Exiled (A Madame X Novel) Page 11

  That’s Mama.

  Papa is more trusting. He would have given the man the money and trusted him to make the right change, and wouldn’t have realized he’d been cheated until much later, when it was too late. But Papa knows this, which is why he let Mama buy the water. Because he is smart about being stupid.

  That is most men, I think.

  Or so I have observed.

  We have only been here two days, Mama and I. Papa came first, a month ago, and found us an apartment to live in near where both he and Mama worked, registered me for school, and signed us up for our citizenship classes. He’d even managed to get a few days of work in but hadn’t had a chance to see anything fun. So the moment Mama and I arrived in the baggage claim area, Papa piled our suitcases onto a trolley and led the way to our car. It’s not a new car, and not a very nice one. It has rust on it, and there is a crack in the windshield, but Papa said it was a cheap rental just for the day, because taxis cost too much money and the subways are very confusing, the roads only marginally less so.

  Papa was very excited, babbling a mile a minute, talking about how our new apartment is nice, very nice, but of course not so nice as our home back in Barcelona, but still nice.

  Even now, despite the fact that there is a tour guide, Papa is talking, talking, talking, pointing out buildings he recognizes, laughing at what I assume was a joke the tour guide made that I did not quite understand.

  Eventually, as she always does, Mama quiets him. “Luis. You are babbling, my love. Hush, please, and let the tour guide be the tour guide.”

  Papa pretends to be grumpy and embarrassed, but he reaches his arm behind me and Mama reaches up, holds on to his fingers with her own. I roll my eyes at their display and get up, move to the front of the boat.

  “Isabel, please be careful,” Mama says.

  “I will,” I say, stuffing down the impulse to say something rude and childish about how I’m not a child that I need a reminder to be careful.

  As soon as I am up, Papa takes my seat and Mama leans into him, tucks her head against his shoulder. I sigh and look away, turn my attention forward, hoping to see the statue. There is nothing to see yet, though, but the island on our left and the place called New Jersey on our right, and water between. I like the wind in my hair, because it reminds me of home—of Spain.

  This is home now.

  I feel a pang in my chest at that. This is home.

  I’ll never see Maria or Consuela again, my best friends since I was a baby. I told them I would write letters, but in my heart I know I probably won’t. I’ll be busy with school, and trying to make new friends, and learning to speak English. Maria and Consuela were jealous of me for getting to move to America, but I think maybe it isn’t going to be as fun and exciting as everyone thinks.

  It is scary. This is a huge place, this New York. Everything is so tall, so wide, so fast, so new. There are millions of cars, taxis, buses, trucks, and there is the rumbling of trains underfoot and the crush of people, so many people.

  And they are all so rude, so unfriendly. As if they cannot be bothered to even look at me, because their lives are so important, so much to do. At home—back in Spain—people would smile at you as you passed them. You might see someone while you’re sitting at lunch in a café, not even someone you know, but you could become friends with them, talk to them. Smile at them, at least. And no one was in as much of a hurry as they are here. You take too long ordering food or even walk on the sidewalk too slowly, people get so irritated, push past you, yell at you to hurry up. I do not understand why everyone is in such a rush here.

  I am not sure I like it, really.

  Even though I am a little excited to see the Statue of Liberty in person. I’ve seen it in American movies a thousand times, but now I’m about to see it for real, right in front of me.

  And then it happens, the tour guide tells us we’ll see it on our left first if we’re on that side, but no matter which side we’re sitting on, everyone will get a good look. I am in front, in the best spot to see it as we approach. There it is! Huge, so big, so much larger than it seems even in the movies, soaring so high into the sky, impossibly vast. It strikes something deep inside me, the statue. It is just a big green woman with a torch and a book, but it means something. It inspires something in you, something beyond being the symbol of America, the symbol of so-called freedom. I don’t know the words to capture my own emotions, but I am full of thoughts and words and pictures and hope, so full my chest hurts as if they’re all trying to rupture out at once.

  I forget myself, that I am fourteen and not a little girl anymore. “Mama! Papa! Do you see it!”

  She smiles, that soft bright smile she gives only to me. “Yes, mija, I see it. It is very big, isn’t it?”

  Papa just smiles, and watches Mama and then me, as if capturing the moment in some internal, mental camera. Remembering. But not the statue, not the trip . . . us, Mama and me.

  * * *

  We came here,” I say, when the memory breaks and I am once again myself, an adult, here and now, with Logan. “My mama and papa and I. On this tour.”

  Once again, the tour guide makes the announcement that the Statue of Liberty will be visible soon. I am compelled forward, to the bow once more, hands on the railing, eyes scanning the river for the first sign of the statue. I feel Logan beside me, and he puts his arm around my waist. He’s quiet, letting me experience it in my own time. Letting me feel it, I think.

  There it is. God, so vast. Arm raised high, torch flames looking as if they could flicker alight at any moment, sleeve tumbling down her arm, the other hand wrapped around that big book, on which—so says the guide—is written the date of the Declaration of Independence, July 4, 1776. Two days after my birthday. Her full title is Liberty Enlightening the World, and she represents Libertas, the Roman goddess.

