The Sisters of Alameda Street

by Lorena Hughes

  “Shall we start?” Amanda circled the bar and removed a record from its sleeve. “We’re dancing to Gardel tonight, even if people are saying that it’s bad luck. Lili, take off that sweater.”

  Malena removed her pink sweater, aware of Sebastian’s eyes on her. He removed his jacket and stayed in a white long-sleeved shirt. Without touching, they edged toward the dance floor. Amanda rushed behind them, giving them instructions on the sequence of steps she envisioned, while Joaquin had suggestions of his own.

  Like a mannequin, Malena stood still while Amanda placed her in front of Sebastian, pulling her shoulders back to achieve the perfect pose and telling her how to rest her hand on Sebastian’s shoulder. Under her palm, his shoulder felt warm.

  “No small talk,” Amanda said as a last recommendation. “Just feeling.” And then she added, as an afterthought, “That is the secret to tango dancing.”

  Sebastian seized Malena’s hand and held her tight. She took in the scent of his cologne, avoiding his eyes.

  Joaquin started “El día que me quieras.” Sebastian took a step forward, leading her backwards and then sideways across the floor. They transitioned into pivots, sweeps, and ochos. He danced surprisingly well, almost effortlessly. Not with the same skill, experience, and flair that Leonardo did, but he definitely knew the basic tango steps.

  For a moment, Malena got lost in the song lyrics. It seemed as though Carlos Gardel was singing to them. She was conscious of Sebastian’s fingers on her lower back and his thigh brushing against hers. She liked his closeness, the way her body fit into his. When his hand traveled down her spine, it sent chills throughout her body. She lifted her chin. There was a tiny drop of perspiration above his brow, a nearly imperceptible mole by his nose. Was he holding his breath? Their eyes connected for a split second, and then he stared at her mouth. She lost her footing and stopped. Her face burned. She needed space, air. She took a step back, letting go of his touch.

  “What’s the matter?” Amanda asked.

  Malena fanned her cheeks with her hand. “Nothing. I’m just hot, that’s all.”

  “Well, you’d better not stop like that during the presentation.”

  Malena glanced at Sebastian’s chest moving up and down, his eyes set on her.

  “I won’t.”

  Joaquin started the song again.

  Malena could barely concentrate on whatever Claudia was saying. Her mind kept going back to the moment when Sebastian held her in his arms. How ironic that she had to help his bride pick a dress for the wedding now.

  “What do you think of this one?” Claudia said.

  Malena turned to one of the Burda magazines lying open on the coffee table. Claudia pointed at a satin gown with a banded waist and a scooped neck.

  “It’s very pretty,” Malena said. Watching Claudia choose her dress certainly seemed like a punishment for dancing with Sebastian.

  Ana brought another pile of magazines and sat down across from the girls, next to Mamá Blanca. She eyed the dress her daughter had selected.

  “I don’t know, hija. How about something simpler? Simplicity is more elegant.”

  “Oh, no. I don’t want something simple. You only get married once, and I want my dress to be the most stylish in town.” Claudia’s words tumbled over one another in her excitement. “My future mother-in-law is a fashion connoisseur.”

  “But hija,” Ana said, “modesty is a virtue and vanity is a form of pride—”

  “Which is a deadly sin,” Claudia recited in a monotone, her cheeks turning slightly pink.

  “Claudia …”

  “Whatever you say, Madre.”

  Mamá Blanca spoke without removing her gaze from her crocheting. “Claudia should be able to decide what she wants, Ana. After all, Sebastian comes from one of the most established families in San Isidro.” She lowered her voice, turning to Malena. “Although they’re not doing so well now.”

  “Mamá …” Ana said.

  “What? Lili is like family now.” She renewed her needlework. “Tell her, Claudita.”

  Claudia cleared her throat. “Well, Sebastian’s father got into some risky ventures that lost a lot of money.”

  “And Ofelia spent the rest,” Mamá Blanca added.

  “So now my poor Sebastian has to work like a dog to support them.”

