by Susana Aikin
I hand the shears over to Julia, but she doesn’t take them.
“Remember Nanny didn’t let us play around these bushes when we were little?” she says.
“She didn’t?”
“She said they were very poisonous, that they gave seizures to dogs and horses who nibbled on them.”
“I think that might have been one of her old wives’ tales,” I say.
“I don’t believe so, Nanny knew a lot about plants and herbal medicine.”
“She also used to tell Father not to plant hydrangeas in the garden, ’cause they prevented the girls of the house from marrying.” I laugh.
“I don’t see why you laugh, that’s exactly what has happened in this house.” Julia’s face is somber. “I don’t like these flowers at all. I don’t even feel like cutting them.”
“I don’t mind,” I say. “It’ll be good for the bushes, they haven’t been trimmed in ages.”
“Oh no, but you can’t.” Julia takes the shears from my hand. “Only I can cut them.”
“Why?”
“Because, this is part of the limpieza, and I’m the one who’s been initiated to do it.”
I’m incredulous. “Initiated?”
“Yes, Anna. Initiated. As in a ritual. This very morning.” Her eyes are beginning to blaze. I want to laugh again, and ask In the nursing home? But I know we’ll get into a squabble, so I hold back my mirth.
Julia cuts the flowers and passes them over to me. I know she’s seething at my disbelief. She works quickly with a sort of fury, head bent down, hair falling on her cheeks. At times she struggles to cut some of the thicker stems with both of her hands on the scissors. Soon we have a bunch of twelve or more sticky branches speckled with pink flowers. We stand for a moment, rearranging them into a manageable bouquet. When I lower my gaze toward the bushes I see how brutally Julia has cut some of the stems. They stand in shock, hacked and oozing a thin whitish sap. Julia can display out-of-control behavior when she’s irritable, and this has become part of our dynamic of late, since we’ve gotten into bickering about almost anything. I make a mental note not to sound skeptical again. After all, I’ve agreed to this ceremony, or whatever it is.
But now Julia seems to be musing about something else. “You know, she still has lovers,” she says.
“Who? Delia?” I ask with bewilderment.
“She is seventy-five and still has lovers. Don’t you think that’s something?”
“Have you met any of them?”
“She’s introduced two of them at the nursing home. You know, a couple of guys who are not that old yet, who are somehow functional.”
“Lovers as in real lovers?”
“Yes. She’s very explicit about it.”
“Hell!”
“Impressive, isn’t it?”
“She’s connected to Alina, isn’t she?” I ask, conscious of the dangerous terrain I’m getting into. “Have you heard from her recently?”
“She calls sometimes from Miami.”
I search Julia’s eyes. “You still love her, don’t you? You want money to move to Miami, don’t you? Is this what this urgent selling of the house is about?”
“I haven’t been badgering you about Marcus, have I?” Julia snaps. “So don’t question me, it’s none of your business.”
She’s defiant, furious. For a moment, I’m taken aback. What has come between us in the last year? We used to be such close, inseparable friends. I can’t remember one time when being in need I didn’t have Julia’s shoulder to lean on. I can’t remember one weekend when I didn’t seek her out to go hang around for whole afternoons or evenings at my apartment or hers.
“Please, let’s not quarrel,” I say. “Let’s be cool today.”
Julia inhales deeply as if to sober up. “All right.” Then she adds, “Let’s head back to the house. I still need to open doors and windows for the limpieza. You can come along if you like. But no questions.” She takes the bunch of flowers from my hands and walks away.
“I’ll catch up with you in a minute,” I say.
I’m not ready to go inside. I lean over the veranda, and turn my gaze to the mountains. In a few hours the heat will rise further over the long plain that leads up to the sierra and make it swoon under a haze so thick, it will resemble a desert mirage. Then, far off on the horizon, the line of mountains will blur into images of recumbent sleeping giants, big clunky bodies cloaked in groves of trees and rocks sticking up against the sky, their folded arms and legs sprouted with bushes and flowers, their eyes shut under layers of dirt. How many times must we have stood here, Julia and I, making up stories about the sierra, wondering at its ever changing form like a kaleidoscope, where sun, fog, and snow paint different pictures every day, every hour, and trigger wild imaginings. And then, can I ever forget all those times I was ravished under the dreamy brow of these same mountain gods?