  I am dizzy from the overlap of memory and reality.

  I could close my eyes and be fourteen.

  I could turn my head and see Mama and Papa.

  I am so tempted to turn my head, to look. But I do not. It is just a memory, a precious memory. I lean into Logan, and focus on each breath.

  “You remember something?” he asks.

  I nod against his shirt. “Yes. But I’m not sure how to put it into words. I mean, it’s a simple memory, really. Us, the three of us, on a boat just like this, about to see the statue. Being a young girl in a new place. I think we’d just come here a few days before. I was unsure of so much. Trying to be adult about it, but really, I was just fourteen.”

  “A big change for anyone, much less a girl at that age.”

  I nod. “Yes, exactly. It was very scary. I didn’t understand—oh, so many things. Why everyone was in such a rush, for one, and why everyone seemed to be so rude, for another.”

  Logan laughs. “Ah, New York. Those aspects of this city are a culture shock for people born in the States, much less someone like you from a much slower-paced, friendlier place like Spain.”

  “What was it like for you, when you moved here?”

  He tilts his head to the side. “Oh man, it was . . . kind of the same, honestly. I mean, I’d already been stationed in Kuwait and fought combat missions in Iraq, flipped houses in Chicago. So . . . I wasn’t a kid, you know? But it was still a culture shock. Everything happens so fast, here. Like you said, everyone is in a rush, you’re always getting jostled and told to hurry it up. Plus, there’s just . . . so much. You could live your entire life in this city and there’d still be things you’ve never seen, places you’ve never been, restaurants you’ve never heard of.”

  “I get that feeling too, the little of it I’ve seen.”

  “It’s weird, to me, how you can have been here since you were fourteen and still know nothing about the city.”

  “Not by choice.”

  “No, that’s for sure. I get it. It’s just . . . we
ird.” A shrug. “Twelve years, and it’s like you’re seeing it for the first time.”

  “Because I am, really.”

  “And that’s why we’re here, babe. I want your memories of New York to be of me, of us. I want . . . I want to give you good memories.”

  I melt into him. “Every day I spend with you, it’s a good memory.”

  “Good answer, sweetheart, but we gotta make you some new ones, some real memories. That’s what today is about.”

  I watch the statue drift past us as we glide around it, across the bay and to the opposite side of the island. We sit again, once the statue is out of sight, and the rest of the trip is quiet, slow, and peaceful. I hold Logan’s hand and listen to the tour guide, and enjoy the sun on my face.

  By the time we’ve returned to the dock, it’s well past lunchtime, and my stomach is grumbling, so Logan hails another Uber and has us taken to Times Square, another place I’ve never been, or don’t remember coming. The driver deposits us at the edge of the square, and we get out, make our way on foot through the bustling crowds to the giant red staircase. I look around in awe at the myriad flashing lights and mammoth screens and endless advertisements, finding it hard to breathe from the grandeur of the place, the chaotic wilderness of lights and lives and frenzied exuberance.

  There are thousands of people, just like us, taking photographs, posing for selfies, pointing, just sitting and taking it in. After a moment, Logan leads me across the square, consulting his phone now and again. A map, directions to something. A restaurant, I assume. Indeed, he guides us unerringly to a little place not far from the square itself, called Ellen’s Stardust Diner. It doesn’t look too impressive from the outside, and indeed, the interior is that of an aging diner, vinyl seats and Formica tables. But once we’re seated and we’ve ordered food, I see why he brought me here.

  The servers all sing.

  I smile the entire time as a flamboyant young man with bouffant red hair climbs up on a little catwalk between a row of booths, microphone to his mouth, singing an old show tune for all he is worth. And then, after a moment, a girl starts singing a different song, and while she’s singing she’s inputting an order and carrying a glass of soda to a table, and then she’s dancing past the tables and shaking her butt and holding the end note until I begin to wonder if her lungs can possibly contain any more oxygen. The whole lunch is like that, me watching the waitstaff singing and forgetting to eat, while Logan watches me.

  And then, once we’re done eating, Logan leads us back out to the square, and to a theater a block away, where he buys tickets for a show called Aladdin. A real Broadway show? I’m so excited for that it’s hard to contain it, and I find myself wishing the day would pass more swiftly, so it would be seven o’clock sooner. But then, I don’t want to miss anything else Logan has planned for us.

  Which, apparently, entails shopping.

  We walk to Fifth Avenue, and when we reach the intersection and stand on the corner, he sweeps his hand at the array of shops, a grin on his face. “Pauper me, Isabel.”

  “Pauper you?”

  “Yes, love. This is Fifth Avenue, honey, one of the most expensive streets in the world, along with Rodeo Drive in L.A. and Rue St. Honore in Paris. I’m giving you carte blanche to go into any store and buy anything you wish.” He winks at me. “Every girl’s dream, I think.”

  “I don’t even know where to start, Logan. I’ve not done much shopping.”

  He tugs on my hand. “Well then, let’s start simple—with a woman’s best friend.”

