The Distant Marvels Read Online Free PDF Page A

you,” she says, pointing firmly at the nervous woman with her arm raised. Her name, I’ve learned, is Asela.
    â€œAre we safe here?” Asela asks tremulously. Her arm comes down slowly as she speaks, and she clutches at her throat.
    â€œPerfectly,” the soldier says. She takes a deep breath, and I can tell she’s ready to launch into something.
    â€œCan you name another country in all the world that would allow commonplace women like us to take shelter in a national treasure such as this house?” our soldier asks proudly. Her back is straight, making her breasts seem larger. There is a gleam in her eye, as if she were trying to seduce all of us.
    â€œNot one,” she says. She turns around and lifts a very thin porcelain dish from a cabinet behind her that is missing its glass pane. “Eleventh century,” she says, fingering the delicate green flowers on the edge of the plate. At its center is a dragon curling in on itself, its mouth touching its tail. “Very old Chinese ceramic,” she says. “Perhaps Marco Polo himself brought it to Europe. From Spain it came here, maybe?” she suggests, then places the plate in Asela’s trembling hands. “Here, to rest in your hands, compañera.”
    Asela pushes the plate away. “No, it costs too much. What if it breaks?” she asks. Around her, some of the other women eye the plate, and the cabinet full of others like it, with interest. I notice Mireya looking at me with the gaze of a hawk. When I meet the stare, she turns to look at the plate. My stomach hurts again at the noiseless confrontation with her.
    â€œCuba and her spoils belong to everyone, compañera. It’s the 1960s, my friends. A new dawn is here!” the soldier says, urging Asela to pass the plate around. “Relax. We’re safe,” she says, fluttering her lashes at Asela.
    Seduction, I think again. Despite her youth, our soldier is an expert at it.
    â€œThis place may be safe, but Maisí will be wiped off the map,” Susana mutters beside me.
    â€œIf it is, we’ll just come back here, move in, live in this palace of a place. Casa Velázquez belongs to all of us, doesn’t it? Fidel won’t mind,” I mock our soldier in whispers so that she doesn’t hear me.
    Susana laughs throatily. Some of the women turn to look at us, and I know what they are thinking, that the sick one and the crazy one are conspiring now. There is mistrust in their eyes again.
    We get as comfortable as we can. There is a large table with ten chairs in front of the cabinet full of china. Most of the women settle in those seats, and they look as if they are about to eat a sumptuous meal, as if servants will come through the heavy door bearing silver platters. A pair of wing chairs takes up a rounded alcove. Between them is a marble-topped table, with a brass candlestick on it. The candle is missing. Two other women sit there. Susana and I take up a couch that has been upholstered in gold velvet. The material is thin, and I can feel the wooden frame underneath the cushion. Still, it’s the most comfortable seat in the large room. Susana and I both groan as we sit.
    â€œLook at our soldier,” I say, pointing at her. She has taken up a spot on the cold floor, just by the door. In her hand is a nubby pencil, and on her lap is a notebook. She has covered a page in intricate swirls, one after another. Her head is cocked to the side as she works. If not for the olive green uniform, she would look like any other girl lost in thought, keeping her hands busy.
    â€œ
Our
soldier?” Susana asks. The corner of her mouth is turned up.
    â€œDon’t laugh at me,” I say. “I don’t know her name, that’s all.”
    â€œOfelia,” Susana says.
    I consider the soldier now, newly named. Her hair is still wet from the rain, while the rest of us have all dried up. “Look at how the water sticks to her,”