Queens of All the Earth

by Hannah Sternberg

  They stopped at a crossing and waited for the light.

  Olivia stared at the building opposite, geometric and mesmerizing, until she became self-aware again. Something warm pricked on her neck. She looked up at Greg. Greg was looking at her.

  The light changed, but Olivia couldn’t move. She didn’t want to move. Greg met her gaze steadily, with warmth, like the warmth she felt on her neck—not unpleasant, but new. She wanted to ask him why he had been there. She wanted to ask him why he had smiled and walked toward her, when earlier he had seen her and strode away.

  The green man disappeared from the pedestrian light, Greg snatched her hand, and they ran clean across just as the next wave of cars began to move.

  4

  THEYS OF WE

  It was Miranda who had been more thoroughly lost that day. She had had no bells to guide her.

  That morning, she and Lenny had dashed into the Plaça del Rei just in time to attach themselves to the rear end of the Gothic Quarter walking tour—at least they thought it was the Gothic Quarter walking tour, until twenty minutes and many winding alleys later, the group descended into a sandwich bar, and they realized it was just a large family party with a vociferous and well-researched matriarch. Lenny laughed.

  “That was fucking brilliant!” she screamed to Miranda. “I can’t believe we just did that!”

  “Now I have to go back and check everything in my guidebook,” Miranda said. “What if what she said wasn’t right? Let’s just go back and catch the next real tour.”

  “Don’t worry, I know everything,” Lenny said. “We’ll just wander around here, where the Jensons dropped us—hey, Paolo!”

  Lenny promptly left Miranda to join a man leaning against a wall down the way. Miranda kept her distance at first, but eventually she strode briskly to join Lenny when it became obvious her companion had no idea she was fuming.

  She might as well have waited. Lenny and Paolo were talking in Catalan, a regional language slightly different from Spanish, and despite a quick nod to acknowledge Miranda’s arrival, Lenny didn’t switch to English or make any attempt to involve Miranda in the conversation. Even Paolo seemed slightly uncomfortable, darting quick curious looks at Lenny’s unintroduced friend.

  Lenny spoke with the speed of fluency, but with an unapologetically bold Anglicized accent. Paolo’s answers were, to Miranda’s ears, brief and gruff. His eyes sparkled a little, slyly, as if with amusement, but he made no move to invite the ladies somewhere more comfortable than the slightly garbage-smelling alley.

  After about ten minutes, the conversation ended, Lenny slapping Paolo on the rear in a gesture that made both Miranda and Paolo visibly uncomfortable. The women walked away, Lenny taking the lead; behind them, a shuffle and a snap signaled Paolo lighting a cigarette.

  “That was my buddy Paolo,” said Lenny. “He owns a bar just around the corner. Met him on my last visit here. Pure Barcelona, all the way back to medieval fishermen. But I’m glad I know where we are now, ’cause now I know where we have to go to get lost.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Miranda said, and when Lenny didn’t reply, she optimistically believed she was kidding, until, sixteen blocks later, they were well and undeniably lost.

  “I love this city,” Lenny said as they strode along. Lenny was a strong walker and Miranda had to jog to keep up. “It’s so real. The locals here are so laid-back. Not as tight-assed as the French, way sexier than the English, bathe more than the Italians. If I could bring myself to settle in any one place, it would be Barcelona. Or Tibet.”

  Miranda believed that any place not filled with tourists must be even more dangerous than the places filled with tourists. Miranda did not like danger. The belt-bag and sweater-tied crowds thinned, and at length they found themselves in a grim alley of boarded-up shops, two bars, and a dumpster. Instead of being surrounded by blushing stone, it was gritty brick and concrete. Miranda protested that they were now in the part of the city where Spanish people actually lived.

  “Great. Check it out—this is where they go to work, go to school, buy their groceries. I love finding the real city. And I bet there isn’t another American for blocks. I hate traveling Americans. They’re so fucking loud all the time.” Lenny turned to Miranda and noticed a hurt look on her face. “I know. It gets to you, too. But you’re better than that—you’re from Virginia. You understand history.”

