The Wild Book (4 page)

Papá tells my brother that he
must find a new way to live.
After a few days of angry
arguments, José announces
that he wants to be a teacher.
He declares that he must begin
by teaching me.

So now I have to read OUT LOUD
while my wounded brother
peacefully listens.

My brother calls it his reading cure.
I call it torture.

I would rather tell riddles
or sing funny liars' songs,
like the one about a spider
who sews clothes for a cricket,
or the one about silly fleas
who wear fancy trousers,
even though they do not
own any underwear at all.

Instead, I have to SOUND OUT
all the difficult syllables
of tiny pieces of long poems
un—til
I am hope—less—ly
fu—ri—ous—ly
wea—ry.

Rumors of danger return,
just when I am already
so exhausted, and all I need
is safety, and all I know
is the possibility of loss.

My brother's wound came
from his own careless
rum-and-rifle dance,
but I cannot help wishing
there were something else
to blame, like
caimáns
or bandits...

As I picture all the links
in life's long chain of dangers,
I grow so anxious that while
my poor brother sleeps
and heals, I begin to scribble
my own oddly
comforting verses,
this growing vine
made of words
that almost sing
but rarely rhyme.

Even scribbling
is such a struggle.

Will my blank book
ever be full?

Kidnappers, beasts, bullets...
Life seems just as perilous
as during the war years
when my parents
were starving
in a prison camp
and their first baby
died of fever.

I wonder if poor little Haida
is in the air, floating nearby—
perhaps she is one of my
eleven thousand
guardian angels.

Can she hear me trying to cure
my wounded brother
with poems?

My eyes burn, my head aches,
and my vision feels so weak
that I am afraid to use up
whatever is left of my eyesight.

When I tell José that so much
reading out loud exhausts me,
he advises me to read just one
small part of a single poem
over and over, until I love
the familiar rhythm.

So I choose the Rubén Darío
verse about a blank page,
and I read the same few lines
until I almost begin to feel
calm and safe.

José is beginning to seem
like a real teacher.

He encourages me
to practice and practice
more and more,
as if my entire future
depends on nothing
but words.

Maybe
it does.

Does one small
accomplishment
always lead to another?

I keep choosing tiny parts
of Rubén Darío's long poems.
There is one about singing leaves,
a magic dragonfly, and birds
of the soul...

and another about
a horse that runs
like lightning, moving
as swiftly as an idea...

It only takes a few swift lines
to make the rhythmic music
of my imagination
gallop!

When she thinks I need a rest,
Mamá sends me to the garden
to gather
manzanilla
flowers
for a soothing tea to help
baby Rubén fall asleep.

I return to the porch and find
José playing a foolish game
with little Julio and Etelvina,
a game called
jerigonzas—
nonsense—also known
as the secret language
of Cuban children.

I have never mastered the art
of making sense from nonsense.
José tries to coach me.
Take any word.
Add
chi
after each syllable.
If grownups can still
understand, try
chiri
instead of
chi.

Etelvina has no trouble
turning Fefa into Fechifachi,
and Julio is clever enough
to lengthen Fefa
into Fechirifachiri.

All I manage to do is end up
feeling like a long riddle
without any answer.

I practice and practice,
until I finally do
manage to hear
the tricky syllables
of hi—lar—i—ous
ri—dic—u—lous
make-believe
nonsense words.

If only the rest
of my strange life
made as much sense
as nonsense.

Never give up,
my brother advises.
Never.
Nevchierchi.
Nevchirierchiri.

Just when I've started feeling
safe and smart, the farm manager
bothers me with ugly questions.
Do I like the verse he wrote
in my album?
Has anyone else given me
a rhyme?
Have young boys ever called me
a rose?
Would I like another poem,
and maybe a kiss...

I am so alarmed, and so ashamed
that I tell no one, not even José,
not even in our language
of secrets.

My father has finally killed
the dangerous
caimán
that caused so much trouble.
Our river would be safe now
if there weren't so many
new reports of farm children
kidnapped by the bandits
Alvarez and Tolís.
So Papá gives Fausto a pistol
and tells him to guard us,
protect us, keep us all safe...

Guns in the hand
of a tricky man?
Certain ordinary words
crowded so close together
make no sense at all.

I am not brave enough
to protest.

No matter how long
and tangled the danger chain
grows, I still have to cook
a hearty lunch of meat,
rice, beans, yams, coffee,
wild fruit, and pudding.

Afterward, during the quiet
siesta
hour, when we are all
supposed to sleep, I sit up
and sway in a rocking chair,
wondering, worrying...

Did anyone hear Fausto's
hideous questions?

Will I be blamed
for his ugly words?

