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I never knew my grandfather Feliciano Rodríguez de Santa Cruz. He died a few months before I came to live in his house. He suffered apoplexy while presiding at the head of the table during a banquet in his mansion on Nob Hill, choking on a veal pie and red French wine. Several guests picked him up from the floor and laid him, dying, on a sofa with his handsome Arab prince's head on the lap of Paulina del Valle, who to keep up his spirits kept repeating, "Don't die on me, Feiciano, you know widows never get invited anywhere. Breathe, man! If you breathe, I promise that this very day I'll remove the bolt from my door." They tell that Feliciano managed to smile before his heart swelled with blood and exploded. There are countless photographs of that hearty, happy Chilean. It is easy to imagine him alive, because none is posed for a painter or photographer; in every one he gives the impression of having been caught in a spontaneous gesture. He showed shark's teeth when he laughed, waved his arms as he talked, and moved with the certainty and arrogance of a pirate. Paulina del Valle crumbled at his death; she was so depressed that she was unable to attend either his funeral or any of the many homages paid him by the city. Since her three sons were away, it fell to the butler, Williams, and the family lawyers to take charge of the services. The two younger sons arrived a few weeks later, but Matias was wandering around Germany and, using the excuse of his health, did not appear to console his mother. For the first time in her life Paulina lost her coquettishness, her appetite, and her interest in the account books; she refused to go out, and spent days in her bed. She did not allow anyone to see her in that condition; the only people who knew of her grieving were her chambermaids and Williams, who pretended not to notice but from a prudent distant kept watch in order to be of help when she asked. One afternoon Paulina happened to stop in front of the large gold-framed mirror that occupied half the wall of her bathroom and saw what she had turned into: a fat, frowsy witch, her turtle's head crowned by a mat of gray tangles. She screamed with horror. No man in the world—certainly not Feliciano—deserved such abnegation, she concluded. She had touched bottom; it was time to kick up from the depths and rise back to the top. She rang the bell to summon her maids and ordered them to help her bathe, and to send for her hairdresser. From that day on, she began to combat her mourning with an iron will, with no help but mountains of sweets and long baths. Night tended to find her soaking in her tub with her mouth stuffed with pastries, but she did not cry again. Around Christmastime she emerged from her seclusion weighing a few pounds more but perfectly composed; then to her amazement she found that in her absence the world had kept turning and no one had missed her, which was another incentive to get back on her feet once and for all. She was not going to be ignored, she decided; she had just turned sixty and she planned to live thirty years more—even if for the sole purpose of mortifying everyone around her. She would wear mourning for a few months, it was the least she could do out of respect for Feliciano, but he would not want to see her turn into one of those Greek widows who bury themselves in black for the rest of their days. She began planning a stunning wardrobe in pastel colors for the New Year and a pleasure trip through Europe. She had always wanted to go to Egypt, but Feliciano had thought it was a land of sand and mummies where nothing interesting had happened for three thousand years. Now that she was alone, she could fulfill that dream. Soon, however, she realized how much her life had changed and how little she was esteemed by San Francisco society; her fortune was not great enough for her to be forgiven her Latin American origins and her kitchen maid's accent. Just as she had said in jest, no one invited her; she was no longer the first to receive invitations to parties, she was not asked to inaugurate a hospital or a monument, her name was dropped from the social pages, and she was barely greeted at the opera. She was excluded. For another thing, she also found it difficult to augment her income because without her husband she had no one to represent her in financial circles. She made a careful accounting of her holdings and realized that her three sons were throwing money away more rapidly that she could earn it; she had debts everywhere, and before Feliciano's death he had made several terrible investments without consulting her. She was not as rich as she thought, but she was far from defeated. She called for Williams and asked him to contract a decorator to remodel the salons, a chef to plan a series of banquets to celebrate the New Year, a travel agent to talk about Egypt, and a couturier to plan her new wardrobe. That is where she was, employing emergency measures to recover from the shock of widowhood, when she was called on by a child dressed in white poplin, a lace bonnet, and high patent leather shoes, and holding the hand of a woman in mourning. It was Eliza Sommers and her granddaughter Aurora, whom Paulina del Valle had not seen in five years.
"I am bringing you the girl, as you always wanted, Paulina," said Eliza sadly.
"Dear God, what happened?" Paulina del Valle asked, caught entirely offguard.
"My husband is dead."
"I see we are both widows," murmured Paulina.
Eliza Sommers explained that she couldn't care for her granddaughter because she had to take Tao Chi'en's body to China, as she had always promised she would do. Paulina del Valle rang for Williams and asked him to take the little girl out to the garden and show her the peacocks, while the two women talked.
"When do you plan to return, Eliza?" Paulina asked.
