The Sunflower: A Novel (8 page)

At another store she rooted through a table of clothes and found a black alpaca vest and a matching man’s hat. She thought Martin would like so she bought them for him as much out of habit as hope.

She spotted Jessica and Jim sitting on the small concrete ledge around the fountain, and when she had finished her shopping, she walked back to them. They didn’t see her approach.

“Hey, guys.”

They both looked over. “Where’d you go?” Jessica asked.

“Just shopping.”

Jessica looked down at the sack she carried. “What did you buy?”

“Stuff. Clothes.”

“Show me,” Jessica said.

Christine suddenly felt foolish for buying something for Martin. “I’ll show you later. I’m going back to the hotel.”

“So soon?” Jim asked. “The night’s young.”

“Younger than I feel,” she said. “I’m a little tired.”

“You know the way back?” Jim asked.

“The desk clerk gave me a card,” Christine said.

“Don’t wait up,” Jessica said.

Christine walked to the street and hailed a cab. Back in the room she looked for the gecko, which was still in the same place, and she now wondered if it was even alive. She stowed the bag with Martin’s alpaca vest and hat under her bed. She didn’t want Jessica to see it, as she knew she would scold her for buying them. Still, she scolded herself. Why did she hang on? Martin hadn’t even sent her an e-mail since the day he broke off the wedding.

She knew why. Desperation breeds hope. A counselor had once told her she had abandonment issues.
No kidding,
she thought. Her own father had left her, first through divorce, then, just a year ago, through death. Now, Martin had left her as well. Could she trust any man to stick around? She turned off the light, then got in bed, pulling the covers up to her chin.

In the darkness she thought of the gecko. She wondered if it was exclusively a wall-dweller or if it ever came on to the beds. Christine pushed the thought from her mind. She closed her eyes and rolled over in bed, hugging the pillow. Her mind briefly wandered through the day’s happenings.
What would tomorrow bring?
Then she thought of the man who had saved her wallet. Paul. She wondered what he was doing down here and if she’d see him tomorrow at the orphanage. And on the threshold of slumber she hoped that she would.

Today I overheard an American teenager comparing her deprivation to that of our children, because her parents would only buy her a used car. There are none so impoverished as those who do not acknowledge the abundance of their lives.

PAUL COOK’S DIARY

Jessica had already gone downstairs for breakfast when Christine came out of the shower. She toweled off, then pulled on her Levi’s. They were the loosest they’d been for nearly a decade.

At least the engagement wasn’t a total waste,
Christine thought. She finished dressing, grabbed her backpack, then went downstairs to join Jessica.

The ground floor was an open, windowless space with pink plaster walls and travel posters of Cuzco tourist attractions. Jessica was sitting in the corner of the room under a poster of a herd of llamas. She was with two of the people from the group, an older woman with a broad face sporting thick, tortoiseshell glasses and a man, short and plump, with a red face and a pleasant smile.

Jessica waved. “Over here.”

Christine walked to the table.

“Buenos días,”
the woman said. “I’m Joan Morton.”

“Hello, Joan.”

The man extended his hand. “And I’m Mason,” he said with a southern accent. “Mason Affleck from Birmingham.”

“My pleasure. I’m Christine.”

“For the record,” Joan said, “I was betting on you last night.”

“Thank you. I’m sure it’s more than Jessica could say.”

Jessica grinned. “Sorry, honey, I know you too well.”

“Thanks, babe.” Christine looked over their plates. “So what’s good?”

“The French toast looks weird but it’s good,” Jessica said.

“Try the prickly pear,” Joan said.

“Is it good?”

“No, but you’ll have something to talk about when you get home.”

“What’s that you’re drinking?” Christine asked Jessica.

“I don’t know. The sign said
GUANABANA
, whatever that means.”

“And?”

“It’s okay.”

Christine walked over to the buffet tables. She picked through the entrées and came back with an apple, a banana and orange juice.

“I see you’re not feeling adventurous,” Jessica said.

“Not really.”

“You feelin’ any better?” Mason asked. “Jessica said you had the altitude sickness.”

“I did. But I feel a lot better now. I guess I just needed a good night’s rest.”

“I still have kind of a buzz myself,” Joan said.

“What time
did
you get back last night?” Christine asked Jessica.

“Late. After midnight.”

“What were you doing?”