  Malena felt a stab at the word “my.”

  “We have to find a dress for you too, Lili.” Ana handed Malena a magazine. “See if there’s anything here that you like and we’ll have our seamstress make it for you.”

  Malena thanked Ana, but doubted she would be here when this wedding took place.

  Mamá Blanca pushed herself up. “Lili, would you help me to my room? I’d like to rest for a moment.”

  “Of course.”

  Malena helped her grandmother upstairs and down the hall.

  “If Abigail were alive, she would have sewn this dress for Claudia.” Mamá Blanca entered her room and pointed at the small sewing machine in the corner of the room. “That was hers. The last time she used it was to sew Claudia’s first communion dress. Abigail was already sick, but she worked very hard until she finished it. She adored her niece.”

  Malena strolled toward the sewing machine. Her fingers rubbed the intricate wooden carvings along the cherrywood surface. Four tiny drawers were aligned on its right side. She looked over her shoulder. Mamá Blanca was covering her legs with a wool blanket. If only she could look inside those drawers.

  Malena picked up a book from Mamá Blanca’s night table. Los Sangurimas. Her grandmother Eva would’ve never approved of such a scandalous novel. “José de la Cuadra is my favorite author,” Malena said. “Would you like me to read it to you?”

  “That would be lovely. I can barely see that small print.”

  Malena read in the most tedious tone she could muster. Mamá Blanca’s eyelids drooped sporadically at first, but stayed shut after a while. Before long, Mamá Blanca was asleep.

  Malena set the book on the night table and stood up. She tiptoed toward Abigail’s sewing machine and opened the top drawer. It was filled with rolls of thread of every imaginable color. The second drawer was filled with zippers. The third one held needles and pins. The last drawer was full of buttons. Malena touched them with her fingers. A diary, a photograph in the study, and this sewing machine were everything that was left of Mamá Blanca’s daughter. Underneath the buttons, she felt a glossy texture—a photograph? A loud snore came from Mamá Blanca’s direction. Malena started, but her grandmother’s eyes were still shut.

  Malena moved the buttons out of the way and spotted a face—a man’s face. She picked up the picture, rubbing her index finger over the young man’s handsome face. She could tell he had light hair and light eyes. She turned it over and read a name on the back: Victor, 1940.

  Chapter 28

  Abigail, 1940

  The bride and the groom seemed to be floating on the dance floor. Abigail wondered if one day she would be in that same spot, dancing with the man of her dreams (for he must be a man—not a boy—by now). And the answer was no. She would probably be there, but not with him. It would probably be another man; perhaps Enrique.

  To her surprise, she missed Enrique now that he was out of town for the weekend. He amused her with the stories of his travels, his wit, and his gifts—he brought her a different flower every day—but sometimes she feared she made the wrong decision by agreeing to be his girl so soon after meeting him.

  Honestly, she’d been unable to refuse him. Enrique had volunteered to take her and Mamá Blanca to Quito for a doctor’s appointment and then he’d invited Abigail to Teatro Sucre to watch a comedy, Receta para viajar. Abigail had never been inside a more impressive building. Those Doric columns, those balconies and thick, ornate curtains! She felt like she’d been transported to a neoclassic theater in Europe. And she’d laughed so hard she couldn’t break Enrique’s heart when he told her she was more beautiful than the leading actress onstage. Not when he bought h
er a blackberry espumilla and lent her his jacket after the play.

  That was only part of the problem. The other part was that she’d been bored, tired of waiting for a dream that might never come true, and nervous at the prospect of never marrying.

  “Doesn’t María Teresa look beautiful?” Ana asked her.

  Abigail nodded. María Teresa looked spectacular in her puffy-sleeved organza gown, which contrasted so nicely with her red hair, the envy of all the girls in San Isidro. Ana also looked radiant tonight with her hair in a high pompadour and the close-fitting dress Amanda had lent her. There was something different about Ana lately, not just tonight. She seemed joyful, alive.

