Free Eccentric Neighborhood by Rosario Ferré Page B

world, Blanca Rosa was always before his eyes. He talked to Tía Artemisa about his granddaughter: how much Blanca had cried when she was a year old and had stuck a piece of string up her nose, giving her a mysterious fever no one could cure, how she had slipped on her new shoes when she was two and had fallen headlong down the stairs and had to be taken to the hospital to have stitches in her forehead. Artemisa was very perceptive, and it didn’t take her long to realize that something was terribly wrong. Don Esteban’s heart was locked up tight against her because Blanca Rosa in her marabou coat was sitting on top of its lid. Her ghost needed to be put to rest.
    One day Don Esteban told Artemisa he had decided to invest the cash from his mother’s gems in the stock market. He didn’t need the money, he said. He had a generous enough income from the Santa Rosa to send money to his father and live comfortably on what was left, but he wanted to do something that would keep him occupied. He thought playing the stock market was a good idea. He telephoned Pablo Urdaneta, a stockbroker from Guayamés who was a friend of his, and told him he wanted to see him. He had half a million dollars in cash in the bank, he said, and wished to invest it in something humanitarian.
    Pablo Urdaneta knew that Don Esteban’s son had been killed in the war, and he also knew that Don Esteban had become very religious since his granddaughter’s death and was always doing charity work. When he got Don Esteban’s telephone call he came running to the house carrying a large suitcase in his hand. Don Esteban invited Urdaneta to sit down in the living room. His friend put the suitcase on his knees, pushed the bronze springs on each side, and opened the lid slowly, as if he were about to show Don Esteban something very precious. Out came a captain’s billed cap with a shiny leather visor, an infantryman’s cap with a pair of tiny bronze rifles pinned in front, and a khaki shirt with epaulets and brass galloons.
    Urdaneta handled the items delicately, almost as if they were sacred. Then he spread them out on one of Don Esteban’s marble-topped tables. “Believe it or not, these items were made by Puerto Rican women to be worn by American soldiers fighting in Europe during the war. But now the war is over and we have no more government contracts; our seamstresses are dying of hunger. We need money to get started, so we can buy them sewing equipment and form a new company. This is a worthy cause, Don Esteban. Instead of investing in the stock market, put your money in the Puerto Rican needle industry. You’ll be giving our seamstresses jobs and you’ll be doing your patriotic duty.”
    Don Esteban stared at the uniforms and thought of his son who was buried in Normandy in an army uniform made by Puerto Rican hands. He got up from his chair, went to his study, and came back with a leather case full of money. “You may go ahead and invest this cash in the Puerto Rican needle industry in my name,” he said solemnly.
    Two months later, Urdaneta came to Don Esteban’s house again. He told him that the needle industry had taken a dive and that clothes made on the island weren’t sought after anymore. The Taiwan market had just opened, and the Puerto Rican industry just couldn’t compete with the Chinese. In Taiwan, women didn’t earn a minimum wage, had never heard of social security, medical insurance, or the right to go on strike. Taiwan was an investor’s paradise, but it was hell for those poor women. Would Don Esteban consider investing in the Chinese needle industry? Maybe he could help the needle-workers there and at the same time recover a part of what he had lost. Urdaneta would need an additional five hundred thousand dollars if Don Esteban was interested.
    Don Esteban thought about it for a few days. He didn’t have the money, but he knew the bank would lend it to him if he put up the central Santa Rosa as collateral. He hated to