“Just talking. I think we were the last ones in the square.”

“Speaking of which,” Christine said, looking around, “where is everybody?”

“Probably boarding the bus,” Jessica said. She checked her watch and groaned. “We’re late. We’ve got to go.”

Christine downed her juice, then put the fruit in her backpack. All three of them hurried out.

Jim was standing outside the bus waiting. “Here you are. I thought you’d gone AWOL.”

“No, someone kept me up too late,” Jessica said.

“Who kept who up?” he rejoined.

“Sorry we’re late,” Christine said.

“We’re all right,” Jim said, climbing on behind them.

The bus door shut as they found seats. Jim nodded to the driver, and they started off.

As they left Cuzco, Jim said, “Let’s talk about today’s project. We’re headed to a town about thirty minutes south of here called Lucre. We’ll be working at an old hacienda converted to an orphanage. It’s called the Sunflower.

“The orphanage was founded about six years ago by a Peruvian policeman by the name of Alcides Romero. Alcides had become frustrated with how the police handled Cuzco’s street children. Unable to arrest them, they basically ignored them, leaving them to starve in the streets.

“Alcides decided to do something. He knew of this abandoned hacienda and with his comandante’s support he talked the state bureaucrats into donating it to the police. Then he took half his salary and paid for food to keep the children here. We learned about what he was doing a few years ago and have been helping ever since. For just a few dollars a month we can keep a child fed, clothed and educated.”

The bus climbed a dusty road past plaster huts. As they came around a turn, the broad stone and adobe walls of the hacienda stretched out before them.

Once the home of a wealthy eighteenth-century landowner, even in its decline it was clear that the building had been magnificent.

The ground behind the hacienda sloped upward into shallow foothills covered in lush vegetation and large cacti that looked like overgrown aloe vera plants. As the Americans wound their way through the narrow dirt streets, the towns-people, crouched in doorways or walking, watched them pass while cats scurried up trees and dogs ran barking after them.

The bus crept down a steep, gravel slope, stopping at the side of the hacienda, twenty yards east of the rising foothills.

Jim led the group off the bus and down a small path into the hacienda’s rectangular courtyard. On one end was a row of windows and on the other was a high wall with several openings for bells.

A short Peruvian man wearing a dirty Puma-Condor T-shirt rushed out to meet them.
“Hermano,”
he said, embracing Jim.

“Hola,
Jaime,” Jim said,
“¿Qué tal?”

“Muy bien,”
he replied enthusiastically. He looked around at the group and extended his hands in the air.
“¡Bienvenidos!”
he shouted.

“He says ‘welcome,’ ” Jim said. “All right, everyone gather up.”

The group congregated around the rock wall of a fountain.

“Everything we do is to help the orphanage become more self-sufficient. We’ve been asked to help them build a greenhouse. We also need a couple volunteers to paint the schoolroom.”

Jessica’s hand shot up. “We’ll do it.”

Jim glanced about to see if there were any more takers. None offered. “Okay, Jessica and Christine, you’re hired. Jaime here will show you to the room. The rest of you follow me.”

Jim led the group through the portico to the hacienda’s backyard, leaving Christine and Jessica in the center of the courtyard with Jaime.

“What was that about?” Christine asked.

“Building a greenhouse didn’t sound like too much fun.”

Jaime looked them over then said, “Okay,
vamos.”

They followed him to a dim room at the end of a tiled corridor. The room was cavernous and high ceilinged, lit by a single open window. In the center of the room was a metal scaffolding surrounded by sealed cans of paint, an aluminum tray and several paint rollers.

“We paint,” he announced, his words echoing in the room.

“Certainly needs it,” Christine said.

Jessica looked around. “Probably a century or two since it was painted last.” She walked to the center of the room, and stretched out her arms. “Show us thy bidding, Master Jaime.”

Jaime looked at her quizzically, then stooped down and pried the lid off the can of paint with a screwdriver. The pale yellow paint was separated. He took the can and set it down next to Jessica and the scaffolding.

“Do you have something to stir the paint?” Jessica asked.

Jaime didn’t answer.

“Stir…paint,” she said, moving her hand in a circular motion.

“Ah,” Jaime nodded,
“Mezclar.”
He walked out of the room. He returned carrying a short crooked branch. He handed it to Jessica, then went to the opposite side of the room to repair a splintered doorjamb.

