by SL Hulen
Victoria hung up, accepting that no matter how many extra minutes a day Marta prayed for her, it couldn’t possibly be enough.
That evening, as Victoria’s silver Honda Civic crossed the railroad tracks, the temperature dropped noticeably. For miles, the pecan trees lining either side of Via Sin Nombre grew together to form a canopy through which sunlight dappled the ground here and there, and the chirping of crickets signaled the arrival of evening.
It was amazing to see how quickly Khara’s fear of cars was fading. Victoria even dared to put the windows down so she could watch the ground speed by.
They passed a man riding a palomino bareback along the dirt shoulder who tipped his hat. “Evening,” he said cordially, without removing the stalk of hay from between his teeth. From the way she hung out the window, it was obvious Khara wanted a better look. Victoria slowed to a stop.
“I never knew they could be ridden!” Khara exclaimed. “Does it hurt them?” she asked the cowboy.
“Not at all, miss.” The horse pushed his nose through the passenger window. “This one here, he’s happy to have a saddle thrown over his back. Easy ride, he is.”
Khara leaned her cheek against the horse’s, combed his creamy mane with her fingers, and whispered in his ear as though sharing a secret. It was with some reluctance that the palomino pulled away and threw back his head.
The cowboy surveyed the surrounding fields of green chilies. “Evenin’ ladies,” he said with a slight drawl before turning onto the dusty path near the irrigation canal where the foamy green water swirled faster and higher than usual.
After two more turns down successively narrower roads, they had arrived.
Khara’s smile flashed. “It’s true. It doesn’t hurt them at all.”
“I suppose Mr. Ed told you that?”
“I am only beginning to understand the power of Nandor’s cuff.”
“Great. Well, here we are.”
Victoria was about to knock when the mission-style doors swung open and Marta appeared. “Of all days to be late! Rosario is here with Robert. And who do we have here?” Her pleasant voice belied the fact that she was looking Khara over from head to toe.
Victoria used the introduction she knew her aunt would expect. “Tia, I would like to present my houseguest, Khara. You’ll see that all your worrying is for nothing,” she said before kissing the powdered velvet of her aunt’s cheek.
Marta took Khara’s hands. “You must forgive her,” she apologized, shaking her head. “Victoria spends all her time championing hopeless causes and fighting bureaucrats. Despite her social shortcomings, we love her. Bienvenidos.” Marta stepped between them and, linking her arms with theirs, escorted them inside.
“Your uncle is in the courtyard. I’ll give Khara—what an unusual name!—a tour.” Marta guided her down the hallway, rattling on about her collection of Talavera pottery.
Victoria took a moment to savor the scent of roasting chilies and the lively chatter that always welcomed her home. The picture window in the living room looked out on an ancient willow that kept one side of the house in perpetual shade. On an end table sat a frame decorated with chips of black glass and yellow feathers; an elementary school project—one she was not particularly proud of—and held a faded black-and-white photo of a young couple holding hands outside a church. She picked it up and thought about how people were thrust into each other’s lives, so often by accident. Had her aunt and uncle really been so young?
Not long before the photo was taken, Elias Barrón de Zarco had set out on a pilgrimage to see the world’s finest museums. He never got farther than the arms of a chili farmer’s daughter who left him breathless with her fiery kisses. Marta was only eighteen when she saw him at Mass one Sunday. He confessed to her that he was only there for the free luncheon afterwards. After a week of sleepless, lovesick nights, Marta enlisted the bewitching powers of the most powerful curandera in the valley to win his love.
Young and old women alike swooned at the sight of the handsome aristocrat who’d tapped his foot and straightened his tie at the altar. “You were as white as one of your marble statues,” Marta would say as she kissed his forehead. “Forty years can’t have passed.”
Elias’s answer was always the same. “What did I know about love? I was worried that my mother would chase you off.”
Victoria had never believed she would have that kind of love. Hearts like hers were better left alone.
