The Sunflower: A Novel (12 page)

Christine led her up to the piñata, then tied the blindfold around her eyes. As soon as the little girl had the bat, she began swinging. Pablo didn’t pull the string but let her connect, which did little but produce a light thud.

“¡Muévela, Pablo!” Move it, Pablo!

“¡Más rápido!” Faster!

“No,”
Pablo said.

“A Pablo le gusta Roxana,” Pablo loves Roxana,
Joe shouted, and the other boys quickly joined in.

“¡Cállense, tontos!”
Pablo shouted back, then added in English, “Stupid heads!”

“Basta,”
Paul said. The boys fell silent.

Roxana’s bat struck the piñata several more times but again without effect.

“Okay. Now getting the bat from her is the tricky part,” Paul said. After she swung, Paul reached in and grabbed the top of the bat. Then he slid off her blindfold. Christine stepped over and lifted her in her arms. “Good job, sweetie.”

Roxana cuddled into her. It took only two swings before Ronal connected, sending candy flying everywhere. The boys fell to the ground, gathering up the candy. Christine set Roxana down.

“Roxana, go,” Christine said. “Get some candy.” She tried to get her to move, but Roxana just clutched her leg, keeping her distance from the boys’ melee. Christine crouched down to help her, but the candy was mostly gone by then. She looked up at Paul for help. “Paul, she didn’t get any.”

“Don’t worry. She will.”

When the candy was all collected, the boys put it in a single pile.
“¿Quince?”
Deyvis asked Paul.
Fifteen?

“No. Trece es suficiente.” Thirteen’s enough.

The boys divided the candy evenly into thirteen piles. Christine watched in amazement. “You didn’t even tell them to share.”

“These boys would as soon cut off their own hand as take something the others didn’t get.”

“We could learn from them.”

“I do every day,” Paul said. He turned back to the boys.
“¿Quién quiere torta?” Who wants cake?

The boys cheered and ran off.

“Come on, Roxana,” Christine said. Roxana had never surrendered her hand and Christine led her to the dining room. When they arrived, the boys were already seated around the table. Pablo sat at the head. Paul struck a match and lit the candles on the cake.

“All right, Pablo,” Christine said. “Blow them out.”

He looked over the cake. “There are too many candles. I’m only eight.”

“It’s an American custom,” she said. “One candle to grow on.”

“Good. I need to grow,” Pablo said.

“Cantemos,”
Paul said.
Let’s sing.

The boys sang happy birthday to Pablo, first in English, then in Spanish. Then Paul cut the cake and put it on plates, which Christine handed out.

Paul gave him a new sweater, a case of watercolors and a thick pad of paper to paint on. Pablo was ecstatic with the gifts, thanking him in both languages. Then Christine gave Pablo the truck and all the boys looked at it enviously. “Wow,” he said.
“Un camión.
Cool!” Pablo hugged her. “Thank you, Miss Christine.”

“You’re welcome.”

Christine looked over at Paul and saw his eyes gleam with happiness for Pablo’s joy. She realized that Paul didn’t love Pablo
like
a son; he felt the boy
was
his son. She wondered if he had named him after himself.

When the cake was gone, all the boys went outside to play, leaving Paul, Christine and Roxana alone in the kitchen. Paul made coca tea, poured two cups and brought them over to the table. Roxana sat next to Christine, her cheek flattened against the table while Christine tickled her back.

“I should have asked if you like coca tea,” Paul said. “I can make something else if you don’t.”

“No, it’s fine. It helps with the altitude.”

“Are you still feeling it?”

“A little. It’s like a constant buzzing.”

He sat down across from her. “It’s murder when you have a cold. Sugar?”

“Please. A lot.”

Paul scooped a heaping teaspoon into her cup, stirred it, then left the spoon. He sat down across from her. “An Italian visitor once told me that coca tea tastes like a horse smells.”

She laughed. “It tastes like alfalfa.”

Paul took another sip. “I’ve never thought of that but you’re right. I could make coffee instead.”

“No, alfalfa’s fine. What time do the boys go to bed?”

“Usually around nine. But I told them they could stay up tonight until ten. We’re probably about there now.”

She finished her tea. “Want me to take the boys up?”

“No. I just need to tell them it’s bedtime. But I’m sure Roxana wouldn’t mind if you put her to bed.”

“I’d love to.”

The sun had fallen, leaving the courtyard dark except for a single floodlight that created long dramatic shadows. Paul called to the boys, while Christine took Roxana’s hand and led her to her room. Once inside, Roxana lifted off her dress, then folded it and placed it inside the wooden chest. She took out a large nightshirt, pulled it on and went to her bed. Christine turned down the sheets and helped Roxana climb under them.

Christine lingered at the side of the bed, looking into the little girl’s face. Roxana gazed back at her.

The boys’ dorm was just two doors down, and the boys ran wildly past Roxana’s room, chasing Pablo and his new truck. They were so loud and boisterous that Christine wondered how Roxana could sleep with such noise, then she smiled at her own foolishness.