Do I really want to sell this house? Even putting it in the hands of real estate agents is something I’ve agreed to just to humor my sister Julia. I understand her circumstance, her needing money, wanting to move on. My situation is very different. I don’t need money. I don’t need to sell. I don’t want to, either. I am content with my lot at the moment. My company is soaring, I get along reasonably well with my business partner, and I absolutely love my beautiful duplex apartment in the heart of the city. What can be missing?
Furthermore, this house is much more than a house to me, it’s closer to the idea of a nation. It’s like a small country in itself planted on Spanish soil, a tiny dominion from which I’ve always drawn my identity. We didn’t think of ourselves as living in Madrid. We lived in Cambrils number 4. Although of British descent because of Father and Spanish because of our mother, we didn’t think of ourselves as either British or Spanish, but as citizens of our own unique, rich, diverse world. A miniature state with its own rules, its own mixture of cultures, its own aesthetics, its own chain of mountains. With even its own twist of the English language, a tongue stuffed with a zillion Spanish terms and literal translations of impossible words from a variety of other languages. To friends and acquaintances our house was always a wonder to visit, full of exotic art, exuberant collections of strange objects, and beautiful furniture brought from different places; cartloads of books on art, science, and literature. We always had visitors from faraway countries, whom Father entertained as business guests, and who kept us abreast of what really was going on in the world. It was like no other house I had ever known, or will probably ever know. And despite all that has come to pass between these walls, growing up in this amazing place was the best thing that ever happened to me. How can I let go of it now?
Back in the kitchen the altar seems to be well underway. On the table, which is now covered by an embroidered white starched cloth, bottles of wine and liquor have been arranged in a semicircle, inside of which the million candles, all lit up, sparkle around a strange collection of objects contained in coconut shells: colorful beads, necklaces, cowrie shells, cigars. Picture cards depicting saints in extravagant attire stand against bottles and candleholders. On opposite sides of this arrangement, multiple vases hold the white lilies and daisies Julia bought before, and the oleanders we just cut. At the feet of it all, three sticks of dark wood, the likes of which I’ve never seen before, pile upon each other, side by side with a kitchen grater and a handbell with beautiful, ornate carvings on its handle.
Delia turns to me. “I know you’re the youngest, but you strike me as the most responsible person in this house. From now on, I’ll communicate with you about anything I need.”
I shrug my shoulders.
She eyes me for a moment. “You’re not really into this, are you? You’re just being bullied by your older sister.”
Constantine laughs from the other end of the room. “That’s what older siblings do. My brothers used to bully me all the time, they used to beat me, make me do all sorts of awful things—even after I was grown up. Until they met Delia, and then they never bothe
red me again.”
“That’s what happens when you’re under the protection of a Cuban guardiana,” Delia says. “There’s no more nonsense then. Only hard work! So now, get going!”
I can’t believe the level of this conversation, and I just stand eyeing Constantine warily as he bends over and picks up a bucket of water and a mop. Then I remember Julia telling me how part of the trabajo would consist of mopping the entire house with some sort of blessed water. And swishing around a whole coconut with a straw broom! Holy shit!
Delia nudges me. “Time to leave.” She waves me out of the kitchen. “Constantine, I’m ready to start! We’ll begin with the living room upstairs, but first let’s get our blessings,” are the last words I hear before I step out the door into the patio. I decide to hide around the corner, to look discreetly through the small window into the kitchen. I’m not normally curious about other people’s affairs, but this whole scene is taking on such a bizarre air, all this weird collection of items on the table. And the lamb chops sitting in the fridge!
