The Sunflower: A Novel

by Evans, Richard Paul

  Jessica waved. “Over here.”

  Christine walked to the table.

  “Buenos días,” the woman said. “I’m Joan Morton.”

  “Hello, Joan.”

  The man extended his hand. “And I’m Mason,” he said with a southern accent. “Mason Affleck from Birmingham.”

  “My pleasure. I’m Christine.”

  “For the record,” Joan said, “I was betting on you last night.”

  “Thank you. I’m sure it’s more than Jessica could say.”

  Jessica grinned. “Sorry, honey, I know you too well.”

  “Thanks, babe.” Christine looked over their plates. “So what’s good?”

  “The French toast looks weird but it’s good,” Jessica said.

  “Try the prickly pear,” Joan said.

  “Is it good?”

  “No, but you’ll have something to talk about when you get home.”

  “What’s that you’re drinking?” Christine asked Jessica.

  “I don’t know. The sign said GUANABANA, whatever that means.”

  “And?”

  “It’s okay.”

  Christine walked over to the buffet tables. She picked through the entrées and came back with an apple, a banana and orange juice.

  “I see you’re not feeling adventurous,” Jessica said.

  “Not really.”

  “You feelin’ any better?” Mason asked. “Jessica said you had the altitude sickness.”

  “I did. But I feel a lot better now. I guess I just needed a good night’s rest.”

  “I still have kind of a buzz myself,” Joan said.

  “What time did you get back last night?” Christine asked Jessica.

  “Late. After midnight.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “Just talking. I think we were the last ones in the square.”

  “Speaking of which,” Christine said, looking around, “where is everybody?”

  “Probably boarding the bus,” Jessica said. She checked her watch and groaned. “We’re late. We’ve got to go.”

  Christine downed her juice, then put the fruit in her backpack. All three of them hurried out.

  Jim was standing outside the bus waiting. “Here you are. I thought you’d gone AWOL.”

  “No, someone kept me up too late,” Jessica said.

  “Who kept who up?” he rejoined.

  “Sorry we’re late,” Christine said.

  “We’re all right,” Jim said, climbing on behind them.

  The bus door shut as they found seats. Jim nodded to the driver, and they started off.

  As they left Cuzco, Jim said, “Let’s talk about today’s project. We’re headed to a town about thirty minutes south of here called Lucre. We’ll be working at an old hacienda converted to an orphanage. It’s called the Sunflower.

  “The orphanage was founded about six years ago by a Peruvian policeman by the name of Alcides Romero. Alcides had become frustrated with how the police handled Cuzco’s street children. Unable to arrest them, they basically ignored them, leaving them to starve in the streets.

  “Alcides decided to do something. He knew of this abandoned hacienda and with his comandante’s support he talked the state bureaucrats into donating it to the police. Then he took half his salary and paid for food to keep the children here. We learned about what he was doing a few years ago and have been helping ever since. For just a few dollars a month we can keep a child fed, clothed and educated.”

  The bus climbed a dusty road past plaster huts. As they came around a turn, the broad stone and adobe walls of the hacienda stretched out before them.

  Once the home of a wealthy eighteenth-century landowner, even in its decline it was clear that the building had been magnificent.

  The ground behind the hacienda sloped upward into shallow foothills covered in lush vegetation and large cacti that looked like overgrown aloe vera plants. As the Americans wound their way through the narrow dirt streets, the towns-people, crouched in doorways or walking, watched them pass while cats scurried up trees and dogs ran barking after them.

  The bus crept down a steep, gravel slope, stopping at the side of the hacienda, twenty yards east of the rising foothills.

  Jim led the group off the bus and down a small path into the hacienda’s rectangular courtyard. On one end was a row of windows and on the other was a high wall with several openings for bells.

  A short Peruvian man wearing a dirty Puma-Condor T-shirt rushed out to meet them. “Hermano,” he said, embracing Jim.

  “Hola, Jaime,” Jim said, “¿Qué tal?”

