The Sunflower: A Novel

by Evans, Richard Paul

  “About six years.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  His forehead wrinkled with thought. “Maybe four years.”

  “You don’t know?”

  He shook his head, “I guess the country’s rubbing off on me.”

  “How’s that?” Christine asked.

  “Time’s different down here. Back in the states I planned my day in fifteen-minute increments. Here, months go by without so much as a nod.”

  “Sounds nice,” Jessica said.

  “It kind of is,” he replied.

  Christine asked, “Where do the children here come from?”

  “Mostly from the police. They pick them up off the street.”

  “How many children do you have?”

  “Right now we have twelve boys.”

  “No girls?” Jessica asked.

  “One.”

  “Why only one?”

  “They’re harder to find. The girls don’t usually stay on the street as long as the boys.”

  “Why is that?”

  He hesitated. “They’re sold into prostitution.”

  Christine shook her head. “Is something being done about it?”

  “The government is trying to strengthen the laws. We’re trying to bring in more of them. But we’re probably going to have to get a place for just the girls. We had a half-dozen girls here at one time, but it didn’t work out.”

  “Why?”

  “They kept selling themselves to the boys.”

  “Selling themselves?”

  “For a sol.”

  “A sol?” Jessica said. “Isn’t that like thirty cents?”

  “Everything’s cheap here,” Paul said grimly. “So, where are you ladies from?”

  “Dayton,” Jessica said.

  “Both of you?” he asked, looking at Christine.

  Christine nodded.

  “Where are you from?” Jessica asked.

  “Minnesota. Mostly.”

  The women had finished eating. Paul finished his sandwich, then unwrapped the chocolate.

  “If you’d like, I’ll introduce you to the boys.”

  “We’d love that,” Christine said.

  They all rose, and Paul led them along the corridor to the end of the porch where it opened to a large, plain dining room. The room was fragrant from the meal underway, and a large bowl of rice steamed in the middle of a long, rectangular wooden table surrounded by eleven boys. A lanky Peruvian man with thick eyebrows and eyes like two briquettes of coal stood next to a glowing hot plate on the other side of the room stirring a pot of greens. He glanced up at Paul but didn’t say anything.

  “Buenas tardes,” Paul said.

  The boys all turned from the food.

  “Oye, Paul.”

  “Todavía vamos a tener la fiesta?” Are we still having our party?

  “Por supuesto. Mañana,” Paul said. Of course. Tomorrow.

  He turned back to the women. “This is the family,” he said proudly. Starting at the head of the table and moving counterclockwise, he named each boy. “That’s René, Carlos, Washington, Gordon, Samuel, Ronal, Oscar, Jorge, Joe, Deyvis, and Juan Carlos. And that’s Richard, our cook. He’s new here.”

  “Does your help live here too?” Jessica asked.

  “Only Richard and Jaime.” He turned to the boys. “¿Qué tal si le cantamos una canción?”

  The boys all stood and Paul said, “Uno, dos, tres…” The boys began to sing. The women applauded when they finished.

  “What did it mean?” Christine asked.

  “It’s a song I wrote for them about El Girasol. It says, ‘My shirt might be dirty, my hair’s a mess, but it’s the boy inside that matters.’ ”

  He waved to the boys. “Chao, guapos.”

  The boys returned with a chorus of goodbyes for Paul and the women.

  Outside the room, Jessica said, “Can you tell me where the bathrooms are?”

  He pointed toward a small opening in the courtyard. “Right over there. You need to walk through and out. Want me to show you?”

  “I can find it.”

  “They’re unisex, so I’d recommend locking the door. The guys just barge in.”

  “Thanks for the warning.” She ran off leaving Paul and Christine alone.

  “I didn’t see the girl,” Christine said.

  “Roxana doesn’t like to eat with the boys. They’re a little too rowdy for her. I usually take her lunch to her room.” Paul turned toward her and his eyes seemed to settle on her as if finally taking her in. Being alone with him suddenly made her feel a little shy.

