I Lived on Butterfly Hill

by Marjorie Agosín

  “That would be amazing, Cristóbal. And maybe we can put books by the harbor for the fishermen and travelers? And maybe your mother could have some at her stand in the market? There’s so much we can do!”

  “All right.” Cristóbal yawns.

  “Call me when you wake up, sleepyhead. And rest up tonight. No using the books as a pillow tomorrow, like you did in class when we were little!”

  Cristóbal laughs. “Buenas noches, amiga.”

  “Buenas noches, amigo.”

  My mother’s voice floats down from my parents’ bedroom upstairs. “Celeste, it’s late. The boxes will be there in the morning.”

  “I’m heading to bed, Mamá. Soon.”

  I yawn. It is late, but maybe . . . maybe . . . I’ll open just one more box.

  I head back to the hideaway, holding the onion shawl against my nose and mouth—ready for the dust, eager to unbury treasure.

  When I finally do sneak up to bed, it’s past two o’clock, but sleep seems impossible. I toss and turn for what feels like hours. Delfina is restless too. I hear her praying in Mapudungún and I smell burning cinnamon leaves. That’s the sacred tree of her people. She performs ceremonies with the leaves only when something important is about to happen. I feel myself drifting off on a cloud of toasty cinnamon. “I wonder,” I say to myself, yawning, “if something will happen tomorrow.”

  * * *

  The next morning I open my eyes just as the sun is stretching its first rays over the top of Butterfly Hill. Usually I don’t wake up until the tenth blast of a car horn or Nana Delfina’s shouts wake me up. She is in the kitchen already. I hear the sweep of her purple broom and the grinding of coffee beans.

  “¡Buenos días, Nana!”

  “Celeste, you are up early!” Delfina says. I smile. “Delfina heard you up late last night too! Did you smell your nana burning cinnamon leaves?”

  “Yes. Do you have any predictions, Nana?” I ask as I sit down.

  Now it is Delfina’s turn to smile. “It is good you are up early, Querida. Meant to be.” I cast her a quizzical look and open my mouth to ask why, but Delfina turns to the stove and begins to hum one of my favorite old Mapuche songs. I shrug. Then the telephone rings.

  “At this hour? That’s so strange, Nana!” I don’t move from my chair, though, and I take a bite of warm bread just pulled out of the oven. Delfina always answers the phone—she considers it one of her duties, and she takes all her duties seriously. So I almost choke when she says, “Celeste, go answer the phone, please. Delfina is busy.”

  I run out to the hallway, where the phone sits on the antique chest my Abuelo José bought as a young man from a Bolivian horse breeder. “Hello? . . . Yes, this is Celeste Marconi. How can I help you?” I see Nana’s head peeking around the corner, a broad smile on her wrinkled brown face.

  A serious, high-pitched voice tells me: “On behalf of the Office of the President, I congratulate you. Señorita Marconi, you have won the prize for your letter, ‘My Dream for Chile.’ By next Friday your college scholarship check will arrive, and on that same day your letter will appear in every Chilean newspaper.”

  I can say only one word. The word that my Abuela Frida says one should say frequently: “Gracias.” Delfina’s arms wrap around my waist. I lean against her so I don’t fall down.

  Most of All, Be Happy

  Later that morning Cristóbal and I decide to stop at my parents’ clinic during our rounds to distribute books. “You should tell them the good news!” he says excitedly.

  When I tell them about the letter I wrote, and the prize I won, my mother’s happy tears are gleaming pearls on her pale face. “Celeste, it is you and Cristóbal and your entire generation who will be the New Chile. The dark times are truly over.”

  That night Mamá cuts my hair on the roof under the light of the full moon. “This is what Delfina taught me when I was your age,” Mamá murmurs as the scissors fly snip snip snip around my shoulders. “A woman should always cut her hair beneath a full moon to ensure beauty and abundance of all kinds. You are a young woman now, Celeste, and I couldn’t be prouder of the person you are.”

  When Mamá is done cutting my hair, I tell her, “I am just going to stay out a bit longer to think.”

  “And let me guess—to write, perhaps?” she teases me.

