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

the baffled look on Nancy’s face, she adds, “The effects went on for a long time is what I mean.” Nine years spent trying to reclaim his country. A president without a country. Someone (not her!)
should
write a book about it.
    â€œHow are we doing?” Camila asks the young woman. She has started drawing a family chart for herself on a blank sheet of paper.
    â€œSo far, so good,” Nancy says, nodding.
    â€œWell then, Pancho and Salomé had three sons, Fran, the oldest—I don’t suspect there will be much mail or papers from him. Early on, he faded into the background, you might say.”
    â€œOh?” Nancy asks, cocking her head, curious.
    â€œA violent temper, an incident . . .” She waves that past away. “Then there was dear Pedro—he often signs ‘Pibín.’” The smileon her face no doubt betrays he is her favorite. “And Maximiliano, who is always Max, still alive, still causing trouble.” She laughs. Nancy laughs, too, amiably. She will be easy to work with, Camila thinks. She had not wanted to employ one of her own students, someone whose judgments she would have to live with.
    â€œAnd then, of course, there is me. But I won’t have much in those trunks either.” She smiles at the sunshine pouring in through the window. It is the main reason she has never wanted to give up the small apartment. On a sunny day, it floods with light.
    â€œThat’s pretty simple,” Nancy says, finishing her tree with a flourish. “I thought it would be like one of those complicated Latin American families with oodles of kids.”
    â€œYou spoke too soon,” Camila laughs. “My mother died, and my father remarried.” She mentions her stepmother, two half sisters, both of whom died, her three half brothers. Rodolfo, the baby, now has three daughters of his own! She spells out each name. “There’s also the Parisian family—”
    â€œI guess I did speak too soon,” Nancy sighs. Her sheet is now dark with names and arrows and lines.
    â€œAnd we mustn’t forget Columbus, the bear; and the monkeys, One through Eight; and Paco, the parrot.” She decides against mentioning Teddy Roosevelt, the pig. The young woman might get insulted.
    â€œPaco and Columbus . . .” She is writing down the names of the pets! Oh dear. Humor does not always translate well.
    â€œWhy don’t we stop there,” Camila suggests. “I’ll explain other people as they come up.”
    Just introducing these ghosts by name has recalled them so vividly, they rise up before her, then shimmer and fade in the shaft of sunlight in which she is sitting. Maybe it is a good thing to finally face each one squarely. Maybe that is the only way to exorcise ghosts. To become them.
    I N THE FIRST TRUNK , the packets of letters are all tied with red ribbons.
    â€œWhoever put these away did a neat job,” Nancy notes.
    â€œI think it was my aunt Mon—oh yes, you better put Mon down, short for ‘Ramona,’ Salomé’s only sister. She became something of the guardian of Mamá’s memory.”
    â€œGuardian of a memory?” The young woman seems surprised by Camila’s choice of words.
    Perhaps
guardian
does not mean the same in English as it does in Spanish? “I mean that my aunt took charge of keeping my mother’s memory alive in me. My mother died when I was quite young. I hardly remember her.”
    She rises and walks to the window. How often has she awakened in the middle of the night, wandering the houses where she lived, looking for something, anything, to fill up the emptiness inside her. And here she is sixty-six years old, the need still raw, the strategies breaking down. Maybe she should take that mild sedative? It is still too early in the afternoon for a glass of wine.
    The phone rings. She would ignore it if the girl were not here. “Will you take that, Nancy, please?