  Abigail’s ponderings were interrupted by an apparition—that was the only way to describe it. The man that had been haunting her thoughts for the last four years stood in front of her, on the dance floor. He hugged María Teresa and took her hand in his. They were both smiling, an evident camaraderie between them. Abigail leaned forward in an attempt to listen to their conversation and accidentally knocked her glass of wine with her elbow.

  “Look what you’ve done!” Ana pointed at the burgundy liquid staining Abigail’s mint-colored dress. Ana grabbed a cloth napkin to dry the growing stain, but Abigail couldn’t care less about her dress. Her attention was fixed on the man talking to the bride.

  Yes, it was him. The same face, the eyes, the shape of his body, so slim and tall. As the band played a new danzón, he and María Teresa danced.

  “Be still!” Ana told her.

  He danced with grace and ease until a crowd shrouded him and María Teresa. Abigail stood up, ignoring Ana’s complaints, and strode to the dance floor. The bride’s red hair shone from the center of the floor. Abigail squeezed her way through the dancers to reach her, but María Teresa was talking to a woman now, and there was no trace of the man she’d been dancing with. Abigail was about to ask María Teresa about him when Manuel, the groom, took his brand-new wife by the hand and led her toward the wedding cake in the corner of the room.

  Like a madwoman, Abigail searched throughout the entire parlor, scanning every face, bumping shoulders with other guests, growing increasingly frantic. Had she been hallucinating?

  Her last option was to look outside, on the patio. She pushed the double doors open and walked out, focusing on a man’s figure sitting on the edge of the fountain. The full moon and a nearby light post partially illuminated his face. It was him. She slowed her pace, processing the moment, thinking about what she was going to say. She was hesitant to take another step. He looked so peaceful staring at the stars in the sky.

  She ran her palms over her long skirt, touching the wet stain on the fabric. Oh, no, her dress was a mess! With her hand she attempted to cover the stain as she drew near him.

  “Buenas noches,” he said.

  She stood in front of him, like an idiot, unable to produce a sound, much less a coherent thought.

  He looked into her eyes. “It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?”

  She nodded. It was the only thing she could do.

  “Would you like to sit down?” he asked.

  She sat beside him. He extended his hand. “I’m Victor Santos Aguilar. And you?”

  The touch of his hand was heavenly.

  “I guess I’ll have to do all the talking,” he said. “Are you a friend of the bride or the groom?”

  “The bride.”

  “She speaks!” He smiled. “So am I. María Teresa is my cousin.”

  Of course, Santos was María Teresa’s last name, too. She couldn’t believe he’d been so close all these years.

  She found her voice. “I’m surprised I’ve never seen you before. María Teresa is my sister’s best friend.”

  “I’ve been living outside of San Isidro for the last few years.”

  She wanted to ask where, she wanted to know everything about him, but it wouldn’t be proper. After a moment, she spoke again.

  “Thank you.”

  He raised a brow. “Did you say ‘thank you’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” He sounded amused.

  “For saving my life in that pool four years ago. I never had a chance to thank you.”

  He studied her face. “I thought I’d seen you before.”

  So he remembered her, too, or was he just saying that to be nice?

  “I’m glad I saved you,” he said. “You’ve become a lovely woman. A lovely woman without a name.”

  She giggled. “Abigail.”

  “Beautiful name,” he said. “You rarely hear a Hebrew name in this part of the world.”

  “My father picked it from the Old Testament,” she said. “It means ‘God is joy.’”

  He uncrossed his legs. “Yes,” he said, excitedly. “Abigail was the third wife of King David, if I’m not mistaken, and was known to be a prudent woman.”

  Abigail wished she could live up to her name, but her present actions proved she hadn’t been exactly prudent. She was alone at night with a stranger even though she was committed to another man.

  “I trust that you learned how to swim,” he said.

  “No. Never.”

  “Why not?”

  “Nobody ever bothered to teach me,” she said, omitting the most important part—how ridiculously terrified she was of the water.

