The Sisters of Alameda Street

by Lorena Hughes

  “Fine.”

  He dragged his feet back to the concrete fountain and stood stiffly by Alejandra. Amanda turned to Ana and Abigail, clapping her hands.

  “Come on, girls. Sit up straight.”

  Resting on a nearby bench, the photographer continued fanning himself with a newspaper. “I’m not getting up until you’re ready.”

  “We are,” Amanda said. “I promise.”

  The man uncrossed his legs and lifted himself from the bench with extraordinary effort. He resumed his position behind the camera and buried himself under a thick black cloth.

  “Everyone still—and smile,” he ordered without a trace of kindness.

  Ana didn’t smile. It was too hot to smile. She merely held Amanda’s arm and sat still.

  After a moment, the photographer removed the cloth from his head, revealing a mass of messy hair.

  “Perfect.”

  “Thank you, Sr. Valencia,” Amanda told him, pulling Ana by the arm. “Come on, we’re late.”

  Abigail rushed behind them. “Can I come, too?”

  Amanda took longer strides and whispered into Ana’s ear. “Pretend you didn’t hear her.”

  But their sister caught up with them and seized Amanda’s arm. “Please.”

  “No!”

  “It’s not fair, I’m already fifteen.” And she was, but didn’t look it. Her breasts had hardly developed yet and Mamá Blanca continued to dress her like a child. That pink ribbon around her waist would simply not do at such an important dance contest. Amanda would never consent to take Abigail with them.

  “Don’t you have to go to the pool or something?” Amanda said.

  Abigail pouted. “Yes.”

  “Then? Get going! You still have to go home and change.”

  Amanda dragged Ana across the street. “And make sure Alejandra and Fausto go home with you!”

  Ana gave Abigail one last glance as she stood by the curb, kicking a light post. If she could have switched places with her, she would have done it in a heartbeat. There was nothing more dreadful than dancing, especially under Amanda’s stern eye.

  Amanda made them stop a block before reaching the radio station to fix their hair and dresses. “Take off that coat,” Amanda told her. “You look like an old woman.”

  Ana eyed her mother’s coat. It was an old woman’s coat, but at least it covered her dull dress. “But I’m cold.”

  “In this heat? Are you crazy? Come on. Hurry up.”

  Ana removed her coat and hung it on her forearm.

  “Amanda!” a man’s voice called at the end of the street.

  Joaquin Nasser, Amanda’s best friend and eternal admirer, approached them. He wore a black suit and his hat covered the edge of his dark eyebrows.

  “What took you so long?” he asked; no hellos or even a glance of acknowledgment for Ana. That’s the way things were when she stood by her sister: men didn’t see her.

  “We were having our picture taken,” Amanda said.

  “It had to be today?”

  “Yes,” Amanda said. “My parents’ anniversary is coming up and I wanted to surprise them with a picture of us.”

  As they approached the radio station, they encountered a long line of youngsters in their best outfits. Joaquin handed Ana and Amanda safety pins and two pieces of white cloth with numbers printed on them. Ana returned her number to Joaquin.

  “I’m not dancing.”

  “Of course you are,” Amanda told her.

  “Yes,” Joaquin said. “I brought Rafael with me.”

  Joaquin pointed at his friend, standing at the front of the line. Ana bit the corner of her thumbnail—a habit that appeared every time she was nervous. Despite his extreme thinness and that serious expression he always displayed, Ana found Rafael to be an attractive young man. She’d only seen him smile once, at her—not at Amanda—and his eyes often lingered in her direction—not her sister’s—which was more than she could say of any other man.

  Joaquin held Amanda’s hand and caught up with Rafael. Ana followed a few steps behind.

  “Flaco,” he told Rafael, “you know Amanda Platas, right?”

  Rafael nodded.

  “This is her sister, Ana.”

  Rafael gave her a brief look. “Yes, we’ve met.”

  Ana stared at the black shoes Amanda had lent her. She rarely used heels this high and her feet were already hurting. And she hadn’t even started dancing yet.