"It may be a very long journey."
"I don't want to grow fond of the child and then in a few months have to give her back to you. It would break my heart."
"I promise you that won't happen, Paulina. You can give my granddaughter a much better life than I can. I don't belong anywhere. Without Tao, it makes no sense to live in Chinatown, but neither do I fit among Americans, and I have nothing to do in Chile. I am a foreigner everywhere, but I want Lai Ming to have roots: a family and good education. Severo del Valle, her legal father, should be the one to look after her, but he is far away, and he has other children. Since you always wanted to have the girl, I thought—"
"You did right, Eliza!" Paulina interrupted.
Paulina del Valle heard to the end the tragedy that had befallen Eliza Sommers, and learned all the details about Aurora, including the role Severo del Valle played in her fate. Without realizing, along the way her animosity and pride evaporated and she found herself embracing the woman whom moments before she had considered her worst enemy, thanking her for the incredible generosity of bringing her their granddaughter, and swearing to her that she would be a true grandparent—not as good undoubtedly as she and Tao Chi'en had been—but prepared to devote the rest of her life to looking after Aurora and making her happy. That would be her main mission in this world.
"Lai Ming is a clever girl. Soon she will want to know who her father is. Until recently, she believed that her father, her grandfather, her best friend, and God were all the same person: Tao Chi'en," said Eliza.
"What do you want me to tell her if she asks?" Paulina wanted to know.
"Tell her the truth, that is always the easiest to understand," was Eliza's counsel.
"That my son Matias is her biological father and my nephew Severo her legal father?"
"Why not? And tell her that her mother was named Lynn Sommers, and that she was a good and beautiful young woman," murmured Eliza, her voice breaking.
The two grandmothers agreed right there that to avoid confusing their granddaughter even more, it would be best to make a definitive break with her mother's family, and that she would not speak Chinese again or have any contact with her past. At five, they concluded, children don't reason; with time little Lai Ming would forget her origins and the trauma of recent events. Eliza Sommers promised never to attempt any form of communication with the child and Paulina del Valle promised to adore her as she would have the daughter she always wanted and never had. They said good-bye with a quick hug, and Eliza left by the service door, so her granddaughter would not see her leaving.
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I have always regretted that those two good women, my grandmothers, Eliza Sommers and Paulina del Valle, decided my future without giving me any say. With the same tenacious determination that allowed her at eighteen to escape from a convent and despite a shaved head run away with her sweetheart, and at twenty-eight to build a fortune transporting prehistoric ice by ship, my grandmother Paulina set out to erase my past. And had it not been for a slip of fate that changed her plans at the last hour, she would have succeeded. I remember very well the first impression I had of her. I see myself entering a palace high on a hill, walking through gardens with mirrors of water and trimmed hedges; I see marble steps with life-size bronze lions on either side, a double door of dark wood, and an enormous hall lighted by the stained-glass windows of a majestic cupola high in the ceiling. I had never been in a place like that; I was half fascinated, half afraid. Soon I was standing before a chair with gold medallions where Paulina del Valle was sitting, a queen on her throne. Since I saw her so many times in that same chair, it isn't hard to picture how she looked that first day: gowned in a profusion of jewels and enough cloth to curtain a house. Imposing. Beside her, the rest of the world disappeared. She had a beautiful voice, a great natural elegance, and white, even teeth, the effect of a perfect set of porcelain dentures. I'm sure that by then her hair was gray, but she dyed it the same chestnut of her youth and added several skillfully arranged hairpieces so that her topknot always looked like a tower. I had never seen a creature of such dimensions, perfectly matched to the size and sumptuousness of her mansion. Now that finally I know everything that happened in the days preceding that moment, I understand that it isn't fair to attribute my fear to that formidable grandmother alone. When I was taken to her house, terror was already part of my baggage, as much as the little suitcase and Chinese doll I was clinging to. After walking me through the garden and seating me in an immense empty dining room before a goblet of ice cream, Williams took me to the watercolor salon, where I thought my grandmother Eliza would be waiting; instead there was Paulina del Valle, who approached me with caution, as if she were trying to trap an elusive cat, and told me how much she loved me and that from then on I would live in that big house and have lots of dolls, and also a pony and little carriage.
"I am your grandmother," she added.
"Where is my real grandmother?" they say I asked.
"I am your real grandmother, Aurora. Your other grandmother has gone on a long trip," Paulina explained.
