The Girl Who Could Silence the Wind

by Meg Medina

  THE CEMENT WASHING tubs stood at the back edge of the property, hidden in the shade of two schefflera trees. Normally, the laundry shed and the outdoor tubs were the realm of two local lavanderas who arrived from their homes before sunrise and worked like shadows on the various estates of Punta Gorda, scrubbing shirt collars and underwear until they were fragrant and new.

  Sonia stared with gloom at the mountain of dirty dinner linens waiting in the nearby baskets.

  “It’s only until Umberto is done visiting,” Ramona said, trying to cheer her up. “Hand me the hose.”

  Sonia listened as Ramona explained the steps. To keep her from “tempting Umberto,” as Teresa had so plainly put it, Sonia would do the laundry each morning instead.

  Only until Umberto is done visiting. And why exactly did she have to pay the price for Umberto’s unwanted attentions? Sonia didn’t dare ask. All morning she hauled hot water and scrubbed until her nails peeled down like paper.

  When she returned to the kitchen for the lunch hour, the front of her uniform was soaked and clinging to her chest.

  Eva looked up as Sonia lugged in the basket of pressed linens. She was crushing bulbs of garlic for the sofrito.

  “Look at it this way, amorcito,” she whispered when Ramona went to store the laundry in the buffet. “The smell of coconut soap under your nails is better than garlic.”

  “And why do they have you out here?” Oscar asked as he handed Sonia a clothespin a few days later. He had noticed her in the shadows, where she had been wrestling to pin sheets on the line.

  Sonia felt a blush rising. How could she explain those ugly accusations to a grandfather?

  “Teresa ordered it,” she replied carefully.

  “Ay, what is that old woman thinking? I’ll have a talk with her. A young girl likes to work with her companions — not here with only the lizards for company.”

  Sonia turned to him, pale. “Please don’t.” The last thing she needed was to get any more of Teresa’s attention. “I don’t mind at all. It’s . . . nice to be out in the fresh air.”

  She finished pinning and headed back to the sheets she had left soaking in the basin. Already her shoes were wet and squeaky.

  Oscar sat down in the shade and looked out at the rose gardens, thinking. “Well, I suppose it doesn’t hurt to learn more than one job. I’ve done plenty of things here at Casa Masón myself, too — some better than others.”

  “Oh?”

  “You see those rosebushes over there?”

  Sonia stopped stirring the clothes with her broom handle and squinted. Roses climbed up a trellis near the gazebo. The heads were large and yellow.

  “I planted them myself,” Oscar continued proudly. “Grown from seeds, in fact.”

  “So, you were the gardener?”

  He nodded and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.

  “Yes, a long time ago, before my back creaked and my knees swelled. That’s a job for young men. We old horses get put out to pasture. In my case, I drive and wait, drive and wait.” He let out a sigh. “It’s a hard thing to grow old and feeble. Much better to be young and full of illusions — and in love.” He lowered his voice. “I planted those flowers to impress a young girl, if you want to know the truth. I was always a romantic.”

  Sonia smiled at him. She was thinking of what Oscar might look like as a young man holding a bouquet. “And was she impressed?”

  “You could ask her, I suppose.”

  “Your wife?”

  “No, no. Ileana is long dead.” He crossed himself. “This was before I knew her. I planted those roses for Teresa.” Oscar clapped his hands in delight and threw back his head to laugh at Sonia’s surprise. “S-s-s-s-s-s. Don’t look at me like that; it’s true! We weren’t always so shriveled and old, you know. She was a beauty once.”

  Sonia shook her head as she rubbed at a stubborn spot. Oscar had escaped a terrible life with Teresa; that was for sure.

  “But what happened? Why didn’t she marry you?”

  Oscar paused, his smile looking frozen for a moment. Then he waved his hand and shrugged.

  “Ah, well, that was long ago,” he said vaguely. “There were other . . . circumstances.”

  Sonia didn’t press him further, remembering what Dalia had told her in the kitchen. Teresa had been one of Señor Masón’s mistresses. But now it suddenly occurred to her: Had that been what Teresa wanted? Or had it been what her employer demanded?