  “Maybe we should look for a Metro station,” Miranda said.

  “No, I wanna make a few friends. Look at that sandwich bar there. Cute. They have a neon sign.”

  “I don’t speak Spanish,” Miranda said. “Well, I mean, I did, a little, once, but I let it go.”

  “Well, I’m going if you’re not.”

  Miranda was not, though Lenny didn’t wait long to find out. Instead, Miranda at last whipped out her map without shame, found the closest main street, and then the nearest Metro station. Six stops later, she emerged from the Plaça Catalunya Metro.

  Outside, in the plaza, a seething crowd was growing, and Miranda walked briskly past it and up the street, slipped into the hostel, and felt, for the first time that day, that her money or virtue wasn’t about to be snatched by the dirty, desperate men who inhabit every darkened doorframe in every large city outside Virginia.

  She was slightly relieved to find that her sister wasn’t waiting, or watching. She would have to make sure Olivia never went out with Lenny alone.

  Retiring to their private room for the first time, Miranda was taken aback to find, pinned to the wall, a thin sheet of notebook paper. On it was written only a question mark. It had to have been left by that mopey-looking son of Mr. Brown, Greg. Who else had been in the room and could have left it? Miranda couldn’t imagine Hugo doing something so strange it would frighten customers, and for the same reason she didn’t suspect the blond girl.

  It had to be Greg. He probably thought he was some kind of tortured soul. He probably had a tattoo, or some weird piercing she couldn’t see.

  Miranda was overtaken by her protective instinct once again. A month ago, Olivia had found an old toy buried in the backyard and wouldn’t talk to anyone for a week. What if Greg had left more question marks hidden in their room? What if Olivia discovered one, and found it so strange and unexpected that it set her off again?

  Irritated, Miranda rushed toward the paper and tore it down, crumpled it, and let it drop from her hands to the floor. How much weirder could Greg Brown get—or his dad, for that matter? She couldn’t believe she was staying in their old room.

  Miranda left the room, telling herself she simply wanted to browse the pamphlets and bulletin board in the common area. After glancing over the material there, she settled on a couch to look at her own guidebook. As she leafed through it, a short, bright-looking man clambered in the door with a cheerful nod to Hugo. He looked like he could be in his late twenties, and was dressed with a warm practicality and unobtrusive hints of fashion. Miranda approved. What she noticed particularly was his scarf—plaid, knotted around his neck—even though he didn’t wear a jacket.

  He spotted her, leaned forward, squinted, and came toward her.

  “Are you Olivia’s sister?” he said. “Your faces have the same shape.”

  “Yes. I’m Miranda.”

  “Marc. I met Olivia this morning. She’s very sweet.” He sat down beside her and slipped out of his bag’s strap.

  “Oh,” said Miranda. She was taken aback slightly. “She’s the sweetest girl in the world.”

  “You sound like her mom.”

  “There’s an age difference.”

  “Oh, well,” Marc said. “So you’re from Virginia, I hear.”

  “That’s true.”

  “I come from Lima.” He ended with a tight smile.

  Miranda nodded and tried to figure out what could give this person such an air of being interesting before he managed to say anything interesting about himself.

  “So. What do you do there?” she asked.

  “
I’m preparing to take religious orders,” he said.

  “Oh,” she squeaked, drawing it out longer than she’d intended. That was interesting. Priests interested her, especially young ones—she couldn’t figure out why. It was something old-fashioned, or comforting, non-threatening. But conversationally, she remained at a loss.

  “Do you know the Browns?” she asked.

  “The Browns? Everyone wants to know about the Browns today. Your sister already asked.”

  Miranda was not happy about that. Why would Olivia be interested in the Browns? She didn’t want Olivia to be interested in anyone who forced them to change rooms in the morning or left creepy question marks all over like a weird emo calling card.

  “What do you know about them?” she asked.

  “They’re from the South,” Marc said. “They don’t waste time when they think they’re doing good. The father is nice enough, but the son seems a little broody.”

