The Distant Marvels by Chantel Acevedo Page B

her what she wanted.
    What I want at the moment is an audience. There’s another story that’s come to mind about my mother and her gifts. I want to tell it so badly and preserve it in the memories of these women that my skin itches.
    I clear my throat. “Perdón,” I say, and they turn to look at me. “I have a proposition for you. A way of passing the time and helping a sick woman.” They steal glances at Susana, who looks hurt at once. Her hands fly up to her scarf, as if to make sure it is still in place.
    â€œNo, no,” I say. “I mean myself. I am not well. Not long for this world. I want to tell you my story, the story of my life.”
    â€œWe all want our stories told,” Mireya says with a nervous laugh. “Vamos, who else has a story to tell?”
    Rosalia starts looking through her purse, while Estrella picks at her nails.
    â€œDulce, come, it’s your turn to tell us a story,” Mireya insists, and turns her back to me.
    Dulce sits slowly on the edge of the bed. She sighs loudly, lets out a quiet, “Ay,” and flexes her feet before speaking, as if her every word takes preparation of some sort. “I was a girl of seventeen on the day I accompanied my father, a sergeant of the military police in Havana, to El Malecón, where two fishermen had fished the corpse of a man in a laundry bag, using enormous hooks meant for sharks. I may not remember whether or not I’ve brushed my hair on any given day, but I do remember my father, que en paz descanse,” she said, crossing herself, “cutting open the laundry bag with a knife, rolling the body out of the bag the way one undoes a bolt of fabric, finding the man’s wallet in his pocket and exclaiming, ‘There you are, Capitán Alarcón. We’ve been looking for you,’” before stuffing the body back into the sack. “What was left of the corpse’s face was unrecognizable. His lone eye was bare in its socket, and that is all I remember of him.
    â€œYou see, I don’t doubt the truth of your story,” she said, lifting a gnarled and spotted hand up to stop me from interrupting. “But that doesn’t mean I want to hear the rest of it.”
    It feels like a weight has slipped into my throat. I cannot speak.
    â€œBut Señora Dulce,” Susana begins. “She’s dying.”
    â€œSo am I,” Dulce says. She’s old, but her voice carries. “So are you,” she tells Susana, who crumples next to me. “We all have stories to tell. Who will remember mine?”
    â€œGo on, then,” I say.
    â€œÂ¿Cómo?” Dulce asks.
    â€œTell us your story. I’m eager to hear it.” If my own stories are an itch beneath my skin, driving me mad, then the need to hear other stories is like a thirst.
    But Dulce blushes and her eyes grow wide and startled. Put on the spot, she quavers, waves her hands in front of her face and says, “Deja, deja. Do what you like, María Sirena.” She busies herself with her purse, pulling a painted fan from inside. It makes a crackling sound as she opens it, and I can tell the fan is from Dulce’s youth. The fan depicts a war scene in faded colors—farmers carrying machetes crawl over a hill studded with palm trees. The sky is painted gray, or, perhaps, age has faded the blue. In the distance, tiny horses stand in line, with even tinier soldiers painted atop them. The fan, too, tells a story, and when Dulce moves the thing back and forth to cool herself, it seems as if the illustration is moving, coming alive in minuscule.
    The fan mesmerizes me for a moment only. Beyond this room, those taking shelter in upper stories of homes all over Santiago de Cuba are wondering when the waters will recede. The drowned are beginning to wash up against buildings, bumping lifelessly against coral walls. Beyond Santiago, out to sea, other islands are in the path of the storm, and people are