“Of course it was. How old is this boy?” she asked as she finished her own dinner.
“Um, fourteen, I think.” I set my glass back on the table and waited. The fact that Mamá was still calm even though she didn’t believe me was a good sign.
“Uh-huh.” She pursed her lips. “I suppose even a neska like you will eventually draw a suitor or two.”
“Oh no.” I blushed at the idea. “It’s not like that. Mathias is just my friend.”
“You probably can’t wait to leave me too,” she muttered, wiping her mouth and tossing the napkin on her plate.
“Leave?”
Mamá stared at me from across the table. “Never mind that. I also saw that he’s cojo … walks around with a limp. Is he sick or something? I won’t be caring for a handicapped boy.”
“He’s not sick.” I focused on the remaining speck of egg on my plate and tried to scoop it up with one of the fork tines so I wouldn’t have to look at Mamá’s reaction. “He just has a bad leg, that’s all.” I sneaked a glance over at her.
Her mouth twitched. She never had much compassion for the sick.… Then again, she had little sympathy for anyone.
“So I suppose you’ll go with el cojo after school on Mondays to deliver the sardines? How many customers does he have, and how much do they want?”
“His name is Mathias, and his customers want about a pound each,” I said, bringing the nearly empty fork to my mouth so I could savor the last morsel of the omelet. “I think he might have six or seven customers.”
Mamá leaned back in her chair, thinking things over for a moment. “And you’ll bring home all the money?”
This was it. I could feel the excitement rising inside me. “Yes, ma’am. I mean, I’ll bring our share.”
“Don’t get smart with me or I’ll give you another whipping.” She pushed back her chair and took her plate to the sink.
“I’m sorry,” I quickly answered, but butterflies were now filling up any empty space left in my stomach, and all I wanted to do was jump up and down to celebrate.
“If these new customers are wealthy, the two of you will probably look pitiful enough to them to even get you some nice tips.” She looked at me over her shoulder as she put the dishes in the sink. “You have to bring that money home too. No keeping any of it for yourself, you hear me? I won’t tolerate a thief.”
“Yes, Mamá.”
“And I better not find out that it’s any of my customers from the market.” Mamá took a bowl that had been drying on the kitchen counter and put it on the shelf above the sink.
I waited. I could sense how close I was to having my whole life change.
She walked to the table and picked up my empty plate, looking at me from head to toe. “Fine. We’ll try it once with this boy. Next Monday I’ll leave you some sardines before I go to the market.” She shook her head and muttered, “This better be worth it.”
I jumped up to hug her, but she took a step back. Instead of embracing, we stood there in the kitchen facing each other, neither of us moving.
A brief sigh escaped from Mamá’s lips before she walked around me and headed toward her bedroom.
My excitement evaporated. It was clear some things would never change.
EIGHT
By Sunday morning, I was becoming genuinely concerned about my new life of espionage. I hadn’t heard from Mathias, even though I’d hung my brightest neck scarf in the window on Wednesday to show him that Mamá had agreed to our idea. Maybe he’d changed his mind, or the real spies had decided not to trust a pair of kids.
I took a deep breath, inhaling the strong, woodsy-smelling incense that filled Santa María Church. Hearing the Latin prayers I had memorized as a little girl seemed to quiet my worries … at least temporarily.
“Vámonos,” Mamá whispered before the service was over. “We have a lot to do today.” She genuflected at the end of the pew and headed toward the door.
I hesitated. I thought I’d have a chance to speak with Padre Iñaki after Mass, maybe get a sign that the plan was still on. A glance toward Mamá, standing with her hands on her hips by the side door in back, told me that there’d be no waiting around for Mass to finish.
I quickly made the sign of the cross and joined her.
“What took you so long? When I say go, I mean go.” She pushed open the heavy door, and the morning sun was such a contrast from the darkened church that we both shielded our eyes.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She shook her head. “No point spending time in there if you aren’t paying attention.”
I said nothing as we walked down the church steps.
“I bring you here, try to do right by your soul, and that’s how you decide to thank me … by daydreaming. Your brother, God rest his soul, would never have been so distracted. He was focused … helpful to his mother.”
I’d heard all this before. I could never live up to the brother who’d died before I was even born. I just nodded.
“He was too good. I didn’t deserve a child like that,” she said.
We continued to walk down the quiet street. I guessed Mamá thought I was the child she deserved. All I knew of my brother was what my father had told me. His name was Xavier, and he was a funny, outgoing boy who’d become sick while Mamá was pregnant with me. It always felt as if Mamá somehow blamed me for his death.
Before reaching the corner, Mamá abruptly stopped to look at me.
I searched her caramel-colored eyes. Somewhere in there was the girl Papá had fallen in love with. I could almost see that version of her in the wedding picture that hung in the living room. An eighteen-year-old with hope and excitement written all over her face standing next to a much older, but equally happy, man.
“Still so much like him …,” she said, slightly shaking her head.
I wasn’t sure if we were talking about my dead brother or Papá.
Mamá’s shoulders dropped for a moment, and her face softened. “During Mass, you were thinking of your father, weren’t you?”
