An Exaltation of Larks

by Suanne Laqueur

  Safe in a contrived embrace, Albacete tight in one hand, he fell quickly asleep.

  He woke to the sound of the front door opening. His chest seized, flipping his heart backward as he scrambled to sit up in the dark.

  Friends ring the bell. Soldiers bang on the door. Who walks in?

  He pressed back against the wall of the closet, Albacete at the ready.

  I’ll fight, he thought. I’ll cut your throat. I’ve done it before.

  The closet door opened. Alejo saw ragged, bloodstained pant cuffs above two different, but equally dirty shoes. The forest of hanging clothes was thrust apart with a squeal of wire on wood. Alejo held up the dagger in a barely shaking hand, death behind his eyeballs as he looked up at the intruder.

  I have many names. I can be anyone. Now I am a crow and I will murder you.

  The man had blackened eyes and a deep cut along one cheekbone. A swollen, split lip protruded from a thick brown beard.

  “Alejito?”

  Albacete clattered to the floor as Alejo scrambled from the depths of the closet and into his father’s arms.

  Eduardo scooped up the backpack, praising his son for the foresight to pack. They left the apartment for the last time and stole furtively across Santiago to the American embassy. They kept to the shadows and back streets and the stray dogs followed them, a protective escort. A few nuzzled Alejo’s hands. One fell into step alongside him for two blocks, sniffing at the doubled-up cardigans that flapped around his legs.

  You were merciful to our sister. We will be merciful to you.

  “Milagros is good friends with an attaché at the embassy,” Eduardo whispered, hustling his son along. “They’ve gotten you a VISA.”

  “What about you?”

  “I can’t come with you. Not right now.”

  Clementina was being detained in the Villa Grimaldi, Eduardo said. as they neared the embassy. “You have a VISA and a plane ticket. And Tío Felipe is waiting for you. I must stay and find your mother. You must go find our new home. Be the man of the house until I come with Mamí.”

  The dim street blurred before Alejo’s eyes. “I want to stay with you.”

  “You must do this for me, Alejito. Felipe is waiting. He’ll help you.”

  The embassy gates were closed and barricaded and two American soldiers stood guard. A quiet conversation. Papers were shown. Then Eduardo’s warm palms lingered on Alejo’s face. His beard scratched when he kissed his son’s cheeks. Tears in the mad, blackened eyes.

  “You must do this.”

  Alejo tried to speak, to beg his father to keep him. But his throat was fused shut. One last rough hug and a kiss on the top of Alejo’s head before the gates closed between him and his father. Their hands clasped between the wrought iron bars.

  “You can do it, Alejito.”

  “Papí, wait. I have your dagger.” Surely Eduardo would need it.

  For the first time that evening, Eduardo smiled. “Keep it for me. And take good care of it.”

  “Papí…”

  But Eduardo was moving away down the street.

  “Eagles, Papí,” Alejo called.

  Eduardo looked back. “Convocation.”

  “Jellyfish?”

  “Fluther.”

  “Raccoons.”

  A last word reached Alejo’s ears.

  “Gaze.”

  He turned his head against the narrow bars, watching as his father rounded the corner and disappeared.

  October 1973

  Guelisten, New York

  Valerie Lark rang the doorbell of Dr. Penda’s house on Stroock Lane. It bonged a Big Ben chime from within, followed by the din of barking dogs.

  Beatriz, Dr. Penda’s housekeeper, answered. “Good morning,” she said. “Chilly out, no? Look at your pretty pink cheeks.”

  It was cold today, with a brisk wind off the river. Inside was warm, with the smell of a fire and a cake in the oven. In the front hall, three dogs circled Val’s legs, barking and sniffing her hands. A fourth was missing—the Rottweiler.

  “Where’s Violeta?” Val asked.

  Beatriz smiled, tripling the number of wrinkles in her face “Dr. Penda’s nephew arrived yesterday. Violeta’s taken a shine to him and hasn’t left his side. Come. They’re all in the study.”

  Val tried not to let her reluctance show as she followed Beatriz through the living room. She wasn’t in the mood to meet people and make chit-chat. She wanted to walk the dogs quickly, then get home to finish her chores and collect her allowance so she could go to the movies. The cinema in Hudson Bluffs was having a double-feature matinee of Charlotte’s Web and Robin Hood. Dr. Penda was not the man to encounter when you were in a hurry.

