Prologue
The first time the guerrilla came to La Aurora, Julia Taube and her father, Franz, were halfway through a simple dinner of black bean stew with rice and tortillas. As the April sky darkened over their plantation’s eight hundred acres of coffee trees, the dim overhead light flickered, and then went out.
The kitchen door swung open and Martina, the housekeeper, walked into the dining room holding a lit candle. “The generator must be out,” she said, placing the candle between Julia and Franz.
Julia glanced at Franz with the apprehension of a woman, who at thirty, still feared her father’s displeasure. If the generator had stopped, it meant they’d run out of fuel, which would disrupt the harvest. But Franz said nothing, so they continued eating in silence, allowing the chorus of crickets and frogs to flood the room through the screens of the open French windows.
Franz had just slapped a mosquito on his arm, leaving a smear of black and blood on his skin, when the kitchen door opened again, this time with a bang. Julia tensed as the estate agent burst in.
“They’re coming,” Rufino exclaimed. “They’re coming with fire.”
There’d been rumors of the leftist guerrillas burning down plantations farther south, closer to the Pacific coast. But news traveled slow in the Americas and fact often blended with fiction on its path. What was true was that in a war that by 1981 was already two decades old, Franz had refused Julia’s pleas to leave La Aurora and the pearl-white farmhouse that stood at its heart. It was his home.
Franz rose with surprising swiftness as if he’d been expecting them. “Stay inside,” he ordered.
Julia disobeyed and followed him out. She stood behind Franz, who waited on his porch cradling a shotgun across his chest. Above the outline of the three volcanoes that guarded the valley, the first evening stars shone through the translucent grey curtain that was dropping in. Stepping in and out of the long shadows of that hour, some twenty rebels marched up the cobblestone path that led to the century-old casa patronal. Most came armed with automatic rifles. A few carried plastic jugs that smelled of gasoline, and others held torches that lit their hardened faces. They stopped in unison in front of the house. The combatants faced all that was left of the Taube family with the audacity of men who have much to avenge, and not much to lose.
“Don Franz,” their leader called out. “You’re usurping the people’s land. We’re here to take it back.”
In a land where blood stained the fields, like open veins on sun-scorched skin, it was impossible to tell the righteous from the wicked. So entwined were their stories. What was true was that Franz Taube inherited La Aurora from his mother’s father and had promised to give it someday to his children’s children. Looking out into the darkness where the rebels stood, Julia wondered how much more she’d sacrifice for that promise, and if she would ever be forgiven.
Chapter One
Four months earlier, when it started raining in January, months before it was supposed to, Martina suspected that God had finally forsaken the family. She prayed to calm herself as lightning cracked the black sky and thunder shook the walls of the century-old casa patronal, but it did not work. A downpour so early in the year could ruin the harvest, and that was the last thing her patron needed now that his only son was dead. Only a day before, Joaquin’s propeller airplane had crashed on its descent a few miles outside the Guatemala City airport, leaving Franz Taube without his chosen heir. To make matters worse, Julia was still not home, and the unpaved roads that led into La Aurora could become impassable in that weather. Martina suppressed the thought that something had befallen her too.
The lamplights flickered, and Martina was about to pray they would not go out when she heard the sound of a heavy jeep crunching on gravel before coming to a stop right outside the house, its doors rapidly opening and shutting. She looked at the clock and saw it was almost midnight. “Thank you,” she muttered, raising her eyes as if she could look through the ceiling and directly into heaven. She traced the sign of the cross over her shoulders and asked to be forgiven for her lapse in faith as she kissed her thumb and index finger. She paused only a second by the large mirror in the hall to straighten her apron and fix the errant hairs on her thick, black braid and went to open the front door. The Range Rover’s headlights blinded her as she squinted into the dark and tried to make out her young mistress through the rain.
