walk across the square to the harbor each morning, Dodo proudly farted as if it were performance art, but the
others were always too sleepy to protest. In the dark, even the chatty gulls slept, abed on their communal perch near the
peak of San Nicolas Island. But there were enough sounds without them as the rigging groaned against the moorings and the
bumpers of the boats uttered rubbery squeaks when men stepped aboard and altered the attitude of the beam.
From various parts of the harbor, in primitive, wordless communication, came the coughs of the fishermen. Years of dank mornings
and days aseainflamed their respiratory systems. Each cough was distinctive, and without looking up from his work in the predawn
chill, Miguel could recognize who was aboard the various crafts by their bronchial signature.
With the physical work of net preparation resting with his sons, José María Navarro would sit on a gunwale breathing deeply
of his final cigarette before casting off. Each inhalation caused the tip to brighten and cast a red glow across the terrain
of his face. The ember light showed his eyes clenched in pleasure and left dark shadows in the lines radiating from the corners
of his eyes, like the wakes of tiny boats, carved deep by the years of staring into the sun that skipped off the water.
As lines were cast off, Miguel already could hear the plangent waves. And past the breakwater he saw them crest and curl and
die white against the seaward rocks of the island. The Egun On slipped out of the harbor, leaving a ripple that spread and vanished as they headed into the still-dark sea. At this point,
a surging tide of dread started rising in the slender passage at the back of Miguel’s throat.
CHAPTER 5
When Miren Ansotegui asked about the girl at the convent, Sister Terese recounted the heartrending history of Alaia Aldecoa’s
blindness and abandonment by her parents. She did so with a motive.
“She has a sense of independence,” Sister Terese said. “She has so many questions that she’s afraid to ask us. We hope to
find someone to take her outside to see how well she could do in town. We’re happy to have her, and she can stay forever if
she wants, but we think she would rather live out there.”
The sisters intentionally didn’t indoctrinate Alaia to their lifestyle. If she were called to it, that would be fine, but
they didn’t push. She was sequestered because of others’ neglect, not her own choice. They were renunciates, she the renounced.
They taught her soap-making as a potential vocation, and they helped her manage an impressive degree of mobility. Having been
raised inside a simple, walled compound, Alaia had little need for guidance other than her walking stick. With this experience
in an enclosed environment, she developed a sense for detecting obstacles and hazards that would carry over outside the convent.
“Would it be all right if I took her into town?” Miren asked.
Sister Terese had hoped for that exact offer without wanting to impose.
What Alaia discovered in the first moments outside was that Miren Ansotegui was more of a challenge than the unknown open
spaces. Outside the walls, Alaia spoke at the same deliberate pace with which she walked. Miren was the opposite, skipping,
spinning, gesturing, and tossing out possibilities at a withering rate.
“First, we’ll go to the market and get some fruit,” Miren said. “The apples are wonderful now.”
“I would . . . ,” Alaia said.
“And then we can go to the houses of some of my friends, so you can meet them. And then we can stop at the café to get some
lunch. And then we can go to the town square.”
“. . . like that,” Alaia continued.
“Maybe I can find somebody with an accordion and I could teach you some of our dances.”
Alaia stepped back from Miren, as if distance could protect her from the avalanche of words. She might go months without having
to absorb so much language at
others were always too sleepy to protest. In the dark, even the chatty gulls slept, abed on their communal perch near the
peak of San Nicolas Island. But there were enough sounds without them as the rigging groaned against the moorings and the
bumpers of the boats uttered rubbery squeaks when men stepped aboard and altered the attitude of the beam.
From various parts of the harbor, in primitive, wordless communication, came the coughs of the fishermen. Years of dank mornings
and days aseainflamed their respiratory systems. Each cough was distinctive, and without looking up from his work in the predawn
chill, Miguel could recognize who was aboard the various crafts by their bronchial signature.
With the physical work of net preparation resting with his sons, José María Navarro would sit on a gunwale breathing deeply
of his final cigarette before casting off. Each inhalation caused the tip to brighten and cast a red glow across the terrain
of his face. The ember light showed his eyes clenched in pleasure and left dark shadows in the lines radiating from the corners
of his eyes, like the wakes of tiny boats, carved deep by the years of staring into the sun that skipped off the water.
As lines were cast off, Miguel already could hear the plangent waves. And past the breakwater he saw them crest and curl and
die white against the seaward rocks of the island. The Egun On slipped out of the harbor, leaving a ripple that spread and vanished as they headed into the still-dark sea. At this point,
a surging tide of dread started rising in the slender passage at the back of Miguel’s throat.
CHAPTER 5
When Miren Ansotegui asked about the girl at the convent, Sister Terese recounted the heartrending history of Alaia Aldecoa’s
blindness and abandonment by her parents. She did so with a motive.
“She has a sense of independence,” Sister Terese said. “She has so many questions that she’s afraid to ask us. We hope to
find someone to take her outside to see how well she could do in town. We’re happy to have her, and she can stay forever if
she wants, but we think she would rather live out there.”
The sisters intentionally didn’t indoctrinate Alaia to their lifestyle. If she were called to it, that would be fine, but
they didn’t push. She was sequestered because of others’ neglect, not her own choice. They were renunciates, she the renounced.
They taught her soap-making as a potential vocation, and they helped her manage an impressive degree of mobility. Having been
raised inside a simple, walled compound, Alaia had little need for guidance other than her walking stick. With this experience
in an enclosed environment, she developed a sense for detecting obstacles and hazards that would carry over outside the convent.
“Would it be all right if I took her into town?” Miren asked.
Sister Terese had hoped for that exact offer without wanting to impose.
What Alaia discovered in the first moments outside was that Miren Ansotegui was more of a challenge than the unknown open
spaces. Outside the walls, Alaia spoke at the same deliberate pace with which she walked. Miren was the opposite, skipping,
spinning, gesturing, and tossing out possibilities at a withering rate.
“First, we’ll go to the market and get some fruit,” Miren said. “The apples are wonderful now.”
“I would . . . ,” Alaia said.
“And then we can go to the houses of some of my friends, so you can meet them. And then we can stop at the café to get some
lunch. And then we can go to the town square.”
“. . . like that,” Alaia continued.
“Maybe I can find somebody with an accordion and I could teach you some of our dances.”
Alaia stepped back from Miren, as if distance could protect her from the avalanche of words. She might go months without having
to absorb so much language at
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