  “Let’s see what’s going on in the world today.” Oscar sat down nearby and opened the morning paper, squinting over his reading glasses as he surveyed the stories.

  After a while he clicked his tongue in disgust. “Mira para eso. Such a waste.”

  Sonia looked up. “What is it?”

  He cleared his throat and read aloud what had snagged his attention.

  “Since January 1, the medical examiner’s office has handled thirty-eight bodies found in different locations in the desert.

  “‘We have been picking up between one to four bodies daily since the beginning of the month,’ said Doctor Ragoberto Anzuela, chief medical examiner. ‘We found one young man just last night. Most of the people we find are recently deceased.’”

  Oscar put down the paper and sighed. “So much sadness, just for a chance to work, don’t you think, Sonia? And to think it’s come to this: all you need is the tiniest bit of money in your pocket and you’re a target for any thief!” He looked at her and sprang to his feet. “What’s the matter, niña? Don’t you feel well?”

  Sonia had gone pale. Long drips of suds fell from her fingertips to her shoes.

  “Does it say who was found?” she asked. A chill spread through her as she thought of Rafael in the desert like Luis. “Is there a name?”

  “Just a picture.”

  She took the paper in her wet hands and studied the image of two masked doctors standing over the latest victim for a long while. The hair was curly. The clothes were not Rafael’s. Relieved, she gave the newspaper back to Oscar and turned to the basins without a word.

  Oscar watched her carefully. Her hands trembled as she shook out new soap flakes into the water.

  “You have a brother, I hear,” he said gently. “Eva seems to think he’s quite spectacular.”

  Sonia nodded, her eyes suddenly clouding. “His name is Rafael.”

  Oscar pursed his lips and stared at his hands.

  “In that case, I’m sure he is very smart like you,” he told her. “And very good at taking care of himself.”

  Sonia thrust her arms into the hot water and held her breath against the sting.

  “No more dreary stories this morning,” Oscar said at last. “My apologies! I don’t know what I was thinking. This is no way to entertain a young lady. I’ve spent too much time around the mechanics — that’s the problem. Those boys live for gore.” He checked his watch quickly. “I’ll tell you what: I have about thirty minutes before la señora’s first appointment. Why don’t I run back to the kitchen and get us some cold drinks?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he stuffed the newspaper under his arm and started along the path.

  “WHAT’S THE MATTER with you, Pancho?” Señor Pasqual demanded. “Stop disgracing me! It’s those silly stories of yours, isn’t it? You can’t dream and drive at the same time!”

  Pancho hung his head in shame. He didn’t bother to explain the truth behind the accident. Señor Pasqual was a busy man, not a romantic with patience for problems that resulted from the heart. Who could blame him for his bad temper? Pancho had become a distracted and reckless driver, one of the worst in the whole fleet. Only yesterday, he’d forgotten to deliver two packages and later had crushed the toes of an old man resting in the shade. Now this: a turn taken too sharply had pitched his passenger in the road. The victim had been Señor Ruiz — the head of the post-and-telegraph office, no less.

  Early that morning Pancho had been driving Señor Ruiz to the plaza for his coffee and newspaper, thinking about Sonia a
s usual. Moments later Señor Ruiz was bruised and groaning in the road.

  Now Pancho looked at his dented handlebars in mortification. It would take a contortionist to steer this bike from now on.

  “And don’t think for a moment that I’m paying for the repair.” Señor Pasqual torqued the handlebars as best he could. “It’s coming out of your wages. Now, go! If I hear another complaint, you’ll be out.”

  “It won’t happen again, señor.”

  Pancho pedaled away, but it was no use. Every thought was of Sonia. Once again his distractions got the better of him, and before he knew it, he found himself standing in the shady yard of the Ocampos without a single reason for being there.

  Felix and Tía Neli were having a silent breakfast in the yard. Pancho saw at once that the ugly rumors were true. The Ocampo twins had vowed never to speak to each other again. Felix blamed Tía Neli for planting silly ideas in his children’s heads; she was angry at his lack of appreciation for her efforts.

  “No one called for a taxi,” Felix groused when he saw Pancho standing there. “Get on your way.”

  “Ignore him,” Tía Neli said. “Come eat a pastry, Pancho. You look like a starved cat.”