Hurrying to her place at the table, she waited while Elias held the chairs for Marta and Khara. Her chair, as well as that of Rosario Dodge, was attended to by Robert. Her aunt invited him to dinner several times a year, usually during the holidays—a ploy to find Victoria a husband. As the wine glasses were filled, Victoria ignored Robert and her thoughts drifted back to the photo.
Elias never returned to the graceful old city of Cuernavaca. He made a life with Marta, who understood that his love of art would provide him countless mistresses, most of them hundreds, perhaps thousands of years older than she. Despite her simple upbringing, with Elias’s flawless taste and her incomparable heart, Marta grew into a woman whose closest friends included significant widows like Rosario Dodge.
“Your center hasn’t been in the news for at least a month. What gives?” Robert Chilton interrupted Victoria’s thoughts with a mischievous smile.
She had known him since college; they’d even had a couple of classes together. In those days, he always had a different girl on his arm and seemed to major in having fun. She’d watched him from across the room, wondering what it might be like to live such a charmed life—one completely devoid of scandal. It irritated her that he seemed bent on making up for it. No doubt he still spent much of his time partying, though he looked no worse for the wear. In fact, there was a rather respectable air to his good looks.
“What can I say? Business has been slow.”
“What are you doing these days?” “When I’m not crusading for immigration reform? Honestly, it doesn’t leave time for much.”
Robert ran a hand through his dark wavy hair and shook his head. “You’re making this into an argument, Victoria. It’s a perfectly civil question.”
She was embarrassed by how little of her life was not spent working, so she said nothing.
He leaned closer, fixing his eyes on hers, and whispered, “You’ve been avoiding me for ten years now.” Pulling away, he eyed Marta. “By the way, I thought I saw you in the plaza the other day,” he said, loudly enough to catch her attention.
“I rarely leave the office during the day,” Victoria retorted, catching sight of the disapproving turn of the corners of her aunt’s mouth. “If it was me, though, I was on my way to court.”
“Well, next time, stop by my office and say hello. I’ll buy you lunch.”
Her uncle came to her rescue by raising his glass. “It’s an honor to have so many lovely women at my table.”
From her seat at the opposite end of the table, Victoria watched Khara mesmerize the two older women just as she had captivated the cat the night before. Hanging on Marta’s every word, Khara marveled openly at Rosario’s impeccably tailored pantsuit and pearls until both older women were practically dizzy from the effects of her indisputable charm.
“Such delicate fingers,” Rosario commented. “I can’t remember the last time I saw a young woman with such perfect posture.”
Marta sighed as she brushed Khara’s cheek. “If only I could have skin like that again…”
“Mentirosa! You never had skin like that!” Rosario retorted and slapped Marta’s arm. The two burst out in giggles.
“Victoria’s great fortune is to have such women in her life,” Khara said quietly. “I never knew my mother. She died when I was born.”
After dabbing at them with a tissue, Rosario’s dark eyes still shone. “Life is sometimes hardest on the young and beautiful, no?” She and Marta cast sympathetic glances at each other.
Immersed in this pool of maternal warmth, Khara blossomed.
Over the course of the evening, she held her own, and Victoria even caught her laughing once or twice. When one of the women placed a hand on her arm or brushed her hair back, she practically glowed. Victoria had to admit that there was a thing or two to be learned from this young woman. It was obvious she was well acquainted with dinner parties, familiar with toasting and wineglasses. An air of practiced diplomacy surrounded her as she sampled the unfamiliar appetizers.
Elias’s observant gaze never faltered. “Come now, hijita,”he said, leaning in close. “Don’t make us wait any longer. What have you managed to learn about her? I must confess, I expected someone… un poco diferente. Certainly not this well-bred young lady.”
“Not much more than I did on Friday. I thought her native tongue might be Arabic, but I can’t be sure.”
“Really?” Robert’s arched eyebrow told Victoria she’d hit a nerve.
“As you have undoubtedly noticed, her English is perfect, so it doesn’t matter. I thought that bringing her here might help her relax and open up a bit.”