I started running. I crossed the hall of the cupola, got lost in the library, and ran into the dining room, where I crawled under the table and curled into a ball, speechless with confusion. The table was huge, with a green marble top and legs carved with figures of caryatids, impossible to move. Soon Paulina del Valle and Williams came in, and a couple of servants intending to wheedle me out of hiding, but I scooted away like a weasel as soon as a hand came near. "Leave her alone, señora, she will come out on her own," Williams suggested, but after several hours went by and I was still dug in under the table, he brought me another tall goblet of ice cream, a pillow, and a cover. "When she falls asleep, we'll get her out," Paulina del Valle had said, but I didn't sleep; instead I squatted and peed, fully aware I was doing something bad but too frightened to look for a bathroom. I stayed under the table even while Paulina was dining; from my battle trench I could see her thick legs, her tiny satin shoes with rolls of fat spilling over them, and the black trousers of the men serving dinner. Once or twice she bent down with great difficulty and winked at me, which I answered by burying my face against my knees. I was hungry, tired, and dying to go to the bathroom, but I was as proud as Paulina del Valle herself, and did not easily give up. Shortly afterward, Williams slid a tray beneath the table holding the third ice cream, cookies, and a huge slice of chocolate cake. I waited for him to go away, and when I felt safe I tried to eat, but the more I reached for the food, the farther away the tray was, which the butler was pulling by a cord. When finally I was able to pick up a cookie, I was outside my refuge, but since there was no one else in the dining room I was able to wolf down the treats in peace and fly back beneath the table as soon as I heard a noise. The same routine was repeated several hours later, as it was growing light, until, following the moving tray, I reached the door where Paulina del Valle was waiting with a yellow pup, which she placed in my arms.
"Here, it's for you, Aurora. This puppy is alone and frightened," she said.
"My name is Lai Ming."
"Your name is Aurora del Valle," she repeated categorically. "Where's the privy?" I muttered, with my legs crossed.
And so began my relationship with the colossal grandmother that destiny had sent my way. I was installed in a room next to hers and was given permission to sleep with the puppy, which I named Caramelo because it was that color. At midnight I was wakened by the nightmare of the children in black pajamas, and without thinking twice I flew to the legendary bed of Paulina del Valle, the way I'd climbed every morning into my grandfather's bed to be pampered. I was used to being welcomed in the strong arms of Tao Chi'en; nothing comforted me as much as the way he smelled of the sea and the soothing words he would whisper in Chinese, half asleep. I didn't know that normal children never crossed the threshold of their elders' rooms, much less climbed into their beds. I had been raised with close physical contact, endlessly kissed and rocked by my maternal grandparents; I didn't know any form of consolation or resting besides being in someone's arms. When she saw me, Paulina del Valle pushed me away, horrified, and I began to keen in chorus with the poor dog; we must have been so pitiful that Paulina del Valle motioned for us to come ahead. I leaped onto her bed and covered my head with the sheets. I suppose I fell immediately asleep; in any case I woke up snuggled against her huge gardenia-perfumed breasts, with the pup at our feet. The first thing I did when I woke amid the Florentine dolphins and naiads was ask about my grandparents, Eliza and Tao. I looked all through the house and the gardens for them, and then stood by the door to wait for them to come get me. I kept doing that all week, in spite of the gifts and outings and cuddling from Paulina. On Saturday I ran away. I had never been outside by myself, and I didn't know where I was, but my instinct told me I had to go down the hill and that was how I got to the center of San Francisco, where I wandered for several hours, terrified, until I saw a pair of Chinese men with a little cartload of washing, and followed them at a careful distance because they looked like my uncle Lucky. They headed toward Chinatown—that's where all of the laundries of the city were located—and as soon as I entered that familiar neighborhood I felt safe, even though I didn't know the names of any streets or my grandparents' address. I was shy and too frightened to ask for help, so I kept walking aimlessly, guided by the smell of food, the sound of the language, and the look of the hundreds of little shops I had so often passed holding my grandfather Tao Chi'en's hand. At some moment I became too tired to go on, and I huddled in the doorway of an old building and fell asleep. I was waked by the shaking and grunts of an old woman whose fine, charcoal-painted eyebrows met over her nose, making her look as if she wore a mask. I screamed, terrified, but it was too late to get away because she was holding on with both hands. She carried me, feet kicking in the air, to an evil little room where she locked me in. The room smelled bad, and I suppose my fear and my hunger made me sick, because I began to vomit. I didn't have any idea where I was. As soon as I was over my nausea, I began yelling for my grandfather at the top of my lungs, and then the woman came back and slapped me so hard it took my breath. No one had ever struck me, and I think I was more surprised than hurt. In Cantonese she ordered me to shut my mouth or she would beat me with a bamboo cane, then she took off my clothes and inspected me, with special attention to my mouth, ears, and genitals, put a clean shift on me, and took away my stained clothes. I was alone again in the room, which was sinking into darkness as the light faded from the one little hole for ventilation.