It was not a happy homecoming and yet Martina’s heart filled when Julia Taube walked through the green door for the first time in five years. Her brown hair was damp, and it looked darker than it really was as it clung to her tired, pale face. Julia stomped her boots on the floor and strode into the house with the assurance of a wealthy woman walking into her own house.
Martina had to take a small step back to get a good look at Julia, who was tall and proud, like her father. She wore a brown leather jacket over a black button-down shirt, grey jeans, and leather boots, all of which made her look now, at thirty, more like Franz Taube’s daughter than ever before. Like she was already running the place. Even a stranger would have read in the freckles on her white skin that Julia belonged to the privileged few who belonged in that nation’s great houses. But Martina, who at the age of fifty-six had rarely been inclined to question the conditions of her class, was only relieved that Julia had arrived safely and in time for her brother’s funeral. If she frowned a little, it was only when she looked in Julia’s golden-green eyes for the fiery child of her memory only to find in them the reddened look of a tired woman grieving.
“Señorita,” she said, her voice cracking. She raised her hands as if inviting Julia into prayer, and was moved when Julia reached out and held them in hers. Martina noticed the missing wedding band on Julia’s ring finger.
“It’s good to see you,” Julia said, and Martina could hear in the warmth of her voice that she meant it.
“You’ve stayed away too long,” Martina said. She didn’t mean it to sound harsh, but Julia let go of her hands and turned her face away as if feeling chastised. “But,” said Martina in a light tone, “no use in thinking of that now. You’re home, and that’s what matters.”
Rufino appeared in the doorway, carrying a duffel bag that he set down inside. Although Rufino was the estate’s agent, which gave him more authority than Martina, he was also her younger brother and she reproached him freely for his lateness. “I was worried sick. What took you so long?”
Julia answered for him. “We were stopped on the road. There’s an army checkpoint just outside San Miguel.”
Martina knew the checkpoints were multiplying throughout the region, supposedly to guard them against guerrilla attacks. This was the first one she had heard of so close. San Miguel was just some ten miles east.
“They suspected him of kidnapping me,” said Julia.
“What? But everyone here knows the family.”
Julia shrugged. “They’re obviously not from here.”
“Ach, they’ve no idea what they’re doing,” said Rufino. “They’re just pretending that they have things under control. Anyway, they kept us for over an hour.” Turning to Martina he said, “I’m sorry. I know you were worried.”
The story gave Martina a bad feeling and she was eager to close the door. “Never mind. Go get the rest of her things,” she said, gesturing for him to hurry.
“This is everything,” he said pointing at the duffel bag on the floor.
Martina glanced at the bag and then at Julia, wondering how that bag could contain all her things. Julia offered no explanation as she removed her leather jacket, which was dappled with darkened raindrops, and handed it to Martina. She took a few steps further into the house and looked sideways down the darkened hallway that led to her father’s office. Not wanting to let Rufino drag any mud into the house, Martina dismissed him and followed Julia into the house.
“Where’s my father?”
“Oh,” replied Martina, “he went to bed some time ago.”
Julia said nothing but nodded once, slowly, as if evaluating the information. They may not have seen each other in many years but Martina knew her well. Sensing her disappointment, she added, “he’s just exhausted, señorita. It’s better if you see him in the morning. Besides, you’ve had a long drive and you should get some rest,” she said, and then shyly added, “Don Franz wants to bury don Joaquin…well, I mean…the ashes, first thing tomorrow morning.”
This time Julia could not hide her emotion. She recoiled and said, “but that’s too soon. Nobody will be able to come.”
Martina also disapproved of don Franz’s decision not to give his son a proper burial, but her reasons were religious. Martina was a woman of faith. And though she would not go as far as to say that don Franz’s dismissal of the Catholic Church was the cause of his current suffering, cremation was still a sin. Rufino had explained that in this case, cremation was better anyway because of the state Joaquin’s body was in when they recovered it from the plane crash site, but that was not something Martina wanted to picture.
