Gods of Jade and Shadow(5)

“My, aren’t you being industrious today? Say, why don’t you clean my boots too, since you have the time. Fetch them from my room.”

Casiopea cleaned floors when it was necessary, but the bulk of her obligations were to her grandfather. She was not Martín’s servant. They employed maids and an errand boy who could shine his shoes, if the oaf couldn’t figure out how to do it himself. She knew he was asking in order to encroach on her personal time and to irritate her. She should not have taken the bait, but she could not help her fury, which stretched from the pit of her stomach up to her throat.

He had been at her for several days now, starting with the moment she’d had the audacity to tell him she wanted to change her clothes to run the errands. It was a tactic of his, to wear her down and get her in trouble.

“I’ll get to it later,” she said, spitting the words out. “Now let me be.”

She ought to have simply said “yes,” and kept her voice down, but instead she’d delivered the answer with all the aplomb of an empress. Martín, a fool but not entirely stupid, noticed this, took in the way she held her head up high, and immediately smelled blood.

Martín crouched down, stretched out a hand. He clutched her chin, holding it firmly.

“You talk to me with too much sass, eh? Proud cousin.”

He released her and stood up, wiped his hands, as if he was wiping himself clean of her, as if that brief contact was enough to dirty him. And she was dirty, polish on her hands, it might have gotten on her face, who knew, but she was aware it was not about the dirt under her fingers or the black streaks of grease.

“As if you had anything to be proud of,” her cousin continued. “Your mother was the old man’s favorite, but then she had to run off with your father and ruin her life. Yet you walk around the house as if you were a princess. Why? Because he told you a story about how you secretly are Mayan royalty, descended from kings? Because he named you after a stupid star?”

“A constellation,” she said. She didn’t add “you dunce,” but she might as well have. Her tone was defiant.

She ought to have left it at that. Already Martín’s face was growing flushed with anger. He hated being interrupted. But she could not stop. He was like a boy pulling a girl’s pigtail and she ought to have ignored him, but a prank is not any less irritating because it is childish.

“My father may have told tall tales, and maybe he did not have much money, but he was a man worthy of respect. And when I leave this place I will be someone worthy of respect, just like him. And you will never be that, Martín, no matter how many coats of polish you apply to yourself.”

Martín yanked her to her feet, and instead of trying to evade the blow he would surely deliver, she stared at him without blinking. She’d learned that cowering did no good.

He did not hit her and this scared her. His rage, when it was physical, could be endured.

“You think you are going to go anywhere, huh? What, to the capital, maybe? With what money? Or maybe you are thinking the old man will leave you the one thousand pesos he is so fond of mentioning? I’ve seen the will, and there is nothing there for you.”

“You are lying,” she replied.

“I don’t have to lie. Ask him. You’ll see.”

Casiopea knew it was true, it was written on his face. Besides, he didn’t have the imagination to lie about such a thing. The knowledge hit her harder than a blow. She stepped back. She clutched her can of shoe polish like a talisman. Her throat felt dry.

She did not believe in fairy tales, but she had convinced herself she’d have a happy ending. She’d placed those pictures under her pillow—an ad showing an automobile and another one with pretty dresses, a view of a beach, photos of a movie star—in a childish, mute effort at sympathetic magic.

He grinned and spoke again. “When the old man passes away you’ll be under my care. Don’t shine my shoes today, you’ll have plenty of chances to polish them every day, for the rest of your life.”

He left and Casiopea sat down again, numbly rubbing the cloth against the shoes, her fingers streaked black. On the floor next to her lay his cigarette, slowly extinguishing itself.

The consequences were swiftly felt. Mother informed her of the punishment while they were getting ready for bed. Casiopea slipped her hands into the washbasin upon the commode.

“Your grandfather has asked that you stay behind tomorrow,” her mother said. “You are to mend a couple of his shirts while we are out.”

“It’s because of Martín, isn’t it? He’s punishing me because of him.”

“Yes.”

Casiopea raised her hands, sprinkling water on the floor.

“I wish you’d stand up for me! Sometimes I feel like you have no pride, the way you let them walk all over us!”

Her mother was holding the hairbrush, ready to brush Casiopea’s hair as she did every night, but she froze in place. Casiopea saw her mother’s face reflected in their mirror set by the washbasin, the hard lines bracketing her mouth, the lines upon her forehead. She wasn’t old, not really, but right that instant she seemed worn.

“Perhaps someday you’ll learn what it is to make sacrifices,” her mother said.

Casiopea recalled the months after her father died. Mother tried to make a living with her macramé, but more money was necessary. First Mother sold the few valuables they owned, but by the time the summer came, most of their furniture and clothes were gone. Even her wedding ring was pawned. Casiopea felt ashamed of herself then, realizing how difficult it must have been for Mother to go back to Uukumil, to her harsh father.