peppers soaked in olive oil and garlic.
And for dessert, she devoured the sweet flan that several times wobbled off her spoon before she could track it down.
Mariangeles delighted in Alaia’s joy of food. It was one of the things that always appealed to her about Justo, too. Even
his belching seemed a compliment.
“Alaia, dear, you are welcome here for dinner anytime,” Mariangeles said.
“Yes, you must come back,” Justo said, thoughtfully combing the evidence of dinner from his mustache. “I have many feats of
strength to tell you about.”
“Papa!”
“Justo!”
Alaia was not offended. It was this meal, in fact, that most convinced her that she would move out of the convent as soon
as possible. That lamb. That mint sauce. Those vegetables. Butter. More butter, please. And that flan, oh, dear God, that
flan. Did the sisters know of fl an? How could anyone renounce fl an?
When Miren rose to lead Alaia toward her room, Justo stood and gathered them both close, one beneath each powerful arm. He
squeezed them and clenched his hands together behind their backs and rocked them in rhythm. Miren squirmed as any daughter
would, but Alaia squeezed in a matching response.
“We will be disappointed if you don’t come back often to have more of this food and friendship,” Justo said, kissing Alaia
on the crown of her head. “My little one here needs the company of others besides her boastful father and her cows and little
donkeys.”
“Alaia, may I present my dearest friend, Floradora,” Miren said, placing in Alaia’s hands the rag doll that had shared her
bed since she was a baby.
“She has shiny brunette hair . . .”
(Brown yarn.)
“. . . a graceful neck . . .”
(Stretched thin from nightly hugging.)
“. . . a shapely body . . .”
(Rags inside a stocking.)
“. . . lovely skin . . .”
(Wool petted smooth.)
“. . . a nice smile . . .”
(Red paint.)
“. . . and beautiful dark eyes.”
(Black beads.)
Alaia touched the beads.
They rested in her bed end to end, Miren with her head propped on the headboard and Alaia angled upon a pillow against the
footboard. A small grilled brazier filled with coals taken from the kitchen hearth warmed the room and released a wispy plume
of incense to collect among the beams. Miren wanted to learn of blindness and Alaia of sight; Miren, feelings; Alaia, visions;
Miren, sound; Alaia, colors; Miren, the solitude of the orphanage; Alaia, the comfort of all things familial.
“What is the worst part of being blind?” Miren asked.
“Having to try to tell people what it’s like.”
“Do you have better hearing than us?”
“What?”
“Do you—oh . . . do you have a better sense of smell?”
“Yes, and your feet are horrible,” said Alaia, leaning over Miren’s toes.
“Do you see light at all?”
“Not really, some shadows.”
“Does it seem dark all day?”
“I don’t really know dark from light.”
“Are you angry that you can’t see?”
“Not angry, really. I’m happy I can do most other things.”
“How did you lose your sight?”
“The sisters told me that I was born too early, and that was probably the reason. I was not yet developed. My eyes are not
the only part that does not work. I also don’t get the monthly visits that the sisters told me of.”
Miren: “Lucky you.”
Alaia: “The sisters tell me that it means that I can’t have little ones.”
Miren: “Oh, no. I’m sorry. That’s something I know I want, but I’m afraid of it. My amuma died after having a baby.”
The girls talked through much of the night. Alaia could never tell the sisters of the boundaries she felt at the convent,
how she imagined she was living inside a box. But she could share that with Miren. She couldn’t ask the sisters how she looked,
if she was beautiful, but she could ask Miren. She couldn’t tell the sisters how wonderful it felt being in the town and meeting
people, and knowing that her
And for dessert, she devoured the sweet flan that several times wobbled off her spoon before she could track it down.
Mariangeles delighted in Alaia’s joy of food. It was one of the things that always appealed to her about Justo, too. Even
his belching seemed a compliment.
“Alaia, dear, you are welcome here for dinner anytime,” Mariangeles said.
“Yes, you must come back,” Justo said, thoughtfully combing the evidence of dinner from his mustache. “I have many feats of
strength to tell you about.”
“Papa!”
“Justo!”
Alaia was not offended. It was this meal, in fact, that most convinced her that she would move out of the convent as soon
as possible. That lamb. That mint sauce. Those vegetables. Butter. More butter, please. And that flan, oh, dear God, that
flan. Did the sisters know of fl an? How could anyone renounce fl an?
When Miren rose to lead Alaia toward her room, Justo stood and gathered them both close, one beneath each powerful arm. He
squeezed them and clenched his hands together behind their backs and rocked them in rhythm. Miren squirmed as any daughter
would, but Alaia squeezed in a matching response.
“We will be disappointed if you don’t come back often to have more of this food and friendship,” Justo said, kissing Alaia
on the crown of her head. “My little one here needs the company of others besides her boastful father and her cows and little
donkeys.”
“Alaia, may I present my dearest friend, Floradora,” Miren said, placing in Alaia’s hands the rag doll that had shared her
bed since she was a baby.
“She has shiny brunette hair . . .”
(Brown yarn.)
“. . . a graceful neck . . .”
(Stretched thin from nightly hugging.)
“. . . a shapely body . . .”
(Rags inside a stocking.)
“. . . lovely skin . . .”
(Wool petted smooth.)
“. . . a nice smile . . .”
(Red paint.)
“. . . and beautiful dark eyes.”
(Black beads.)
Alaia touched the beads.
They rested in her bed end to end, Miren with her head propped on the headboard and Alaia angled upon a pillow against the
footboard. A small grilled brazier filled with coals taken from the kitchen hearth warmed the room and released a wispy plume
of incense to collect among the beams. Miren wanted to learn of blindness and Alaia of sight; Miren, feelings; Alaia, visions;
Miren, sound; Alaia, colors; Miren, the solitude of the orphanage; Alaia, the comfort of all things familial.
“What is the worst part of being blind?” Miren asked.
“Having to try to tell people what it’s like.”
“Do you have better hearing than us?”
“What?”
“Do you—oh . . . do you have a better sense of smell?”
“Yes, and your feet are horrible,” said Alaia, leaning over Miren’s toes.
“Do you see light at all?”
“Not really, some shadows.”
“Does it seem dark all day?”
“I don’t really know dark from light.”
“Are you angry that you can’t see?”
“Not angry, really. I’m happy I can do most other things.”
“How did you lose your sight?”
“The sisters told me that I was born too early, and that was probably the reason. I was not yet developed. My eyes are not
the only part that does not work. I also don’t get the monthly visits that the sisters told me of.”
Miren: “Lucky you.”
Alaia: “The sisters tell me that it means that I can’t have little ones.”
Miren: “Oh, no. I’m sorry. That’s something I know I want, but I’m afraid of it. My amuma died after having a baby.”
The girls talked through much of the night. Alaia could never tell the sisters of the boundaries she felt at the convent,
how she imagined she was living inside a box. But she could share that with Miren. She couldn’t ask the sisters how she looked,
if she was beautiful, but she could ask Miren. She couldn’t tell the sisters how wonderful it felt being in the town and meeting
people, and knowing that her
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