Whisper (23 page)

“Hello, Rosa,” I said.

Her head jerked up, and she looked at me in such a way that I wanted to step back into the shadows and hide. It wasn't hate in her eyes, but something very close to it. And then the look disappeared and Rosa's regular surliness asserted itself, twisting the edges of her eyes down and the corners of her mouth up.

“Well, look who's here.” She put one hand on her hip, but the other hand stayed where it was, against her stomach, which bulged beneath her coat. “You're a little young to be here already, aren't you? What are you now, sixteen?”

I shifted from foot to foot and held my hand against my chest where Jeremia's miniature violin rested.

“How'd you end up here? And don't tell me you still aren't talking. If you're going to live in the city with all the other hard-luck cases, you had better make some noise.”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. She looked at me like she used to—like I was pathetic and small, unwise and unhardened. She used to make me feel so useless, and now I felt that same sensation again. I was that little girl afraid of the dark, sniffling in the night, afraid to make any sound.

And then I heard a squeak, a kitten peep that tittered from Rosa's coat. I looked at the front of her white puffy coat and saw something squirm. Rosa removed her hand from her hip and placed it under the bulge. She jostled the bump up and down, up and down, but when the peeps continued, she unzipped the top of her coat and a tiny head emerged. The eyes met mine and the peeps stopped.

The baby was beautiful. Her lips weren't deformed, her mouth and nose weren't divided by a slit, a birthmark didn't cover half her face in an angry welt. She looked at me with bright eyes that seemed to understand everything at once.

“She's beautiful.” My hand reached toward her, to a perfect little Ranita. If she had flaws, they were hidden from view.

Rosa's mouth relaxed, and her hands reached up to adjust the knitted cap on the baby's head. “She is beautiful,” she said.

A tiny hand emerged from the coat and stretched out to me, the hand healthy with rolls and dimples. The chubby fingers grasped my thumb and held on with a grip that felt real, as if something substantial and good did exist in this world. Then Rosa took a step back and the tiny hand was pulled away.

“What are you doing here? You're not meant to ever leave that camp. They'll eat you alive here—you'll never survive. Go back to the camp, go live in the woods, hide with the others. Stay good, stay pure.” Her voice was so low and biting, it chafed like the brittle snow that cuts in the winter.

“Who is the father?” I asked.

She turned away from me, her feet already pointed in the opposite direction, her black-lined eyes watching the trodden sidewalk.

“Just wait. You'll do the same thing I did. They'll start following you, telling you how beautiful your body is, how sexy you look, and you'll believe them even when you know it isn't true. Then you'll go with them and feel loved like other people are loved. And once you feel that love, there's no turning back. It'll happen to you too.”

She walked away, taking the perfect child with her. My right hand was raised. It was level with my shoulder, stretched to Rosa. I lowered my hand and watched her turn the corner where she would enter Purgatory Palace and continue to squelch the defiance that had once kept her eyes level with anyone's.

The nights were thick now, colder and heavy. The painted women began to pace on the sidewalks, their pointed heels like woodpecker beats against the hard ground. I couldn't follow Rosa into the building—I didn't want to see her standing in the doorway of a room, waiting for her customers, earning a living while her baby squeaked and gurgled in the corner.

Instead I trudged west, through the square where Oscar begged, over a bridge where the stream from our village swelled into a black river that smelled of chemicals and latrines, to the blocks of big stores that sold everything from clothes to pots to fishing poles. I had never been here before. These stores occupied entire blocks and stretched above me three or four stories, their shadows silent, solid and sharp, unlike the shadows of trees, which rustle, shift and sway. The windows shone yellow and warm, an
Open
sign flashing in one. My hands were numb with the cold. After watching people push their way into the store or emerge with bags dangling from their hands, I held my shoulders straight and walked into the first store, standing just inside the entryway, watching the people who swarmed like flies around counters and racks of clothing. I adjusted the veil over my head.

I didn't belong here. The city welcomed rejects only on gray street corners. This shiny store belonged to those with money to spend and bellies already full. I stepped back, away from the warmth and unfriendly stares, but stopped when I saw the coat. It was dark green like the forest, thick like the canopy of my home and soft like the feathery arms of the willow. Big wooden clasps the color of cedar held the front of the coat closed, and it had a wide hood that would protect my ears from the winter winds. I touched the dark green material with my fingertips. It would warm me while I stayed on the streets during the day and would remind me of my forest home.

The tag dangled beneath a sleeve—
$
110
.
00. More than the price of two weeks' stay at Purgatory Palace or a month of pay for Celso. I touched the sleeve of the coat again and then lifted it to my face, the smell of newness surprising and strange.

While I stretched the fabric across my cheek, a firm hand dug into my shoulder and yanked me back. Almost losing my footing, I flung my arms out, trying to catch myself, and jabbed my fingers into the cheek of a store clerk. The veil slid off my head and drifted to the ground. He screamed. When I recovered my balance and opened my mouth to apologize, he held his hand to his face and shrieked again.

“She attacked me,” he said, pointing at me, then stumbling away, gasping in great gulps as he ran.