Still, she felt sorry for don Franz. She had served his family for forty years. When Martina arrived in La Aurora, a young girl of sixteen, don Franz had just inherited the estate from his grandfather. Martina helped him and his wife raise their children. She had watched Franz make money and lose money with the whims of the market. She had watched him become a widower and an old man. And so, she knew that though at times he seemed uncaring, he was, at least in her experience, as good a man as he could be.
“You know how impatient he is,” she said to Julia. “He was just waiting for you.”
Julia scoffed. “I suppose I should be grateful he waited at all.”
Martina ignored the irony in her voice and chose, much like a mother would, to attribute it to fatigue. Julia and her father had always had their differences, but surely now was the time to put all that aside. Hard days lay ahead. If any good was to come out of this tragedy, Martina hoped, it would be a reconciliation between Julia and don Franz.
“If my mother were here, we would be having a proper funeral for my brother.”
Even though she agreed, Martina said, “better not to think about that, señorita. If anything, let’s be grateful that your poor mother, God rest her soul, did not live to see this. It’s unnatural for parents to bury their own children.”
Carrying the duffel bag in one hand and balancing her weight with the other hand on the handlebar, Martina followed Julia up the old wooden staircase that led to the family’s rooms. A melody greeted them at the top. It was a sad one that Martina had heard playing many times, but she couldn’t name it. She had never understood this music don Franz so loved but she’d grown to like it, perhaps for that same reason.
There were rooms on either side of the hall, six in total, all with their doors closed. Julia’s was the very last one and right before it was Joaquin’s. Martina waited as Julia paused in front of her brother’s and opened the door, only slightly and just for a second. Martina had cleaned his room and made his bed the morning of the accident. It made it look from where they stood like nothing bad had happened.
“You can go in,” she said to Julia, even though she had been too afraid to since the accident. Julia shook her head and closed the door.
At the end of the hall, where the last two bedrooms opened up to either side, Martina set the bags down on the floor. She went to Franz’s room, where the light and his stereo were still on.
“I’ll do it,” whispered Julia coming up behind her and touching her shoulder, so Martina stopped by the open door.
In his bed, don Franz lay face up with his hand on his stomach, asleep. The light of the lamp illuminated part of his face, and it moved Martina to think that even in his sleep, he looked tired. Julia turned off the small stereo that stood on the dresser on one end of the room and then stood to look at her father in the dim light. When she bent down a little, Martina thought she might kiss him. But all she did was turn off the lamp.
Across the hall, Julia’s bedroom was the smallest one in the house, but in Martina’s view, it was the best one. Its only window opened towards the south and on the clearest January days, the faint line of the ocean was visible beyond the miles and miles of coffee groves. But that night all she could see was the rain coming down in the dark, and barely, through that veil, the flickering light of the coffee mill down the road from the house.
Julia slumped on the end of her bed and looked around the room. “Everything is exactly the same.”
Martina placed the duffel bag on the desk chair in the corner. “You didn’t bring much,” she said.
“It’s all I need for a week or two.”
It was Martina’s turn to hide her disappointment. Now that Joaquin was dead, Martina had assumed that Julia would stay longer. She didn’t know much about Julia’s life in the city, but she knew from don Joaquin that she was recently divorced. It didn’t sound like she had much to keep her there.
Her feet flat on the floor, Julia let herself fall back on the mattress with a heavy sigh. Her head landed next to a stuffed toy rabbit. When she saw it, she grabbed it and held it over her head.
“I remember begging my father to buy me this.” A sad smile appeared on Julia’s face but faded just as quickly.
The ceiling light flickered. Both women looked up at it, and a moment later the light stabilized again.
“If I may say so, señorita, he’s going to need you now,” said Martina.
Julia set the toy rabbit back on the bed. For a moment, Martina feared that Julia would be angry at her for being so direct. But she only shook her head and said, “I’m just here to bury my brother.”