“Arabic, you say?” Robert’s gaze moved across the table.
Elias picked up a plate. “Let’s see what Marta’s prepared for us.”
The group followed him to the kitchen, plates in hand. Robert stepped behind Victoria and whispered, “I’d hoped to have been invited here for more personal reasons.”
“Such as?”
“I thought you might have asked your aunt to invite me, but I see that’s not the case. You won’t mind, then, if I exchange seats with your aunt and test your theory, will you? I spent several years working in Riyadh.”
“I had no idea,” she lied. Marta had kept her well informed. The shine in his eyes dimmed, along with his smile. “My job took me to the more isolated parts of Saudi Arabia. Back then, I was such an adolescent fool, about a lot of things.” He turned her around to face him, his blue eyes searching hers. “Most of what they know about the United States they learned watching television. Not so different from us.”
Victoria recalled him breaking plenty of hearts in college, and whatever he’d had then, he had now. Suddenly, Marta materialized behind them.
“I’ve made your favorite—enchiladas con pollo—and still your plates are empty? What’s happened to your appetites?” Placing a bit of food on her plate, Victoria returned to the table. To her relief, Marta slid into Robert’s seat.
“Now that,” she declared, smiling in his direction, “could be one of your best decisions yet. Rosario says he asks about you all the time.”
Victoria tried to envision them sitting at a table of their own with a child or two. A lump rose in her chest and she shook her head. “Tia, please don’t start.”
Marta reached under the table and squeezed Victoria’s knee. “I see the way you look at him.”
Victoria was in the middle of a pathetic excuse when Marta interrupted, saying, “Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”
Chapter Seven Victoria
Robert and Khara sat side by side, heads together, oblivious to anyone else at the table. He hung one arm casually on the back of her chair making notes. They hardly touched their food. With Rosario and Marta constantly heckling each other, Victoria couldn’t catch a word of their conversation. She pushed her plate away and wondered what kind of progress Robert was trying to make.
“¿Tequila con crema?” Elias went to the dark rosewood cabinet in the corner and pulled out an amber bottle. He came back with a tray of silver-rimmed, glass caballitos and slid one Victoria’s way. “The shape of the glass, you see, pays homage to the cowboys. They drank tequila from hollowed horns so they wouldn’t spill any, even when riding.”
Her uncle almost always began discussions, especially when he felt uncomfortable, with some sort of history lesson. Not that she was keeping score, but he’d used this one once or twice before. In a discreet voice, he quickly changed the subject. “You know that Marta only wants to see you happy. Don’t think that I don’t know the pressures and difficult choices that fall on young women these days.”
She squeezed his hand. “I’m thirty-two.”
“Nonetheless.” He seemed to give his next words considerable thought. “There is so much rhetoric about how to be happy in today’s world, almost as if there were a formula. I prefer to think of happiness as a form of art. Sometimes discipline is required; other times, a total abandonment of convention creates the true masterpiece.”
“I’ve never thought of it that way before.”
“What I’m trying to say is this: become a gifted artist, hija. Find happiness in your own time, your own way.”
Her uncle poured more tequila; Robert politely refused. He whispered in Elias’s ear and disappeared into the dim light of the hallway.
“To the wonders and many adaptations of art,” Elias toasted, standing with his drink in hand, winking at her.
Amid the clinking of glasses, Marta nudged Rosario. “What on earth is he talking about? Por dios, Elias, speak English!”
The meal was almost finished when Robert reappeared, kneeling between Victoria and her uncle. His congenial expression betrayed a sense of unease. “I need to speak with the two of you. Privately.” He eyed Khara curiously, though she was far too engrossed in conversation with Rosario to notice. He hurried to the library with Victoria close on his heels.
“I hope you don’t mind, I borrowed your computer.” He peeled off his jacket and flung it over a cordovan leather armchair.
“With such lovely company,” Elias admonished when he caught up, “work should be the last thing—”
If Robert was listening he gave no sign of it other than to drum the keyboard so hard it rattled as he delved into screen after screen.
