The Firefly Letters (2 page)

of rotting tropical vegetation,

a smell that releases a bit of sorrow,

like the death of some small wild thing—

a bird, perhaps, or a frog.

I am eager to see the city

and then set off on my own,

exploring the beautiful countryside

with my translator, Cecilia,

a young African girl

with lovely dark eyes.

With her help

I will see how people live

on this island of winter sun

that makes me dream

of discovering Eden.

I find the Swedish lady's freedom to wander

all over the island

without a chaperone

so disturbing

that I can hardly bear her company.

I hide in my room, embroidering

all sorts of dainty things — pillowcases

and gowns with pearl-studded lace ruffles

for my hope chest.

Cecilia and I are not quite the same age.

I am only twelve,

but I feel like a young woman,

and she is at least fifteen,

already married and pregnant.

Too soon, I will reach fourteen,

the age when I will be forced to marry

a man of my father's choice.

The thought of marriage

to some old frowning stranger

makes me feel just as helpless

as a slave.

When I asked the Swedish Consul

to place me in a quiet home

in the Cuban countryside,

I expected a thatched hut

on a small farm.

Instead, I find myself languishing

among gentry, surrounded by luxury.

The ladies of Matanzas

rarely set foot outdoors.

Enclosed in marble courtyards,

Elena and her mother move like shadows

lost in their private world

of silk and lace.

If I'd wanted to endure

the tedious life of a noblewoman,

I could have stayed home

at Årsta Castle, where my mother

never allowed me to speak to servants

and if I wanted to greet my father

I had to wait

while a footman

rolled out a carpet

and a hairdresser powdered

my father's pigtail.

There is no place more lonely

than a rich man's home.

Fredrika's visit is touching my life

in ways I could never have imagined.

She has asked Elena's father

to give us a little house in the big garden

where the two of us can live in peace,

surrounded by
cocuyos
— fireflies —

instead of chandeliers.

Together, we walk over hills and valleys

to see sugar plantations and coffee groves.

We visit fields owned by wealthy planters

and tiny patches of corn and yams

that belong to freed slaves

who live in little huts

that look like paradise.

We ride across rivers in small boats,

carrying bags of cookies and bananas

to share with all the children, dogs, goats,

and tame flamingos

that follow us wherever we go,

begging for treats, and hearing stories

about the North Star.

The huts of the freed slaves

make me think of my lost home—

I remember a ghostly mist

rising over the river

after a boy drowned

trying to escape

from the slave traders.

The mist was silent

but the water sang softly,

telling its own

flowing story.

If I had known

that my father would trade me

for a stolen cow,

I would have run away

into the forest

to live in a nest

made of dreams

and green leaves.

Cecilia is a fine translator,

floating back and forth

between English and Spanish so easily,

yet I feel certain that she is homesick

for Africa, and sadly, she suffers

from the lung sickness.

Walking tires her, so we often stop to rest

in lovely places, beside stream banks

or at the small farms of free men

who used to be slaves.

When I ask Cecilia about liberty,

she lists the prices:

Five hundred gold dollars

would buy the freedom of a slave

who works in the fields,

but she has been taught the art

of translation, so she is worth a fortune,

and her husband is a skilled horseman

valued at more than a thousand

gold dollars.

Fifteen dollars would be enough

to purchase liberty

for their unborn child.

The price will double

on the day of its birth.

How strange the laws are

on this beautiful island where—

if not for slavery—

I could think of the palm trees

and winter sun

as true evidence

of Eden

rediscovered.