On any other Sunday, all my thoughts would’ve been with Papá. But today, I’d been thinking about me, Mathias, and our “special deliveries” … not that I expected too much to come of them.
I played with a loose button on my sweater. “Yes, I was thinking of him,” I answered, not wanting to miss out on Mamá’s kindness.
“Thought so.” Mamá gently stroked my hair, her hand resting for a moment on my back. I wished it were more, that she would just wrap me up in her arms and hug me, but I was grateful for even this small bit of affection.
Ring, ring. A boy chimed his bike’s bell as he sped by us. In his wake, I could sense Mamá’s mood changing. She was being taken back to an earlier time, a time before I was born. I watched as the boy turned and disappeared down a side street.
Mamá sighed and pushed back her shoulders. “Stupid, really,” she said. “The two of you … your father and you.” Her voice cracked before regaining its normal strength. “Him for leaving, thinking he was going to make a difference, and you for worrying so much. Better to learn it now, neska. Nothing good comes from thinking you deserve more from this life than what it hands you. We’re all insignificant. Just whispers in a loud world. Fifty years from now, no one will care if we even existed.”
I stayed rooted to the sidewalk as Mamá made her way down the street. Instinctively, my fingers searched for the small promise of hope I held in the pouch Papá had given me. Mamá was wrong. I was not going to be insignificant … at least not anymore. Someday I would exist.
NINE
Monday afternoon arrived like any other day. I was still the girl in the back of the class, the one who walked home alone and spent most of her evenings delivering sardines with her mother. I was still an afterthought to most people, but now I was grateful for my invisibility. It could be a spy’s best trait.
The moment the teacher dismissed the class, I bolted from my seat and practically sprinted home. Mamá had promised to leave me s
ome sardines in the apartment, and I didn’t want to be late for my new pseudo-career … even if I still wasn’t sure whether that meant being a glorified courier or a spy. I just hoped the plan was still on.… I hadn’t heard from Mathias, and I didn’t want to have to explain any failure to Mamá.
As I rounded the corner, I spotted Mathias leaning against a lamppost. He was wearing a slightly wrinkled white shirt with the cuffs rolled up and gray pants held by brown suspenders. His clothes looked a little disheveled, almost as if he’d been working in someone’s yard, although there were no yards in the city. For a moment, I had a vision of him spending his days sitting under my tree doing nothing, and a twinge of jealousy flared inside me.
Mathias gave his beret a slight tug and twirled his makila just the way Fred Astaire had done in the movie with his top hat and cane. He was trying to be so smooth and sophisticated, but instead, he dropped his walking stick and it rattled along the cobblestone street.
I doubled over laughing.
“Mala. You don’t have to laugh so hard,” he said, bending over to pick up the stick.
“I’m sorry. You just look so …”
He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head. “Dashing? Debonair?”
“Ridiculous!” I laughed again.
He rolled his eyes. “Girls,” he said, smiling and shaking his head.
“I’ll be right back. Mamá left the sardines in the apartment.” I raced up the steps to the front door of the building.
“How much did your mother leave?” Mathias called out before I opened the door.
I looked back with the key in my hand. “I told her you had like six or seven rich customers.”
“What?” he shouted. He made his way up the steps as quickly as he could. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Didn’t you count? There were only five men in that room besides my father.”
I glanced around, just in case someone happened to pass by. “Yeah, but aren’t they paying us extra? Too much money might make Mamá suspicious, so I thought it’d be better to just say we had a few more customers.”
He shook his head. “And you didn’t think about keeping a few pesetas for yourself? C’mon, you can’t be that honest.”
I shrugged.
“An honest spy … I don’t know about this,” he muttered.
“What’s the exact address of our first delivery?” I asked as we walked toward the outskirts of town. We were now entering the area where all the big landowners had their chalets.
Mathias pulled out the sealed envelope from his vest pocket. “Twenty-Five Carretera San Bernardo.” He held the envelope toward the sun and squinted.
“Vale, that means the house should be up a little further,” I said, watching as he tilted the cream-colored envelope to different angles. “You’ve looked ten times. You’re not going to be able to see what’s inside.”
“Yeah, I know. I wish my father had told me what he wrote, though.”
“Fat chance.” I shifted the weight of the oversized sardine basket in my arms. With only enough fish for six customers, there really was no need for such a large basket, but Mamá had only two sizes: big and huge. It was no wonder all the sardineras carried their loads on their heads.
Mathias put his free hand on the edge of the open basket. “Let me carry it for a while.”
I pulled it away from him. “Don’t worry. I got it,” I said, giving his leg and the makila a quick glance. “Plus, we’re already here.” I pointed at the path that led to the large two-story house.
“Wonder who owns this place?” Mathias asked, his eyes transfixed on the automobile that was parked by the side of the house.
“Tomás Beltran. He was the tall man with the beard.”
“You sure? There’s no name on here.” He flipped the envelope over to double-check.
“Of course I am. Señor Beltran practically runs the city. He’s always there with all the politicians whenever a president or leader comes to take the oath under the Guernica Tree. Everyone knows his house.”
