The World in Half by Cristina Henríquez Read Free Book Online Page A

of exchange.
    When I tell him that everything has been fine so far, I expect him to leave, but he stays put. “Just in case I see you again before your stay is over, what’s your name?”
    “Miraflores.” I don’t know why I say the full thing, since at home everyone calls me Mira.
    He squints at me. “Like the canal?”
    “I was named after the locks at the canal. Yes.”
    “But you’re not Panamanian, are you? Are you a Zonian?”
    “A what?”
    “I guess not, then. They know who they are. They’re really fucking proud of it.”
    “I’m half Panamanian,” I say, even though I’m nervous to let the words out of my mouth. Because is he going to want me to prove it? Can I prove it? Is he going to ask me questions I don’t know the answers to?
    “Really? So you’re half from here.” He turns the toothpick around in his mouth. “And where is the other half of you from?”
    “Chicago.”
    “In the United States?”
    “Right in the middle of it.”
    “That’s where you live?”
    “Yes.”
    “So you live in the middle of the United States, but you speak Spanish?”
    “I’ve been speaking Spanish to you this whole time, haven’t I?”
    “Yeah, but usually the Americans come here and expect us to speak English, not the other way around.”
    I don’t say anything.
    “Now I’m really bothering you, huh? You want to finish your breakfast?”
    He’s been propping up the toothpick with his fingers while he talks, but now he draws it out of his mouth and scoots away from the table as though he’s going to leave.
    “You’re not bothering me,” I say.
    “No?” He relaxes in his chair and chews on the soggy end of the toothpick again. “So how long are you staying here in Panamá?”
    I don’t feel like answering his questions all of a sudden. He’s kind of nosy, isn’t he? And why is he asking, anyway? I don’t want to give away something that would let him take advantage of me if that’s his intent. Although maybe I already have.
    “Hey, what was all that I heard earlier?” I ask instead. “With your flowers?”
    “Ah, fucking lady didn’t pay for the flower I gave her. Sorry. My language. Hernán’s always reminding me there’s a proper way to speak to the tourists.” He looks at me searchingly. “How did you know about the flowers?”
    “I could hear you from in here.”
    He snorts. “No shit? Sorry about that, too, I guess.”
    “It’s okay.”
    “Hey, you want one?”
    “What?”
    “A flower. I have orchids today. Every other dude on the street is dealing in roses, but roses are so fucking ordinary. I guarantee I’m the only guy out there with a bucket of orchids. The tourists love them.”
    “Aren’t orchids rare, though?”
    “I don’t sell the endangered ones, if that’s what you mean. I already got in trouble for that shit once. The fucking, like, flower police or something came up and told me I was breaking all these laws. Whatever. I stick to the legal ones now. So do you want one?”
    “I’m okay.”
    He twists the toothpick between his fingers.
    “How do you know Hernán?” I ask.
    “Who said I know Hernán?”
    “You mentioned him a minute ago.”
    “You know him?”
    I’m about to say that he’s the doorman when I realize I don’t know the word for “doorman” in Spanish. “He’s the man who stands outside the door.”
    “It’s nice that you paid attention, you know. People usually don’t notice. I’ll have to tell him you noticed.”
    “So you do know him.”
    “Hernán’s my uncle. My father’s brother. I’ve been living with him since I was about five.”
    “So you really know him.”
    He shrugs.
    I don’t know whether to press him. Maybe it’s my own frame of mind and reason for being there, but I ask, “And your father?”
    “My parents took off for Brazil and left me with him. They got transferred there for work, but then they never came back. Hernán’s okay, though.”
    “Your parents left you?”
    “Not at first. They