From my hiding place I watch Delia haul herself out of the chair, take her cane and edge around the table to face the altar. She makes the sign of the cross over her chest repeatedly while reciting an unintelligible prayer, then picks up the bead necklaces from the coconut bowls and extends them toward the altar, as if in offering. I see Delia’s huge arms rise with the beads, the flesh falling underneath them in long flaps, her small delicate hands placing the necklaces ceremoniously one by one around her throat and inside her white dress between her breasts. She motions Constantine to come closer, to put beads around his neck too, and into his shirt; all the time reciting the monotonous prayer which I can’t understand. They face each other, each with hands pressed at the chest, then embrace twice, once on the right side, once on the left, and gently punch each other with opposite elbows. They turn to face the altar again, while Constantine picks up one of the cigars and lights it up, sucking hard at the brown cylinder until it catches; and then hands it to Delia, who starts puffing out the smoke toward the objects on the table. With her other hand she takes a bottle and puts it to her lips, but instead of swallowing the alcohol, she sprays it forcefully out of her mouth onto the altar, and at each one of the objects there contained. The flames on candlewicks flicker but don’t go out. Then, taking up her cane in one hand and the handbell in the other, Delia starts toward the stairs leading up to the second floor. I watch her feet dragging to the tinkling sounds of the bell she’s shaking, followed by Constantine, who carries the bucket of water and the mop.
A clawlike hand at my shoulder shakes me out of my voyeuristic fascination. “I thought we had agreed we weren’t going to interfere with her trabajo,” Julia said.
“She only said follow her.”
“Same thing. And anyway, first you think it’s a whole load of crap, and then you can’t resist having a good look. Are we relapsing again into our old double standard mode?” I laugh while Julia smirks. She seems relaxed, finally.
We move away from the window toward the patio and sit down at the table. We look at each other for a moment, then she lowers her eyes and stares down at her sandals.
“I just got a call from Marion. She’s on her way,” she says. “And she’s really mad.”
“Why is she mad? Didn’t she also agree to this?”
“She never returned my calls, so I’ve just told her about it.”
“No wonder she’s mad then.”
“Anna, you’re going to have to deal with her.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“Nope. I’m not.”
For the last few years I have been the mediator and peacemaker between my sisters, who’ve been at insufferable odds. Although, to be accurate, they’ve been rivals ever since I remember, and have always used me as a sort of buffer. When they fight there’s no getting in between them, only standing back and seeing them go at each other like vixens. They only want me there as a witness so that at the end they can say, See what she did to me? See the things she said? as each tries to draw me into her cause against the other. It’s hard to believe that the same controversies over toys and clothes have been transposed to money, management of common affairs, and other more adult-sounding subjects, but the pattern of their rivalry hasn’t shifted. And although I am closer to Julia in age and daily camaraderie, and I see the mean, crazy side of Marion, I can never totally be on Julia’s side, because of the tender spot I have for my eldest sister. As a girl, nothing Marion could do diminished her charisma in my eyes. Later, as a grown woman, the dazzling heroine was replaced by the tragic character she is now, and that brought her still closer to my heart. Julia knows my bias; it has always been one of her festering wounds.
“All right. If, in exchange, you promise to join me in proactive enterprises toward a future sale, while Delia goes about her job,” I say, changing the subject.
“Proactive enterprises? Not me. I brought some work to do. I’ll just sit out here and work on my sketches.” She furrows her brow while the lines of her thin face align themselves downward toward her pursed lips, a sign that she wants to be left alone.
“C’mon, Julia, we could start an inventory of furniture and art pieces. We need to start getting organized.”
But Julia is not in the mood. “I’ll be honest and tell you that, besides being here for the limpieza, the only other thing I’m striving for is making an inventory of my own art pieces in the house. Supposing there are any left around.”
Great, I think. Let’s just be in our every-artist-for-himself mode here. But I don’t say anything. I just sit back in my chair considering that the sun is close to its zenith, and the heat is beginning to soar.
The sound of a car door slamming hard pulls me out of my musing. Quick, heavy footsteps walk on the pavement toward the house and the gate clashes loudly after a few seconds. All sounds seem to stop for a beat. Julia and I sit motionless in our seats, as if frozen.