  The hills of Valparaíso spread below me like a garland of flowers. The lighthouse and the white sails in the blue harbor melt into one gleaming light, like great bunches of grapes or swarms of fireflies. My heart hears the whistle of the Ship Called Hope, whose sails are made from the feathers of seagulls, from moths and from angel wings.

  I think of what Abuela Frida said when I told her about my scholarship. “I am so proud, Celeste of my soul. Education is such a wonderful—the most wonderful —gift.”

  “Sí, Abuela,” I said. And now she is snoring like the letter Z downstairs, and I speak to the stars. “Education is a wonderful gift. So wonderful that I want to share it.”

  I begin to write another letter:

  Dear Señora Presidente,

  I am honored to have been awarded the prize for my essay, “My Dream for Chile.” I am also so grateful for the generous scholarship. It is true that one of my own dreams is to go to college to study literature, but I have three more years to make that dream a reality. But I also have a dream that is not only for me but for Chile. And I would like to start by making it come true in my city. I wrote to you about how everyone should have the chance to read. Now my grandmother has left me with many books that she rescued from burning during the dictatorship. Respectfully, I ask your permission to use the scholarship money to begin a free traveling library, which will bring these books as well as literacy classes to people living high in the hills on the outskirts of Valparaíso. These are the poorest people who work all day for very little money. They can’t even imagine being able to visit the center of town to buy a book or to learn to read and write . . .

  My pen sails until the waking moon spreads a soft light over the page.

  A Great Thing

  A week passes with no word from Presidente Espinoza. I check the mail frantically every day, hoping to get my hands on the letter with the presidential seal first so that no one asks me a million questions about it. But on Saturday morning, as I sit drinking café con leche and reviewing a literacy lesson for Delfina the next day, Delfina sits down next to me and quietly slides a letter beneath my book. “This came yesterday. Nana was curious, but the spirits told her to ask you about it alone.” I look at her nervously. Everyone was so happy to not have to worry about the money to send me to college. I fear her disapproval. And I fear the president’s answer. Even though my family might be disappointed, I still hope she has said yes. Nana pulls a small knife from her apron pocket and uses it to unseal the envelope. Then she hands it to me.

  “No, Nana. Why don’t you read it to me?”

  “Delfina read it, Niña Celeste?”

  “You, Nana. I know that you can!”

  Dear Señorita Marconi,

  It is an even greater honor to be writing you this second letter. My answer is yes . . .

  “Whoopee!” I jump up, knocking my chair to the floor. The clatter drowns Nana’s voice out, but she has not moved her eyes from the page. She keeps on reading. “ ‘. . . traveling library . . . money for books . . . classes in the hills . . .’ ” Then she looks at me, her mouth a copper smile like the sun. I right the chair and clasp my hands behind my back. I feel like a little girl. Will Nana scold me for making such a decision without talking to my parents first?

  “Niña Celeste, you have done a great thing.”

  All the commotion has stirred Abuela Frida from her parlor. She appears in the kitchen doorway in her nightgown with her cane in one hand, an unfinished blue scarf in the other. Her eyes are full moons of surprise as she looks from Delfina to me and then back to Delfina. “You are reading so well!” she exclaims. “Querida Delfina, read me some more.”

  Nana
Delfina’s dark cheeks bloom like ripe cherries. She continues, “ ‘The generosity that has inspired you to donate your scholarship money . . .’ ”

  Abuela Frida hobbles to my side, kisses my cheek, and whispers, “Now, why don’t you go to the clinic and tell your parents?”

  “Right now, Abuela? They might be busy with patients—”

  “Sí. Right now,” Nana interjects with her no-nonsense voice.

  As I look through the coat closet for my rain jacket, Nana says in a casual voice, “Oh, Delfina will not take her lesson tomorrow. She might be getting a flu.”

  “You might be?” I walk over to feel her forehead. “That’s the first I’ve heard of it . . .”

  Delfina takes a few steps back and retreats to the stove. “No, no. Nana doesn’t want you to catch it. Delfina will be fine. Now run along, Celeste. Go tell Esmeralda and Andrés.”