  He observed her for a moment; his eyes changed shades of blue, resembling the ripples on the ocean. She sighed involuntarily, and looked at his hand. No wedding band. Good, but she couldn’t be too confident. Some married men didn’t wear rings. The movement of the double glass doors caught her attention. Ana emerged from the salon with her graceless gait; her heels getting stuck in the uneven pavers with every step she took in their direction. Oh, no.

  Abigail turned to Victor. This was her only chance.

  “Why don’t you teach me?” she said.

  “To swim?”

  “Yes.”

  Ana waved at her.

  “I don’t know, I—”

  Abigail stood up. “Tomorrow, at six. It’s less crowded in the evenings.”

  He was speechless.

  “Abigail?” Ana stood in front of them. “Rafael wants to go.”

  Abigail smiled at Victor before following her sister into the parlor.

  Abigail arrived at the pool five minutes early. It had been so long since she’d been here, in the Termas de la Virgen, yet she felt as if it had been only yesterday that she’d nearly drowned in these green waters. She recognized the smell of sulfur, the steam emanating from the pool, and the dense air curling up her tresses as it did when she was a small girl. She wrapped her hands around a metal banister that circled the pool and looked straight across at the cascade. She closed her eyes for a moment, listening to the sound of the water falling. Nothing was more comforting, yet so terrifying at the same time—just like finding Victor had been.

  It was six already. What if he didn’t come? He’d never given her an answer, but he wouldn’t stand her up, he didn’t seem like that kind of man. The seconds turned into minutes. Ten. Twenty. Twenty-five. Abigail couldn’t take her eyes away from her watch, away from those wicked hands moving forward, faster and faster. There were only a handful of people left in the pool, and it looked like they were getting ready to leave.

  “Sorry I’m late.”

  His voice. How could someone go from panic and misery to the greatest state of elation ever known to a human being in a matter of two seconds?

  “You came,” she said.

  “I couldn’t have lived with myself if you ever fell in that pool again and there was no one here to save you.” He looked at her flower-print dress. “You’re going to swim in that?”

  She giggled. Then turned around and lifted her hair. “Would you help me with the clasp?”

  He didn’t answer. She looked at him, over her shoulder. He had frozen, all amusement removed from his eyes. He stared at her back with—was that fear in his eyes?

  “Go ahead, I don’t bite,” she said.
So he was shy. She liked that in a man. Usually men—Enrique included—were eager for intimacy, not that she’d ever gone all the way with any of them. “Don’t worry. I have my bathing suit on.”

  He unzipped her dress and looked away. “I’ll go change.” He picked up his bag from the ground.

  Abigail collected her mane into a tight bun and slid a white rubber cap over her head. She waited for him by the edge of the pool. What had she done? Only now did she realize the absurdity of her request. If she was supposed to learn how to swim, she would have to get in the water, and she doubted she could bring herself to do that. If her intention was to spend a romantic moment with Victor, she was terribly wrong. Unless he found a panic-stricken, arms-flopping, hysterical girl attractive.

  She took a deep breath. She was going to do this, even if it killed her—literally.

  Victor reappeared a few moments later in his black swimming trunks. He sure had grown in the last four years. His shoulders had widened, the muscles in his arms were well defined, and a trail of curly hair traveled from his navel to the edge of his trunks.

  He dove into the water and swam across the pool toward her in seconds. When he emerged out of the water, Abigail had to pinch her leg to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. With that water dripping from his hair, the sun shining on his nose, and his eyes squinting, he looked just like he had as a teenager.

  “Get in,” he told her.

  Get in? Just like that? She eyed the water wetting her feet.

  He stood on the bottom of the pool and extended his hand to her. “Come on. It’s shallow in here.”

  She looked at it. Anything to feel his touch again, anything, even death. She held his wet hand and jumped in, shutting her eyes. Her stomach took a leap. As soon as she felt the bottom of the pool with her feet, she opened her eyes, squeezing Victor’s hand, both of his hands. He was smiling at her. The warm water pleasantly cradled her body. His gaze dropped to her chest for an instant, and then returned to her face. They stood in front of each other for a moment.