the convent, and she had never needed to sort through so many options. Yes, it was exciting,
but goodness, enough.
Alaia’s slight retreat caused Miren to speak louder.
“And then we can go to my house for dinner,” she added. “And you could meet my family. And you could spend the night in my
room.”
“Miren . . . ,” Alaia broke in. “I’m not deaf.”
Guernica embraced Alaia Aldecoa. It didn’t hurt that she was towed in the wake of Miren Ansotegui, the graceful young dancer
who happened to be the daughter of the town’s renowned strongman and the much-admired Mariangeles Oñati. Their curiosity over
Alaia’s condition quickly gave way to admiration as they watched her open to others and adapt and compensate for her disability.
She seemed so fearless, to walk around like that. After the two girls left a shop or café, those within often tested themselves
with the voluntary onset of blindness, closing their eyes for a few steps before stubbing toes or cracking their legs on furniture,
or giving in to the urge to peek through eye slits. What a shame, they agreed, and such a pretty girl, too. Didn’t she already
show womanly bulges in that sackcloth dress with the rope sash?
Miren touted Alaia as “the most unique person in Guernica” and bragged about her new friend as if she were a possession. Rather
than being offended at being treated as a new pet, Alaia thrived on the exposure, and before long she was able to negotiate
the market and several places in town without holding Miren’s arm, using only the walking stick the sisters had carved for
her. When the sisters heard of the success of her outings, they felt as if they’d helped nurse an orphaned animal to health
and were about to release it back into its own habitat.
On her early outings, Alaia found Miren to be as frenetic as the sisters were restrained and Miren’s hyperactivity to be as
far from her personal rhythms as were the sisters’ meditations and prayer. She had gone from the company of slumbering lambs
to guidance by a playful sheepdog puppy. After sensing Alaia withdraw a few times, Miren recognized her new friend’s need
for a slower pace and softer voice, and their trips became more relaxed. Still, Alaia could sense Miren’s spirit vibrating
at a pitch she could almost hear from a distance, humming like the sisters at vespers.
Not a heartbeat separated Justo Ansotegui’s pious “amen” to the premeal grace and the start of his detailed personal biography
for the sake of his daughter’s new friend.
“Let me explain myself to you, child,” he said as he made the first forceful incisions into the bread loaf.
Mariangeles and Miren groaned in chorus.
“I am well known to be the strongest man in Guernica, and I suspect most women would agree that I am the most handsome man
in the Pays Basque, too.”
“Papa!”
“Justo!”
“Wait, women, it is only considerate that she understand the importance of this occasion,” he said. “But she must promise
not to inform the sisters of my appeal, or the convent would be emptied by morning and Errotabarri would be crowded with those
in black habits gathered to praise my manly form.”
“Justo, that’s sacrilege!”
“Papa, that’s disgusting!”
“Alaia, pay no attention to this man,” Mariangeles said as she brought another dish of vegetables to the table. “If he is
the most anything in the country, it is the most boastful.”
“Come here, woman, let me smell those hands,” Justo said to Mariangeles.
Justo buried his face in her palms and inhaled, finally pulling away as if intoxicated.
“I love the smell of a woman who has just cut celery,” he declared. Alaia sorted through every smell that arrived as Mariangeles
ferried plates to the table. She tried to memorize the flavors of the meal, the lamb with mint sauce, the bread coated in
farm-churned butter, the beans, the paprika-dusted potatoes, the mild asparagus and
but goodness, enough.
Alaia’s slight retreat caused Miren to speak louder.
“And then we can go to my house for dinner,” she added. “And you could meet my family. And you could spend the night in my
room.”
“Miren . . . ,” Alaia broke in. “I’m not deaf.”
Guernica embraced Alaia Aldecoa. It didn’t hurt that she was towed in the wake of Miren Ansotegui, the graceful young dancer
who happened to be the daughter of the town’s renowned strongman and the much-admired Mariangeles Oñati. Their curiosity over
Alaia’s condition quickly gave way to admiration as they watched her open to others and adapt and compensate for her disability.
She seemed so fearless, to walk around like that. After the two girls left a shop or café, those within often tested themselves
with the voluntary onset of blindness, closing their eyes for a few steps before stubbing toes or cracking their legs on furniture,
or giving in to the urge to peek through eye slits. What a shame, they agreed, and such a pretty girl, too. Didn’t she already
show womanly bulges in that sackcloth dress with the rope sash?
Miren touted Alaia as “the most unique person in Guernica” and bragged about her new friend as if she were a possession. Rather
than being offended at being treated as a new pet, Alaia thrived on the exposure, and before long she was able to negotiate
the market and several places in town without holding Miren’s arm, using only the walking stick the sisters had carved for
her. When the sisters heard of the success of her outings, they felt as if they’d helped nurse an orphaned animal to health
and were about to release it back into its own habitat.
On her early outings, Alaia found Miren to be as frenetic as the sisters were restrained and Miren’s hyperactivity to be as
far from her personal rhythms as were the sisters’ meditations and prayer. She had gone from the company of slumbering lambs
to guidance by a playful sheepdog puppy. After sensing Alaia withdraw a few times, Miren recognized her new friend’s need
for a slower pace and softer voice, and their trips became more relaxed. Still, Alaia could sense Miren’s spirit vibrating
at a pitch she could almost hear from a distance, humming like the sisters at vespers.
Not a heartbeat separated Justo Ansotegui’s pious “amen” to the premeal grace and the start of his detailed personal biography
for the sake of his daughter’s new friend.
“Let me explain myself to you, child,” he said as he made the first forceful incisions into the bread loaf.
Mariangeles and Miren groaned in chorus.
“I am well known to be the strongest man in Guernica, and I suspect most women would agree that I am the most handsome man
in the Pays Basque, too.”
“Papa!”
“Justo!”
“Wait, women, it is only considerate that she understand the importance of this occasion,” he said. “But she must promise
not to inform the sisters of my appeal, or the convent would be emptied by morning and Errotabarri would be crowded with those
in black habits gathered to praise my manly form.”
“Justo, that’s sacrilege!”
“Papa, that’s disgusting!”
“Alaia, pay no attention to this man,” Mariangeles said as she brought another dish of vegetables to the table. “If he is
the most anything in the country, it is the most boastful.”
“Come here, woman, let me smell those hands,” Justo said to Mariangeles.
Justo buried his face in her palms and inhaled, finally pulling away as if intoxicated.
“I love the smell of a woman who has just cut celery,” he declared. Alaia sorted through every smell that arrived as Mariangeles
ferried plates to the table. She tried to memorize the flavors of the meal, the lamb with mint sauce, the bread coated in
farm-churned butter, the beans, the paprika-dusted potatoes, the mild asparagus and
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