  I walk out the door and think, Nana sure is acting odd. I know it has to do with the letter. But then again, everything feels strange right now. The green and gray of the eucalyptus trees are brighter, and their fragrance envelops me in a cloud that carries me all the way down the hills. I stand at the entrance to the clinic without knowing how I arrived there.

  The door opens, and my father and mother come out and embrace me. “Celeste, we are so proud,” my father says, and clears his throat.

  “So proud!” Mamá echoes him, her eyes like two great lakes.

  “But how did you know . . . ?” My voice trails off as I take a deep breath of relief. They aren’t angry with me!

  “Oh, Celeste,” my mother says, laughing, “Mamá told us last week all about the letter you were busy writing up on the roof. And when I saw your face glowing like it is now, I knew a response arrived this morning.”

  “Abuela Frida?! But how did she know? I swear I didn’t say a word to anyone.”

  “You know your grandmother.” My father smiles as if such things are commonplace, which—I am beginning to believe more and more—they are. “She’s a wise old girl.”

  Serendipity

  On Sunday, Papá asks me to go to the bakery for empanadas. Which is strange, because Mamá and he have done that together every day since I can remember! “Take your time. Buy something pretty in that shop you like, or stop for a coffee at Café Iris,” he says, putting a few extra pesos in my hand. Another strange thing! Papá still hasn’t lost all his fear and doesn’t like me to “wander around the city alone,” as he puts it. But I shrug my shoulders and go, enjoying the walk down Butterfly Hill in the late-morning sunshine.

  A few hours later I emerge from the bakery, my arms wrapped around a warm paper bag. I close my eyes and inhale the yummy fragrance. The smell of Sundays in Valparaíso. I smile, remembering those dark Sundays just before I left for—

  “Niña Celeste, over here!” I turn around with a start and spot Alejandro and his old brown taxi parked across the street.

  “¡Hola, Don Alejandro!” I call.

  “Come, Niña Celeste, let me take you home.” I run across the street and hop into the backseat. “What a serendipitous occasion, to find you here today!” he says. “Serendipity.” I remember that word, hearing two ladies on the street use it so long ago, when—I now realize—I was such a little girl, and writing it in my blue notebook.

  “Sí, Don Alejandro. It is nice to see you! I was thinking of buying some suspiro de monja—a light, sweet pastry that looks like snow—on my way home. Could we stop at Café Iris? They have the best ones. But I came here first because Panaderia Estrella has the best empanadas in Valparaíso, of course! My parents won’t buy them anywhere else.”

  “Well now, Señorita Celeste.” Alejandro fumbles over his words. “I am quite busy today, so I can only take you directly to Butterfly Hill.”

  How odd! Then why was Alejandro sitting there across the street, seemingly idling about, in the first place? And why offer to drive me home if he is so short on time? I am about to protest that Café Iris is on our way up Butterfly Hill and will only take a minute, but decide against it. I can hear Abuela Frida telling me a lady always accepts favors graciously, and treats her elders with respect. I remember how Abuela Frida said Don Alejandro treated her “as good as gold, like a queen, from my first years in Valparaíso when I dressed in rags, to today when I am an eccentric old woman who won’t go out without red lipstick and a ring on every finger.”

  I gaze out the window. Every child in Valparaíso must be flying a kite today. The scent of bougainvilleas in bloom tickles my nose. “Ahhhh chooo!”

  “¡Salud! God bless you, Niña Celeste. God bless you.” Once again, Alejandro sounds so solemn. I catch his brown eyes in the rearview mirror. They sparkle with tears. How strange he is acting today! Maybe the scent of bougainvilleas is making his eyes water, like it is making my nose run.

  I sit up as the old car uses all its will to climb Butterfly Hill. “Oh!” I catch my breath. Our blue-and-yellow house is decorated with bunches of balloons, tied to every possible place: to the front door, the terrace, streaming through the windows, even blowing in the breeze from atop the roof! I stick my head out the window to get a better view. For once, Alejandro doesn’t tell me to be careful and sit back down. He just laughs and honks the horn. I see the front door open, and long streamers of silk in blues of every shade wave in the wind. Mamá and Papá are waving. Then Abuela Frida opens her parlor window and calls to me.

  “Celeste! Come!”

  “Abuela, what on earth is going on?”

