Free The Distant Marvels by Chantel Acevedo Page A

I will bar the front door in case Agustín tries to f-find you.”
    â€œAnd María Sirena?” Lulu asked. My heart soared at hearing my name in my mother’s mouth. She had not forgotten me.
    â€œOf course. She is like my daughter, too.”
    Then, there was silence. There had been no mention of Fernanda’s name, no one to form the syllables of it in her mouth. She’d been hoping to hear it, of course. A simple “F-fernanda” from her uncle’s twisted tongue would have been enough to keep her from doing what she did.
    But he had said nothing, and the sounds that followed were wet and revolting. Fernanda slipped away without a word. I watched her go for a moment, then decided to follow her from a distance.
    â€œI will not go to a convent!” Fernanda said to herself out loud, and I heard her. The two of us stumbled as we made our way down the busy streets—Fernanda, because she was distraught, and I, because Havana was unfamiliar to me. I was not allowed out alone without Lulu or Alarcón. We were prisoners as much as my father was. Alarcón made sure of it. Once, when Lulu and I had left in the middle of a cool night, Alarcón had met us at the train station, a cigar in his hand. He pointed the glowing red tip at us and it was as if the devil himself had spied on us, binding us to him.
    â€œDo you think I’m stupid? That you aren’t watched like a prize, mi amor?” he asked my mother, and pinched her hard on the arm, just above the elbow. “I love you so very much, Illuminada,” he kept saying as he walked us back to the inn, pinching her harder and harder every so often, so that her arm would be black and blue by the morning. That was the last time we tried to leave. I spent most days in the inn with Lulu, who taught me to read and write and recite poetry. My childhood slipped by quietly, muffled by the warm wood walls of the inn’s lobby, and made interesting by the many guests that streamed in and out on a daily basis. I learned a bit of German from a beautiful pianist who’d come to tour Havana. Many Americans came and went, and the little English I spoke was accented like theirs. It was as good an education as a girl could wish for when imprisoned.
    Now, the city was a maelstrom of bodies, and I was a shy thing, still wearing little girl clothes, though the bodices of my dresses felt tighter by the day. I had not yet had a monthly bleeding, and Lulu treated me like a child. So, I acted the part. Naïve and vulnerable, I followed Fernanda through that hot maze of a city because I suspected she was up to no good.
    There were people everywhere. Spanish police barked orders at everyone, warning that the prisoners were among them. But the people knew better than to pay it any mind. Most of the jailed, they knew, were Cuban rebels. This was cause for celebration. And so, music poured out of the inns and homes, despite the occasional gunshot or shout from a Spanish officer.
    Fernanda led me up a sharp hill. The harbor came into view. There, docked and surrounded by dazed-looking sailors, was the
Thalia
, Aldo Alarcón’s ship.
    Fernanda ran down the hill towards the ship and onto the dock. Aldo Alarcón was standing on the bow, his eyes squinting against the brightness of the horizon. His back was to the city as he faced the open sea. It was as if he did not hear the gunshots at all. I hid behind a wooden container that smelled of fish. From there, I could hear and see everything.
    â€œÂ¡Capitán!” Fernanda called out to Aldo Alarcón. The captain turned at once, and when he saw Fernanda, he blanched.
    He leaned heavily over the railing of the ship. I bit my tongue hard. I’d hoped for a second that the man would tumble and break his neck, but I chastised myself for the thought. Once, I had told my mother that Aldo Alarcón deserved to die, and Lulu had warned me never to wish ill on any person, no matter how awful he