Free Lost in the City: Tree of Desire and Serafin by Ignacio Solares

minute!”
    â€œAngustias,” Doña Luz said.
    â€œI’m going to take my doll.”
    â€œYou’re not going to take anything! And least of all that filthy doll that’s so bulky.” And she grabbed her by the arm before she could pick up the doll from the rocker.
    â€œI want my doll!” Cristina cried in a voice that was almost a moan as she dodged away.
    â€œSee what I’m going to do with this worthless old thing,” and Angustias tore off the head and threw it through the open window, letting the decapitated body fall on the floor. Cristina stared as if she could not believe it, and Doña Luz bent forward in the bed, trembling so hard her lower lip seemed to come loose.
    Then Cristina screamed a muffled, “Nooo!” and attacked Angustias, her hands whirling like windmills. Angustias seized one arm, pulling her hair until the child began to cry.
    â€œWe’re leaving here right now if you don’t want me to pull out your hair!”
    â€œAngustias,” Doña Luz said, her eyes jumping from one object to another.

17
    Angustias stole silver place settings, candlesticks, porcelain figures (which broke along the way), linen napkins, jewels (very few), a portable radio, a cut-glass centerpiece (which also broke along the way), a white silk dress, and a leather suitcase in which she put everything, which Cristina had to carry on their flight and even on the bus that took them back to the alley. Twice she dropped it—with a crash of breaking glass—and said she could not carry it anymore, her arm was asleep and her hand was cramping. But Angustias’ blows on her head were so violent and her threats—opening and closing her fingers—so unbearable, she had to draw on strength from who knows where. During the ride, Cristina sighed deeply, thinking about the doll she had lost, which she immediately considered among the favorites of her whole life. She felt such hatred for Angustias that the idea crossed her mind to speak to her father to have Angustias put in jail—they might even torture her. But it was an absurd solution because Cristina would also be punished, and—even worse—she would have to go back home. It was better to wait, rescue Joaquín, take advantage of the first opportunity she had to escape and, before leaving, see what dreadful thing she could do to that horrible old hag.
    Joaquín was not in Angustias’ room, and while the woman was opening the suitcase and repeating her vulgarities upon discovering the broken porcelain and cut glass, Cristina ran to Jesús’ room. Before she got to the door, she heard her brother’s muffled cry like the final wail of a siren.
    The boy was alone, tied by a rope around his waist to the latch of the bathroom door. He had bruises on his cheekbones and mouth, and he held up his arms when he saw his sister, with a cry that was like a delicate thread caught in his throat.
    Cristina knelt down, hugged him, and cried too.
    â€œI’m not going to leave you alone again, little brother. I swear I’m not going to leave you alone, even if they kill us.” She held him close to her, ran her fingers through his hair, kissed his neck and the bruises on his face. Feeling safe again, the child regained strength and cried even louder.
    She could not untie the rope, and Joaquín did not help her. He clung to her tightly, motionless. Then she heard the noise of bare feet on the floor and when she turned around, she saw against the light the man called Jesús, standing in the doorway, his hands on his hips—a foreboding image that no longer astonished her or brought on such fright that she could not even move, and from that moment on she was certain that anything could happen. Cristina guessed he was drunk again from his body’s unsteadiness and his brutal look, which she could hardly see but could feel above her. Her anger for what he had done to Joaquín was