entire day without stopping. My legs ache, and Cristóbal’s elbow is jabbing into my ribs. But he is sound asleep, and with his dark hair all messy over his eyes, he looks like a little boy. So I stay still and count distant volcanoes crowned with billows of smoke. The bus screeches to a halt just after I reach number ten. “Thank goodness! Wake up! Wake up, sleepyhead!” I shake Cristóbal. He rubs his eyes and looks to the front of the bus after me. I am already halfway out the door.

  “We’ll be resting here in Quinchamalí for an hour, ladies and gentlemen,” the bus driver announces. “Please take this time to use the facilities and eat your dinner. We’ll meet back here at eight o’clock sharp!”

  At the bus stop women dressed in white from top to bottom are selling candies. A crippled Mapuche lady with an ancient face hobbles close to me and waves a caramel in my face. Cristóbal takes a peso out of his pocket and buys it.

  “Gracias, amigo, but I don’t have much of an appetite.”

  “Just take a nibble and I’ll eat the rest. I need the sugar to wake up.”

  “Let’s go down to the beach.” I grab Cristóbal. I am so anxious to run, to move, to see anything that might give me a clue about my father. Am I crazy to try to find him? I look at Cristóbal. “Were we crazy to come here?” I ask him. He tips his head back and laughs and laughs.

  “What? What? Cristóbal!” I punc
h him on the arm. “Tell me!”

  “Ay, Celeste, of course you are crazy! Me too. That is why we have always been friends. And that is why we will find your father. We are crazy enough to listen to silence, to see where there is nothing, and crazy enough, like your abuela always says, to have unshakable faith. Now let’s walk.”

  Quinchamalí is a little fishing village on the edge of a rocky shore. We head for a spot on the beach close to the water, where we can watch the colorful boats bob up and down and fishermen repair their nets.

  A man and woman I recognize from the bus are strolling the beach near us. We watch them stop and speak to each group of fishermen. The couple seems to be about fifty years old, and the woman looks frail in her black dress with her hands constantly writhing a white handkerchief. I walk closer to hear what an old fisherman is saying to them.

  “. . . Many prisoners were brought from here to Chiloé’s main island on their way to more isolated islands far off the coast. They say some prisoners escaped to those tiny, uninhabited islands out beyond the prison islands. I myself have tried to reach them. The conditions on those seas are hard.” The fisherman looks down at his thick hands. “As you can see, I am an old man. I was forced three times to turn back.”

  The man in the couple nods his head and begins to walk away, but the woman in black clings to the fisherman’s elbow. “Can you tell us anything else, Señor . . . ?”

  “Oviedo. My name is Oviedo. And no, I am afraid I can’t tell you anything more other than what I tell everyone who comes here in search of the disappeared: be like the fishermen—have patience and trust in the sea.”

  The Sea like the Heart of Man

  I watch the old fisherman turn back to his nets. Cristóbal begins to walk on. “Come on, Celeste,” he says, yawning. “The candy wasn’t enough—let’s go see if we can find some coffee around here.” I tug on his sleeve.

  “Wait, Cristóbal. Something tells me we should talk to this man.”

  I take a deep breath and call out, “Señor! May I ask you about my father?” His back is still turned away. It seems like he hasn’t heard me. We walk down toward the shore. “Señor Oviedo, excuse the interruption, but I was wondering—”

  “Did you hear what I told that couple, señorita?” He answers with a brusque voice and doesn’t turn to face us. I notice his shoulders are stooped under the weight of the big nets.

  “Sí, señor, I did hear you. But I want to ask a different question. But wait, maybe we can help you with your nets?” I push Cristóbal forward.

  He stumbles up to the boat, saying, “Here, señor, let me give you a hand.”

  The fisherman looks at Cristóbal warily, turns to face me, and then turns back to my friend. “Thank you, young man. I used to have my sons to help me, but . . .” His voice falters. “I don’t have to tell you. So many are gone.”

  We begin to walk up the beach, lugging the heavy nets. In the distance I see a row of rainbow-colored houses lifted high above the ground on stilts. Señor Oviedo turns to me. “So many have come here searching, Señorita . . .”

  “Celeste. My name is Celeste Marconi. And this is my friend Cristóbal Williams. We have come here from Valparaíso in search of my father.”

  We approach a small stilted house the color of ripe raspberries. “This is my home,” Oviedo says proudly. “Since the time of my father’s father, men have been fishing here and building homes in the air so that we can stay dry during high tides and survive the storms. We live according to the laws of the sea. It is a great force, just like the heart of man, with its ability to do both good and bad.” His eyes are nearly buried in wrinkled skin, but a bright light shines through his gaze.

  “Celeste Marconi, the islands where the prisoners were kept are where the sky meets the sea. I have tried to sail out there and had to choose turning back or death three times. It is impossible to get out there, and it would be a miracle for any of those wretched souls to make it back here.”

  Cristóbal pulls me aside a bit and whispers into my ear, “Celeste, the bus will leave without us!”

  “I think we should go with Oviedo, Cristóbal.”

  “Is that what you feel?”

  “Yes.”