Martina knew better than to insist, at least not that night. Instead, she said, “I can heat up some dinner for you if the power stays on. You’re looking too skinny, señorita, and the days ahead will be tough.”
“I’d rather just rest.”
“Okay, then,” she said, accepting defeat. “The important thing is that you’re home now.” Martina closed the door behind her on the way out. She reproached her own ignorance as she returned to Franz’s bedroom to collect an empty scotch glass she had noticed earlier on his dresser. In the despair of the last days, Julia’s return had seemed a certainty—the only thing that made sense. For it wasn’t true that everything was the same. Don Franz was older now. Martina was older too. And the nights when she woke to the distant sound of gunfire were becoming more common. If Julia left, Martina wondered, would don Franz sell the land? And then, what would become of them all?
The rain had slowed to a drizzle by the time she left the casa patronal that night. She stepped, shivering, into the January cold and clutched her woven shawl across her chest as she ran down the hill to the house she shared with Rufino and his son in the workers’ lane. Before going inside, she glanced up at the house, where the only light still on was Julia’s. At night, the two-story farmhouse looked larger than it really was. It seemed peaceful at that time, as immutable as the green hills that surrounded it. Martina sighed. As long as it stood, she thought, life could go on much as it always had. She turned to go into her own home. Maybe hope was foolish, but no matter. The dead could sometimes heal the wounds of the living.
Chapter Two
Having always done things his own way, her father would bury Joaquin’s ashes the very next morning at the foot of the ceiba tree that stood alone, atop the highest hill in La Aurora. It bothered Julia that there would be no funeral for her brother, but she knew it would be futile to argue with her father, who never lost an argument. It was not the religious aspect that troubled her, for, since her mother’s death from cancer eight years earlier, she’d remained a Catholic only in name. What bothered her was that none of Joaquin’s friends, or hers for that matter, would be there to say goodbye. Her brother would have wanted otherwise, she thought.
Although the rain had ceased by the time she started climbing up the hill, the fog, as well as her tears, clouded her vision. The mountains and volcanoes that rose beyond the planation were specters. Hidden from the valley that morning, La Aurora felt like the only place in the world, as lonely as Julia.
Atop the hill, beyond the thinning grey, she discerned her father standing under the huge tree’s canopy. La Aurora’s ceiba had grown for three generations since Julia’s great grandfather planted it. Now, orchids and moss grew around its thick trunk and its many branches, where birds liked to nest. In recent years, giant vines had wrapped themselves around the trunk and wildflowers had sprouted at its base. So tall and lonely was the ceiba on its hill, that it was recognizable from the air, and pilots oriented themselves by it when they flew landowners from the capital to their estates in the highlands. It was a sacred tree for the ancient Maya and the local peasants still believed it protected the land. They thought its roots reached deep down into the underworld while its canopy stretched high into the realm of the gods. It was a story Julia liked, for she found it comforting.
Standing by the tree, her father seemed small. Grey hair poked out under his leather cowboy hat and his usual Levi’s sat low on his hips, and it struck Julia how much he had aged in the last five years. He was wearing the same light-brown leather bomber jacket she knew so well. Next to him, a young man was thrusting a shovel into the ground. From the way her father stood, slightly crouched and leaning forward, she could tell he was barking instructions at the boy. He didn’t hear her approach.
A hole was opening up between the tall, wide roots that grew on all sides of the tree, spreading out like the folds of a dress. Still, the soil there was hard with grass, roots, and pebbles, and though the digger had already broken a sweat, the hole was still shallow.
“Papa,” said Julia coming up to him from behind. “Papa,” she said, louder this time, but mindful not to startle him. She reached out and touched his shoulder.
He turned abruptly, looking a mix of startled and annoyed. He seemed to need a moment to grasp her presence.
“Hi Papa,” she said, trying to sound soft and warm.
For a moment, she feared he would not embrace her. Then he opened his arms, inviting her in, and patted her a few times on the back. She closed her eyes and tightened her grasp. She wanted to say something, but he pulled away before she could think of what to say.