  Dr. Penda was a professor at Marist College and everything that came out of his mouth sounded like a lesson. He didn’t talk about the weather. He informed about the weather. Val’s little sister, Trelawney, was a voracious reader and got along well with Dr. Penda. Val read only when she had to. The sheer number of books in this house intimidated her, as did the paintings, the sculptures, the grand piano and the sumptuous furnishings. She always feared she might break a priceless treasure or be forced to read some boring classic. Her brother Roger felt the same—he never ventured further than Dr. Penda’s porch. He couldn’t get through a day without breaking something.

  “Miss Valerie is here,” Beatriz said as she waddled into Dr. Penda’s study.

  This room smelled like a museum—old and dusty and full of knowledge. The walls were floor to ceiling bookshelves. Val got dizzy looking at them so her eyes focused instead on Dr. Penda, who sat reading in his leather chair. A boy lay on the Oriental rug in front of the fire, feet crossed in socks, his head pillowed on Violeta’s back and a book hiding his face.

  “Hello, Val,” Dr. Penda said, getting to his feet. Val studied his appearance: she didn’t like his conversation, but she liked the way he looked. Her mother said he was Latin American, which Val thought meant he spoke Latin, until Trelawney explained he came from Chile. (Which Roger took to mean the food, and then Trelawney declared she couldn’t live in the same house as him anymore.)

  Latin or American, Val sure liked the way Dr. Penda dressed. His light blue sweater was cashmere and he had the most gorgeous wingtip shoes. The sun coming in the windows sparkled off the silver in his hair as he leaned and spoke Spanish to the boy on the rug.

  The book slowly lowered and the boy looked up at Val.

  Oh, she thought. He’s beautiful.

  Confusion swept through her. She’d never thought of a boy as beautiful. She didn’t think much of boys at all, other than they were obnoxious when they weren’t being stupid. All the boys in fifth grade—whom she’d known since nursery school—used to be cute. Now they were lumpy and gangly, their adult teeth growing in weird or already shrouded in braces. One or two had serious BO issues. A few had pimples, some had down on their upper lips. They were too tall or too short and their voices skittered from squeaks to growls in one sentence. If they could put together a sentence at all.

  Dr. Penda’s nephew got up from the rug. Standing, he was Val’s height and his skin was smooth and looked suntanned. His eyes were circled, but they were the green of a dollar bill and their gaze on Val was curious.

  “This is my nephew, Alejandro,” Dr. Penda said. “We call him Alejo or Alejito, which is Alex in English. Alejo, es Valerie. Se acerca a los perros para mí.”

  Alejo, or Alex, or whatever his name was, lifted his hand in a wave and a corner of his mouth smiled. He looked a little like Robbie Benson, with dark hair falling across long, smooth eyebrows. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, no different than what Roger would wear. But Roger was sloppy and smelled like feet. Alex looked and smelled clean, rumpled and crisp. Like his clothes had been hung out in the sun to dry before he pulled them on. Val’s heartbeat slowed. A strange heat pressed her cheeks at the thought of this boy putting his clothes on. She swallowed against her dry throat, feeling she was on the verge of crying.

  �
��He doesn’t have much English,” Dr. Penda said. “And he’s exhausted from the trip.” His handsome face filled with sadness as he put a hand on Alex’s shoulder and spoke again in Spanish. Alex chewed on his bottom lip and his fingertips pulled at one eyebrow as he answered. Only a few words, but his voice stayed steady on the same middle note. Val found herself tilting her chin, trying to hear more. Trying to understand.

  Beatriz crossed her arms and tilted her own chin, laughing. She was as wide as she was tall, with pure white hair pulled back in a wispy bun. A mole on her chin, another beneath one eye. Soft jiggly arms and a bust that looked like one giant boob instead of two separate ones. She took Alejo’s chin in her hand and said something kind, but firm.

  “He’ll go with you,” Dr. Penda said. “Violeta likes to be near him and he could use some fresh air. Walk him down to Main Street and show him around.”