  Pancho took off his dusty cap and approached with care. The pastry was tempting, but when he reached their table, his eyes fell on something even better. Felix Ocampo was bent over a sheet of paper. From the looks of it, it was a letter to Sonia — or at least a jumble of misspelled words addressed to her.

  Felix looked up and glared. “Do you mind? I’m busy.”

  “Some people are so rude.” Tía Neli shook her head and grabbed a pitcher. “Milk?”

  “And some people can’t butt out of other people’s affairs,” Felix retorted. “If I want to write to my daughter, I will. Who else can help us?” He scratched out another word until he’d rubbed a hole in the surface. “How do you spell disappeared?”

  Tía Neli looked at the clouds and did not reply.

  “¿Desaparecido?” Pancho asked worriedly.

  “Yes, disappeared. As in ‘Your brother has disappeared.’”

  Pancho swallowed hard and spelled the word as Felix labored over each letter. Pancho tried not to notice his difficulties. Felix Ocampo was the kind of man who used his word and a handshake to make his deals. He’d probably never set foot in a schoolhouse.

  Felix balled up the paper in frustration.

  “¡Vaya. Qué basura!” he said in disgust.

  Pancho thought quickly. “Would you like me to write it down, señor? I am a very trusty speller.”

  Felix looked at him dubiously. “Sit down.” He slid a new sheet of paper and the pencil nub across the table. “Take this down exactly.”

  “Haven’t you caused enough trouble for one day?” Señor Ruiz snapped when Pancho appeared at the mail window near midday.

  “Señor Ocampo asked me to post this to Casa Masón today.” Pancho slid an envelope addressed to Sonia across the counter, wishing he wouldn’t have to mail it at all. He could only imagine the sad look on Sonia’s face when she received news that Rafael was still missing.

  Señor Ruiz took a look at the sad-faced orphan. He smoothed what remained of his hair over the large welt on the side of his head.

  “Cheer up, Pancho. I forgive you. I wasn’t hurt that badly. It’s not like you killed me, after all.”

  “Killed?” Pancho’s eyes were wide with alarm. He’d been thinking of Rafael on the whole ride back to town. “Heaven forbid anyone else in Tres Montes should meet such an end, señor.”

  Pancho’s stomach growled loudly as he left the post office. Maybe Mongo would spare a snack, he thought. He headed to La Jalada and found a shady resting spot at the corner.

  He was just parking his taxi when the side door opened unexpectedly. Conchita Fo leaned out, kissing one of her admirers good-bye. Pancho started to turn away — it was none of his business — but then he saw who it was, and he jumped behind a tree to watch. It wasn’t just any admirer. It was the police chief — Ernesto Fermín himself — wearing the besotted grin of a schoolboy. Conchita’s lips lingered over his doughy earlobes until Pancho grew sick. Ernesto Fermín walked right past him in his happy stupor, never even noticing the boy — or the fact that he’d dropped a lady’s handkerchief on the ground. The smell of Conchita Fo’s perfume was heavy inside it when Pancho picked it up off the ground.

  Who could have guessed? thought Pancho, watching the spring in the chief’s step. Ernesto Fermín was married to the mayor’s only daughter. He shook his head and checked his watch, realizing how things were. Armando took Señora Fermín to her card game every Tuesday at three. It was precisely 4:35 p.m.

  “Are you spying or just skipping out on your taxi job?”

  Mongo’s voice surprised him. The barkeep was napping in the shade, a huge machete stuck into the trunk of the tree behind him. He smiled his fearsome grin at Pancho, before reaching for his knife. Then he tossed an orange in the air and sliced it cleanly in two. He offered half to Pancho on the tip of his blade.

  “I suppose I don’t feel much like working today, Mongo,” Pancho said, joining him on the ground.

  “And who does?” Mongo replied with a snort. “It would be nice to sit around writing stories all day instead, wouldn’t it? Conjuring up whatever world you wanted! Which reminds me: When are you going to finish that pirate story for me? We left off at the plank.”

  Pancho nibbled on his orange, wishing it were a steak sandwich instead. “Soon. I’ve been a little preoccupied. I haven’t been able to think of the end yet.”