Even as he turned back to the digging, he squeezed her arm, a sign of affection. He asked her if she had slept well, if she’d had breakfast, but then he didn’t seem to hear her answers. He had let go of her and was towering over the digger, who Julia now saw was just a boy of about thirteen. She thought she recognized Rufino’s son, Angel, who she had last seen when he was just a child.
“This boy doesn’t know how to dig a hole,” he said to her. “We’ll be here all morning, damn it.”
The boy wiped his brow and looked up at Franz. “I’m sorry, Patron. The ground here is very hard.”
“Give it to me,” said Franz, and before Julia could react, he had yanked the shovel from Angel’s hands and thrust it into the ground himself.
“Go,” he said, waving Angel away.
Startled but not surprised, Julia offered to help. Still, her father ignored her, throwing his weight into the shovel every few seconds and scooping up dirt from the ground. Julia exchanged a look with Angel, who’d hung back in case he was still needed, and tried to reassure him that it was all right. This went on for a few minutes. Finally, looking beat, Franz threw the shovel aside and breathed heavily. The hole was still not very deep, but it would have to do.
“Give me the box,” he said.
Julia leaned over to pick up the small wooden box that contained Joaquin’s ashes from where it lay on the ground. It was a simple wooden box finished with a faint varnish but no embellishment other than her brother’s name carved onto the lid: JOSÉ JOAQUIN TAUBE.
Julia ran her fingers across the carved letters of the family name. It was who they were, she and Joaquin. And now, she thought, the burden of their name was hers alone. Could she carry it? She handed her father the box, conscious of how absurd the gesture was. That was her brother’s body, all of it, and she was handing it over like it was the breadbasket.
She had last seen Joaquin some six months earlier in her apartment. It was the day she’d signed her divorce papers and she had invited a few of her old school friends to dinner hoping it would distract her. By the time he arrived, the dinner party had become more like a dance party and several of her friends were in the living room, drinking and dancing. As soon as he walked in, Julia shrieked and rushed towards him, throwing her arms around him. She was drunk, but she was also happy to see him.
Joaquin stood out in the crowd. He was tall and had dirty blond hair, and though his eyes were brown and not green, like Julia’s, his European looks bestowed upon him a natural authority in their circles. Though he’d been spending more and more time living in La Aurora with their father, he usually flew into the city on Friday afternoons, where he had plenty of friends. The women in their circle who were still single wondered, sometimes out loud to Julia, if he would ever settle down. He was a catch.
Julia guided him through the crowd and out onto her terrace, ignoring people’s requests to stop and talk to him. Her terrace had a great view, especially at night, when the city was but a collection of clustered sparks, all equally bright and yellow. It was still hours before the sun would show the differences between the tall and modern buildings that surrounded Julia’s and the grey neighborhoods that sprawled in every direction, almost dangling off the large plateau on which the capital city stood.
Julia gestured towards the few people who were out there to give them a minute. She grabbed a cigarette from a girl as she walked past her and stuck it between her lips. She bent down to pull a beer from a cooler. She offered it to Joaquin, but he shook his head, so she opened it for herself. It was a clear night and though the city lights outshone the stars, the black outline of the western mountains was visible in the vast blue distance that separated her apartment from La Aurora.
“What will you do now?”
Julia exhaled cigarette smoke and shrugged. “The same thing I’ve been doing so far.”
“You should go back to university, finish medical school.”
“I don’t know. It seems like it’s too late for that.”
“You can always come home, you know?”
“And show up with yet another disappointment?”
“He might surprise you.”
She took a last drag from her cigarette and put it out on the steel railing of her terrace. She flicked it over the edge and tried to follow its fall all the way down to the street.
