The Distant Marvels Read Online Free PDF

I say.
    â€œDestined to drown herself, maybe?” Susana says, testing me.
    â€œHm, perhaps a mad prince has broken her heart,” I say. Susana laughs outright.
    â€œYou know
Hamlet
!” she says, slapping her thigh, which quivers underneath her hand for a bit. “I taught literature here in Santiago.”
    â€œAnd now?” I ask.
    â€œBueno,” she says, steadying herself. “There’s this.” She points to the scarf on her head. “They are using chemotherapy these days on patients like me. They call it progress, but I get tired easily. I was diagnosed the day the school’s directora told me I was only allowed to teach from a list of Soviet-approved books. It was the worst day of my life. Cancer gave me a good reason to quit without having to tell anyone what I thought of the new curriculum.” After a quiet moment between us, she asks, “What about you? You’ve really read
Hamlet
?”
    â€œI know it by heart.”
    Susana looks at me doubtfully.
    â€œI was a lector,” I say. I remember those days often and fondly, sitting above the men as they worked, the high wooden stool wobbly underneath me. I’d read for hours, entertaining them as they rolled tobacco. “Shakespeare was a favorite in the tabaquerías,” I say.
    â€œA cigar factory reader?” Susana says, suddenly breathless. She turns her whole body towards me, and I notice at once how her shirt hangs crookedly on her, and that she leans over what I know now is a missing breast, her right shoulder turning in, protectively.
    â€œAnd you read Shakespeare?”
    â€œAll the parts,” I say proudly, the voices coming to me at once—Hamlet’s vibrating tenor, Gertrude’s husky whispers.
    â€œWhat else did you read?” Susana asks.
    â€œOh, whatever the men wanted,” I say, seeing them in my mind now—the rows of men in that steamy room, their knobby hands rolling cigars, their fedoras sitting high on their heads. They were attentive listeners. “They liked Dumas,” I tell Susana.
    â€œ
Tous pour un, un pour tous!
” Susana says loudly.
    I laugh, and realize it is the first time in days. “No,” I say, touching her knee gently. “They loved
The Count of Montecristo
best of all.”
    â€œAh,” Susana says, and a sleepy smile comes across her face, and I know that she’s read that one, too. I tell her how the stink of tobacco leaves would get in my hair and clothes, and how even a good bath didn’t remove the smell. “Sometimes, I think it’s still on me,” I say, and lift the back of my hand to my face, breathing deeply. All I smell is the sea.
    Ofelia stands and stretches then. We all watch her. Even the women chattering at the large table stop talking and wait for Ofelia to say or do something.
    Ofelia twists to the left, then to the right, and we all hear her spine crackle. One of the women says, “Ay,” and the others laugh. Ofelia looks up then, realizing that everyone has been watching her.
    â€œI’ll be right back,” she says, and leaves the room.
    â€œTen cuidado, m’ija,” one of the oldest women calls out to Ofelia, and I smile at her worry, thinking that we’ve all grown fond of the girl. I wonder how many of the women here have daughters like her. The pain in my stomach feels like intense hunger, but I know that eating will not bring relief. I let out a weak sigh.
    â€œAre you okay?” Susana asks.
    â€œSí,” I say, and wave my hand at her, as if I could erase this sickness from the air between us.
    Susana nods, understanding. She looks back at the door from which Ofelia left the room. “How old do you think she is?” she asks.
    â€œI’d say she’s twenty-three or four.”
    â€œAh,” Susana says. “I’m twenty-nine. Yesterday was my birthday.”
    â€œFelicidades,” I say, and touch her knee again.