The Firefly Letters (11 page)

and slaves.

If I can help her,

and if this plan works,

then I will finally

be able to leave Cuba

with new faith

in the future

of all women,

all girls . . .

I am surprised by the friendliness

of the foreign lady.

No free person has ever treated me

like an equal.

Even the freed slaves

keep their distance.

Fredrika stands beside the carriage

and talks to me,

as if I were a neighbor

instead of a servant,

while Cecilia translates

with a smile on her face.

Fredrika tells me that when she was young

her family took a grand tour of Europe,

riding all over France and Italy in a carriage.

When the carriage got stuck in deep mud,

she was not permitted to get out.

She had to stay inside, in the heat,

bored and sweaty,

simply because her mother

did not want her to speak

to the kind of people

who live in small houses

and walk

or ride swaybacked mules

on quiet country roads,

looking happy.

I am so excited

about Elena's ingenious plan

that it is hard for me

to keep the wonderful secret,

but I know that somehow

I must.

I show Beni my sketchbook.

The drawings are simple.

I am not a good artist.

I simply sketch to fix the images

in my mind

so that, later, I can write them

and bring them back to life.

Beni smiles when he sees

that Cecilia and Elena

have taken turns

sketching each other,

filling many pages of my notebook

with dreams and wishes

of their own.

Beni says he is amazed

that they have managed to learn

how to see each other

as friends.

Each time Elena speaks

of her secret plan,

I grow quiet.

Will I be blamed

for sharing

her daydreams

even though I do not know

what they are?

We take turns sketching

the view from her window.

Freedom is a wall. I cannot climb it.

Once my mind begins to picture liberty,

I am like Fredrika with her sketchbook,

frenzied, unaware of anything around her

beyond that one little paradise,

a single hut, with a few trees

and children at play

pretending that green leaves

are wings.

Elena's marvelous plan

is changing her

from the inside out.

She no longer wears

the pasty white makeup

that causes so many Cuban ladies

to look ghostly.

Her natural skin color

is the hue of wheat, the color

of men and women from southern Spain,

a land ruled by Moors

for seven hundred years.

Who will marry her

without her white makeup?

What will she be

without her parents'

illusions?

I am finished.

My hope chest is full.

My plan will soon be complete.

Only Fredrika can help me now,

but I cannot tell her the real purpose

of my secret.

What will I do

if she refuses,

and what will happen

if my parents find out?

Will they blame Cecilia

even though

she is not involved

and knows nothing

about my scheme?

My mind soars

and whirls

in a dance

of wild fear

and graceful hope.

Helping Elena

makes me nervous,

but I struggle to stay calm

and confident.

Secrecy troubles me,

but how could this plan work

any other way?

Soon, I will leave Cuba,

and Elena will stay in her room,

embroidering flowers

over and over

like a poor farm girl

in a fairy tale,

spinning straw

into gold.

Secrecy

does not surprise me.

I am accustomed