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to our southeast, across from the Cathedral of Seville, the largest in all the world; nearby, the Convent of the Incarnation and its orphanage, where my mother was raised; and next to it, the Hospital of Santa Marta, where my parents met and fell in love. Viewed from an eagle’s perspective, the winding Guadalquivir River bisected the city; the curves of the more populous east bank looked to me just like the profile of an exceptionally buxom woman from collarbone to narrow waist. Nestled just inland, in the swell of her great breast, stood the huge Dominican cloister with its Church of San Pablo, and east of that, our house, and still farther east, our family Church of San Francisco, whose large plaza served as the city square. On either side of the river stood centuries-old watchtowers, one of them twelve-sided and known as the Torre de Oro, the Tower of Gold. In times of danger, these were connected by a huge chain used to prevent ships from sailing farther upstream. The city itself was flat; one had to ride farther east before the land grew rolling, covered with alfalfa or wheat or endless rows of olive trees with their dusty fruit.
    That particular afternoon, my mother and I were both happy and smiling at each other because it was the first time she had risen from her bed in a week after losing another baby and consequently suffering a fever. Although there were still faint depressions of dark purple in the inner corners of her eyes, she’d left her bed at noon, bathed, and washed her hair, then put on her dressing gown and asked her servant, Máriam, to bring food up to her chambers—her first real meal since the miscarriage. I had combed her wet hair out carefully, so that the damp strands fanned out over her back and shoulders like a cloak, and encouraged her to take her shawl so that she wouldn’t get chilled. When her hair dried, Máriam would plait it and wrap the long, fat braid in white silk, which she bound with black cord in a crisscross pattern.
    She had leaned down then and pressed her hand to my eleven-year-old cheek. “Sweet Marisol,” she said. “My beautiful girl. You’re too young to be looking after your mother.” She stroked her palm against my skin. “You needn’t worry about me now. Besides, I have Máriam to take care of me.”
    Impulsively, I hugged her. After she gathered up her sewing, we went out onto her balcony so that the breeze would dry her hair faster. It was perfect April weather, not long after Santa Semana, Holy Week—with its endless solemn processions through winding neighborhood streets, led by parish priests bearing flower-adorned statues of the Virgin Mary—but before the spring fair, when each extended family erected a tent for feasting and dancing. The winter rains had stopped, and the unfiltered sun was not yet harsh; even though it was early afternoon, it was still pleasant enough so that we hadn’t yet taken up the summertime necessity of the siesta.
    Even though my mother’s balcony was cramped—she always set the smaller statues out there to dry, leaving barely enough room for our two chairs—I loved it far better than our large, covered second-floor balcony with the ethereal Moorish colonnade, where my father entertained. I loved it because my mother was usually with me, and because her geraniums grew joyously there all year-round, mounding over their pots to creep between the crevices in the railing. That afternoon, the pungent fragrance of their blatant red blooms mixed with the sweet smell of orange blossoms on the tree below us, the latter so close I could have touched a leaf had I leaned far enough over the railing. I would never have plucked a fruit from it though; the oranges were sour as lemons, good only for flavoring marmalade or perfuming lotion. I pulled my chair closer to my mother and sat with my leg pressed against hers as she pulled the needle through the gossamer lawn of the christening gown. I eventually wormed my whole body so close to