Franz had not kept his opinion of her choices to himself. He thought she was too young to marry and he was furious when she took time off from school to plan the wedding and set up the apartment where she and her husband would live—an apartment Franz had bought for her. He disapproved of her fiancé all the more for letting her do it. The fact that her father had been right about the folly of her marriage was not something Julia wanted to admit to him. No child ever does.
“Come home with me on Sunday,” said Joaquin.
“Will you tell him? I don’t know how to do it.”
“You can tell him yourself.”
Julia shook her head and raised the beer bottle to her lips. It was untrue that time healed all wounds. Some only grew deeper.
“Please?”
They agreed to talk again soon. By the door, she stood on tiptoe to receive a kiss on the forehead.“Call me if you change your mind,” he said with a lopsided smile, as though he and Julia both knew she wouldn’t.
He was an optimist. And though Julia sometimes envied him for being her father’s favorite, she had always loved him dearly.
He got his wish in the end, Julia thought as she stood over the hole in the ground and watched Franz hold the box with both hands. It took him losing his life, but here she was.
Franz crouched down, almost falling, and Julia held out her hand to steady him. His jacket lifted just enough to reveal the 9mm Smith & Wesson that he always carried tucked into his jeans. She thought he would put the box down but instead, he opened it and quickly turned it over so that the ashes fell into the hole. The grainy dust fell lightly onto the ground and into the air, and though she gasped at first, when she exhaled, it felt as if her very breath was picking up the most delicate bits of dust and carrying them away. And for a brief moment, it was all right. Joaquin was now part of the land.
They remained silent and she wondered if they should try to say a few words. She searched for a prayer but since he remained silent, she did too. It was as if he knew already that prayers for the dead are useless. It’s the living who need them.
Julia picked the shovel up from the ground and looked at him as if asking if he was ready. He nodded almost imperceptibly. Julia struggled with the shovel’s weight but managed to balance it. Bit by bit, she scooped all the loose earth back into the hole. Afterward, she took her father’s hand, unsure if he would accept it, and was glad when he squeezed it hard, even if it was only for a second. He let go and turned away to start walking back down the hill.
Julia held back and bent down to press the palm of her hand on the patch of fresh earth. New grass and fresh flowers would cover it soon, and someday, there would be no one left to remember that there lay her only brother.
A few of the workers had gathered along the slope of the hill. Julia recognized some of them even though she couldn’t name them. They stood there in silence waiting for Franz and Julia to finish their little secular ceremony. The women among them were wearing their finest woven clothes, heavy, embroidered blouses tucked into dark skirts that they wrapped around their waists and held in place with colorful woven belts. Some of the men held bottles of clear homemade liquor. Julia knew they brought it as an offering to the spirits they believed would help her brother pass into the next world. Julia counted about two dozen workers.
At the head of the group were Martina and Rufino and standing next to them was Angel, who Julia now recognized as Rufino’s son.
“What’s this?” asked Franz, halting at the top of the hill.
“A few of the workers wanted to pay their respects, Patron,” said Rufino, taking a step towards them.
“Yes, Patron, if you’ll allow us,” said a short man coming up behind Rufino. “Don Joaquin, well, he was always good to us.”
Franz nodded. “No crosses,” he said to Rufino, and then, louder, he announced that he expected everybody to be back at work by the mid-morning. He sounded annoyed, but Julia could tell by the look in his eyes that he was moved by their presence. So was she. Yet, she also wondered where all the other workers were, for if she remembered correctly, her father employed at least twice as many.
“I thought I recognized you,” she said to Angel. “You were just a boy when I last saw you.”
“Angel works in the stables now,” said Martina, and Julia could tell she was proud of this.
Angel smiled, looking straight at her through his dark eyes. There was nothing in him of the reticence with which other workers usually addressed the members of the family. A single dimple formed on his right cheek. He was holding a pretty green and blue feather, which he now offered Julia. “For you, Patrona.” And then, as if remembering the occasion, he lowered his eyes and added, “my condolences.”
