Final Pages
A year ago, my family was composed of one dead person—my Popo—and three living ones—my grandma, my dad, and Mike O’Kelly. Now I have a whole tribe, though we’re a bit scattered. That’s what I came to realize during the unforgettable Christmas we’ve just spent in the doorless house of Gualtecas cypress. It was my fifth day back on our island after spending a week recuperating at the Millalobo’s. My Nini and my dad had arrived the previous day with four suitcases. I’d asked them to bring books, two soccer balls and some teaching materials for the school, DVDs of the Harry Potter movies and other presents for Juanito and Pedro, and a PC for Manuel. I promised I’d pay them back in the future somehow. They expected to stay in a hotel, as if we were in Paris; the only room available on this island is an insalubrious room upstairs from one of the fish shops. So my Nini and I slept in Manuel’s bed, my dad in mine, and Manuel went to Blanca’s place. With the pretext of the accident and having to rest, they didn’t let me do anything, pampering me like a guagua, as Chileans call babies before they’re potty-trained. I still look awful, with purple eyes, a nose like an eggplant, and an enormous dressing on my skull, as well as my broken toes and bruises all over my body that are starting to turn green, but I have some provisional teeth.
On the plane, my Nini told her son the truth about Manuel Arias. Since he was strapped in by his seat belt, my dad couldn’t make a big scene, but I don’t think he’ll forgive his mother too easily for forty-four years of deception. Manuel and my dad’s meeting was civilized: they shook hands, then shyly and clumsily embraced, no long-winded explanations. What could they say? They’ll have to get to know each other over the days we’ll be spending together and, if there’s an affinity, cultivate a friendship to the extent the distance from Berkeley to Chiloé—about the same as a trip to the moon—allows. Seeing them together, I noticed the resemblance. In thirty years my father will be a handsome old man, like Manuel.
My Nini’s reunion with Manuel, her former lover, wasn’t worth writing about either: a couple of lukewarm kisses on each cheek, the way Chileans normally greet each other, that was it. Blanca Schnake kept her eye on them, though I’d already disclosed that my grandmother is awfully flighty and has probably forgotten all about her fevered love for Manuel Arias.
Blanca and Manuel made Christmas dinner—lamb, absolutely no salmon—and my Nini decorated the house in her kitsch style, with Christmas lights and little paper flags left over from the Fiestas Patrias. We missed Mike O’Kelly a lot; he’s spent every Christmas since he and my Nini met with my family. At the table we interrupted and shouted each other down in our haste to tell everything that had happened to us. We laughed a lot, and the good humor went so far as to drink a toast to Daniel Goodrich. My Nini thinks that as soon as my hair grows back, I should go study at Seattle University; that way I could lasso the slippery backpacker. But Manuel and Blanca were horrified at the idea. They think I have a lot of things to resolve before diving into love again. “That’s true, but I think about Daniel all the time,” I told them, and almost burst into tears. “You’ll get over it, Maya. Lovers are forgotten in the blink of an eye,” said my Nini. Manuel choked on a piece of lamb, and the rest of us froze with our forks in the air.
When we were having coffee I asked about Adam Trevor’s printing plates, which had almost cost me my life. Just as I suspected, my Nini has them. I knew she’d never throw them into the sea, much less now during this worldwide economic crisis threatening to sink us all into poverty. If my depraved grandma doesn’t start printing money herself or sell the plates to some criminals, she’ll leave them to me in her will, along with my Popo’s pipe.
About the Author
ISABEL ALLENDE is the author of ten novels, translated into more than twenty-seven languages, including the New York Times bestsellers Ines of My Soul, Portrait in Sepia, and Daughter of Fortune. In 2004 she was inducted into the American Academy of Arts and Letters. Born in Peru and raised in Chile, she lives in California.
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