  “Would you like to meet her?”

  “I would.”

  He led her across the courtyard and up a dark stairwell to an upstairs dormitory containing three bunk beds. Sitting alone on the lower bed of the nearest bunk was a little girl, barefoot and wearing a thin red cotton dress. Remnants of her lunch—an unfinished bowl of rice and a banana peel—sat next to her on the mattress. She was holding a book in her lap but was looking up at them as they entered the room. She had delicate features with dark brown almond-shaped eyes. A large scar ran down the left side of her face.

  “Hola,” Christine said. The girl didn’t respond.

  “Roxana is deaf and mute,” Paul said.

  Christine looked at him quizzically. “Deaf?”

  “Yeah.”

  “…But she looked like she was waiting for us when we entered.”

  “She felt our vibrations.”

  Paul knelt down on one knee next to her and began to sign.

  She answered him, then looked up at Christine, and her hands moved in a fury of motion. The conversation continued for nearly a minute.

  “What is she saying?” Christine asked.

  “She asked me who the pretty white woman was. I spelled out your name for her and she said that she likes your name. She wants you to know her name is Roxana.”

  Christine walked up to her. “Hola, Roxana.”

  The little girl turned to Paul and signed again.

  “What is she saying now?”

  “She says you are beautiful like the women on TV and that she wishes she looked like you.”

  Christine smiled. “Tell her that I think she’s beautiful and I wish that I had beautiful black hair like hers.”

  Paul signed this. A smile broke across her face and she looked away shyly, unconsciously pulling a strand of hair down over her scar.

  Paul kissed her on the cheek, then signed their goodbye. As they walked out of the room, Christine suddenly started to cry. She stepped outside the door and covered her eyes with her hand.

  Paul gently touched her arm.

  “Are you okay?”

  She nodded. Paul reached into his pocket and brought out a napkin and handed it to her. She wiped her eyes. “What happened to her? How’d she get that scar?”

  “We don’t know. The police found her wandering along a street outside Lucre.”

  “Who would abandon a deaf child in the street?”

  “Children are abandoned every day, Christine. You don’t know why. Her parents might be dead. Or maybe they just couldn’t feed her.”

  “I feel so stupid. I’ve been feeling so sorry for myself.”

  Paul looked at her sympathetically. “Being with these children has a way of putting all kinds of things in perspective.”

  Paul noticed Jessica wandering around the courtyard looking for them.

  “We’re up here,” he shouted.

  Jessica looked up, shielding her eyes from the sun. “How do I get up?”

  “We’re coming down,” Christine said.

  When they reached the courtyard, Jessica noticed Christine’s red eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” Christine said. “Let’s go back to work.”

  “Where’s our little helper?” Jessica asked.

  “I made him go back to school,” Paul said. “I better get off myself. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “Tomorr
ow,” Jessica said.

  “Bye,” Christine said.

  Paul walked to the front gate and the women went back to their painting. They finished about three hours later and were cleaning up when the bell rang again. They walked outside, their clothes and hair spattered with paint. Jim was standing in the middle of the courtyard surrounded by the group.

  “There’s good news and bad news, folks. The bad news is that our bus broke down. The good news is that we got a new one. So if you left anything on the first bus, be sure to get it now or you’ll probably never see it again.”

  The group climbed the hill to where they had entered the orphanage. Fifty yards away several men had pulled the side panels off the bus and were working on its engine. A new bus idled a few yards from it. As they walked to the bus, Christine asked Jessica, “Did you see Paul?”

  “No. Not since lunch.”

  “I wanted to say goodbye.”

  “He’ll be here tomorrow. Did you leave anything on the other bus?”

  “No.”

  “Good. Then let’s grab a seat up front.”

  When everyone had boarded, Jim sat down in the seat across from the women.

  “What do you want to do tonight?” Jessica asked Christine.

  “Get out of these clothes.”

  “Then what?”