I glanced from side to side. The people who had ignored me before, who had watched their feet when I stood near them, now stared at me openly, their mouths straight, their eyes narrow. I picked up the veil and backed to the door. I should have left when I'd had the chance, when I'd recognized the exclusion of this place. Before I could make an exit, the man who had grabbed my shoulder came back down the aisle, followed by a short round man wearing spectacles. I turned and ran.

My heart pounded so hard, I thought it might escape through my mouth; the violin on my back banged against me, matching the rhythm of my heart. I turned corners as I rushed past others on the street—right, left, right again, then left, over the bridge, beyond the river. I didn't look behind me, I didn't slow down, I couldn't stop. The veil was still in my hand, and I knew that anyone who saw me would recognize me now and again later.

When my chest began to burn from the cold air and my sides were heaving, I slowed down. I knew where I was. I was in the park where I'd heard the four musicians playing under the willow tree. It was the smell of this place that pulled me back time and again. I looked around, but no one chased me, no one grabbed my shoulder, no one screamed for me to stop. My breath came so fast that I bent over, gasping, and placed my hands on my knees.

The park was dark and empty except for a couple strolling hand in hand. They wore warm coats, gloves and scarves. I shivered in my black sweater with the holes at the elbows. I crept under the willow tree, hiding and panting until my breathing slowed and the panic subsided. Then I sat with my back to the tree and closed my eyes. With my eyes closed and my breath calming, the sounds outside my body became discernible. No pounding feet had followed me into the park, and the honking sounds of the city were quiet here, muted. Up close, I could hear the trickling of the creek, the pip of a bat and the rustle of leaves as the dry branches of the willow rubbed against each other.

Under all this other noise, I heard music. It came from the base of the tree in waves and patterns. The melody floated around me, brushing against my arms and cheeks, but when I opened my eyes, I saw nothing. I closed my eyes again and listened. The song of this jostling city welled up inside me; the sound of my panic stirred beneath the ground. I pulled the violin from around my shoulders, opened the case, fit the instrument under my chin, breathed deeply—my panic finally abating— and began to play. I created a song that sang of my panic, my race through the city and my calming here by the stream.

Until deep into the night, I sat by the tree and felt the music of stars, strays and isolation. The violin fit against my shoulder and became the coat I didn't have, the warmth I didn't feel.

By the time I got back to Purgatory Palace, my hands hurt. I curled my fingers into my armpits and tried to warm some of the ache out of my fingertips. As I approached the house, I stopped and slid into the shadow of a building across the street.

Two men in green uniforms stood outside Purgatory Palace, illuminated by the light from the door. Ofelia, glass in hand, talked to them. She pointed down the street, shook her head and kept the bars of the door between her and the men. A tightness filled my chest, a squeezing that had nothing to do with my arms wrapped around my body. The face of the store clerk—mouth open in fear—appeared in my mind.

The police officers returned to their car, which sent two piercing beams of light into the street, like glowing wolf eyes. Three women with black-lined eyes, short skirts and pointed shoes swayed past the officers.

“Hey, baby,” said one of the women. “You looking for me?”

“Not tonight,” one replied.

I waited in the dark of the doorway until the police car had merged with the other vehicles in the street, creating a living, changing flow of noise and smog. I crossed the street in spurts, stopping and starting with the sporadic traffic around me. I squeezed into the small space between our building and the one next to it, ignoring the women on the sidewalk as they ignored me. I hadn't noticed how high the windows in our rooms were, but now that I was between the buildings, I saw that I wouldn't be able to reach Candela's window without a stool. Debris littered the ground—newspapers, plastic bags, an old sink. I kicked over a washtub and stood on its upturned bottom. With my fingertips, I reached through the bars to the glass of Candela's window and tapped.

My nerves were strung as tightly as the strings of my violin, and I watched the narrow passage between the buildings, waiting for the officers to return, capture me and lock me away in a world even stranger than this one. I tried to calm myself, convince my sweating palms that they hadn't been here for me—they'd come for someone else—but the fear made my limbs tremble and convinced me otherwise. I'd probably lose my room, lose the one friend I had, lose the warmth of Purgatory Palace. Strange how awful places seem not so awful when a more terrible alternative presents itself. My camp in the woods had been a haven, Belen's house had been bearable, Purgatory Palace was almost tolerable now that I had a friend and a means to make money. Being tossed out into the street felt incomprehensible.

“Whisper.” Candela stood in the narrow corridor between the buildings.

“I'm here.” I slid between the walls back to the opening.

“Come now, fast. Ofelia's in her room.”

Candela turned and ran to the front door. Oscar sat in the entryway, keeping the door open and watching for Ofelia. When I got to the door, Candela took my hand and pulled me into her room. Oscar followed and softly closed the door behind us. Candela rubbed my hands and arms. I was shaking.

“What did you do?”

My knees began to tremble, and I lowered myself to Candela's mattress. “I went into a store on the other side of the river,” I said. “Randall and something. I looked at a coat. A clerk grabbed me by the shoulder and pulled me back, and when I tried to catch myself, I scratched his face. They chased me out of the store and I ran.”