I hardly ever smile anymore,
but when three of my oldest,
most shriveled great-aunts
come to visit, they bring
a gift of humor.

Seated in rocking chairs
on the porch, they grin
and wave at three gallant
young horsemen
who prance by, hoping
to flirt with three
of my prettiest big sisters.

At the sight of old women
beckoning, the boys gallop away
so swiftly that they don't have
a chance to hear me
join my mischievous
old aunts'
chuckles
and giggles
and guffaws
of amusement.

Surrounded by laughter,
I almost feel safe.

During perilous times
we rarely feast,
but my brothers
still perform rope tricks
that look
like a ballet
of the leaping horse
and looping rope,
and my sisters
stir a coconut pudding
that sounds like a rumba
of the kettle
and the spoon.

I compete with José
to see who can sing
the best liars' song.

He invents one about cows
that give sweet, delicious
whipped cream
instead of plain milk.

I sing about an earthworm
that wears a fancy hat,
even though he does not
have a head.

After a few funny songs,
any starlit evening
can turn into a lively
family dance.

Everyone says I am
a fine dancer!
Suddenly, I feel drumbeat,
guitar-ripple, maraca-rattle
dance-smart.

José is a naturally
smart teacher,
and Darío has a way
with plants in the garden,
and baby Rubén
or little Etelvina
might grow up to be smart
in the handy way of artists,
carving statues
or painting murals.

I am dance-smart
when my feet
and hands
forget to worry
about the rhythms
that I know
how to tap
and clap
OUT LOUD.

As soon as I touch
my wild book
with dancing fingers,
I have to start all over,
re—mem—ber—ing
to
move
oh
so
slowly,
writing
a graceful,
patient
waltz,
not
a rapidly
pounding
conga.

No one in my family
ever throws anything away,
not even an old story
that can be told and retold
late at night, to make the deep
darkness feel
a little less lonely.

In the garden, there is a vine
with fragrant white flowers.
Long ago, it was an Indian girl
who was forced to flee
from Spanish soldiers.
She hid alone in the forest
and learned the language
of animals—
as soldiers approached,
she turned into a flower,
but all the animals
still know her.

When our little farm dog
sniffs the fragrant vine,
I imagine he must be talking
to the frightened girl.

Back in the time
when stories were born,
the entire island of Cuba
was covered with an immense
ancient forest.

Now, the towering trees
are mostly gone, replaced
by rolling hills
and open pastures.

If dangerous men
ever chase me,
where will I hide?

When an uncle brings piles
of the white cotton strings
and green silk threads
that are used for tying
cement sacks, my mother
crochets a lovely white purse.

She gives me the green silk
to make a shimmering
winglike shawl.

My hands fly one loop
at a time, like dancing doves
in an emerald sky, scribbling
mysterious bird-words.

I feel like a girl in a story,
human and magical
at the same time.

The cows are fat, and Papá
is ready for a vacation.
He trusts Fausto
to take care of the farm.

We pack our white dresses
and wide straw hats.
Mamá is so excited that she sings,
Get this, get that, hurry up...

Everything we own
seems to be going with us
to our sandy camping place
at the seashore.

The beach is not far away,
but thejourney takes us
through a murky marsh,
past manatees
that look like smiling
chubby mermaids.

I wonder if the gentle manatees
know that
caimáns,
crocodiles,
and sharks all lurk beneath the surface,
watching and waiting...

Too much sun, too much sand.
Stingrays, jellyfish, spiny
purple urchins that pierce
my careless feet...

We eat so much fish
that I expect to sprout
shiny fins and a glistening
green tail.

I am tired of drinking
nothing but coconut milk,
tired of cracking crab claws,
tired of brothers throwing sand
and sisters teasing.

Papá says it doesn't matter,
as long as the whole family
is together.

Everything glows.
The sky is made of stars
and the waves are
phosphorescent.
Phos—pho—res—cent.

I sound out syllables,
even though here
at the peaceful beach
I don't have to read,
scribble, or do anything
but slow down and listen
to the natural poem-songs
whistled and whooshed
by water, birds, wind,
and the coiled tunnels
hidden in trumpet-shaped
seashells.

Disappointing news—
we have to leave
the windy beach now,
right now...

A whirling hurricane
looms
offshore.

I am ready to flee,
but at first, Mamá refuses.
All she wants to do
is swim and sigh,
burying her fingers
in hot, salty sand.

I think she must be
part mermaid
or part poet.

Our green farm looks
so welcoming and friendly
that I am even happy to see
the messy red mud,
but as we get closer,
something begins to feel
dangerous.
Cows are tied to trees,
as if ready for a journey
of their own.
Thieves!