  “Broody? That’s putting it lightly. I found a question mark on my wall. I think Greg put it there.”

  Marc only grinned.

  “Oh, that’s the kind of thing teenagers do,” he said. “You were one, too. I bet you had something you wrote or wore or did to show the world how mad you were at it, right?”

  After that, Miranda didn’t know what to do with her animosity. She stewed for a moment, then broke in with more questions.

  “But what do they do?” Miranda said. “Why are they here?”

  “Sightseeing, I assume. I think the father is some kind of preacher—not my church. Perhaps one of those large ones you see on American television. Evangelical or something. But he’s very well-meaning. The son seems like a follower. When I squint, I can see him leading a flock in about ten years.” Marc chuckled dryly. “They’re typical Appalachian. Very handy. They fixed the tap in the back bathroom the first night they arrived. Hugo offered them a discount and the father waved it off.”

  “I’m surprised Hugo did that much. He’s out for all he can get,” Miranda grumbled, half to herself. Marc seemed amused.

  “They’re really very nice people,” he said. “Painfully nice, you know? I think everyone’s a little too afraid. If they stand too close to them, eventually they’ll be thrown into a river and baptized.”

  Miranda smiled and rolled her eyes with him. Marc was the kind of priest she liked best—cosmopolitan, not pushy, not too religious all the time. She couldn’t imagine a TV preacher being this urbane.

  “I left your little sister behind this morning when she very much wanted to go out,” said Marc, standing. “Can I make it up by taking the elder sister to some tapas?” With obvious affectation, he straightened his shoulders.

  Miranda was delighted. If Olivia came back while they were gone, she would probably just read her book until Miranda returned.

  They settled on a tapas café down the block, and after Miranda’s cautions against sidewalk purse-snatchers and the late-autumn surge of insects (which she had read about, and was sure would make itself felt anytime now), they sat inside.

  “Now, you must tell me what brings you to this part of the world,” Marc said with a grin as he shook out his napkin.

  “Well, I’d heard it was a beautiful place, and I’ve already done Madrid,” said Miranda. “And, well, you understand why people come to Spain.”

  Marc nodded. “But why not in the spring?” he asked. “I would have come in the spring if I’d had the time. I came once when I was a little boy, and it was magical.”

  Miranda explained her mother’s views on Thanksgiving—something about cultural oppression and nationalistic holidays—and the need to get Olivia out of the house. Something in her wanted to add how the whole house had seemed to remind Olivia of her childhood so strongly she hadn’t been able to let go of it—how she’d seemed obsessed with the ghost of the child she used to be. “I didn’t know how to appreciate it when I was little,” Olivia had told her with a weak smile, holding up whatever young adult novel she’d been rereading when Miranda stopped by the house for the weekend. Miranda always had the sense that Olivia hadn’t just been talking about the book.

  But Miranda said nothing.

  “And what do you do?” Marc asked.

  “I do accounting at Friendly Neighbor Insurance. Their corporate headquarters.” Miranda paused. “My sister’s taking a year off before starting at Cornell. A lot of people do it, especially in Europe, I think.” Miranda thought again about what their mother had said when she’d mentioned her plan to go to Barcelona: that it would “culturally enhance Olivia’s interface with her surroundings.” Miranda had just hoped it would inspire, well, any interaction between Olivia and the world. She’d felt she was losing her sister somewhere inside her sister.

  “You have a very prestigious family.”

  “So you’d think. But some of our neighbors don’t like that Olivia is going north. I guess it can’t be helped—a lot of smart kids don’t get into Cornell, you know.”

  “I see.”

  “Personally, I think it’d be good for the Somersets to leave the South,” said Miranda. “I’ve always thought so. Maybe up there, Olivia can really learn about important things. Like politics.”

  “Does she follow the issues much?”

  “No, not at all. It’s embarrassing sometimes.”

  “Well, she’ll grow into it,” said Marc.

