CHILDHOOD
They arrived home late but Crisóstoma was waiting for them with supper ready. That is, she was waiting for him and he showed up with the girl.
“She’s hungry,” Trafalgar said without offering further explanations.
Crisóstoma has the soul of a hen, she spread her wing and took her under it, soft and cozy. “But of course!” she scolded Trafalgar. “I’m sure you gave her nothing to eat, poor thing. What’s your name?”
She didn’t know who the girl was or why she was there but she wasn’t going to let her go hungry for anything in the world.
“Eritrea Perla Medrano.”
And then Rogelio arrived, in robe and pajamas, thanks to which Crisóstoma didn’t faint like me in the Burgundy, and the pipsqueak had both of them in her pocket within a minute and a quarter. They gave her thin oatmeal, a chicken drumstick, sweet potato conserve, and Coca-Cola. Not because Trafalgar drinks Coca-Cola, vade retro, but because Rogelio does and he always has a bottle in the refrigerator.
That same night, while Eritrea sucked on a candy (Rogelio once again—a bon vivant), between the three of them they removed the stereo and the old armchair and the floor lamp from the room next to Trafalgar’s bedroom and they made up the bed and put feather pillows on it, a little bedside table with a lamp with an alabaster shade that had been in the living room, and a little bell so she could call if she wanted something, anything at all, water or more Coca-Cola or company or for someone to tell her a story or whatever occurred to her.
The next day they went to the civil registry with Rogelio and Crisóstoma as witnesses.
“I’ve come to register the girl,” said Trafalgar.
“What?” said a fat lady with badly dyed ash-blonde hair and a doughy, underbaked face. “At that age and not registered yet?”
“No.”
After snorts and protests, the fat lady asked, “Name?”
“Eritrea Perla Medrano.”
“Daughter of?”
“Trafalgar Medrano, here’s my identity card.”
“Birth certificate?”
“I don’t have it. It was lost in the fire.”
The fat lady started to perspire.
“Name of the mother.”
“Mother unknown,” said Trafalgar.
“What do you mean, unknown?” exploded the fat lady.
“Well, see,” Trafalgar said and proceeded to tell the fat lady a whole novel about a frenzied orgy in which everyone with everyone—you follow me, right? And in which, well, when he got to the juicy details the fat lady, pale and sweaty, said good, that’s fine, unknown, yes, certainly, fire, what a shame, well, yes.
At school, things went splendidly well. Little starched apron, little braids, black shoes with white ankle socks, clean hands, freshly brushed teeth, and twenty cents for a cocoa and five little cookies during the long recess, adorable.
After about two months, they called him: “Señor Medrano, you must know that girls enter this institution before learning to read or, moreover, doing sums. Eritrea gets bored and of course, as she was previously taught that which it is the task of the school . . .”
“I beg your pardon,” said Trafalgar, “but no one taught her anything. She learns on her own, just from watching. She’s a very intelligent girl,” and he restrained himself from adding, “like her father.”
“There is no doubt of that,” said the vice principal, her lips tight.
It seemed she did not like the girls of her school to be intelligent.
“We will attempt, of course, to discipline her a little, because as she is quick to learn, she spends her time, I don’t know, for example in haranguing her classmates to, in a manner of speaking, avoid calligraphy class or scare Señora de Romero, who teaches mathematics.”
“Look, better you not discipline her too much. I am of the opinion that children should be allowed to express themselves freely, ma’am.”
“Miss.”
“Miss. Discipline is very fine for barracks, but in school one has to be seeing what each student’s like and what she wants. Talk to the girls, see, and find out why they do what they do.”
“Very modern,” said the vice principal, almost without separating her lips, which was quite the achievement.
But, obviously, by fourth grade he could clearly see that it was impossible to keep Eritrea in school. Not only did she do all that the vice principal had told him, but she sweet-talked or led her classmates in trying to get the punishment reduced for a girl who had been rebellious or to protest because they didn’t let them play soccer (that’s not for girls!) or to go to school in costume (pirates, ghosts, Russian princesses and odalisques were the favorites).
Trafalgar took her home, improvised a study room beside the library, brought in Juan Grela, who lived quite close by, once a week to teach her painting, and sent her to the Cosettinis’ school and everyone was happy.