The Inheritance of Orquídea Divina (42)

A living star.

Before she could think about how in the world that would be possible, a pulse of light shone from the center of the circular stage. It looked like a heartbeat made of light. A firefly alone in the dark. Then it grew brighter and brighter, filling the entire tent. It was so bright that every single person in the room averted their eyes, looking away because, for a very real moment, it felt like they had looked at the sun.

Orquídea chanced another glance, and this time, she stood. She rubbed her eyelids to get rid of the dancing red light in front of them.

The outline of a person appeared from the shadows. She thought of the times she made her own dolls by taking two panels of cloth and snipped the outline of a person, then she’d stuff it with dry lentils or cotton and sew it shut. That’s what this was, the shape of a person made of light, and when the star moved, it rippled with a prism of color.

She looked for the wires, the tricks, the magician’s precision that was needed in order to make them all see this. It wasn’t possible, but there it was. The crowd roared its approval, it’s fascination and wonder.

After, the audience rushed out to the fairgrounds, to the fortune-teller tables and games and popcorn stands. Orquídea sat alone in her gifted seat and replayed the last hours.

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

She turned around at the rich sound of his voice. It was really him, the master of ceremonies, still dressed in blue velvet. Up close, she could see that he wasn’t perfect at all. There was a scar that cut across his right eyebrow and his roman nose was wide at the bridge, like it had been broken, then broken again.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” she said. “I didn’t know it was here. I went for a walk, and here it was.”

“What’s your name?”

“Orquídea.”

“Bolívar Londo?o, at your service.” He approached her slowly, the way the lion tamer had done to the lioness not a few hours ago. Like he thought she might bite. She was suddenly aware of her battered shoes, her eyes puffy from crying.

“The Widow said you were looking for work.”

A rush of hope came at her quickly. She pressed the ticket against her stomach. “I am—I can learn anything.”

“Do you have any talents?” he asked with a coy smile.

“Fishing.”

He started to chuckle, but then he realized she was serious. He ran his fingers along his beard. There was a striking ring with a coat of arms on his middle digit. “La Sirena Caribe?a is retiring today. We need a replacement. We’re leaving for our European tour tomorrow.”

Orquídea felt her neck heat up as his eyes took in her collarbone, the swell of her breasts, her small waist, and the bloom of her hips. He looked at her like she was someone who should not be ignored. He looked at her like he wanted to be consumed by her.

“I—” Hadn’t she wanted this? It was so easy to fantasize while she was watching, to put herself in the role of these women dressed in fantastical clothes, performing miracles, defeating the laws of gravity. Dressing up as a mermaid who got pushed around on stage wouldn’t require anything from her except putting on a costume. Being another person. In Europe, no less!

She could escape.

All she would have to do was live with the circus. Any time her mother had returned home from a circus, after the night’s fun had been had and the spell of it washed away, she’d remark on the women who walked around nearly naked. Whores with loose morals and looser legs. After that night, Orquídea knew what her mother thought of her. What would be the difference?

She could be someone new.

The oddities that were spurned by God and creation.

She could be.

It was a dream, that’s all. Every insult and cruel word that had been thrown her way like arrows pierced into her skin. What would she have without her mother? She remembered her old friend from the river who had called her the Bastard Daughter of the Waves. If she went home now, perhaps her mother wouldn’t notice that she’d run away for the night. Perhaps there was time to fix things.

“I can’t go with you. I’m sorry.”

“We’re leaving for Paris tomorrow morning,” Bolívar said, flipping his top hat between deft fingers before securing it on his head. He took her hand in his and the skin-on-skin contact tightened a cord around her heart. His soft mouth brushed against her knuckles, then the inside of her wrists. “Ship leaves at four in the morning, if you change your mind.”

That night, Orquídea ran home with the intention of apologizing to her mother, to Mr. Buenasuerte. But when she stepped in the house, she felt like an intruder, slinking around the dark. The party had long finished, and everyone seemed to be asleep. They didn’t even know she was gone.

She did not belong in her mother’s new life with her new husband and new kids. She had no father to turn to. When she crawled into her narrow bed, she thought of Bolívar Londo?o’s stare, the way he made her skin feel hot, like molten sugar turning, transforming into something to sink teeth into. She ran a thumb over and over her knuckles, the place where he’d kissed her. Had he meant it?

She gave up on sleep and packed a bag. She owned very little, but she took what would fit in her leather school backpack. Three cotton dresses, a hand-me-down robe, slippers, two pairs of stockings two shades too light for her skin, a pair of socks, three hundred sucres, and a photo of her mother—black and white and faded at the edges. She thought about going to say goodbye to Ana Cruz, but didn’t want to chance the baby waking up and alerting the whole house. When she whirled around to go, Orquídea saw she was not alone anymore.