  “Look!” Joaquin pointed at a silver-haired man opening the station’s front door. The sounds of violins and drums vibrated in the street. Amanda applauded while Ana restrained her feet from running in the opposite direction. Her sister must have read her mind, for she gripped her arm tighter.

  “You’re not going anywhere, Ana.”

  The line moved into a tall foyer where they left their coats and continued through a pair of open doors to a circular dance floor against a raised podium occupied by the orchestra. On the opposite end was a room surrounded by glass windows. Three men wearing headphones stood in front of oval-shaped microphones, chatting among themselves as the dance floor filled up.

  Ana slipped to the corner of the room in an attempt to disappear, but Rafael followed her there with his hands buried inside his pockets. He stood beside her without saying a word while Joaquin and Amanda rushed to the center of the dance floor.

  The voice of the master of ceremonies caused Ana’s heart to start a frantic beating to the rhythm of the drums. An Otavaleño with a blue poncho and a long braid shut the door. There was nowhere else to go.

  The first song was a conga, a tropical rhythm born in Cuba—like so many others—and one of her sister’s favorites. From a distance, Ana discerned Joaquin’s arms wrapped around Amanda’s waist, twirling her in circles around the dance floor. Ana tapped her feet on the floor. It was an involuntary reaction, stronger than her will or her pride. The music had that effect on her—when nobody was looking.

  Joaquin signaled Rafael to come to the dance floor. Ana glanced at the door. It was only a few steps away, but the master of ceremonies had warned them not to leave the room until the contest ended.

  A cool hand touched her arm. Rafael was looking down at her. He had the cutest mouth and white, straight teeth. She read his lips for it was too loud in there to hear him.

  “Do you want to dance?”

  She nodded and let his hand guide her onto the crowded dance floor.

  Rafael held one of her sweaty, clammy hands in his and pulled her against him while his other hand rested on her lower back. As the distance closed between them, she smelled the coffee and cigarettes on his skin. They started to move, avoiding each other’s eyes. Ana, usually the lead at home, took a step forward in an effort to follow the beat of the song. But the only thing she accomplished was stamping on Rafael’s foot.

  “I’m sorry,” she said even though he couldn’t hear her. A frown appeared on his face for a split second before he tightened his grasp on her hand and pulled her closer to him. He took a decisive step forward, and she answered by stepping back. She knew without seeing herself that it had been an awkward, graceless move.

  She could dance—Amanda had made sure she learned by the age of ten—but not with a man. She didn’t know how to turn gracefully or move her hips the way Amanda did. Especially not in front of a group of strangers or the man she liked.

  They continued pulling on each other and stepping on each other’s feet during the rest of the song until a tap on Ana’s shoulder ended their battle. She was no fool; she had expected to be disqualified, just not this soon. Ana spun on her heels before Rafael said something. She only wanted to disappear, to lock herself in her room for a month. But first she would have to wait until her sister was done charming every man in the room.

  Lowering her head, she marched to her corner. Rafael followed her. She could feel his steps behind her, his nearness. How could she ever look him in the eye again? He would never ask her to dance again.

  As a bolero s
tarted, her armpits sweated. She needed a drink, but she’d rather endure dehydration than walk past Rafael to the table filled with water cups. He was slouching against the wall, not even looking at her.

  The dance floor thinned out after two more songs until there were only three couples in the competition, Amanda and Joaquin among them.

  Ana’s throat tightened with the first chords of “Volver,” one of Gardel’s most famous tangos. This tango was Amanda and Joaquin’s forte. She straightened her back, proud for the first time to be Amanda’s sister.

  Joaquin shoved his coat to the corner of the room, revealing a pair of suspenders over his white shirt. He lowered his hat over his eyebrows and extended his arm toward Amanda. She held his hand and the space closed between them. She lifted one leg sensually against his and they started to move in perfect coordination. Their footwork was precise, intricate, and impeccable. Not a single mistake made, not a second of hesitation. The other couples were eliminated almost immediately, and now the entire floor belonged to Amanda and Joaquin—it always had.