Then we hear Marion’s scream. “I won’t have any killings in this house!”
CHAPTER 4
Marion stomps into the patio. She is wearing a plum-colored summer dress and very large dark sunglasses that cover most of her face. She rips them off and stares at Julia with fiery eyes. “Stop this immediately, or I’ll call the police!”
Julia jumps up from her chair, her sketches and pencils scattering all around. “What’s your problem? How dare you walk in screaming?” she yells.
“What is your problem? How dare you organize this behind my back?” Marion echoes.
“Behind your back! I left you a dozen messages. You haven’t returned one single phone call for over a week!”
I stand back, gauging the best strategy to approach the situation. The heat is rising quickly. Marion’s lips are quivering. I take a few steps toward her. “Marion, everything’s all right,” I say. “It’s not what you think.”
Without even a glance in my direction, she flings out her arm to bar me from advancing. “You know nothing about this. Stay out!” I stop in my tracks.
Marion stares fixedly at Julia. “Call this off!”
“No way!”
“In that case, I’m calling the cops right now!” Marion fumbles in her purse for her phone.
“And what are you going to say?” Julia says, pulling a stupid face to mimic Marion. “Officer, there’s an old lady blessing my house?” Marion freezes for an instant. Both of them are panting.
“This is no blessing. I will not stand for killings.” Marion’s voice is now edging on a hiss.
“Why do you always have to take things to extremes? I will not stand for killings, she said,” Julia echoes in parody, then clicks her tongue and starts gathering her sketches from the floor.
Marion takes out her phone with trembling hands and dials.
“Is this necessary?” I ask her, beginning to feel unnerved. But she pays no attention.
“Police? There has been a break-in at my house. Yes, illegal immigrants, very scary people—”
/> “Stupid bitch!” Julia leaps up from the floor and lunges toward her. Marion steps back, losing balance for a second. The cell phone drops from her hand and crashes on the floor. The battery clatters out as it hits the tiles. Marion gasps but doesn’t move. Her reddened eyes radiate hatred.
Julia stands back, body tense with mingy victory. “Sorry, but you brought this onto yourself,” she says.
Marion kicks off her shoes and dives to the floor. She grabs a bunch of Julia’s etchings and tears them up.
“Are you crazy?” Julia wails, scrambling to retrieve her papers.
From this point on, the fight will get seriously mean.
“Stop! Both of you. Stop this minute!” commands a thundering voice. There’s a moment of freeze frame. We all turn heads and see Delia coming down the steps that lead into the patio. She descends with difficulty, cane in one hand, mop in the other as if it were a tall staff. Constantine hovers around her nervously, mumbling, “Slow down, Delia, you might fall. Please be careful!”
But Delia is unstoppable. Her large, white-clad body drifts into the patio like a glacier tongue gliding into a valley. Julia and Marion stand and compose themselves.
“Ladies, ladies, what is the matter?” Delia asks. “Did I hear someone talking about killing animals? Do any of you have questions that should be directly addressed to me?” She looks at Marion. “You must be the eldest daughter of the house.”
Marion scowls. “And who are you, and what are you doing in my house?”
Delia looks at Julia and me, her face amused and incredulous at the same time about the fact that our sister is not up to date with the limpieza. She turns to Marion. “My name is Delia Santos and I have been commissioned by your sisters to clear and bless your beautiful house.”
“That’s all very nice, but I don’t approve of the barbaric methods of your tradition. I won’t tolerate sacrifices or blood-spilling in my property.”
“Dear young lady,” Delia says, “while it is true that some Santería rituals are like that, it’s not the way I work. I’m a santera palera, a santera from the house of Palo. My power is at the altar, at the sacred nganga.” All of a sudden she sounds as if she were reciting a script or a solemn prayer for a large audience. “I am a daughter of Changó and the Holy Spirit, of Santa Barbara, god of fire and thunder. I do not take life. Changó is behind me, and Eleguá, god of forests and roads, is here today as the opener of paths.”
