Out of the Box (14 page)
I rocket off my end of the couch and tackle her in a bear hug.
“Help! Help! I'm being attacked by a teenager!” she shouts. I pull back, laughing, and she tells me Sarah keeps visiting and asking after me. “She's even promised to help with the yard sale. She's going around asking other people on the block if they have stuff to donate too. It's going to be huge!”
Thank you, Sarah
.
“She sent you a gift, by the way. It's still in the car, but I'll get it later.” She hugs her knees to her chest and smiles at me. “Anyway, Frank and I decided that, if you'll be playing for Facundo, you should probably get a teacher here. Frank's got a pal who lives not too far away who's willing to make house calls.”
When Dad comes in, I've got a grin on my face that doesn't at all match the raging tango tune I'm playing. He stands in the doorway listening and doesn't say a word about the horrible accordion-y sound. Instead, he smiles. That evening, while Dad's watching
TV
, Jeanette's reading in her room and Mom is in her office, I place the bandoneón case and Sarah's gift on my bed.
I take a deep breath and open the case. Peeping out from beneath the liner is a crisp, white envelope. My name is written on the front, and the handwritten letter inside is dated a week ago.
Dear Ellie,
First of all, thank you. My head is still spinning
from the twists of fate that brought my father's
bandoneón to me. I don't have words to express
my gratitude, and so I'm resorting to a rather
unorthodox gesture of thanks, which I hope you'll
understand.
When I first arrived at Frank's place a few weeks
ago, I couldn't wait to touch the same keys that my father, and his father before him, had touched. For years, I've been hearing about this instrument,
how my father received it as a gift from his father
and played it every night after school for hours. I'm
sure he would have become a professional musician
if he could have, but as I told you at the tea
shop, in his lifetime, the government forbade the
gatherings where tango would be played. It seems
to me a terrible irony that the government barred
him from doing what he loved, yet killed him all
the same.
After my parents disappeared, the bandoneón sat
in a place of honor in my grandparents' living room,
next to my parents' wedding picture. Years later,
after my grandparents died, my aunt Ceci brought
the bandoneón home with her to Canada. (She had
escaped Argentina when the dictatorship first began,
and it was she who sent the airline tickets and
money to my parents, resources that, unfortunately,
they were never able to use.)
A few years before I met Ceci, someone broke
into her house here in Victoria and stole all sorts
of valuables, including the bandoneón. It was the
only memento she had left of her brother, and Ceci
was devastated. When she met me and talked to
me about my father playing the bandoneón, she
cried. She wanted so much to be able to pass the instrument on to me. I never imagined I would
someday hold it in my own hands, and I wouldn't
have dreamed that someone who received it as
a gift, as you did, would be kind enough to give
it back.
The envelope inside took my breath away. I didn't
know my parents had ever received Ceci's gift. The
money would have paid their way in secret across
the La Plata River to Uruguay. From there, they
would have flown to Caracas, where they could have
lived in safety.
For weeks now, I've been thinking about how life
would have been if their flight had been just a week
earlier. I would have grown up with my parents. They might still be alive today.
I have to remind myself that there's no point
thinking this way. Things are as they are, and our
job is to make the most of them. I'm donating the
money to the Grandmothers of the Plaza de Mayo,
who helped me find my biological family. I like the
idea that money meant to keep my family together
can be used to reunite someone else's.
I also want this bandoneón, which made my
father so happy, to inspire another musician. When
I first arrived at Frank's a few weeks ago, I felt
like I was claiming another piece of my identity.
I wanted only to take the bandoneón and go, but I
remembered my manners and made polite conversation
with Frank and Jeanette. They told me
about you and Alison and how thrilled you were
this summer to discover the instrument and learn
to play it.
Half an hour later, I thanked them and went on
my way. As I was going to sleep that night, though,
their words about your excitement echoed in my
mind. I thought about you, and about me and my
family. Although I have my grandfather's laugh,
my father's passion for music and my mother's for
books, I am not a bandoneón player. This instrument
is my prized possession because if its past, but
it was your prized possession because of its future.
And so, weeks after I said polite goodbyes to Frank
and Jeanette, carrying my treasure in my arms,
I am returning it to you, on loan, until you can find
a bandoneón of your own. I know you will take good
care of it, and I would love to hear you play, next
time you're in Victoria or I'm in Vancouver. When,
years from now, you're ready to give it back to me,
I will accept it gratefully. Thank you for returning it,
and thank you for making it sing again.
Yours truly,
Facundo
I slip the letter back into its hiding place and stroke the bandoneón with one finger. I can't stop smiling.
Sarah's gift is in a box similar to the one I left for her, and a note is taped to the top.
I thought you might
like these. At the very least, they'll save you from the
boredom of this year's shopping trip. XXOO Sarah.
Inside is a pile of almost-new clothing, and I soon discover that each piece fits like it was made for me. I don't look like a model, but I do look good.
Maybe this school year will be different after all, I think, admiring myself in the mirror. Then I pick up the bandoneón and begin to play.
T
he military dictatorship in Argentina “disappeared” thousands and thousands of people (estimates range from 9,000 to 30,000). The government and its agents captured people who they felt threatened the dictatorship. Captives were hidden away in secret detention centers, where they were tortured and often killed.
Captive pregnant women were usually kept alive until they gave birth, and the babies were given away in illegal adoptions. Police doctor Jorge Bergés, whose name I use in this novel, attended many of these births and wrote false birth certificates so that the children would never know who their real parents were.
These days, people who suspect that they might be children of the disappeared can find out by contacting an organization called the Grandmothers of the Plaza de Mayo. This group is dedicated to learning what happened to their grandchildren who were captured or born in the secret prisons. Through
DNA
testing and extensive research, the Grandmothers have identified eighty-eight children who had been given away in illegal adoption. The group will continue its work until they find and identify the other four hundred who are still not accounted for.
Although the military dictatorship in Argentina ended in 1983, years passed before the Argentine government agreed to try the people involved in the kidnapping, torture and killings. Even so, disappearances continue. In 2006, Julio López, who had been held and tortured during the dictatorship, was scheduled to give a final testimony against a former chief of police. Hours before the trial, Julio López disappeared and has never been heard from again.
I
'd like to thank Dr. Jonathan Goldman, Assistant Professor of Music at the University of Victoria, for his help with details about the
bandoneón.
Thanks, too, to the Canada Council for the Arts and the BC Arts Council for financial support of this project and to Susan Braley, Henry and Alvera Mulder, Maureen Parker, Holly Phillips and Robin Stevenson for support and encouragement throughout writing and revision. I'm grateful to Sarah Harvey for her brilliant editing suggestions and to the whole Orca team for producing beautiful books and for being such a pleasure to work with. I'd especially like to thank Gastón Castaño for his research help, encouragement and faith, and to Maia Elisa for her
joie de
vivre
and love.
W
hen she was growing up, Michelle's favorite spot was the library, so it's no surprise she studied literature at university. After graduating, she cycled across Canada, traveled in South America and married the Argentine pen pal she'd been writing to since she was fourteen. She lives in Victoria, British Columbia, with her husband and daughter. For more information visit
www.michellemulder.com
.
978-1-55469-176-0 $7.95 pb
Ten-year-old Rosario Ramirez and her family
are political refugees from Mexico, trying to make a new life in Canada. After being teased at school, Rosario vows not to speak English again until she can speak with an accent that's one hundred percent Canadian. But when her family's closest friend and fellow farm worker, José, gets sick on the job, Rosario's plan starts to fall apart. Neither of Rosario's parents speaks English well enough to get José the help he needs. Like it or not, Rosario must face her fears about letting her voice be heard.