  “Shower. Read. Sleep. And we need to get Pablo his birthday present.”

  “Do you really think it’s his birthday?” Jessica asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  “Not really. Maybe we can get something near the hotel. Hey, Sledge.”

  He leaned over the aisle. “Yeah, Jess?”

  “Sledge?” Christine said.

  “It’s a nickname,” Jessica said. “As in ‘hammer.’ Where can we get a birthday present for Pablo?”

  “They have toys at the handicraft mall across the street from the hotel.”

  “What do you think he’d want?”

  Jim thought about it for a moment. “Maybe a toy truck. Something he can share with the other boys.”

  “You look tired,” Jessica said to him.

  “I am. Some of those posts we set were more than two hundred pounds.”

  “You’re such a manly man. Move over, I’ll give you a shoulder rub.”

  Jim slid toward the window, and Jessica crossed the aisle to his seat and began kneading his shoulders and neck. A little more than a half hour later, the bus stopped at the hotel. As they climbed off the bus, Jim asked, “What are you gals doing tonight?”

  “Christine wants to read. What do you have in mind?”

  “I should take you to see the ruins of Sacsayhuaman.”

  “What’s that?” Jessica asked.

  “It’s a stone fortress built by the Inca. It’s only ten minutes from the Plaza.”

  “What do you think, Chris? Want to join us?”

  Christine could tell by the way Jessica asked that she wanted to be alone with Jim. “No, you two go.”

  “All right,” Jessica said. “But I’ll need a few minutes to freshen up.”

  “Meet in the lobby in ten minutes?” Jim asked.

  “Ten minutes.”

  The women went up to their room. Christine pulled off her shoes and lay across the bed while Jessica went into the bathroom and washed up. When the water stopped, Jessica shouted, “You sure you’re okay being alone?”

  “I’ve got my gecko.”

  Jessica emerged from the bathroom, drying her hands on a towel. “What did you say?”

  “I said I’m fine.”

  “Then I’ll see you tonight. By the way, Jim says there’s an Internet café across the street in case you want to check your e-mails. Ciao, bella.”

  “Bye.”

  After Jessica left, Christine picked up her book but couldn’t get into it and put it back down.

  After a while she went out and found the Internet café. A man led her to a computer and she logged onto her account. While she waited for it to load, she was suddenly filled with anticipation. Had Martin e-mailed her? How would she respond? The exercise was moot. He hadn’t. There was the usual spam and one e-mail from her mother asking how she was.

  She wrote back to her mother in great detail about the last few days and their work in the orphanage. When she had finished, she left the café and went to the handicraft mall. There were scores of booths inside and she quickly came across one with children’s toys. She found a large yellow plastic dump truck, a small spool of yellow ribbon and a set of pink plastic hair combs with a matching hand mirror. She purchased the gifts, then went back to her room and drew a hot bath.

  She sat in the tub for nearly a half hour, scrubbing the paint flecks from her arms until her skin was pink. Then, adding more hot water, she slid down into the bath until it reached her chin. She closed her eyes and relaxed. When the water began to cool, she climbed out and went to bed. The last thoughts on her mind were of Paul, Pablo and a little girl with a scar across her face.

  Chapter

  Ten

  Today is Pablo’s birthday—or at least his birthday fiesta—as we have no idea when he was born or even where. But it doesn’t matter. We commemorate the day he came into our lives, and what more is a birthday celebration than this?

  PAUL COOK’S DIARY

  The next morning the bus arrived at El Girasol a half hour earlier than the previous day. Christine left the bus carrying the toy truck, ribbon, mirror and hair combs.

  “Did you check your e-mail?” Jessica asked.

  “My mom wrote.”

  “Nothing from Martian?”

  “No.”

  Jessica sighed and turned away. “What are we doing today?” she asked Jim as they descended the hill into the hacienda.

  “Most of the group will be putting wire netting on the greenhouse. But I’ll be installing electric lights in the boy’s dorm. You guys want to help?”

