Alejandro was invited over to eat. “For the time being there is no commitment, I just want to get to know the young man a little more,” his wife had announced. “His parents have agreed to it.”
“Go to Uncle Inocencio’s house and borrow a chair,” Ana ordered her daughter, interrupting her thoughts of the pontoon bridge Caridad wanted to cross and the Brotherhood of the Negritos that she wanted to reach.
“A chair? For whom? Who …?”
“Go get it,” insisted her mother. She didn’t want to tell her daughter about Alejandro’s visit beforehand, knowing it would surely lead to an argument.
At lunchtime, Milagros realized why Alejandro was there and received the guest sullenly. She didn’t hide her dislike for him—he was timid and danced clumsily—although only Ana seemed to notice her rudeness. José addressed him as if neither of the women existed. The third time the girl used a curt tone, Ana’s expression twisted, but Milagros endured the censure and looked at her with her brow furrowed.
You already knowwhich boy I like!
her look said. José Carmona laughed and banged the table as if it were an anvil. Alejandro tried to keep up, but his laughter came out shy and nervous. “It’s impossible,” was Ana’s almost inaudible refusal. Milagros tightened her lips. Pedro García. Pedro was the only boy she was interested in.… And what did she have to do with her grandfather’s and her mother’s old quarrels?
“Never, my daughter. Never,” her mother warned her through her teeth.
“What did you say?” her husband asked.
“Nothing. Just—”
“She says I won’t marry this …” Milagros moved her hand toward Alejandro; the boy’s mouth was agape, as if shooing away an insect. “Him,” she finished her sentence to avoid the insult that was already on the tip of her tongue.
“Milagros!” shouted Ana.
“You will do what you are told,” declared José gravely.
“Grandfather—” the girl began to say before her mother interrupted her.
“You think your grandfather is going to let you get anywhere near a García?” spat out her mother.
Milagros got up abruptly and threw the chair to the floor. She remained standing, flushed, with her right fist tightly closed, threatening her mother. She stammered out some unintelligible words, but just as she was about to start yelling, her gaze fell on the two men staring at her. She growled, turned around and left the room.
“As you can see, she’s a filly who badly needs to be tamed,” she heard her father laughing.
What Milagros didn’t hear, slamming the door with Alejandro’s stupid giggle behind her, was Ana’s reply.
“Boy, I’ll rip out your eyes if you ever lay a hand on my daughter.” The two men’s faces shifted. “On my honor as a Vega,” she added, bringing her fingers in the shape of a cross to her lips and kissing them, just as her father did when he wanted to convince someone.
CARIDAD WALKED stiffly, her gaze fixed on the bridge keeper who was collecting the tolls at the entrance to the pontoon bridge: the same man who had kept her from crossing the last time.
“Come on,” Milagros had called to her shrilly from the corridor, at the entrance to the small courtyard.
Caridad obeyed instantly. She jammed her straw hat on her head and grabbed her bundle.
“Leave them!” The girl hurried her along when she saw her efforts to organize Old María’s wineskin, now empty, the colorful blanket and the mattress. “We’ll be back later.”
And now she was again approaching the busy bridge, walking behind a girl as silent as she was determined.
“She’s with me,” Milagros proffered, pointing behind her, when she saw the bridge keeper about to address Caridad.
“She’s not gypsy,” stated the man.
“Anyone can see that.”
The man was about to turn on her for her impertinence, but he thought better of it. He knew who she was: the granddaughter of Melchor “El Galeote”—the Galley Slave. The
“Go to Uncle Inocencio’s house and borrow a chair,” Ana ordered her daughter, interrupting her thoughts of the pontoon bridge Caridad wanted to cross and the Brotherhood of the Negritos that she wanted to reach.
“A chair? For whom? Who …?”
“Go get it,” insisted her mother. She didn’t want to tell her daughter about Alejandro’s visit beforehand, knowing it would surely lead to an argument.
At lunchtime, Milagros realized why Alejandro was there and received the guest sullenly. She didn’t hide her dislike for him—he was timid and danced clumsily—although only Ana seemed to notice her rudeness. José addressed him as if neither of the women existed. The third time the girl used a curt tone, Ana’s expression twisted, but Milagros endured the censure and looked at her with her brow furrowed.
You already knowwhich boy I like!
her look said. José Carmona laughed and banged the table as if it were an anvil. Alejandro tried to keep up, but his laughter came out shy and nervous. “It’s impossible,” was Ana’s almost inaudible refusal. Milagros tightened her lips. Pedro García. Pedro was the only boy she was interested in.… And what did she have to do with her grandfather’s and her mother’s old quarrels?
“Never, my daughter. Never,” her mother warned her through her teeth.
“What did you say?” her husband asked.
“Nothing. Just—”
“She says I won’t marry this …” Milagros moved her hand toward Alejandro; the boy’s mouth was agape, as if shooing away an insect. “Him,” she finished her sentence to avoid the insult that was already on the tip of her tongue.
“Milagros!” shouted Ana.
“You will do what you are told,” declared José gravely.
“Grandfather—” the girl began to say before her mother interrupted her.
“You think your grandfather is going to let you get anywhere near a García?” spat out her mother.
Milagros got up abruptly and threw the chair to the floor. She remained standing, flushed, with her right fist tightly closed, threatening her mother. She stammered out some unintelligible words, but just as she was about to start yelling, her gaze fell on the two men staring at her. She growled, turned around and left the room.
“As you can see, she’s a filly who badly needs to be tamed,” she heard her father laughing.
What Milagros didn’t hear, slamming the door with Alejandro’s stupid giggle behind her, was Ana’s reply.
“Boy, I’ll rip out your eyes if you ever lay a hand on my daughter.” The two men’s faces shifted. “On my honor as a Vega,” she added, bringing her fingers in the shape of a cross to her lips and kissing them, just as her father did when he wanted to convince someone.
CARIDAD WALKED stiffly, her gaze fixed on the bridge keeper who was collecting the tolls at the entrance to the pontoon bridge: the same man who had kept her from crossing the last time.
“Come on,” Milagros had called to her shrilly from the corridor, at the entrance to the small courtyard.
Caridad obeyed instantly. She jammed her straw hat on her head and grabbed her bundle.
“Leave them!” The girl hurried her along when she saw her efforts to organize Old María’s wineskin, now empty, the colorful blanket and the mattress. “We’ll be back later.”
And now she was again approaching the busy bridge, walking behind a girl as silent as she was determined.
“She’s with me,” Milagros proffered, pointing behind her, when she saw the bridge keeper about to address Caridad.
“She’s not gypsy,” stated the man.
“Anyone can see that.”
The man was about to turn on her for her impertinence, but he thought better of it. He knew who she was: the granddaughter of Melchor “El Galeote”—the Galley Slave. The
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