A Candle in the Dark (31 page)

“That’s ridiculous.” She frowned. “I
do
smile when you’re around.”

“If Jiméne’s there,” he agreed. “Or one of the boat-men, or Jose—even the
alcalde
at Gorgona got more smiles than I do, and you barely knew him.”

“That’s not true.”

“I think you protest too much,
querida
,” he said. His voice grew lighter. “I’ve wondered why it seems to be only me. I thought maybe it was because I remind you of the men at Rosalie’s. But if you didn’t smile at them, I doubt you’d get much business. So maybe it’s that I
don’t
remind you of them—”

“Be quiet.” Ana sounded more cross than she intended. This was what she’d been afraid of tonight. His damn perceptiveness, the way he seemed to see inside her. “I wish you’d really been asleep.”

“No, you don’t,” he said reasonably. “You just would have gone to bed disappointed.”

“That’s not true.” But it was.
It was
.

“Liar.” Softly. So softly she barely heard it.

Ana swallowed, wishing she could see his expression, wondering if the tenderness in his voice was reflected on his face and hating herself for wanting it there. She wanted to tell him to go away, to leave her alone, but she was afraid if she said the words, he would do what she asked, and she suddenly realized she would hate that more.

He reached down, touching her cheek, moving aside her hair. When she flinched, he drew away. His sigh was heavy in the darkness.

“Ana,” he said, and she heard the need in his voice, the pain. “Smile for me.”

“I don’t feel much like smiling.”

“But I want you to,” he urged. “Do what I want for once, Ana. Smile.”

Ana bit her lip. There was a vulnerability in his voice that made her more afraid than ever. Smile, he’d said, but she didn’t think she
could
smile, she felt so unsettled. But she also sensed he needed it from her tonight.

It was one thing she could do for him, and in the darkness, he couldn’t see anyway. “Very well. I’m smiling.”

Silence. Ana closed her eyes, trying to restrain a sigh of relief. He believed her.

“I can’t see your face,” he said suddenly. “
Are
you smiling?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m smiling.”

“Describe it to me.”

“What?” Ana pushed herself up on her elbows. “Do what?”

“Describe it to me,” he said calmly. “I can’t see, so you’ll have to tell me. You can do that, can’t you? It’s not too hard?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then go on.” He leaned back. “Describe it.”

“Well.” Ana paused. She felt unbelievingly stupid. Describing a smile. She took a deep breath. “My mouth is curving upward.”

“Are there dimples?”

“Dimples?” Ana frowned. She couldn’t remember, did she have dimples or not? Experimentally she tried smiling. It felt stiff, false, painted on like a clown’s, but obediently, she felt along her cheeks. “No,” she said finally. “No dimples.”

“Is your mouth open or closed?”

“Well—closed.”

“Oh.” He sounded disappointed. “What about your lower lip?”

“What about it?”

“Sometimes it’s crooked when you laugh. Is it now?”

Her lower lip? Ana stared at his shadow, stunned. A flutter of discomfort went through her. He had noticed her lower lip, knew it was crooked when she laughed.

“Well?” he urged.

Ana pushed away her unease, forced her lips into a broader curve and tentatively touched her mouth. “No,” she said uncertainly. “It doesn’t feel crooked.”

“You must not be doing it right.”

“Of course I’m doing it right,” she objected. “It’s my smile, I should know if it’s right or not.”

“If you were doing it right your lip would be crooked, and your mouth would be open. And there’s this funny way you bring your tongue up so it’s just against the bottom of your teeth—”

Her discomfort returned, stronger than before. “If you know it so well, you certainly don’t need my description.” Her voice sounded hoarse.

“If you were doing it right, I wouldn’t have to tell you.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” she said. She stared at his reclining shadow. “This is ridiculous.”

“Not to me,” he said. He edged closer, his voice dipped, deepened. “I need you to smile now, Ana. Please. Please just—just smile for me.”

She wanted to swallow, but she couldn’t, her mouth was too dry. He was close, so close. Too close, and she had to do something, anything to keep him from creeping forward.

Frantically Ana scooted to the edge of the pallet. She pasted on another smile, touched the top of her lip with her fingertip. “My upper lip is thin and it curves at the edges,” she said breathlessly, hating the tremor she heard in the words.

“Better.”

“My cheeks are puffy.”

