I told Benjamin people want love stories, but he says puppets are for the little ones. I sometimes pretend the puppets are all a big family living in La Puri.
Right now, we’re in Machala. We usually stay in the Costa because Benjamin says the Sierra is too cold and here we can sleep outdoors. Sometimes Benjamin takes other jobs, like fishing or collecting cacao pods, because he says we can’t only live from “art.” My mother goes from house to house offering to wash people’s clothes and when she gets a job, she takes me with her to do the washing. I hate it. I keep asking her if we can go back to Vinces and live with you in that big house like we did when I was small, but she says we can’t. She says your wife doesn’t want us there.
When am I going to see you again? As soon as we have a permanent address, I’ll send it to you so you can come visit.
I miss you,
Elisa.
I opened the next envelope.
April 30, 1910
Dear Papá,
We’re up north now, in Manta. My stepdad is working as a fisherman. I’ve seen the ocean and I’m not afraid of it. My face is so tan now I don’t think you’ll recognize me. Also, my hair has gotten really curly!
I’ve made some friends here. Mostly young fishermen and cocada vendors (have you ever tried them?). The bad thing about all this traveling is that I can’t go to school. I’m not complaining too much because I know a lot of kids would love my life, but I want to learn all I can so one day I can go back to Vinces and help you with La Puri. Mamá says you write a lot when you work, so I have to learn how to spell and do sums and subtractions, too.
Back in Guayaquil, I used to sneak into a school. The arithmetic class was so big that the teacher never noticed me. He didn’t even know his own students’ names! My classmates didn’t seem to care or notice me, either, though once in a while, someone was mean to me.
That’s all for now.
Your daughter who misses you,
Elisa.
I checked the dates and skipped a few letters until I reached a letter from 1914.
Papá,
Mamá says you’re never going to write back even though I’ve had this same address for a year. I tell her you probably didn’t receive my other letters so you don’t know where to send yours. We all know that the post office in this country is lousy! And besides you’re a busy man and according to my calendar, the harvest must be at its bloom.
My life has somewhat settled now that I have a steady job here in Quito. After an unpleasant incident in Guayaquil, which I’d rather not talk about, my mother and I decided to move to the Sierra. Benjamin is no longer with my mom, but I think she would take him back in an instant if he ever finds us.
I now work at the telegraph office. The days are long and tiring, but I like it, and at least I don’t have to travel anymore. Mamá and I rent a room at a boarding house in the center of the city. The house where we live is surrounded by churches. I’ve never seen so many in one single place! They’re so big, too! Sometimes on weekends, I like to visit them. I don’t pray, like my mother, who takes a list of favors she wants from God. But I find the silence and the smell of all those candles soothing. Mostly, I like to look at the artwork inside and the stunning domes and ceilings. Can you believe human beings can create such beauty?
If you’re ever in town, come see me. (Address attached.)
Elisa.
I skipped to the last letter; such was my impatience.
Papá,
Mamá died last week. The doctor said she had a bad case of pneumonia. I’m not sure how I’m going to go on with life after this. I haven’t been feeling too well myself. I’ve been locked in my room for the last couple of days with a fever and didn’t go to work, even though my boss had warned me that if I skipped one more day, he would fire me. But what was I supposed to do? Someone had to look after my mother. I couldn’t think about work when she was dying.
I don’t care about anything anymore. I wish I could’ve seen you one last time, but apparently, it was not meant to be.
Elisa.
Wait. Was this a goodbye? I reread the letter. That was all. I checked the return address. Elisa had been in Quito when she sent this last letter, but what could’ve happened to her? It had been sent almost four years ago. Had she died?
I skimmed through the letters I’d skipped but they sounded a lot like the earlier ones, where she told my dad about her day to day, the people in her life, etc. Nothing else about the “unpleasant incident” in Guayaquil or what had prompted the breakup between Benjamin and her mother. If I hadn’t been so immersed in resolving things here, I might have been tempted to go to Quito to find Elisa.
I returned the letters back to my father’s safety box and left the bank, submerged in thought. Why hadn’t my father ever written Elisa back? He always wrote to me. Was it an issue of fluency in Spanish? As far as I could recall, he always wrote to me in French. But no, he could’ve asked someone else to translate if he truly wanted to communicate with her. It seemed like he’d abandoned this daughter—even worse than when he’d abandoned me. Why her and not me? Was it an issue of class? After all, she was the daughter of the maid—someone who Elisa describes as having little education and who washed other people’s clothes for a living, a woman who traveled the country like a nomad with a man who wasn’t her husband. It was apparent that my father had been ashamed of this daughter, or else he wouldn’t have hidden her letters here. However, he had saved them, which meant he had some sort of emotional attachment with Elisa.
“Don Cristóbal!”
Someone touched my shoulder. It was Soledad Duarte, the curandera.
“I’ve been calling you for a whole block!” she said, her chest heaving, her cheeks as red as a bullfighter’s cape.
“I’m sorry. I’m hard of hearing,” I said as a sole explanation.