“I wish I could read you a story,” Christine said. She pulled the hair back from Roxana’s face. Then she gently touched the scar. “What did they do to you, little one?”

Roxana reached up and touched Christine’s lips. Then she signed something.

Christine smiled sadly. “I don’t know what you’re saying, honey.”

Almost as if understanding her, Roxana repeated the motion, this time more slowly. Christine nodded. “I’ll ask Paul what that means. Goodnight,” she said. She leaned forward and kissed her forehead, then pulled the covers up to her chin. At the door she turned off the light and looked back. Even in the darkness she could see that Roxana was looking at her. She reluctantly turned and walked back to the kitchen. Paul was washing the last of the dishes.

“Need some help?”

“I’m almost done. How did it go?”

“She’s adorable.” Christine sat down at the table “What does this mean?” She did her best to replicate Roxana’s motion.

“She was saying ‘I love you.’ ”

Christine sighed happily. “I’m falling in love with her,” she said. Paul looked over but said nothing. He toweled off his hands. “You’re probably ready to get back to Cuzco.”

“I wouldn’t mind talking some more. If you’re not too tired.”

He smiled. “I’m not tired at all. Would you like to go for a walk?”

“I’d love to.”

“I know the perfect place.”

They left the kitchen and walked down behind the hacienda into the night, past the greenhouse up the foothill south of El Girasol. As the path grew steeper, Paul took her hand and led her nearly thirty yards up the incline to where a large rock cropping made a flat ledge. Christine was breathing heavily. Paul wiped the dust from the rock, then helped her up on the stone. She sat with her feet dangling over the side. Paul scooted over next to her.

The moon illuminated the valley before them, and the black water of the sacred river shimmered like an earthbound galaxy. Cicadas serenaded them from their hiding places like an orchestra concealed in its pit.

“It’s beautiful,” Christine said. “Do you come here often?”

“From time to time. Usually when I want to get away from the boys.”

She smiled at that. She leaned back on her elbows and looked up at the night sky. “The stars are so clear. Where’s the Big Dipper?”

“Wrong hemisphere. Down here we have the Southern Cross.”

“I’ve never really thought that the stars down here would be different than the ones at home. Where’s the Southern Cross?”

He leaned next to her, pointing toward the western sky. “See those four stars? The group there with the really bright star?”

“Yes.”

“That’s the Southern Cross. The brightest of those stars, at the foot of the cross, is Acrux. It’s really two stars orbiting around each other.” Paul was quiet a moment, then said,

Christine sighed with pleasure. “Did you write that?”

“It’s Dante. Many scholars believe he was writing about the Southern Cross, except he never saw it. Florence, Italy, is too far north. Still, it’s peculiar that he speaks of the widowed world beneath the Northern Light. At one time the Southern Cross was visible from Jerusalem, but, due to the earth’s precession, now it can’t be seen. They say the last time it was visible from Jerusalem was the same century Christ was crucified.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I read a lot,” he said. He looked out. “For centuries mariners and sojourners used the Southern Cross to guide their journeys. People have always looked to the stars for direction. Some believe they determine their destiny.”

“Do you think they do?”

“I don’t know. My last stars didn’t do me much good. I came down here and things changed. So maybe there is something to them.”

“I
need some new stars,” Christine said.

Paul looked back out over the valley. “The Incas believed that the sacred valley was a reflection of the constellations. You’ll see what I mean when you go there tomorrow.”

The mention of her departure made her sad. She looked ahead, lightly kicking her feet. “Why do you call your orphanage the Sunflower?”

“It was the name of the hacienda. I suppose it was probably built on a field of sunflowers. We keep the name because I like the metaphor of looking to light. What we do here is about hope.”

“I’ve always loved sunflowers, my whole wed—” she stopped herself. “I just like them.”

Paul noticed the slip but didn’t pursue it. “Was Jessica upset that you didn’t go back tonight?”

“A little. But she’ll get over it. She really just wanted me to cover for her. She was worried that people might suspect that she and Jim were a pair—as if everyone doesn’t already know.”

“I hope Jessica doesn’t get her hopes up. Jim’s a player. He has a girl on every tour.”

“Then they’re perfect for each other,” Christine said. “Jessica’s a male magnet. Men just can’t keep away from her. She’s just so beautiful and so much fun.”

“Like you.”

“I’m not as beautiful as she is. And I’m
definitely
not as fun.”

“I think you’re more beautiful than Jessica. And you were
definitely
fun tonight. The boys thought so too.”

“I’m not fun. I’m picky and compulsive and…” she stopped.

“And?”

“Afraid.”

A breeze wafted between and around them as if carrying off her words. She looked down over the dark, moonlit fields that ruffled with the wind.

“What are you afraid of?”

“Life, I guess. I think what I’m most afraid of is being alone.”

“You and the rest of the world,” he said. He looked over at her. “Did something happen to you to make you feel this way?”