  As the last notes of the violin approached, Joaquin lifted Amanda, reminding Ana of a fairy flying above the crowd. Her beauty was surreal, absurd, only surpassed by the portrait of the Virgin Mary in her parents’ bedroom.

  A wave of applause blasted throughout the room after the last note was delivered. Joaquin kissed Amanda’s hand. She bowed to the audience around her, a radiant smile illuminating her face.

  The master of ceremonies approached them with an award in his hands: a small statue of a couple dancing. He handed Amanda the statue and announced over the microphone the grand prize: a dinner for two at Il Napolitano, the fanciest restaurant in town.

  Ana rushed to her sister’s side and gave her a hug, inhaling Mamá Blanca’s hyacinth perfume on Amanda’s neck, and feeling her damp back against her hand.

  “I saw you dancing with Rafael,” Amanda whispered in her ear. “I think he likes you.”

  Ana glanced at Rafael. He was busy talking to Joaquin. Amanda was delusional, probably due to the excitement of winning.

  “Joaquin and I are going to Il Napolitano now,” Amanda said louder, and turning toward Rafael, she placed her hand on his arm. “Would you mind taking Ana home?”

  Ana pinched Amanda’s free arm. Was she out of her mind? Her sister was leaving her at the mercy of a stranger! She pulled Amanda aside.

  “Don’t do this, Amanda, please. Can’t you go to dinner after dropping me home?”

  “Of course not. If our father sees me with Joaquin, he won’t let me leave the house again.”

  “But I barely know him.” Rafael watched her as he spoke to Joaquin. “It will be unbearable.”

  “Unbearable?” Amanda laughed. “The house is only ten minutes away. Besides, you like him. What better chance to be alone with him? It’s now or never.”

  “Who told you I like him?” Ana broke eye contact with Rafael and returned her attention to her sister’s cheerful face.

  “I’m not blind, Ana. And I know he’s sweet on you, too. The only problem is he’s just as shy as you are. That’s why you have to take advantage of this opportunity.”

  “Wait. What am I supposed to tell Papá Pancho about you?”

  “Just tell him I’m at the convent, knitting blankets for the orphanage.”

  “This late?”

  Amanda shrugged. Everything to her was unimportant, uncomplicated. It was Ana’s job to worry.

  Amanda walked over to Joaquin’s side and slipped her arm through his. “Have a good night, you two,” she told Rafael and Ana while dragging Joaquin toward the door.

  An awkward silence fell between them. Ana ran her hand over her forehead as Rafael drew near her.

  “Let’s go get your coat,” he said.

  He led the way to the foyer and helped her into her coat, avoiding eye contact. Maybe Amanda was right. Maybe he was shy. And two shy people couldn’t get together unless one of them made the first move. Hesitantly, she wrapped her fingers around his arm. He flinched, but didn’t pull away.

  They walked outside, careful not to ruin their fragile bond. One wrong move, one erroneous comment could break the magic.

  “Did you enjoy yourself?” she asked.

  “I’m not fond of dancing.” He glanced at her. “But you are.”

  “Me? Oh, no. It’s all Amanda. She can be very persuasive.”

  “I noticed.”

  They continued to walk in silence. Ana searched the depths of her mind for something charming to say. Charming was the word Amanda used. “You have to charm them,” she repeated every time they talked about boys.

  Except that there was nothing charming about Ana.

  “Ana,” Rafael said after a school and three houses of dreadful silence. “I’m going to be honest with you. I’ve been watching you for a long time. You come from a decent family, and your father has a prosperous business. You seem like a good woman, fond of your house, well-mannered, and decent-looking.” He glanced at her. “I’m looking to settle down soon; I’ve been working at my uncle’s store for two years now and I think I can afford the rent of a small apartment.” He stopped and held her hands in his. “I’m not looking for a long engagement and I want a large family. What about you?”

  Ana was too shocked to pronounce a syllable. Was this a marriage proposal? It seemed more like a job interview. Or maybe this was part of a cruel joke. She couldn’t tell if he was smiling, it had gotten too dark.

  “Well?”

  “I don’t know what you expect me to say,” she said.

  “Are you interested?”