  “She’s old enough. She just needs to learn how to care about these things,” said Miranda. “At least our mom is progressive, even if she’s a little... eccentric. Better her kind of crazy than Stepford Wives, I guess. She married into the South, but she kept her name and supported herself.” She didn’t mention their father had split when Olivia was too young to remember him, or that he was now dead. The only thing he had left them was his name.

  Marc made a politely interested noise.

  “Well, she was a pioneer for her time,” Miranda said.

  Their drinks arrived, followed by a plate of roasted peppers.

  “That’s one thing I can’t stand about these tapas places—the food just trickles in,” Miranda said. “Can’t they fill an order all at once? It was the same when I went to Madrid two years ago.”

  Marc’s best response was a sigh and a shake of the head, and then they toasted to Barcelona.

  At the end of the meal, Marc reached for the bill and Miranda loudly protested, insisting they split it. After a few awkward moments spent calculating tip and exchanging big bills for littler ones, they rose and walked back to the hostel.

  When they returned, Miranda noted with somewhat more alarm than before that Olivia was not waiting for her. In fact, it was long past Olivia and Miranda’s usual lunchtime—she and Marc had eaten late and leisurely. When Olivia finally entered, followed by none other than Greg Brown, Miranda was bristling. It was late afternoon.

  “Where the hell have you been? I was this close to calling the police!” Miranda began in a low but forceful tone, right there in the common room. Olivia slipped out of her shoes by the door. Her ears turned red while her sister continued. “How was I supposed to know you weren’t murdered on the street? You could have become one of those people you read about back home! I can’t believe this from you, Olivia!”

  “I got lost,” Olivia said, wavering between statement and question.

  “How can you get lost on one street that goes straight?” Miranda said.

  “I saw something I liked,” Olivia said, sitting on one of the couches and looking at her empty hands.

  “Well, from this moment on, you are going absolutely nowhere alone,” said Miranda. “If I see so much as the tip of your nose outside this hostel’s door alone, I’m calling Mom.”

  Olivia looked up sharply.

  “Are you going to tell her about today?” she asked.

  Miranda turned away from her.

  “No,” she answered at length. “Because I thought you’d be responsible enough to handle yourself. But that was my mistake, and now you have fair warning.”
<
br />   Greg, who until now had lingered awkwardly and apologetically near the door, slid away to his dorm room without a word.

  Olivia looked for something to warm the chill that had fallen over the room.

  “Look,” she said. “There are flowers here. There weren’t flowers here this morning.”

  There hadn’t been. But now, a tall vase with four graceful, succulent lilies sat upon one of the two dining tables.

  Hugo was washing dishes in the kitchen (though no matter how many lazy swipes he made with the cloth, no dishes seemed to leave the sink, and none appeared on the drying rack). Apparently, he understood English better when it was spoken by Olivia, because he pointed to the flowers and said, “Emery.” At their blank looks, he added, “Mr. Brown.”

  He shook one dish and seemed to consider putting it on the drying rack, but then set it down on the bottom of the sink again, dried his hands, and dove into a box of crackers. “He gave them to Sophie,” Hugo continued when he saw Olivia still paying attention. “She said yesterday she wanted more flowers, and he asked which she liked.”

  “He’s speaking English,” Miranda spat under her breath as Hugo wandered away. “Unbelievable. Is this just a game he plays with people he doesn’t like?”

  Olivia didn’t reflect on Hugo’s spotty record of understanding or ignoring English speakers. Instead, she imagined Mr. Brown looking for lilies in the stalls on the street. She could even see him apologizing that they were only greenhouse flowers, as if, had he the power, he would cause it to be spring so she could have flowers grown in the full freedom of the sun. No, better yet, she imagined him placing flowers quietly on the table in the deserted room and wandering away, leaving them to be discovered.

  Sophie, the blond girl who helped Hugo, was at her usual seat at the back computer. As Olivia looked at her profile this afternoon, she thought she saw something softer around her eyes, or the region of her nose. Her mouth remained compressed in a strict line, but she did flick her eyes once toward Olivia, and nodded to her almost imperceptibly.