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Authors: Carolina de Robertis
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and laws and words. The photograph, framed in silver, showed a large, jowled man gazing gravely to the right of the camera. There was always a large platter of
bizcochos
, whose sweet-pastry layers melted in the mouths of Punta Carretas women. These women. Like Sarita Alfonti, with her inescapable scent of vanilla, her laugh like two copper pots colliding, her hands that cut the air when she spoke. And La Viuda, who had been widowed so long that her original name had been forgotten. She sat in the corner, on the rocking chair, and blessed or dismissed comments with a wave of her hand. And María Chamoun, whose grandparents had come to Uruguay carrying the spices of their native Lebanon. Sometimes she still smelled of them, very faintly, a nuanced aroma that made Pajarita think of summer shadows. María had hair like a prize stallion’s, lush and dark. She had perfected the art of making
alfajores al nieve
. The two biscuits were smooth and slender, dulce de leche joining them with calibrated sweetness, powdered sugar pressed on curves with delicate tenacity. María Chamoun oversaw their consumption with the pride of an unrivaled champion. Clarabel Ortiz, La Divorciada, always leaned into sofa cushions, the first woman in Punta Carretas to exercise her legal right to divorce. In Coco’s living room, this gave her notoriety and an intangible mystique. Her face was pallid, her lips painted pink. Her body was shaped like a fence post. Clarabel held occasional séances in her newly empty home. Some women joined her. Others scoffed.
“Hmmph! Shaking teacups tonight?”
“They don’t always shake, Sarita, and you know it.”
“Still. I’d just as soon leave my dead alone. Even if they could be raised, which they can’t, why give myself more headaches?”
“Espera. Pero no.”
La Viuda raised her palm. “Séance or no séance, the dead are there for more than headaches.”
Silence hung in the room. Coco took the
mate
from Pajarita’s hand. She poured in water and gave it to María Chamoun.
“Did you hear?” María said. “Gloria’s granddaughter was found by the lighthouse, pushed up on the rocks under a boy.” She dropped her voice. “Her blouse was open.”
“¡Esa chica!”
“She’s been trouble since her birth.”
“I heard she got a good whipping from her father.”
“She’ll never see the boy again.”
“That’s all a bit
exagerado
. So what if she has a boyfriend?”
“Clarabel! You have the strangest ideas.”
Clarabel also believed that women should have the right to vote, and would soon gain it. She had her friends practice by casting votes on perfumed pink papers that she gathered in a basket and mailed to city hall. They were still discussing the recent election of President Viera.
“I just couldn’t put his name down.”
“What other choice did we have?”
“Granted, he’s not as good as Batlle, but no one can be.”
“Phht. He tried to stop the law for eight-hour workdays. Good thing he was too late.”
“Well, thanks to Batlle, we have it.”
“And education. And pensions.”
“And divorce.”
“And peace.” La Viuda’s hand flew up, a bony bird. “Reprieve from coups and bloodshed. The last century was terrible. I remember.”
They found Pajarita fascinating, with her darker-than-most-of-them skin, her
campo
origins, her name after an animal. They demanded stories about her gaucho family, and the way she’d lived in Tacuarembó, as if it were all wild and romantic and just a touch unsavory. Pajarita felt a bit like the English tea set, removed and exposed, only not for the fragile glint of china but the leathery musk of
campo
life. She drank in their presence as a way to taste the city, and slowly it occurred to her that through her they perhaps reached for the land. That’s how it is, she thought; we carry worlds inside ourselves and long to taste the worlds of others, we stare and prod and sip and can’t inhabit. Sometimes she felt their interest as a
bizcochos
, whose sweet-pastry layers melted in the mouths of Punta Carretas women. These women. Like Sarita Alfonti, with her inescapable scent of vanilla, her laugh like two copper pots colliding, her hands that cut the air when she spoke. And La Viuda, who had been widowed so long that her original name had been forgotten. She sat in the corner, on the rocking chair, and blessed or dismissed comments with a wave of her hand. And María Chamoun, whose grandparents had come to Uruguay carrying the spices of their native Lebanon. Sometimes she still smelled of them, very faintly, a nuanced aroma that made Pajarita think of summer shadows. María had hair like a prize stallion’s, lush and dark. She had perfected the art of making
alfajores al nieve
. The two biscuits were smooth and slender, dulce de leche joining them with calibrated sweetness, powdered sugar pressed on curves with delicate tenacity. María Chamoun oversaw their consumption with the pride of an unrivaled champion. Clarabel Ortiz, La Divorciada, always leaned into sofa cushions, the first woman in Punta Carretas to exercise her legal right to divorce. In Coco’s living room, this gave her notoriety and an intangible mystique. Her face was pallid, her lips painted pink. Her body was shaped like a fence post. Clarabel held occasional séances in her newly empty home. Some women joined her. Others scoffed.
“Hmmph! Shaking teacups tonight?”
“They don’t always shake, Sarita, and you know it.”
“Still. I’d just as soon leave my dead alone. Even if they could be raised, which they can’t, why give myself more headaches?”
“Espera. Pero no.”
La Viuda raised her palm. “Séance or no séance, the dead are there for more than headaches.”
Silence hung in the room. Coco took the
mate
from Pajarita’s hand. She poured in water and gave it to María Chamoun.
“Did you hear?” María said. “Gloria’s granddaughter was found by the lighthouse, pushed up on the rocks under a boy.” She dropped her voice. “Her blouse was open.”
“¡Esa chica!”
“She’s been trouble since her birth.”
“I heard she got a good whipping from her father.”
“She’ll never see the boy again.”
“That’s all a bit
exagerado
. So what if she has a boyfriend?”
“Clarabel! You have the strangest ideas.”
Clarabel also believed that women should have the right to vote, and would soon gain it. She had her friends practice by casting votes on perfumed pink papers that she gathered in a basket and mailed to city hall. They were still discussing the recent election of President Viera.
“I just couldn’t put his name down.”
“What other choice did we have?”
“Granted, he’s not as good as Batlle, but no one can be.”
“Phht. He tried to stop the law for eight-hour workdays. Good thing he was too late.”
“Well, thanks to Batlle, we have it.”
“And education. And pensions.”
“And divorce.”
“And peace.” La Viuda’s hand flew up, a bony bird. “Reprieve from coups and bloodshed. The last century was terrible. I remember.”
They found Pajarita fascinating, with her darker-than-most-of-them skin, her
campo
origins, her name after an animal. They demanded stories about her gaucho family, and the way she’d lived in Tacuarembó, as if it were all wild and romantic and just a touch unsavory. Pajarita felt a bit like the English tea set, removed and exposed, only not for the fragile glint of china but the leathery musk of
campo
life. She drank in their presence as a way to taste the city, and slowly it occurred to her that through her they perhaps reached for the land. That’s how it is, she thought; we carry worlds inside ourselves and long to taste the worlds of others, we stare and prod and sip and can’t inhabit. Sometimes she felt their interest as a
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