In the Name of Salome by Julia Álvarez Page B

imprinted in gold letters (S.C.H.U.), feeling suddenly ashamed of owning fine things.
    â€œIf I can be of some other useful help to you, let me know.” The words sound empty. What can she possibly offer him? A recommendation for graduate school? A letter of introduction to a colleague? He wants more of her.
Whoever gives himself to others lives among the doves
. It is the same old story everywhere she turns.
    He says nothing, watching her, his eyes narrowed. As she is stepping out the door, he calls after her, “Long live Salomé Ureña!”
    M ARION IS BESIDE HERSELF . They are sitting in her kitchen, drinking hot chocolate before getting dressed for the evening. “The nerve! You should tell Graziano. Who does he think he is?” It is a great solace to feel such unquestioning loyalty. One can leave one’s defense to friends and instead try to understand the point of view of the enemy.
    â€œRemember, he is heartbroken. He has lost his father. He has lost his country.”
    â€œAnd you lost your mother; you lost your country. But are you taking it out on somebody?” Marion challenges.
    Only myself, she thinks.
    â€œAnyhow, if I see him tonight, I’m going to box his ears,” Marion declares. Then, having performed her righteous anger, she lets her curiosity get the better of her. “So what were his poems like?”
    â€œA lot like Mamá’s,” Camila admits. She feels suddenly anxious. Marion, especially, will not like the dry dutifulness of her speech. “My precaution got the best of me.”
    â€œWell, your mother’s poems were subversive,” Marion reminds her. Dear Marion, still bent on defending her.
    They should be getting ready for the evening. But neither wants to end this moment of intimacy. Soon enough, their lives will draw them worlds apart. They sit in the warm kitchen, sipping their hot drink, exchanging the little news of the last few months. Periodically, one or the other goes to the window to check on the progress of the snow. It is still coming down hard.
    â€œYou suppose they really have a hundred words for it?” Marion asks. Then, in her usual non sequitur way, she takes both Camila’s hands in hers. “I know I sprung this on you. I’m sorry . . .”
    â€œI just want to know that you’re happy,” Camila cuts her off. She knows if she gives her friend any indication of the sadness she is feeling, Marion will begin to feel ambivalent. Let one of them finally be at peace with the future she has chosen.
    â€œI just don’t want to grow old alone. I don’t have your resources, Camila.”
    Resources? she wonders. “Now, Marion, I thought this was our prime. Weren’t you advising me this afternoon to kick up my heels and have a good time?”
    Her friend suddenly looks old, the dyed hair depressing in its too black glossiness, the skin around her eyes puffy with lack of sleep. “Maybe
you’re
having a good time,” she accuses. She looks like she might cry.
    â€œMaybe,” Camila says vaguely. In his last letter, Guillén confessed his loneliness. “Perhaps when you come in May, we may dine together?” She had felt a queasy feeling reading those words, a sudden repulsion, just as when Domingo used to touch her. Poor Domingo. She has written him, asking his pardon, but he has never answered her.
    â€œBut do you love him, Marion?”
    A look of sadness washes over her friend’s face. “This is an alliance, Camila, an alliance, not a romance. You always say, there’s more to life than black or white.”
    Does she really say that? Her pronouncements in the mouths of others always sound so facile. “I only ask because you have always . . .”
    â€œPreferred women?” Marion finishes the awkward phrase Camila finds difficult to say. It is not squeamishness, as Marion thinks. She hates labels that pin the self down to only one set of