  She shrugs her shoulders and ducks her head back into the house. “Come and see!”

  La Gran Fiesta

  I run into the house, and nearly run back outside from the surprise of it all! It is like entering a beehive of the sweetest honey. So many people I know and love fill our house on Butterfly Hill! Everyone calls out, “Congratulations! Three cheers for Celeste!” They gather around me and clap. I look around to see Marisol and Gloria, Cristóbal and his mother, Soledad, and Señor Castellanos and Marta Alvarado! “I thought you might be up to something, but I never imagined . . . ,” I say, losing my breath from the surprise of it all. Then a smiling Señora Atkinson emerges from the kitchen holding a tray heaped with cups of tea. Neighbors have come holding baskets of flowers, stewed tomatoes, and fried fish.

  “Delfina came to each of our homes to invite us to the party. She told us of your prize, and the gift you are giving to Valparaíso,” Señora Atkinson whispers to me excitedly. Nana!

  “She wasn’t sick with a cold today at all!” I say.

  Señora Atkinson shakes her head and laughs. “Rumor has it Delfina has been making her famous sopaipillas with chimichurri all afternoon!”

  Hearing her name, Nana Delfina emerges from the kitchen with a plate of steaming pumpkin cakes and her eyes filled with pride. I am speechless and trembling with happiness. Suddenly two large hands cover my eyes, and a gruff voice says, “Guess who?” Before I can say a word, Tío Bernardo grabs me in one of his famous bear hugs and spins me around the room, which has started to buzz with music. He introduces me to his beautiful Argentine wife, Ingrid.

  “We met traveling over the Andes!” Tío Bernardo laughs. “We were both trying to escape our countries and bumped into each other on the way! She was going west, and I was going east, but we stopped in the same spot off a narrow pass near the summit of Mount Aconcagua. The highest peak in the entire Western Hemisphere—the air sure was thin up there. We were both tired, trying hard to catch our breaths. She offered me some water, and I gave her some dried fruits. Then and there we decided to travel and hide together. We turned south, and the rest—as they say—is history. You must have heard I was dressed like a nun? Well, can you guess what Ingrid was dressed as?”

  I put my hands over my mouth. “Don’t tell me! A priest?”

  Tío Bernardo twirls his wife in a circle. “If that’s not destiny and opposites attracting and whatever else they say about love, then what is?”

  “I’d say you are right, Tío! Congratulat
ions! And I am so glad you are home safe!”

  Abuela Frida begins to tap Mamá’s tambourine. With her long white braids down her back and her beaming smile, today she looks like a young girl. Papá takes up her rhythm on the piano. Delfina and I hold hands and spin in a circle. “Ay, Celeste. Nana’s never been so dizzy,” Delfina says, laughing, “or so proud of her girl!” And there smiling behind Delfina is the magician from Café Iris!

  “Look, Delfina!” El mago pulls a canary from his waistcoat and lets it fly around the room. “A gift for you, Celeste!” He bows to me like an old-fashioned gentleman.

  Delfina grins and says to me, “Delfina remembers that trick. He used it to impress your Tía Graciela. They went to school together and were kind of boyfriend and girlfriend, but not quite. You know, just like you and Cristóbal . . .”

  I toss my hair and go back to the dancing, determined to ignore her sly comment. “Just wait and see, Celeste. When has Nana been wrong?” Then she shouts across the room, “Oye! Hey! Cristóbal! Why don’t you dance with Celeste?”

  Epilogue: The Ship Called Hope

  “Celeste! Come down from the roof this instant! You’ll be late for school!”

  “Coming, Delfina!”

  I give one more glance to the morning sky. There they are! My old friends pass by our house on Butterfly Hill and nod their long beaks in my direction.

  Good morning, pelicans! ¡Buenos días, Valparaíso!

  I scamper down the stairs, which are creakier than ever, plant a kiss on Delfina’s leathery cheek, and fly out the door.

  “Celeste, you almost blew me off the hill!” Señora Atkinson is strolling beneath a violet parasol. She pats her chignon as I whoosh past her to catch the cable car to school. She speaks to me in English, and proudly I call back to her, “Sorry, Mrs. Atkinson! And good morning, Mrs. Atkinson!”