“What are you looking for?” Victoria asked. She would never have imagined him capable of such focus.
“He shook his head and mumbled, “But she used the word “wadj” to describe paper, Wadj? Never heard it before, but just a minute, here it is. But that’s impossible!”
“Now there’s a word I don’t like,” she acknowledged, leaning over his shoulder to see the computer screen.
“Even taking into account the other derivations of Arabic…”
“Derivations?” “Yes, only every fourth or fifth word is Arabic. Does it mean what I think it does?”
“Are you asking me?”
“Of course not, I’m asking the archives.”
Elias twirled one side of his mustache curiously, “Archives?”
“Not in the traditional sense; this is an open-language archive community on the web. But there’s a twist.”
“Robert, does she or does she not speak Arabic?” Too late, she realized how aggressive she sounded.
“She does. But here’s the interesting part. Khara’s native language predates Arabic—by more than a thousand years! As the Arabic language developed, it incorporated existing words from other, older languages. The dialect she uses when her guard is down is an early form of Coptic.”
Victoria and Elias exchanged glances; Robert took a deep breath. “What I’m trying to explain—and please take into consideration that I’m not a historical linguist—is that, as far as I can tell, Khara’s language has been extinct for thousands of years.”
No one spoke. The sounds of clinking dishes and laughter from the kitchen seemed a world away. Victoria decided not to mention the golden cuff, or divulge Khara’s ignorance of bathtubs or windows.
Her uncle stroked his goatee and studied a self-portrait of an unsmiling Frida Kahlo on the wall for what seemed an eternity, “The predicament of this poor girl—it’s not your area of expertise, mija. She’ll do better in the hands of the authorities. Surely you can see that now.”
Victoria asked Robert, “What if she’s intentionally trying to confuse us? Maybe she’s living a past life.” She looked from Robert to Elias. “It wouldn’t be the first time something like that’s happened, you know.”
“Which puts her in the realm of delusional—crazy, even,” Elias adde
d dryly. “Tell her, Robert. Perhaps my niece will listen to you.”
“But, Uncle, you’re completely missing the point. Isn’t the real question how she came to know this language?” Robert rose from the desk and stood at Victoria’s side.
“I’m afraid I can’t be any more help, but I’ll tell you this; she’s quite convincing and astonishingly intelligent. I wouldn’t use the word ‘crazy’ to describe her.”
Elias checked his watch and shut down the computer. “Nothing can be done at this hour, am I correct? Promise me you’ll pass this to someone—more qualified.” He suddenly sounded weary as he walked away, muttering.
“And just who would be qualified to handle a case like this?” she called after him.
Ignoring Elias’s remark, Robert turned to her with smiling eyes. “You’ve dragged me into the middle of your mystery, and under false pretenses. When this escapade of yours is finished, you owe me dinner.”
“What happened to lunch?”
He pressed a card into her palm, lacing his fingers with hers, and squeezed. He pulled her close enough to reveal traces of cedar and musk from his cologne, which she devoured while struggling to keep a respectable distance.
“I have a confession to make when you’re ready to hear it. Call me, Ms. Barrón,” he whispered, releasing her hand, which was now deliciously warm and tingling.
It was definitely time to leave.
With Robert’s help, she poured a silent Khara into the car and fled. The unlit, unpaved streets seemed to add to the mystery that accompanied Khara like a shadow.
There had to be a sensible explanation for her using a dead language. But why would she? Concentration was impossible. Elias’s comment about finding someone “more qualified” had stung her pride. And if things weren’t confusing enough, there was Robert Chilton. If she were careless, she could be distracted by his charms and forget his sketchy romantic past. In college, he had been something of a boy-toy and easy to dismiss.
The card which he had so seductively pressed into her hand now sat on the dashboard. Suddenly, it was snatched by the breeze and fluttered out the open window, landing in the churning waters of the canal. Definitely not a good sign, she thought, sighing, as the familiar disappointment settled around her shoulders.
