Juventud. Vanessa Blakeslee
flamenco. Both had the straight, dark hair of many colombianas and which I envied, but Gracia was taller than Ana, and lithe; her strong limbs gracefully sliced the air. At six she’d discovered her passion for folkloric dance and flamenco, and the year before the Mirador, an exclusive restaurant, had hired her—the youngest dancer ever to perform there, and where she now danced several nights a week. Unlike Ana, who loved to lie on the beach, spend afternoons at the mall and salon; Papi thought her lazy and indulged.
Yet Ana, despite her penchant for luxury, ducked into church after school to light candles and pray, and spent weekends volunteering at clothing drives for orphans. Once, after I had waited on the sidewalk for her to finish her devotions, I asked her what she prayed about. “I pray for my problems, but mostly I pray for the world,” she said. “For everyone in Colombia to find love and peace.” Everyone? I asked, even the drug traffickers, the paras and guerillas? She just stared at me and said, “God lives in everyone, even the worst.” I had marveled at her remark, and how those we thought we knew, whom we shared gossip with over ice cream and churros, we hardly knew the depths of.
I shared my encounter the day before in the square, how nothing had happened, a mere moment—yet it had been something. Did they think I had a chance of meeting him again?
“Why didn’t you go after him, Mercedes?” Gracia asked. She threw a pillow at me. “You’re crazy to have passed up the chance. Now he’s gone.”
Someone set off a firecracker in the yard. The cathedral ceiling echoed with the laughter and outbursts of Ana’s siblings greeting their friends.
“Once you have a boyfriend, your father will forget all about this boarding school idea,” Ana said. “Trust me, he wouldn’t know what to do with himself on that farm without his princess around, and his grandchildren one day. Your own estate, just down the road. I can’t wait for all of that to happen to me,” she added.
We headed downstairs.
Beneath the fireplace, Ana’s boyfriend, Carlos, stocky and round-faced, sat in one of the intricately carved rocking chairs plucking a guitar. A few minutes later, Ana flicked the lights. Gracia entered in a blood-red flamenco dress, her novio Esteban in black pants and a tight-fitting T-shirt. Several inches taller than Gracia, he stood erect and confident; he drew attention from not just women, but men, too.
“Come in,” Ana called to those lingering, and that’s when I saw him: the joven from the cathedral was making his way across the room. Only instead of shouldering a cross, he carried a guitar case and was grinning. He claimed his place beside Carlos, a few seats from me; his forearms and neck glistened. Party-goers crowded inside, abandoned their drinks on windowsills; in the rush, a chubby girl knocked one over and yelped, the drink staining her jeans. The guitarists’ voices and the fast rhythm of their guitars in unison broke across the chatter; the dancers’ swift movements and clicking heels blurred. The cross-bearer’s eyes shut tight as he sang, his voice, rich and clear, swelled with an ardent longing that eclipsed the words—would he remember me? Gracia stamped to the flamenco beat, her face as stiff and solemn as a saint, eyes blazing, chest heaving. The maid came by with a tray of Perrier and I snatched one, drank it gratefully.
Afterward, the room buzzed. I stood and my legs shook. Guests mobbed the performers; a pair of older girls cornered the guitarists, laughing and flipping their hair as they thanked them. I grabbed Ana’s arm, my lips to her ear, and told her I needed to talk to her right now. She ushered me into the kitchen. The door swung shut behind us.
There the mood was oddly quiet, even somber. The two maids were washing cocktail glasses and listening to someone on the radio preach about Christ and the resurrection. I told Ana the guitarist was the young man from the cathedral. “Isn’t that weird, that he’s here? So he and Carlos must know each other well, right?”
“But don’t you know who that is?” Ana played with her necklace; a gift from her parents, its emerald studs glittered. Her status as a city dweller seemed to give her an edge over me, and I was forever trying to catch up to the knowledgeable sophistication her social skills bestowed upon her. His name was Manuel, and he was the older brother of Carlos by two years, she told me. “He’s really involved with the Catholic youth group my brother and I go to sometimes—very popular. Girls chase after him like crazy. He’ll talk your ear off about social justice if you let him.”
“Will you introduce us?”
She rolled her eyes at me as if to say, of course. “Manuel, he’s a good one. Passionate, too. If you can handle that.” She pushed open the door to the dining room, eager to rejoin her guests.
What had she meant by that? It almost sounded like a warning, or a challenge. But a moment later, I was standing outside in the shadowed yard, the streetlights shining across Manuel’s face, his eyes once again locked on mine.
Right after Ana introduced us, she slipped off to flirt and left Manuel and me alone. The mountains made dark silhouettes by the city lights and the moon. Some friends casually kicked a fútbol among them. Their cigarette smoke cut through the heady sweetness of the tree blossoms and their banter boomed and fell.
“I saw you yesterday,” I said. “In the square.”
He studied me, shifted his stance. “Jeans are a much better look for you, Mercedes Martinez.” A car revved on the main street, bass beats vibrating, then shrieked off. I had never kissed anyone before, and while we stood there, unmoving, it was all I could think about. I didn’t want to move unless it was to touch him, to kiss that small mouth of his, place my hands on the back of his neck and draw him toward me.
“Strange I haven’t met you before, since it seems like we know the same people,” he said finally. “And then to see one another, two days in a row. During Holy Week, no less.” I felt him taking in my white skin and smattering of freckles. Might he easily dismiss me for lacking the right attributes? Ana was sitting next to Carlos on the steps, playing with the hair above his ear. I envied her and Gracia, and the other girls I knew, their curvy hips and creamy skin without a blemish. My features stuck out next to theirs. I had a nose that I considered stubby, and thick, curly brown hair that I needed a flat iron to straighten.
One of Ana’s brothers lifted a girl in horseplay; as he set her down, both gave us a sidelong glance. I asked Manuel if he’d like to go for a walk. We nodded at the guard and headed down the street.
“Are you a dancer? One of Gracia’s friends?” he asked.
“Flamenco, no—I wish. I’ve known Gracia since grade school.”
“Can you sing?”
“Sing?” I echoed. “No, I sing like a dying parakeet sounds.”
He laughed a little, lightly touched my back. “I’m sure you’re not as bad as that. So how do you know Ana then? From church? I’ve never seen you there.”
“I’ve never been to church. Ana’s parents know my father.”
“Never?” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I see.”
Manuel was twenty-one. He had just finished two years at a trade school and was now building cabinets for his father’s furniture business. I asked about his family. “My parents are good middle-class people,” he replied, “and very religious.” An older brother, Emilio, planned on entering the seminary in September to become a priest. Carlos, the youngest brother, had just started attending university to study engineering. Manuel lived with them on the outskirts of la Ciudad Jardín in a neighborhood I’d never been to, but had heard was decent. Then he asked where I lived, and about my parents. When I mentioned Papi and our hacienda, his expression changed. He pretended to study me, finger to chin, eyes squinting comically—like the ways Papi teased.
“Hmm,” he said. “You don’t appear dangerous. I guess you might be worth the risk.”
“What are you talking about?” I trailed my hand along the low-lying branches of a tree we passed, the petals like newborn skin.
“Your father is Diego Martinez, right?” His expression