Jessica brushed the dirt from the stick, then began to stir the yellow into a deeper gold tone.

“Where are all the children?” Christine asked.

Jaime blinked at her.

“The children…” she said slowly. “Chill-dren.”

“Ah,” he said.
“Niños.”

“Sí.”

“Los niños están en la escuela.
The school.”

“I hope Jim comes back,” Jessica said. She tilted the paint can toward Christine. “You think that’s good enough?”

“Probably.”

“Ask him if they have a drop cloth.”

“Yeah, right,” Christine said.

They poured the paint into an aluminum tray, then dipped their rollers into it.

“What do we do with the cracks in the wall?” Christine asked, “Maybe they have spackle.”

Jessica looked around. “Just paint over them.”

“Jaime,” Christine said.

He turned.
“Señorita?”

She pointed to a small fracture in the wall. “Do we paint over the cracks?”

He nodded demonstratively moving his hand back and forth. “Yes. Paint,” he said.

“Told you,” Jessica said. She rested her hands on her hips. “As if he understood.”

“Sure he did.”

“Jaime.”

He turned again.
“Señorita?”

She pointed to Jessica. “Should I paint Jessica?”

He nodded. “Yes. Paint.”

Jessica started laughing. “Touché.”

They started on the south wall. Christine painted the lower section, stretching as high as she could reach with her roller, while Jessica stood on the scaffolding, reaching to the ceiling.

It took them about forty minutes to complete the first wall. Then they dragged the scaffolding over to the next wall. As they picked up their rollers Christine noticed a small boy standing near the door, partially hidden in the shadows. He had coffee-colored skin, large brown eyes and eyelashes long enough to make her jealous.

Christine whispered loudly, “Jessica, look.”

Jessica glanced over. When she saw the child, a smile broke across her face. “Have you ever seen anything so cute in your life?”

The boy just gazed at them.

Jaime noticed that they had stopped working and looked over at the boy.

“¿Por qué no estás en la escuela?” How come you’re not in school?

“Estamos en recreo,”
he replied.
It’s recess.

“How old do you think he is?” Christine asked.

“He’s about the size of my nephew and he’s six.”

Jessica set down her brush and climbed down from the scaffolding. She stepped toward him, then squatted down to his height. “Where did you come from, little guy?”

He didn’t answer. His eyes darted back and forth between the two of them.

“He’s gorgeous. Say something in Spanish, Chris. Ask him his name.”

Christine stepped up to him.
“¿Cómo…te…llamas?”

He looked at them suspiciously.

“¿Tu nombre?”

“My name is Pablo,” he said in perfect English. “I’ll be eight years old tomorrow. It’s my birthday. I’m just small for my age.”

“You speak
really
good English,” Jessica said.

“So do you,” he replied.

Jessica laughed. “Where’d you learn English so well?”

“Dr. Cook.”

“¿Cuándo llega el doctor Cook?”
Jaime asked.

“Ya viene.”
Pablo translated for them. “He wants to know when Dr. Cook will be here. I told him Dr. Cook is coming.”

“Who’s Dr. Cook?” Jessica asked.

“He’s the boss,” Pablo said as a man entered the room. Christine immediately recognized him as the one who had rescued her purse. He smiled. “Hello again.”

“Thank you again.”

“You’re welcome.” He extended his hand. “I’m Paul Cook.”

“I’m Christine.”

“My pleasure, Christine.”

Jessica stepped forward. “I’m Jessica.”

“Hi. Thank you for helping us.” He looked down at the boy. “I see you’ve met Pablo.”

“Cute kid,” Jessica said.

“He’s a handful,” Paul returned. He looked around the room. “It’s looking much better.”

“One wall down, three to go.”

“Que pasa, calabaza,”
Jaime said.

“Nada, nada, limonada,”
Paul replied. He turned to the women. “Is Jaime being good to you?”

“He’s great. We just don’t speak much.”

Paul smiled. “Be careful, he understands more than he lets on.” He walked to the wall, inspecting their work. “When you’re done, this room will be used as a classroom.”

“Jaime said the kids all went somewhere else to school.”

“Right now they do. But it’s not the best situation. Most of them are far behind their classmates. It’s embarrassing for the teenagers to be in with the first-graders.”

“Can I help them paint?” Pablo asked.

Paul looked at the women. “Is that okay with you?”