In the Name of Salome by Julia Álvarez Read Free Book Online

ours—from lives to literature—has always been so disposable, she thinks. It is as if a little stopper that has contained years of bitterness inside her has been pulled out. She smells her anger—it has a metallic smell mixed in with earth, a rusting plow driven into the ground.
    That evening, she takes her glass of wine into the back room and opens the trunks.
    S HE HAS BEEN LISTENING intently for the last half hour, and then has forgotten to listen, so that the crunch of snow on the pathway surprises her. A brief pause as the visitor reads the names on the mailboxes, the squeak of the knob being turned, the rush of cold air as the downstairs door is opened, the seventeen steps to the attic apartment.
    â€œSorry,” the young woman says at the door. “I was told 204 College Street, and it jumps from 202 to 210.”
    The face is open and eager. (What was it her mother wrote in her poem to schoolchildren?
Their faces fresh with what they do not know
. . .) Atop the pale face there is a burst of red hair.
    â€œYou’re right on time,” she lies. “They’re in the back room.”
    â€œDr. Henríquez,” the girl starts over. “I’m Nancy, Nancy Palmer.”
    She leads the young Nancy to the back of the apartment. “I suppose Pilar, or rather, Profesora Madariaga explained what I’d like you to help me with.”
    â€œI’m only a Spanish minor, you know?” the young woman says rather quickly. Perhaps she has spotted some loose pages on top of one of the trunks.
    â€œBut you read Spanish well enough to read to me?”
    â€œI got an A in Miss Madariaga’s Spanish 220.”
    â€œMuy bien, muy muy bien. Shall we start?”
    Camila explains the task at hand. She had thought she could do it all on her own, but this last year has been a strain on her poor eyes. The eye doctor has told her that indeed she has cataracts, which will have to be operated on.
    â€œI think it is better if I introduce everyone first,” she explains to the young woman. That way she will know in what box to place the different letters and documents. “I’ll start with Salomé Ureña, my mother—some of the letters might say ‘la poetisa nacional.’ She married Francisco Henríquez, whom everyone calls Pancho or Papancho, so she became Salomé Ureña de Henríquez. We always keep our own last names.”
    Nancy looks up as if sensing a criticism.
    â€œIt is the custom in our poor countries.” She intends the phrase ironically, but the girl nods earnestly with that abstract compassion for the downtrodden of the world.
    â€œPancho became President Pancho in 1916—”
    Nancy’s mouth drops open.
    â€œIt was actually a very brief presidency,” Camila notes, “not unlike those small towns. What is it you say? Don’t blink as you drive by or you will miss them.”
    â€œHow long was he president?”
    She counts the months out on her fingers to be sure. “Four months, I think it was. We were living in Cuba when he heard. By the time the family joined him in Santo Domingo, we barely had time to unpack before we were back in exile in Cuba again.” She does not add that it was the American occupation that forced Pancho out.
    â€œGosh,” Nancy says, shaking her her head. “You should write a memoir. Alice Roosevelt has. I hear one of the Eisenhower kids is writing one about his dad.”
    Camila waves the suggestion away. She has been approached before, by journalists and historians south of the border. They query her on the details of her life as First Daughter. What details? she asks. There was no time for details, no time to plan an inauguration ball, to have calling cards printed up.
    â€œWell, I think it’s pretty neat to have a daddy who was president, even if it was only for four months.”
    â€œI wish it had only been four months.” Camila sighs, and when she notes