“Well, obviously not everyone,” Mathias muttered.
As we walked closer to the large double doors at the front of the house, I couldn’t help but notice how everything around me seemed to be coated with a layer of wealth. I even imagined the small statue in the fountain spilling out diamonds instead of water. Living here must be like living in a movie, I thought … a very rich movie.
“You know, I was thinking about the Guernica Tree.” Mathias interrupted my dream. “I mean, when I lived in Bilbao—”
“You lived in Bilbao?” I asked.
“I told you, I’ve lived in a bunch of places. Anyway, when I lived there, I’d hear about the famous tree in the middle of Guernica where all the kings and rulers of Spain would come and promise to leave the Basques alone, but have you ever wondered why?”
“Why?” I asked, slowing down as we approached the front door.
“Yeah, why do the ceremony under a tree?”
I shrugged. “Guess ’cause it’s just the way things have always been done. Don’t you know Basque history?”
“Yeah, I know some of it.” Mathias rapped on the door with its large iron knocker, then looked back at me. “I just think it’s strange that they actually do it. C’mon, a tree, when the king of Spain is used to a palace?”
I thought about it for a moment, looking around at everything Señor Beltran owned. “All the money in the world can’t make something significant. I mean, I’d rather have my tree than all the ones in some park. And mine doesn’t have the tradition that the Guernica Tree has.” I shifted the basket again to balance it on my right hip.
Mathias leaned on his makila and gave me a funny look. “Your tree? You mean the one out in the field? Who said it was yours?”
I shrugged. “I’ve been going to it since I was little.”
“But you don’t own it. Just because—”
A heavyset woman wearing a maid’s uniform opened the door and glared at us. “Don’t you two know anything?”
“We’re here—” Mathias began to explain.
The old woman raised her hand to silence him. “¡Basta! Don’t want to hear it. Deliveries go to the back. You don’t come to the front door like an invited guest.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I turned to go around to the back.
She shook her head and looked at Mathias, her eyes pausing at his walking stick. “Well, you’re here now. The damage has been done. Let me see what you have.”
I tilted the basket so she could see the sardines.
“Don’t know what’s possessed Señor Beltran to start eating sardines when he can eat anything he likes,” she muttered, taking three of the fish and placing them on a sheet of newspaper that Mathias held out for her.
I glanced around her and into the foyer. I could see a small dark wooden table and a gold-crested mirror above it.
“Probably feels pity for the likes of you.” She reached into her white apron pocket and took out several coins. “Here, he told me to give you this amount,” she said, dropping the money into Mathias’s palm. “Though it seems he’s paying way too much for such a small amount of sardines.… Very strange.”
“He’s also buying some to be given to the poor.” My eyes darted back to the old woman, and I smiled as innocently as I could. Who knew I was so good at this lying thing?
Mathias handed her the envelope with Señor Beltran’s address on it. “This is for Señor Beltran too,” he said.
“Yes, yes, me lo imagine. I didn’t think it was a love letter for me.” She scowled.
Mathias gave me a quick glance. “It’s an invoice for the sardine deliveries made to the poor … and it’s sealed.”
“Now look here, boy, I don’t know who raised you, but I know better than to open envelopes addressed to Señor Beltran. I’ll give it to him just like I give him every other invoice and piece of mail that comes to this house.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Mathias gave her a slight nod and tugged on my sleeve, directing m
e to leave.
“Next time, use your brains and remember to come to the back door,” the old woman called out. “Don’t be such idiots!”
Mathias waved and kept walking.
I turned, immune to being called names, although a part of me had secretly hoped that things would somehow be different.
“And you, Sardine Girl, don’t you think your boyfriend there should carry the basket instead of you? Not much of a gentleman, is he?”
I stopped and spun around.
“¿Qué?” the old woman challenged, but I had no response … though I wished I could let loose a tirade of insults about her wrinkled skin or tell her how we were more than what we appeared to be.
Realizing that I had nothing to say, the old woman dismissed us with a wave of her hand and closed the front door.
“Estúpida,” I muttered under my breath. I looked over at Mathias, who’d been watching with mild interest. “Ignore her,” I said. “She doesn’t understand that you can’t do certain things because of … um, you know, the way you are.”
I waited for Mathias to smile or thank me for understanding. Instead, his expression hardened into a glare. He turned and started walking back toward the main street.
“Hey, what’s the matter?” I called out, shifting the basket to my other hip. “Wait up!”
Mathias didn’t answer. He wouldn’t even look at me; he just kept walking at a faster pace than before.
“Mathias?”
After a few minutes, the air between us was thick with resentment. “Are you mad because I came up with the story about giving the sardines to the poor?”
More silence from Mathias, and he was not slowing down.
“I thought she was getting suspicious and we needed a cover story. Aren’t spies supposed to improvise and think on their feet? Don’t get all upset just because you didn’t think of it.”
He froze in his tracks, his eyes blazing. “Of course that’s not it. Unless you think ‘the way I am’ doesn’t let me come up with stories too.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I asked, sensing that his seething anger was about to spill over into a full-fledged fight.
A Thunderous Whisper Page 5