“No dimples?”

“I already told you there were none.”

“You might have been lying. You were lying about the smile.”

“I was
not
.”

“You were too.”

It was then that she realized all remnants of pain were gone from his tone. His words were light, gently mocking. There was laughter in his voice, and Ana stared at him, her discomfort turning to puzzlement. He was teasing her, she was sure. Teasing. No one had ever teased her before, or at least she didn’t think they had. She wasn’t even sure if that’s what he was doing now. Tentatively she tested him. “Really, D’Alessandro—please. I’m tired. My head aches. Let’s just go to sleep.”

He shook his head, a shiver of movement in the darkness. “No excuses. If you’d only done what I asked you at the beginning, we wouldn’t have this problem.”

Yes, teasing. Ana felt suddenly safe, relaxed. “There is no problem. I can describe my own smile.”

“You haven’t done it correctly yet,” he pointed out.

“You think you can do it better?”

“Probably.” He sat up, leaning forward before she even discerned his movement. Suddenly his fingers were on her lips, forcing the corners of her mouth upward. “There. Like that.”

She was so startled she forgot she was uncomfortable, forgot his touch was something to avoid. No one had ever touched her like that. No one—

“My, you feel ferocious,” he teased. He tugged gently at her mouth.

Ana felt something churn inside her, a tickle in her stomach, a warmth deep, deep inside her, filling the hollow spot. With it came an unexpected, unasked-for delight. She tried to hold it back, but it exploded through her until she couldn’t control it any longer.

She choked. His fingers dropped, and she jerked away, gasping. She clapped her hand over her mouth to stop it. It wouldn’t stop. It wouldn’t—

Ana snickered. “This… isn’t… a smile,” she denied, though it was. It was. She was smiling like a fool, wide-mouthed, choking,
laughing
. “It isn’t a smile.”

He laughed—a pure, unadulterated shout of pleasure. “Yes, it is. A real smile, Ana. Now describe it for me.”

The next morning, Ana sat at the table watching Dolores strip the peel from plantains with quick, economical movements. The fruit mounded in a terra-cotta bowl, waiting for Serafina to slice and fry it. Right now, the older woman knelt by the fire, holding back her long dark hair with her hand as she fried the fish for breakfast. The fragrance of it filled the
quincha
, making Ana’s mouth water and her stomach growl.

She watched them both, working away, and wished she knew how to break the uncomfortable silence. The same tension that had enveloped her last night at dinner stole over her, making her tight and rigid. Except this was worse. Then, at least, she had been able to smile at their laughter, to feel the joy they took in each other. And once D’Alessandro had insisted she sit next to him so he could translate, she had actually felt like a part of things.

Now she only felt useless, and she had the unwelcome thought that Dolores and Serafina were silent because they didn’t want to insult her by talking when she couldn’t understand.

Ana sighed, looking at the open doorway. The sun slanted in across the floor, the banana trees at the perimeter of the house waved their broad leaves in the slight breeze. She wondered if perhaps it would be better to go outside, to disappear into the underbrush. At least that way, the others would be comfortable, and she wouldn’t feel like such a burden.

Ana glanced at
Doña
, Melia’s room. He was in there now, with Jiméne, trying different methods, bleeding her again—the thought made Ana’s stomach turn. He hadn’t asked for her help today, and she told herself she didn’t care, that she wasn’t disappointed. She hated being in that room, watching the red blood swirl into the glass dome, or the fat leeches, drunk and satiated, fall from
Doña
Melia’s stomach. It reminded Ana too much of her own mother, of the constant nostrums and prodding, of Dr. Reynolds’s fat body crushing her own…

She winced, pushing away the thought, and desperately grabbed at the bowl of peeled plantains. Dolores looked up, frowning, and Ana felt herself flush. She took one of the fruits into her hand and pantomimed the motion of slicing.

“Help?” she asked. “Can I help?”

Dolores’s frown disappeared, a bright smile rounded her cheeks. She handed Ana the knife, nodding encouragingly. “
Sí,‘sí. Rebane. Ralo
—
muy ralo
.” The girl held her fingers apart slightly.

Ana stared, then smiled when she finally understood.
Cut them thinly
. Of course. She slid the knife into the soft fruit, then held up a slice for inspection. Dolores nodded her approval, and Ana felt a surprisingly sharp sense of satisfaction.