  “Muy bien,” he replied enthusiastically. He looked around at the group and extended his hands in the air. “¡Bienvenidos!” he shouted.

  “He says ‘welcome,’ ” Jim said. “All right, everyone gather up.”

  The group congregated around the rock wall of a fountain.

  “Everything we do is to help the orphanage become more self-sufficient. We’ve been asked to help them build a greenhouse. We also need a couple volunteers to paint the schoolroom.”

  Jessica’s hand shot up. “We’ll do it.”

  Jim glanced about to see if there were any more takers. None offered. “Okay, Jessica and Christine, you’re hired. Jaime here will show you to the room. The rest of you follow me.”

  Jim led the group through the portico to the hacienda’s backyard, leaving Christine and Jessica in the center of the courtyard with Jaime.

  “What was that about?” Christine asked.

  “Building a greenhouse didn’t sound like too much fun.”

  Jaime looked them over then said, “Okay, vamos.”

  They followed him to a dim room at the end of a tiled corridor. The room was cavernous and high ceilinged, lit by a single open window. In the center of the room was a metal scaffolding surrounded by sealed cans of paint, an aluminum tray and several paint rollers.

  “We paint,” he announced, his words echoing in the room.

  “Certainly needs it,” Christine said.

  Jessica looked around. “Probably a century or two since it was painted last.” She walked to the center of the room, and stretched out her arms. “Show us thy bidding, Master Jaime.”

  Jaime looked at her quizzically, then stooped down and pried the lid off the can of paint with a screwdriver. The pale yellow paint was separated. He took the can and set it down next to Jessica and the scaffolding.

  “Do you have something to stir the paint?” Jessica asked.

  Jaime didn’t answer.

  “Stir…paint,” she said, moving her hand in a circular motion.

  “Ah,” Jaime nodded, “Mezclar.” He walked out of the room. He returned carrying a short crooked branch. He handed it to Jessica, then went to the opposite side of the room to repair a splintered doorjamb.

  Jessica brushed the dirt from the stick, then began to stir the yellow into a deeper gold tone.

  “Where are all the children?” Christine asked.

  Jaime blinked at her.

  “The children…” she said slowly. “Chill-dren.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Niños.”

  “Sí.”

  “Los niños están en la escuela. The school.”

  “I hope Jim comes back,” Jessica said. She tilted the paint can toward Christine. “You think that’s good enough?”

  “Probably.”

  “Ask him if they have a drop cloth.”

  “Yeah, right,” Christine said.

  They poured the paint into an aluminum tray, then dipped their rollers into it.

  “What do we do with the cracks in the wall?” Christine asked, “Maybe they have spackle.”

  Jessica looked around. “Just paint over them.”

  “Jaime,” Christine said.

  He turned. “Señorita?”

  She pointed to a small fracture in the wall. “Do we paint over the cracks?”

  He nodded demonstratively moving his hand back and forth. “Yes. Paint,” he said
.

  “Told you,” Jessica said. She rested her hands on her hips. “As if he understood.”

  “Sure he did.”

  “Jaime.”

  He turned again. “Señorita?”

  She pointed to Jessica. “Should I paint Jessica?”

  He nodded. “Yes. Paint.”

  Jessica started laughing. “Touché.”

  They started on the south wall. Christine painted the lower section, stretching as high as she could reach with her roller, while Jessica stood on the scaffolding, reaching to the ceiling.

  It took them about forty minutes to complete the first wall. Then they dragged the scaffolding over to the next wall. As they picked up their rollers Christine noticed a small boy standing near the door, partially hidden in the shadows. He had coffee-colored skin, large brown eyes and eyelashes long enough to make her jealous.

  Christine whispered loudly, “Jessica, look.”

  Jessica glanced over. When she saw the child, a smile broke across her face. “Have you ever seen anything so cute in your life?”

  The boy just gazed at them.

  Jaime noticed that they had stopped working and looked over at the boy.