Julia accepted the feather, which she recognized as belonging to a scarlet macaw. They were rare in the region, and she was moved by the boy’s gift. Still, she couldn’t help frowning a little at being called patrona, a title she thought she’d lost her claim to when she stopped coming to La Aurora all those years ago. “Thank you,” she said, all the same.
The workers began to sing and their farewell prayer followed her back to the house. Up and down the roads of La Aurora, through the hundred thousand trees that lined the hills, the wind carried the voice of the workers and filled the valley with their song.
Back in the house, her father walked straight to his office. Julia followed him and waited at the door, leaning against the frame as she watched him take a glass from the sideboard and pour himself a drink.
Without turning to face her, he lifted a glass in the air. “Want one?”
“No,” she replied, even though she really did. “But I can sit with you for a bit if you’d like.”
He emptied the glass in one gulp and poured another.
“I’m fine,” he said.
“I’ll be nearby if you need me.”
He crouched down to where his collection of CDs was organized alphabetically, the spine of each case aligned exactly with the edge of the low shelf. He picked one out and opened the case, taking the disk carefully out and turning it in the light before blowing on it.
Julia had turned to leave when he said, “Rufino said you were pulled over at a checkpoint last night.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll make a call so they don’t trouble you again. When are you planning to go back?”
She hesitated and then said, “I thought I’d stay for a week or two.”
He let out a short hum as if the task of turning on the stereo and inserting the disk required his full attention. She wasn’t sure he’d heard her.
“But I could stay longer if you want. I could help you out with things.” All day, Julia had been unable to prevent herself from thinking of Martina’s words from the previous night. She had returned to La Aurora out of love for her brother and a sense of obligation to be there for her father. But she was unsure what more he might expect from her now that Joaquin was gone.
“Sure,” he said as if it was the same to him. “Stay as long as you’d like.”
He pressed the play button and walked to his armchair, where he sat down with his back to her, holding his drink. As the music started, he looked out the window. Franz had once told her that Mahler wrote that symphony, his last and perhaps his greatest, right after his daughter’s death. As the symphony’s first movement quickened, she suddenly resented him for not simply asking her to stay, for making her struggle to interpret what he wanted.
Not knowing what else to say, she stepped back into the hall and closed the door behind her. The music had deepened her sadness. With one hand still on the doorknob, she covered her face with the other and allowed her tears to flow at last.
Her father stayed in the office at the back of the house all afternoon and turned the music up so loud that all the house’s windows rattled softly. She hardly heard her footsteps on the floorboards as she went upstairs to her room, where she pressed her back against the closed door and slid down to sit on the floor.
The composer’s last symphony seeped out of the office downstairs, furious and desperate. It held her where she sat, disintegrating. It played for hours, and in the end, the house’s very structure trembled to the solitary violin, as if unwilling to resign itself to all that sorrow.
It was dark outside by the time the music died down. Julia heard her father’s uneven steps as he stumbled up the stairs and down the hall. Her breathing stopped when she thought he paused right in front of her door, but just seconds later she heard him shut his bedroom door. She exhaled into the empty space. Unable to move, she sat there another long while, only stirring when Martina brought her a dinner tray with a bowl of carrot and potato soup and a couple of tortillas. She stood there until Julia had taken a few spoonfuls and had eaten one of the tortillas. “At least one of you should eat,” she said, suggesting Franz had already succeeded in refusing her.
When Julia was a child, she used to lie in her bed and listen to her parents’ muffled voices in their room across the hall. When she heard her father’s snores, lulling her to sleep, she’d knock twice on the wall behind her headboard and wait for her brother’s reply. It was their good night ritual. That night, when the raindrops began falling on the tiled roof above her and Julia heard her father snoring, she knocked twice on the wall, even though she knew no reply would come tonight. “Damn you,” she said, cursing her brother for having left her there alone.
(END OF CH 2)
This is an excerpt from a A LAND LIKE SPRING by Krista Timeus Cerezo