“
Pescado
.” Dolores pointed to Serafina. “
Pescado
.”

Ana followed the direction of her finger, looking at Serafina, the fire, the skillet. She frowned, shaking her head. “I don’t understand.”

“
Pescado
.” Dolores raised two fingers to her mouth, pantomimed chewing. Then, when Ana still frowned, she put her hands together, making an undulating, serpentine motion. Something that looked like a snake, only surely they weren’t eating snake. They were eating fish—

“Fish,” Ana exclaimed. “
Pescado
, fish.” She pointed to the skillet, then imitated Dolores’s motions until the other girl laughed.

“
Sí
,” Dolores said. “Feesh—
pescado
.”

“And this?” Ana asked, patting the table. “The table?”

Dolores paused only a moment. “
La tabla
,” she said, her dark eyes sparkling. She pointed to the clay bowl. “
El cuenco
.” Then to the knife in Ana’s hands: “
El trinchante
.”

Ana laughed, holding up her hands. “Wait, stop—” Carefully, watching for Dolores’s approval, she tried the words. “
El cuenco, el trinchante
.”

“
¡Sí,‘sí
!” Dolores nodded excitedly. She patted her chair. “
La alia
.”

At the fire, Serafina looked over her shoulder. She said something to Dolores, and though Ana didn’t understand the words, she understood the slight censure in Serafina’s tone. Something was wrong. She had done something Serafina didn’t approve of, and the thought sent a wave of disappointment crashing through her.

She felt instantly chastened, like a small child who had wanted something too badly and been rebuffed. Ana looked down at the knife in her hands, slowly dragging it through the plantain, forcing herself to concentrate on the thinness of the slice.

“
Perdón
.” Dolores said. Ana looked up. The girl wore an expression of contrition. “
Enseño muy rapidó
.”

Ana looked at her blankly.

Dolores took a deep breath and tried again. She pointed to her chest, then quickly, one after the other, to the table, the bowl, the knife. “
Muy rapidó
,” she said again, repeating the motions. “
Muy rapidó
.”

Finally, Ana understood—or thought she did. Too fast. Serafina had only told Dolores she was teaching too fast. It wasn’t scolding, nothing was wrong. Ana smiled.

Dolores grinned and patted the table again. “
La tabla
.”

“
La tabla
,” Ana repeated. “The table.”

Dolores nodded. “The table,” she tried. Her try at English was so heavily accented, it was all Ana could do to keep from laughing, though she imagined she sounded as bad.

Dolores pointed to the bowl. “
El cuenco
.”

“The bowl?” Ana tapped the side of the earthenware. “
El cuenco
?”

Dolores laughed. “
Si, si, el cuenco. Muy bueno, amiga, muy bueno
.”

Those words Ana understood.

By the time D’Alessandro and Jiméne came out from
Señora
Castañeras’s room, Ana and Dolores were laughing uproariously while Serafina was attempting to pantomime something that looked suspiciously like washing her hair. Though Ana couldn’t be sure. In the last hour, she had guessed that sewing a dress was plucking a chicken, and cooking tortillas had become ironing.

She was no closer to knowing Spanish than she had been at the start, but it didn’t matter. It amazed Ana how much she and Jiméne’s sisters could communicate just by sign language, and the reticence that kept her silent this morning disappeared. Serafina and Dolores’s laughter at her meager attempts was kind, not mean-spirited. Even Amado joined in at one point, before he left to feed the livestock, and Juan Domingo smiled softly when he walked through the room to go outside.

So she felt warm and happy when Jiméne and D’Alessandro came into the main room. She smiled up at them. “
Buenos Has, amigos
.”

Dolores laughed and clapped her hands. “
Muy bueno, muy bueno
!”

Jiméne flashed her a smile. “Ah,
cariña, mi hermana
is right. You do very well.”

“I’ve had good teachers,” she said. “How is your mother?”

Jiméne glanced at D’Alessandro and sobered immediately. “She will get better, I know it.”

Ana looked at her partner. D’Alessandro said nothing, but he looked pale and drawn, and his dark hair was tousled and limp where he’d raked his hand through it—many times, it seemed. His arms were crossed over his chest, his fingers white-knuckled on his elbows, as if only that kept him from shaking.