  “¿Por qué no estás en la escuela?” How come you’re not in school?

  “Estamos en recreo,” he replied. It’s recess.

  “How old do you think he is?” Christine asked.

  “He’s about the size of my nephew and he’s six.”

  Jessica set down her brush and climbed down from the scaffolding. She stepped toward him, then squatted down to his height. “Where did you come from, little guy?”

  He didn’t answer. His eyes darted back and forth between the two of them.

  “He’s gorgeous. Say something in Spanish, Chris. Ask him his name.”

  Christine stepped up to him. “¿Cómo…te…llamas?”

  He looked at them suspiciously.

  “¿Tu nombre?”

  “My name is Pablo,” he said in perfect English. “I’ll be eight years old tomorrow. It’s my birthday. I’m just small for my age.”

  “You speak really good English,” Jessica said.

  “So do you,” he replied.

  Jessica laughed. “Where’d you learn English so well?”

  “Dr. Cook.”

  “¿Cuándo llega el doctor Cook?” Jaime asked.

  “Ya viene.” Pablo translated for them. “He wants to know when Dr. Cook will be here. I told him Dr. Cook is coming.”

  “Who’s Dr. Cook?” Jessica asked.

  “He’s the boss,” Pablo said as a man entered the room. Christine immediately recognized him as the one who had rescued her purse. He smiled. “Hello again.”

  “Thank you again.”

  “You’re welcome.” He extended his hand. “I’m Paul Cook.”

  “I’m Christine.”

  “My pleasure, Christine.”

  Jessica stepped forward. “I’m Jessica.”

  “Hi. Thank you for helping us.” He looked down at the boy. “I see you’ve met Pablo.”

  “Cute kid,” Jessica said.

  “He’s a handful,” Paul returned. He looked around the room. “It’s looking much better.”

  “One wall down, three to go.”

  “Que pasa, calabaza,” Jaime said.

  “Nada, nada, limonada,” Paul replied. He turned to the women. “Is Jaime being good to you?”

  “He’s great. We just don’t speak much.”

  Paul smiled. “Be careful, he understands more than he lets on.” He walked to the wall, inspecting their work. “When you’re done, this room will be used as a classroom.”

  “Jaime said the kids all went somewhere else to school.”

  “Right now they do. But it’s not the best situation. Most of them are far behind their classmates. It’s embarrassing for the teenagers to be in with the first-graders.”

  “Can I help them paint?” Pablo asked.

  Paul looked at the women. “Is that okay with you?”

  “Sure,” Jessica said.

  “All right,” he said to Pablo, “But you have to work hard.” He looked back at the women. “I’ll see you a little later.” He glanced once more at Christine, then walked out. Jaime followed him out of the room, speaking and gesticulating as they walked.

  “He’s gorgeous,” Jessica said.

  “You say that a lot,” Pablo said.

  Jessica grinned. “All right, Pablo, let’s put you to work.” They walked over to the scaffolding. “Have you painted before?”

  “I like to paint pictures.”

  “This is a little different. Actually it’s a lot different. You can use my roller. You dip it in the paint like this. Then roll it off a little in the pan so it doesn’t drip. Then you roll it on the wall.”

  She helped guide his movement. “I can do it myself,” he said.

  “Good. Because we’ve got a lot to do.”

  Jessica picked up another roller, then climbed back up the scaffolding. Pablo settled next to Christine to work. After a few minutes Christine said, “Tell us about yourself, Pablo.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Tell us about your life.”

  His brow furrowed. “My life is very tragical.”

  “Tragical?”

  He nodded. “Very.”

  “Don’t you mean ‘tragic’?” Jessica said.

  He shook his head. “No, tragical.”

  “Why is it tragical?” Christine asked.

  “You’re going to make me talk about it?”

  Christine smiled. “You don’t have to talk about it. We’ll talk about something happy. Tomorrow’s your birthday?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll be eight?”

  “Yes. We’re having a party. A big one. We made a piñata.”

  “Sounds fun. Can I come?”