  “Preoccupied? Oh, I see. Some pretty thing has got your imagination.”

  Pancho blushed. “Maybe.”

  Mongo gave him a shove. “Well, do your business and forget her. Women are nothing but a nuisance.”

  Juice squirted everywhere as Mongo’s teeth stabbed through the fruit. He got to his feet and shook his pants clean. “Make sure that ending is bloody and double-crossing,” he called as he started to head back inside. “I like excitement.”

  Pancho licked his sticky fingers, thinking. If only he could make up the world he wanted as Mongo said, he’d have Sonia by his side. Rafael would be safe. People like Conchita Fo and the silly police chief and Señor Arenas would have to answer for their ways.

  Too bad real life was much harder than stories. Señor Pasqual would fire him any day now, and Pancho would be forced to sell little verses from a pushcart to keep from starving. Such a waste of a poet’s life!

  “Get busy, Pancho! There are plenty of fares waiting by the market.” It was Armando calling from his own taxi. He was heading the other way with the mayor’s daughter. “You don’t want Señor Pasqual to hear you’ve been napping under a tree, do you?”

  Pancho waved at his friend, hardly able to look at Señora Fermín, now done with her card game.

  “Buenas tardes, señora,” he mumbled guiltily as they drove by. It was as if Pancho were cheating on her himself.

  “IT WAS AN awful scandal,” Eva said, savoring the memory like a chocolate morsel. She was quartering onions for the soup, which was to be served with braised beef, white rice, and roasted fowl. Casa Masón had a full calendar of social events and, unfortunately, Umberto — who never liked to miss a day of fun — had decided to stay for a long visit.

  Sonia listened intently as she washed rice for the afternoon meal. The kitchen was an oasis from the rest of the house, where she had to work by herself in silence — and now had to be constantly on the lookout for Umberto, who was becoming impossible. Only yesterday he had appeared in the library where she was dusting and encircled her waist, skulking off only when he heard Ramona coming down the hall. She’d made a mental note to check each room carefully before stepping inside.

  Eva’s eyes had the same dreamy look she wore every evening when she read her torrid love scenes aloud in their bedroom. No one can make the tantalizing details of someone else’s disasters more interesting than Eva, Sonia thought. It was a true gift. Ba
ck home, Eva told stories with such passion that even the victims of her gossip ended up happy with the telling. Today the subject was Teresa, who had once become the unfortunate victim of her employer’s attentions. Sonia could hardly believe her ears.

  “Claro, no one let his wife find out,” Eva said. “Or maybe she turned a blind eye. You know how those old-time women were. They expected their men to run loose, so long as they were discreet about it. But everyone knew, just the same.”

  Sonia bit her lip, listening to the facts: the rumor among the servants of all the estates of Punta Gorda was that Teresa had in fact been young and beautiful once. She had come to replace Katarina Masón’s nanny. She’d fallen in love with Oscar, the gardener, but in no time Don Manuel was inviting her into his bed.

  Eva sighed and shook her head in dismay. “It must run in their veins,” she said. “These pig men want to find pleasure with a country girl and forget her name when things get inconvenient.”

  “You’d think she’d have some sympathy, then,” Sonia complained. “It’s not my fault that Umberto’s after me, any more than it was her fault that Señora Masón’s father came knocking on her door.” She drained the rice through her fingers. “It’s not fair.”

  Eva glanced at Dalia and arched her brow knowingly. Instantly, Sonia felt like a silly child. Dalia slammed her cleaver through a chicken leg, fat splattering from the cutting board. “Not fair? Are there little birds swirling around up there in your head, Sonia? Boys like Umberto aren’t punished. You may as well face the ugly facts. If you’re stupid enough to think things are fair, then you deserve whatever kind of attention Umberto gives you. Maybe that will teach you to stop being an imbecile.”

  Sonia stopped what she was doing. “I wouldn’t let him touch me that way,” she said firmly.

  Dalia rolled her eyes. Eva put her hand to her heart. “¡Mi madre! Don’t even think of something like that happening to us. What would happen if la señora decides we’re too much trouble? They’ll call us harlots and send us home. Our families will starve or die of shame — or both! We have to be all eyes around that octopus Umberto!”