  Of course she was interested. She’d liked Rafael for months now. Amanda’s words pounded in her mind. “You have to take advantage of this opportunity.” If she gave him the wrong answer now, this would be the end for her, and then who knew if another man would ever look at her again. Not with a sister like Amanda nearby.

  “Yes,” she said.

  His teeth shone in the dusk. This was the second time in her life she’d seen him smile.

  He softly kissed her hand and her stomach danced in circles. “I’ll speak to your father tomorrow.”

  Ana wasn’t exactly sure what she’d agreed to. A courtship? An engagement? Marriage? The only thing she knew was that for the first time in her life a man had picked her over her sister. And it looked like she was going to be the first one in her family to marry. She wouldn’t be an old maid, like she’d feared for years. It had been a good day after all.

  “So you like it or not?” María Teresa asked Ana as they both studied her reflection in the mirror.

  Ana could hardly recognize herself with her hair up. She looked sophisticated and older, which was exactly what she wanted. María Teresa had done a superb job with her bun and makeup.

  “It’s perfect, Maritere. Thank you.”

  “Then what’s wrong? You don’t look like a happy bride.”

  Ana sighed. Her wedding plans had progressed in a haze. Not her plans, her father’s. He’d been so excited about marrying off one of his daughters he’d accelerated the wedding after barely three months of courtship. Rafael didn’t mind, and neither did Ana. The entire experience was thrilling, a dream come true. Mamá Blanca sewed her dress, her sisters and best friend were going to be her bridesmaids, and the ceremony would be held at the Iglesia de Santo Domingo. What else could she ask for?

  Nothing, really. Everything was turning out just like she’d dreamt. Except for that sudden urge of hers to stop all the clocks in her house, to go back in time, to rethink this whole thing. Just a few weeks, a couple of months even.

  She was being foolish, having doubts this late, nearly an hour before the ceremony. This panic freezing her against the chair was probably normal. All brides must feel this way before their wedding. Rafael would be a good provider, a loyal husband. He respected her. He was a gentleman. Everything she’d asked for in a man.

  “Anita?” María Teresa said. “You are happy, right?”

  Anita.
María Teresa was the only person in the world who called her that. She glanced at her friend’s shiny red hair—that extraordinary hair that always called attention everywhere she went, as she was the only redhead in town. Ana couldn’t hide anything from her. She’d been her best friend since the fifth grade and knew her better than anyone else. Talking to María Teresa was easier than talking to her sisters or her mother, who always judged her and told her what to do.

  Ana stood up, tightening her robe across her chest, and walked over to her bed, where her satin wedding gown lay. She sat on the edge of her bed, admiring the sparkling rhinestones encrusted on the belt of her dress.

  “You know,” Ana said. “Seco de chivo is one of the hardest recipes I’ve ever made. People think it’s easy because it’s such a popular dish. They serve it everywhere, right? But it’s tricky to make. There are so many ingredients, so many flavors blended in, you just can’t tell if it needs more salt or beer or aji. Maybe you need to add more tomato or onion or culantro. No matter how many times I make it, there always seems to be something missing.” She focused on the freckles that ran along María Teresa’s nose. “That’s exactly how I feel about Rafael.”

  “You’re just nervous, amiga mía. It’s normal.”

  “The other day he got cross with me because I wore a sleeveless shirt.”

  “He probably didn’t want you to catch a cold. He’s only taking care of you!”

  “He’s not very affectionate. He’s never kissed me.”

  “That’s because he respects you,” María Teresa said. “But don’t worry, that’ll change once you’re married.”

  “I don’t know. When Amanda talks about boys, she says they have these … urges. They always want to kiss and touch her.”

  “Amanda, always Amanda. You know the kind of reputation your sister has? People are still talking about the dress she wore for the dance contest.”

  “They are?”

  “Yes, querida. I know she’s your sister, but you’re blinded by her. Be happy that you found a man who overlooked her behavior and is still willing to marry into your family.”

  Ana let out a deep breath. María Teresa was right. She was lucky to have found Rafael. Everything would be fine after they were married. At least she hoped so.