  As if he hears my deepest thoughts, Oviedo swings around to face us. “You are young and strong.” He looks from Cristóbal to me. “But do you have faith in the sea? Would you put your life in her hands, like some put faith in the will of God?”

  “Always. My nana taught me that.”

  “And you, young man?”

  “I believe in Celeste.”

  “Good. Then I will try to help you find your father.”

  The tide rises as the sun sets, and we go back for Oviedo’s boat so it won’t get washed to sea. He ties it to one of the stilts holding up his house. Then we climb the stairs about eight feet up to enter his house. I marvel at the simple genius of those four thin wooden stilts. The house is simple, no more than a bedroom and a kitchen. But it is fresh and airy with its cheery yellow walls and sky-blue curtains in the windows. Oviedo sees my smile as I look here and there. He waves his hand in the air. “My wife,” he says, “Clara. She loved colors. She used to say that what we see the first thing in the morning and the last thing at night is as important to our health as the food we eat.” He chuckles fondly. “Some people here called her eccentric, but my wife was a very wise woman.”

  Oviedo clears his throat abruptly and motions for us to sit on the front porch. He goes into the kitchen and soon emerges with lentils and a fried egg for each of us, and mint tea and tiny pink apples for dessert.

  “Who are you searching for, Señor Oviedo?”

  He looks at me with a mix of surprise and suspicion.

  I tense up and jump back a bit. “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just that you told us how you had tried to sail out to the islands where prisoners are kept.”

  “I don’t remember. Are you sure you weren’t snooping?” Relief floods my body when I see he is smiling despite his accusation.

  “Yes. I am sorry. I was snooping a bit. It is a bad habit, I know.” My words pour out in a rush, but at least they are true: “I want to be a writer, so I am always looking for stories, ever since I was a little girl. I used to hide under the kitchen table to listen to the grown-ups.”

  Oviedo throws back his gray-haired head and lets out a raspy laugh. “Well, now that I know your story, Señorita Celeste, I guess you and your shy boyfriend here can stay with me as long as you like.” Oviedo reaches inside his pants pocket and pulls out a damp cigarette. He holds it up to the wind for a long while to let it dry. “Patience,” he says, and winks at me. Then he lights the cigarette and blows rings into the air. The smoke envelops us in a circle, somehow pulling us closer together, making me feel safe.

  Night has fallen. The fog is enclosing the harbor, and even the stars have decided to go to sleep. The three of us sit out on the porch in silence for a long time. I yawn and lean my head against Cristóbal’s shoulder. “Come,” Oviedo says with a groan as he lifts himself from his rocking chair. He leads us into the little house and points to the floor below the small woodstove. “These blankets will keep you warm.”

  Cristóbal and I sleep back-to-back on the floor, and from where I lie, I can see the stars through the open window. A warm breeze flutters the burlap curtains. “Look! The Southern Cross!” But Cristóbal fell asleep long before I began naming the stars.

  I say a prayer: “Mamá, wherever you are, please help me to find Papá. Help me to trust myself like you taught me. I just need to open my hands and let go of fear, and all sorts of good things will begin to happen.”

  Patience

  I wake at dawn when Oviedo closes the door to his house. I glance over at Cristóbal, still snoring with his mouth open wider than a hooked sea bass. I make my way off the floor and tiptoe out the front door onto the porch. It’s high tide, and the sea is all around us.

  “Good luck today, Don Oviedo,” I call down to the old fisherman,
who is untying his boat. “I hope you catch lots of fish and sell even more!”

  Oviedo shades his eyes with his hand.

  “You are an early riser, Señorita Celeste. You’d make a good fisherwoman. Tell you what, when the tide goes out, you and your friend walk the beach and gather up mussels and seaweed for me. This evening I will make you a stew you will never forget.”

  “Thank you, Oviedo . . .” I hesitate, then have to ask, “But what about looking for my fa—”

  Oviedo puts his finger to his lips. “Patience. All in good time, young one. Have patience and you’ll get what you came for.”

  His words leave me bewildered and frustrated. I should be combing the beach for signs, not seaweed! I have been so busy asking for faith that I forgot to ask for patience. That is something I have always needed more of. Maybe I can borrow some of Cristóbal’s.

  I tiptoe back into the cottage and watch my friend sleep. Who would have thought we would end up here together? My oldest friend. Yes, Cristóbal was never in a hurry, and yet he always showed up at the right time.

  * * *

  When Oviedo returns in the late afternoon, we put down our baskets of seaweed and rush to help him with his nets. “Sit down, young friends!” Oviedo smiles a nearly toothless smile and sits down in the sand with a tired sigh. We sit next to him and listen as he begins to speak:

  “I have tried three times to reach the outer islands. But I always encounter a sudden strong current that pulls me to the one place I want to avoid, and I am forced to turn back.”

  “What is this place it pulls you to? Is it very dangerous?” Cristóbal asks, and begins to trace patterns in the sand.

  “It is a rocky island cut into pieces by narrow gorges with rushing water that could smash a wooden boat like mine to pieces. It’s always covered with a fog that would choke you. The last time I tried to reach the outer islands was three months ago—the waters rushed wilder than ever.”