  “You’ll have to ask Dr. Cook. He’s the boss.”

  “We’ll get you a birthday present anyway,” Christine said.

  “Thanks.”

  “How long have you lived here?” Jessica asked.

  “Long, long time.”

  This sounded funny coming from an almost-eight-year-old boy. “Where are you from?” Christine asked.

  At this he hesitated. “I don’t know.” He looked down and went back to his painting.

  They had nearly completed the third wall when they heard the clang of a bell.

  “Time for lunch,” Pablo said, and he immediately set his roller on the ground and ran out of the room.

  Christine smiled. “Guess he was hungry.” She went to the door and looked out. Their group had returned to the courtyard. They were standing in small lines to pick up their box lunches or already seated to eat.

  They poured the paint from the trays back into the can, sealed it then went out. On one side of the courtyard a water fight raged between the high school students, who were filling buckets from a hand pump and dousing each other. The Peruvian workers watched in amusement.

  Jessica got two box lunches while Christine went for their drinks. They sat down together on the stone wall next to the fountain where Pablo and several of the Peruvians had gathered.

  “Thanks for your help, Pablo,” Christine said.

  “It’s nothing.”

  The sun was high in the sky and Jessica leaned back to take it in. “Isn’t this weather incredible?”

  “Everyone will think we’ve been hitting the tanning beds,” Christine said. She looked down at the box lunch. “So what’s for almuerzo?”

  “Huh?”

  “Lunch,” Christine said.

  Jessica rooted through her box. “A hard yellow roll with a fatty piece of ham and a slab of yellow cheese. A banana. Sweet-potato chips. A piece of chocolate. We’re definitely losing weight. What are we drinking?”

  “Strawberry yogurt,” Christine said, handing her a small carton.

  Jim stopped by. “How’s the painting going, ladies?”

  “You should come se
e for yourself,” Jessica said. She un-peeled a banana, then pulled at its strings. “How about you guys?”

  “We’re making progress. It’s definitely a three-day job.”

  “Come eat with us,” Christine said.

  “Thanks, but the driver just told me he’s having trouble with the bus, so I better take care of that.”

  “Yeah, we’d like to go home tonight,” Jessica said.

  “I’ll get you home.” He turned to Pablo, who was sitting quietly eating his sandwich. “Hey, Pablo. Staying out of trouble?”

  “No.”

  “He’s been helping us,” Christine said.

  “Pablo always helps. He’s a good worker.”

  “Thanks,” Pablo said.

  “I better run. Chao,” Jim said as he walked off.

  One of the Peruvian men sitting near them had a bright yellow and red macaw sitting on his shoulder. It would occasionally squawk, and the man would hand it a piece of bread. The bird would take the morsel in its talon, lift it to its beak, then throw its head back and eat.

  “That is such a pretty bird,” Christine said. “Look at its feathers.” She reached out to touch it. “Hello, pretty girl. Hello, pretty girl.”

  “He’ll bite your finger,” Pablo said.

  She jerked back her hand. “Are you kidding?”

  Pablo said to the man holding the bird, “Carlos. Muéstrale tu dedo.”

  Without looking at them, he raised a scarred finger.

  “Thanks for the warning,” Christine said.

  Just then, on the other side of the courtyard, Paul emerged from a room, picked up one of the box lunches, then sat alone on the stairs opposite them. Both women watched him.

  “Wouldn’t throw him out of bed for eating crackers,” Jessica said.

  “Quit ogling,” Christine said.

  Jessica said, “Let’s go talk to him.”

  Christine glanced at him again. He met her gaze and she quickly turned away.

  “Okay.”

  Taking their lunches with them, they crossed the courtyard. Paul looked up as they neared.

  “Mind if we join you?”

  He smiled, “Of course not.” He slid over to the side of the stair. Jessica sat closest to him while Christine sat three steps below.

  “How’s the painting coming?”

  “It’s coming,” Jessica said. “How long has this place been an orphanage?”