Juventud. Vanessa Blakeslee

      “Not at all,” Manuel said. He blanched. “I’m just bringing up the point that many play both sides.”

      Papi raised his cigar and brought it a few inches away from Manuel’s face. “May I offer you something?”

      “Whatever you like,” Manuel said quietly. “As you said, this is your home.” He lifted his cup, drank.

      Papi spoke so softly I could barely hear him. “Where’s your fucking farm, eh? What do you know about having forty, fifty, a hundred workers and their families dependent on you?”

      “Nothing, sir. I only meant—”

      “What’s that?” Papi cried. “Please, shut your mouth and save your dignity. The only thing I can’t stand more than a witch-hunt is a lie.”

      Manuel finished his tinto in one gulp and stood up. “It’s excellent coffee. I’ve got a long ride, I’d best be going, sir. Thank you very much.” He breezed out without shaking hands.

      Trembling, I jumped up and darted after him.

      Manuel had parked his motorcycle just inside the gate at the end of the steep driveway. At the foot of the mountain, the shadowy bodies of the alpacas shone pale in the moonlight. A few raised their heads at our approach. “I guess I won’t be back here any time soon,” he said. He started up the bike, and it chugged and huffed like an irritated boar between us. “Which is fine. The less I see of your father, the better.”

      “We can still see one another,” I said, grabbing his arm. “In Cali.”

      He peered over my shoulder at the house. “Pay attention to the little things more, Mercedes. There’s a lot about your father that you don’t realize. You’re too close to see it.”

      “Why do you say that? You don’t have proof.”

      He drew me closer and into a long kiss. “You know Ana’s church, La Maria, in the Ciudad Jardín? Sunday evenings, after mass, my brother Emilio leads a meeting. It’s up to you, of course. But he has become somewhat of an expert on cartel and guerilla connections. If it’s proof you want, he may have it. Goodnight.” The guard opened the gate. The bike’s lone headlight flew down the deserted road, as if Manuel couldn’t wait to put a great distance between him and the hacienda. I swallowed hard, my mouth bitter.

      When I entered, I overheard Luis. “You smell something?” he doubled over with laughter, chest heaving. “It reeks of self-righteousness in here.”

      Papi laughed more like a gentleman, as if he had a tickle in his throat, his elbow on the table and cigar thrust forward. “I should hire him to work a day in the cane fields with all his poor pals,” he said to Luis. “Rich city boy wouldn’t last a day.”

      “He’s not some rich city boy, okay?” I interrupted. “He works hard. He’s smart.”

      “If he’s so smart, why isn’t he at university?” Papi asked. “Not too smart, if you ask me.”

      “And he’s dedicated to the Church, you know what that means,” Luis said, nudging Papi. A fresh glass of wine sloshed in the jefe’s hand. His eyes blazed red and he grinned too widely, like a clown. “Cooking, cleaning, and popping out babies, one right after another,” he said to me. “You think I’m kidding, huh? Man, what an exciting life. I’m jealous.”

      “His brother’s going to become a priest, so maybe he’ll decide to become a man of the cloth,” Papi said, and raised his eyebrows. If he was serious or facetious, I couldn’t tell. “You never know.”

      “Better him than us.” Luis elbowed Papi again.

      “I like priests,” Papi replied. “I haven’t ruled out the priesthood yet, myself.”

      Luis snorted with laughter. “Only if he’s still a virgin,” he said. “Or else you can forget that. Is church boy still a virgin, Mercedes?” He thumped the table. The sugar bowl and glasses shook.

      “Luis—that’s enough.” Papi pushed his chair away and wandered to the door, gazing over the moonlit valley. Luis’s laughter died. He hung his head, caught his breath. I ran upstairs.

      One afternoon a couple of days later, Fidel held up the rosary I’d presented him, bought from a Catholic store downtown. He looped it over the rearview mirror. “Thank you,” he said. “I don’t go to church like I should.”

      I sat tall in the back, kneading my skirt, chin raised. “I have a lot of after school activities coming up.” I searched for his gaze in the mirror. “You might have to wait for me.”

      His eyes met mine and held them. “Whatever you say, princesa.” He slid on his sunglasses—Ray-Bans, brand new. Expensive for a driver. Then he cranked up the radio and drove, the long red beads slapping the dash whenever we hit a pothole.

      I arrived home to find Papi in the living room, his hair neatly combed. A slight, pale woman, distinctly un-Colombian, was seated next to him. Inez chopped and puttered about the stove, chicken simmering. The mutts, Angel and Cocoa, trotted up to sniff my legs, their nails scratching the tile. “This is my daughter, Mercedes.” Papi arose, his touch light on my shoulder; his dress boots squeaked. The gringa beamed at the both of us, stood, and clutched her hands in front of her gray skirt. School applications covered the coffee table, forms and pens strewn on top. “Mercedes, this is Sister Rosemary. She teaches at the mission.”

      She extended her palm, and we exchanged con mucho gustos. The poor attended the mission schools, so why was she here? Papi loathed the Church, after his divorce.

      “I hope you get along,” Papi said. “From now on Sister Rosemary’s going to help you with your English and to prepare your applications, for two hours every day after school.”

      I glared at him, anger expanding in my chest like smoke. “Two hours a day?” I said. “No thanks. It’s too much. ” I pleaded that I’d study extra on my own and ask the teachers if I could stay after school. My voice sounded shrill and strained, unlike myself. I ditched my school bag and stood there, arms folded.

      Angel scratched and gnawed at a leg sore; in the courtyard, the ridgebacks and Cocoa tumbled and yapped in play. “Why don’t you go ahead and prepare?” Papi said to the nun. He instructed her where to find the office—at the top of the stairs between his bedroom and mine.

      Papi then turned to me, motioned for me to sit. He peeled the purple bandanna from his head and balled it in his fist. “You really think I don’t know what’s going on? That I don’t know you’ve been running around with that boy? You haven’t even bothered with the forms.”

      “I went shopping with Ana this week. Ask Fidel. He’ll show you the gift I bought him.”

      He raised a hand. “Don’t cross me, hija.”

      I drew a pillow onto my lap and picked at its fringed trim.

      He sifted through the applications, held up a form. “These are complicated,” he said. “They must be filled out correctly, and my written English is not perfect. Besides, you have to pass a language exam. So I asked around. Our neighbors recommended the nun.”

      He clenched and unclenched the bandanna. His expression was one of sadness. Why did he act as if this was the only hope for me? If Colombia was so dangerous, why hadn’t we already left? Didn’t he understand that I was bound to break out—pursue my own ambitions, however I chose? That if I went to the United States, I would somehow seek out my mother, her family? I could not see myself at boarding school and ignoring the possibility that she might be a few cities or states away. The dog whined in her throat. Finally he said, “Three days a week, then. But you had better be here at exactly four o’clock on those days, with your nose in those books. Monday, Wednesday, Friday.” He struck his finger to his knee as he named the days. Then handed me the bandanna and told me to dry my face and get upstairs. Tears wet my stiff yellow blouse. My brown vest gaped.

      Sunday