  Val was filled with panic. How was she supposed to play tour guide to someone who didn’t speak English? And why hadn’t she brushed her hair before she left the house, and worn her nice pea coat instead of her crappy windbreaker? She didn’t even have a Lip Smacker on her.

  She clipped leashes onto the three corgis while Alex pulled on a sweater and sneakers. He put Violeta on her lead and opened the front door, standing back so Val could go first. She felt her face heat up again. Holding the door for ladies was a courtesy Val’s father was trying to instill in Roger. Not successfully.

  A whirlwind of dried leaves greeted them on the porch as they stepped outside. As they walked down Stroock Lane and turned onto Bemelman Street, she opened and closed her mouth six times, not knowing whether to talk or shut up. The awkwardness tangled up in her legs like another dog on a leash. By the time they turned onto Main Street, she couldn’t stand it anymore and began to babble.

  “That’s the train station,” she said, pointing. “And see, there you can cross over the tracks and go to the park. It has a ball field and basketball hoops. We have concerts and stuff in summer. It’s the best place to watch fireworks. That’s the Mid-Hudson bridge down there.”

  Alex’s gaze followed wherever her finger pointed. He nodded, his eyebrows wrinkling. Whether he actually understood or was only being polite, he was being attentive and Val relaxed a little.

  “This is Scott’s Variety,” she said. “They have the best candy and on Thursdays it’s all a nickel. They have good comics, too. This is Murphy’s, their ice cream is the best. On Sundays it’s buy-one-get-one-free. This is the liquor store. That’s a barber shop. My dad gets his hair cut there.”

  Alex stopped and backtracked a few steps, looking first in the barber shop window, then further on to the liquor store.

  “Cuáles son estas pequeñas casas?” he said. He glanced over at Val, shaking his head and snapping his fingers. “Little houses. Por qué?”

  “Oh those,” she said, walking toward him. She leaned to look in the window of the liquor store and the tiny scale model on display. It was the shop perfectly rendered in miniature, down to the lettering on the window, the bricks, the awning and the flower boxes. Inside, its wooden shelves were stocked with dozens of tiny bottles, meticulously labeled and corked. Across the back of the little room ran a long counter with a cash register.

  “My mother made it,” Val said. “Every store on Main Street has one.” She put her hand on her heart, wanting to convey this information properly. “My mother. Mommy.”

  “Mamí?”

  She patted her chest. “Yes, my mommy. Made. Them.” She pointed to the miniature liquor store. “She makes doll houses.”

  Alex shook his head, his eyes apologetic. Val fidgeted in frustration, trying to think of a way to communicate. The only way was to show him. She gestured for him to follow and she showed how in the windows of Scott’s and Murphy’s, in the barber shop and the deli, stood a scale model. A second, miniature Main Street.

  “Todo?” Alex said, pointing up, down and across the street. “Mamí all?”

  “All.”

  His eyes widened and his grin broadened. He said something in Spanish that Val understood to be amazement.

  “Come on,” she said, beckoning him across the street. “This is the Lark Building. My great-great-grandfather built it. This is my grandmother’s dress shop. See, she has her little house too. Pequeña casa? Did I say that right?”

  “Little house,” Alex said.

  Val hesitated, wondering if she should take him inside. A boy might not like it. It smelled of lavender and glue and ironed fabric. Mannequins stood about, beautifully dressed and posed, as if at a party. The walls were bright with color: bolts of cotton, tulle, satin and lace. Tucked in a back alcove was Val’s own sewing machine and her little work table. She had shelves for her remnants and swatches, jars for her collections of buttons, beads, sequins and ribbons. Her mannequins were Barbie dolls, all their hand-made clothing meticulously catalogued and organized. A single lost shoe could ruin Val’s sleep.

  The dress shop was both Val’s playground and her schoolroom. She had a different name within its walls: her grandmother called her Valentine.

  “I want to have a shop like this someday,” she said softly. “It’ll have a black awning with Valentine in white letters.”

  “Valentine?” Alex said. “Quieres decir como un Valentín?” With the end of Violeta’s leash, he drew a heart in the faint film of dust on the window. “Así?”

  “Yes.” She looked at him, then looked down, smiling through warm cheeks. “Come on,” she said. “Here’s the drugstore, my grandfather owns this. It has a real soda fountain inside, it’s one of the oldest in the country. Upstairs is my mother’s dollhouse gallery. I can’t take you up now, no dogs allowed.” She pointed to their four charges, shaking her head with an exaggerated expression of regret. “No dogs.”

