Read Online Monkey Hunting by Cristina Garcia - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cristina Garcia
Tags: Fiction
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lumps on his breasts from sheer indolence?
Yes, the men agreed, Chen Pan would suffer this decision. At the very least he would be plagued with backaches and blurred vision, a sore neck, a dizzy head, a parched tongue.
On her first morning at the Lucky Find, Lucrecia knocked over a marble bust of a Spanish general, prompting the patriotic Véa to quit on the spot. Lucrecia swept up the broken pieces, then continued dusting from one tenebrous end of the store to the other. But each time she turned around, Lucrecia knocked another heirloom to the ground. Only a bronze Moroccan elephant, defenselessly sprawled on its back, escaped with just a minor dent.
How could she be so good with a knife, Chen Pan wondered, and ox-clumsy in his shop?
“The air is nervous in here,” Lucrecia said, unsettling the stale air of centuries with her feather duster. She insisted that the objects in Chen Pan’s store confessed their miseries to her. The Virgin of Regla statue loathed the drunkard sculptor who’d carved her face into a grimace. And the mantilla draped over that gilded mirror had once belonged to a flamenco dancer who’d lost her left leg to gangrene.
“Foolish girl!” Chen Pan interrupted her. “Talking to knickknacks!” For days she’d said nothing at all, and now this?
When Lucrecia went upstairs to prepare his lunch, Chen Pan brought his ear to the Virgin’s lips. For him, though, there was nothing but a stagnant silence.
A week later, with his inventory in near shambles and the baby’s squalling fraying his nerves (Chen Pan, too, had begun breaking his share of antiquities), he asked Lucrecia, “What else can you do?”
“I make candles,” she said. It was a skill she’d learned with the Sisters of Affliction.
Chen Pan bought everything she needed to get started. There was slow-burning string, beeswax, assorted dyes, a copper cauldron, flexible scrapers, and a wooden drying rack. Then he set up a workshop for her in the back of the Lucky Find.
Before long, Lucrecia was peddling her candles all over Havana. For Easter, she made pastel tapers dipped in vanilla and rose oil. By June, she was selling votives scented with crushed orange blossoms and calling them
velas de amor.
Word spread among the city’s savviest women of the candles’ stimulating effects in the boudoir. Every Thursday when Lucrecia offered a fresh batch of her love candles for sale, women came from everywhere to secure their week’s supply.
In July, Lucrecia announced to Chen Pan that she’d gone to the magistrate to have herself evaluated. Chen Pan knew what that meant.
Una coartación.
Lucrecia wanted to buy her and Víctor Manuel’s freedom.
“You’re free to go today,” he told her. “I won’t hold you here against your will.” Lucrecia didn’t answer him, but she also didn’t leave.
Instead Lucrecia planted a garden behind the Lucky Find. Yuca. Taro root. Black-eyed peas. Three types of beans. No ornamental flowers whatsoever. She said she would grow only what they could eat.
Chen Pan insisted that she plant chrysanthemums like his great-aunt had in China. The flowers bloomed in the fall and promoted longevity, he told her. His great-aunt had drunk wine infusions made from the sweet-smelling petals and had lived well into her eighties.
Lucrecia reluctantly planted a bed of chrysanthemums to honor Chen Pan’s wishes, but the flowers quickly wilted in the summer heat.
Víctor Manuel grew to be a strong boy. He began walking at nine months. One step, two steps, then down in a heap. He never bothered to crawl. His legs were fat with rolls. Sturdy as two dynasties, Chen Pan laughed. It pleased him to squeeze them. Víctor Manuel liked the sound of the drums, of the lute and the Chinese
sheng
pipes, and so Chen Pan paid musicians to come and play for the boy in the mornings.
“Sa! Sa!” Víctor Manuel imitated the lute player, sounding like the wind blowing through the rain.
“Ch’ieh! Ch’ieh!”
he shouted when the
Yes, the men agreed, Chen Pan would suffer this decision. At the very least he would be plagued with backaches and blurred vision, a sore neck, a dizzy head, a parched tongue.
On her first morning at the Lucky Find, Lucrecia knocked over a marble bust of a Spanish general, prompting the patriotic Véa to quit on the spot. Lucrecia swept up the broken pieces, then continued dusting from one tenebrous end of the store to the other. But each time she turned around, Lucrecia knocked another heirloom to the ground. Only a bronze Moroccan elephant, defenselessly sprawled on its back, escaped with just a minor dent.
How could she be so good with a knife, Chen Pan wondered, and ox-clumsy in his shop?
“The air is nervous in here,” Lucrecia said, unsettling the stale air of centuries with her feather duster. She insisted that the objects in Chen Pan’s store confessed their miseries to her. The Virgin of Regla statue loathed the drunkard sculptor who’d carved her face into a grimace. And the mantilla draped over that gilded mirror had once belonged to a flamenco dancer who’d lost her left leg to gangrene.
“Foolish girl!” Chen Pan interrupted her. “Talking to knickknacks!” For days she’d said nothing at all, and now this?
When Lucrecia went upstairs to prepare his lunch, Chen Pan brought his ear to the Virgin’s lips. For him, though, there was nothing but a stagnant silence.
A week later, with his inventory in near shambles and the baby’s squalling fraying his nerves (Chen Pan, too, had begun breaking his share of antiquities), he asked Lucrecia, “What else can you do?”
“I make candles,” she said. It was a skill she’d learned with the Sisters of Affliction.
Chen Pan bought everything she needed to get started. There was slow-burning string, beeswax, assorted dyes, a copper cauldron, flexible scrapers, and a wooden drying rack. Then he set up a workshop for her in the back of the Lucky Find.
Before long, Lucrecia was peddling her candles all over Havana. For Easter, she made pastel tapers dipped in vanilla and rose oil. By June, she was selling votives scented with crushed orange blossoms and calling them
velas de amor.
Word spread among the city’s savviest women of the candles’ stimulating effects in the boudoir. Every Thursday when Lucrecia offered a fresh batch of her love candles for sale, women came from everywhere to secure their week’s supply.
In July, Lucrecia announced to Chen Pan that she’d gone to the magistrate to have herself evaluated. Chen Pan knew what that meant.
Una coartación.
Lucrecia wanted to buy her and Víctor Manuel’s freedom.
“You’re free to go today,” he told her. “I won’t hold you here against your will.” Lucrecia didn’t answer him, but she also didn’t leave.
Instead Lucrecia planted a garden behind the Lucky Find. Yuca. Taro root. Black-eyed peas. Three types of beans. No ornamental flowers whatsoever. She said she would grow only what they could eat.
Chen Pan insisted that she plant chrysanthemums like his great-aunt had in China. The flowers bloomed in the fall and promoted longevity, he told her. His great-aunt had drunk wine infusions made from the sweet-smelling petals and had lived well into her eighties.
Lucrecia reluctantly planted a bed of chrysanthemums to honor Chen Pan’s wishes, but the flowers quickly wilted in the summer heat.
Víctor Manuel grew to be a strong boy. He began walking at nine months. One step, two steps, then down in a heap. He never bothered to crawl. His legs were fat with rolls. Sturdy as two dynasties, Chen Pan laughed. It pleased him to squeeze them. Víctor Manuel liked the sound of the drums, of the lute and the Chinese
sheng
pipes, and so Chen Pan paid musicians to come and play for the boy in the mornings.
“Sa! Sa!” Víctor Manuel imitated the lute player, sounding like the wind blowing through the rain.
“Ch’ieh! Ch’ieh!”
he shouted when the
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