  With that cryptic remark, he leads me into a jewelry store—Tiffany and Company—which makes more sense of the comment: diamonds. I spend a few minutes just perusing, and I’m overwhelmed.

  “I don’t know, Logan. They’re all beautiful, but . . . maybe this sounds bizarre, but I don’t even know what I should like.”

  He laughs. “That is pretty weird, Is. But it shouldn’t be too hard; just look at the stuff, and if something grabs your eye, point it out and I’ll buy it.”

  “Just like that?”

  “If you like it, yeah, just like that.”

  So I look again, this time just letting my gaze flit and float from piece to piece. I’m starting to wonder if there’s something wrong with me, because nothing catches my eye. But then . . . I see a necklace in the shape of a key.

  I point it out, and an elderly woman behind the counter drapes it over a black felt stand for me to examine. My heart is pounding, for some odd reason.

  And then, when I touch it, I understand why.

  The moment my finger touches the diamond-encrusted key—

  * * *

  I am a little girl. In my mother’s room. The sea crashes somewhere in the distance. I shouldn’t be in here, but I just want to look at Mama’s box. It is a hand-carved thing of polished reddish-brown wood, and it has all of Mama’s keepsakes and jewelry in it, which I want to look at. There is a little brass lock in the front, keeping it closed.

  I tug on the lid, but it is locked.

  “You want to see inside, mija?” Mama’s voice comes from behind me.

  I startle, spin. “I just wanted to look, Mama. I wasn’t going to—”

  She lifts the box in both hands, holding it reverently. Sits on the bed, pats a spot beside her. “Come, sit.” She smiles down at me. “This is a very special box, Isabel. You know why?”

  I nod. “Because it has your jewelry in it.”

  Mama shakes her head negative. “No, mija, although that is true. Even if the box were empty, it would be special. And if someone were to tell me I had to choose between the box and all the gold and silver and diamonds and pearls in the world, I would choose the box.”

  I am confused now. I touch the lid, carefully. It just seems like a wooden box, not even a very well-made one.

  Mama laughs. “Would you like to hear the story?” I nod, of course. “Your papa made this box, many years before you were born. Now your papa, he is the best goldsmith in all of Spain, as you and I both know. But he is not so good with wood. But still, he made this box, and he made it just for me. It was the only gift he ever gave me, until after we got married, but that was fine with me. You see, I don’t know if you know this or not, but when I was young, there were a lot of young men who wanted to marry me. I told them all no, which made my parents upset, but they were all so dull. Rich and handsome, perhaps, but boring and stupid. And then I met your father. He wasn’t rich, and he was—well, handsome to me, but not like the other boys. His hair was always in his eyes, and he didn’t play football like the other boys. But I liked him. He was apprenticed to a goldsmith, which meant he worked very hard all day, every day. We spent a lot of time together, all of his time he could spare from work, and from sleep. I grew to love him, but of course I couldn’t tell him that. I had to wait for him, because back then, that’s how it was done. I was waiting, Isabel, for so long. And you know, I knew he loved me too. He was silly with it, like boys get. And you know, men get even sillier than boys, when they’re in love. But don’t tell your father I said that. I was waiting, and waiting. And one day, when I was very impatient because I hadn’t seen my sweet Luis in almost a week, he finally showed up in my parents’ courtyard, holding this box.

  I was excited, thinking he’d come to propose, or to give me a very fancy gift.

  But no, it was only the box. A simple, not very well-made box. I was confused. But your father told me that, even though he loved me, he couldn’t ask me to marry him, even though he wanted to. He had to finish his apprenticeship first, and then he had to find enough work to support us. My father respected that, and of course he liked it because he hoped I’d find another, wealthier boy to marry in the meantime.

  “Luis told me the box was a promise. A promise that he would marry me, one day. Of course, I took the box. Yes, I told him, I would wait for him. I tried to open it, but it wouldn’t open. It was
locked.”

  Mama reaches into the front of her shirt and pulls out a brass key on a red ribbon, lifts it off her neck, and hands it to me; it is still warm from her skin.

  “Luis told me that he had already made the ring he would propose to me with, and that it was in the box. He’d saved and saved all of his money, rather than taking me on fancy expensive dates or buying me presents, so he could buy the diamond and pay his goldsmith master for the gold, so he could design and build the ring. Again, I tried to open the box, but of course, it was still locked. And that was when Luis showed me the key. ‘When I ask you to marry me, Camila, I will ask you by giving you this key. And if you accept the key, you are not only accepting the key to this box and the ring inside, but the key to my heart.’”

  I stare at the key for a long, long time. “So this is the key? To open the box?”

  Mama nods. “Yes.” She turns the box on her lap so it faces me. “Go on, mija. Open it.”

  I insert the key, twist; the lock disengages with a tiny quiet snick. Mama lifts open the lid, and I gasp. Inside, lying in little felt trays, are gold rings, gold necklaces, gold bracelets, gold earrings. Each piece is unique, and ornate, and beautiful. Handmade by my own papa.