  “No se permiten perros,” he said.

  “Perros. Dogs?”

  “Dogs,” he said happily. “Perros.” His hand lifted, an index finger reaching toward her face. Val’s breath stopped in her throat, her eyes swiveling as his fingertip pressed her cheekbone. He drew it back and showed her the eyelash pressed there.

  “Pide un deseo.” He smiled and happiness splashed Val’s chest.

  “Make a wish?” she said. “You know make a wish on an eyelash? They do that in Chile?”

  His shoulders shrugged. “Pestaña.” His fingertip beckoned. Her mind fished around for a desire but couldn’t think of one. Not when she was standing on Main Street with this beautiful boy who couldn’t understand her, yet wanted to make her wishes come true.

  She blew the tiny hair away, her chores and her allowance and her plans forgotten.

  “Let’s go to Celeste’s,” Val said. “My great-aunt’s store. She allows dogs.”

  They ran in a laughing, barking, twenty-legged pack down the sidewalk. The bell on the jamb swung merrily as they burst into Celeste’s Bookshop & Café. This was Dr. Penda’s study but on a larger, friendlier scale. The books were used, piled up helter-skelter, battered and loved and approachable. Aunt Celeste had children’s books. Magazines and board games, too. She served coffee and tea and hot chocolate. Alex would love this place.

  Except he didn’t.

  He stopped short, gazing around the high-ceilinged space with its exposed brick and scuffed wooden floors. The color drained out of his face and Violeta’s leash dropped from his hand.

  “What’s wrong?” Val said.

  “Hello, darling,” Aunt Celeste said, coming out from behind the coffee counter. “Who’s your friend?”

  Alex looked at Val with eyes hard and hurt. Slowly he backed away, turned and left the shop.

  Val stared after him, her wishes dashed to pieces on the floor. She ran to the window, pressed her palms and cheek flat against the glass, her tear-filled eyes straining to follow. Her bewilderment gave way to a helpless anger. She thought he was different, but he was just another stupid boy.

  “Goodness,” Aunt Celeste said. “What came over him?”

&n
bsp; Aunt Celeste turned the shop over to her partner, Martha, and gathered up the dogs’ leashes.

  “Come,” she said to Val. “We’ll go to his house. I’m sure there’s an explanation.”

  Val, hurt and humiliated, didn’t care to know. She went back home and moped through her chores. To spread the misery around, she teased Trelawney, picked on Roger and talked back to her father, who docked her allowance and sent her to her room.

  Aunt Celeste came for dinner. She said nothing about the morning’s events, only slipped a Spanish-English dictionary out of her handbag and gave it to Val.

  Over meatloaf and baked potatoes, the conversation was all about Dr. Penda’s nephew.

  “That boy arrived in time to see a hell of a show,” Val’s father said. “I read in the Times Bork’s naming a new prosecutor. No way they won’t impeach Nixon.”

  “He’s already seen a president ousted,” Celeste said. “Terrible things are happening in Chile, Roland. When was the last time you saw it in the headlines?”

  Roland shrugged. “Not since September.”

  “I read the CIA knew about it but chose to do nothing,” Meredith Lark said, putting more green beans on Val’s plate.

  “You ask me, the CIA was behind it,” Celeste said. “Minimal amount of refugees came here. Most went to Europe.”

  “What’s a refugee?” Roger asked.

  “Someone who seeks refuge,” Trelawney said.

  Val pushed her beans around her plate, not sure what refuge was but not wanting to be schooled by her know-it-all sister.

  “So where are his parents?” Roger asked.

  “Still in Chile,” Celeste said. “Felipe said the mother was arrested. The father as well, but they released him. He got Alejandro out and stayed to look for his wife.”

  Val looked up. “Why were they arrested?”

  “Their government was taken over,” Celeste said.

  “Like a revolution?” Roger asked.

  “Not the good kind,” Roland said. “His parents were arrested for being against the new regime.”

  “Where are they?” Val said.

  Celeste shook her head. “Detained? Jail?”

  “Then how did he get here?” Roger said.