  “You two go ahead,” Christine said. “I’ll work on the greenhouse.” They walked a little further. “So how were the ruins?”

  Jessica winked at Jim.

  “We didn’t quite make it,” Jim said, looking a little guilty. “We’re going tonight.”

  “No we’re not,” Jessica said, “We’re having our fiesta. We’re celebrating our last night in Cuzco.”

  “Oh, right.”

  The group entered the courtyard and gathered around the well. Jaime was again waiting for them. Christine glanced about to see if Paul was there. He soon emerged and crossed the courtyard and joined Jaime to address the group.

  “Welcome back. My name is Paul Cook. I’m the director of El Girasol. I have to say I’m pretty impressed with your industry: you got the greenhouse framed and the schoolroom painted in one day. Today we’re going to tie the wire netting on the greenhouse and hopefully get the plastic on. The greenhouse is something we’ve looked forward to for several years. Right now the boys produce about a fourth of their own food. This greenhouse will enable us to garden year-round and become even more self-sufficient. Jaime will be directing today’s work. Thank you for coming. I hope it’s a good experience for you. We’ll see you at lunch.”

  As the group dispersed, Christine went to Paul with the presents.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “Good morning.” She held out the truck. “I brought this for Pablo—for his birthday.”

  He looked bemused. “How did you know?” Then he grinned. “Never mind. He’ll be president of this country someday.”

  She handed him the gifts.

  “He’ll love the truck. But I don’t think he’ll care much for the ribbon or the hair combs.”

  She smiled. “Those are for Roxana.”

  “I guessed.”

  “We tried to find you yesterday before we left. We wanted to thank you for the tour.”

  “I had to go into town.” He looked around as if he had just suddenly realized that the group was gone. “I better get out there. Are you helping us on the greenhouse today?”

&nb
sp; “Yes.”

  “Want to help me?”

  She hid her pleasure at the assignment. “Sure.”

  “Good.” He looked down at the truck. “I’ll put these away. I’ll be right back.”

  Paul disappeared through one of the doors and was back almost as quickly. They walked together to the back of the hacienda. From the patio the valley was laid out before them in a lush quilt of green and amber vegetation. The back property was mostly fields, and the tender green bayonets of corn and indigo peered above the stone and adobe walls that surrounded the property.

  On the southern half of the yard the group was congregated around the wooden frame of a large greenhouse nearly seventy-five feet in length and half that wide. Two large rolls of plastic and several bales of wire lay on the ground. They were already at work with wire cutters and hammers, standing on ladders or planks as they stretched the wire across the frame. Christine thought there was something pleasing about seeing the Peruvians and Americans working side by side.

  “What are they doing?”

  “They’re making a metal net. It’s like the spring web beneath a mattress. First we stretch the wire from one end to the other, then we tie it side to side. When we’re done, we’ll put the plastic on it and then repeat the process on the outside.”

  “All the greenhouses I’ve seen were made with glass.”

  “The plastic sheeting works just as well. And it costs a lot less.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Tying the net is a two-person job. One of us carries the wire, the other ties.”

  He hefted a large spool of wire onto his shoulder and carried it over to one end of the framework, where a vacant ladder tilted against a supporting beam. “You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”

  “No.”

  “All right, then climb on up.”

  Christine climbed the ladder and Paul handed her a hammer and nail. “First pound a nail in the cross beam, then wrap the wire around it.” She obeyed. “Now come down.” She climbed down and Paul took the hammer from her, then moved the ladder a few feet. She climbed back up. “Now what?”

  “We start wrapping the wire around itself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll show you.” He climbed the ladder behind her, his body sliding up against hers. The warmth and feel of his body filled her with happiness, and only then did she realize how much she missed being held and touched. She wondered if it felt good to him as well, as he seemed perfectly comfortable; he put his arms around her and tied the wire in a loop and pulled it back toward the next pole. “I’ll show you a little trick. If you twist it like this, you don’t have to pull so hard. Got it?”