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My father was happy to remain ignorant. His mind was not
altered by the pills, but he plastered on a façade to pretend it was,
and he turned away as I was whisked away from the crowds and onto
the balcony. I had heard what had happened to his last harlot,
Damita, when he was in Columbia. What happened to her when she
tried to disobey – to remove herself from his firm grip. I too
struggled against his clasp around my wrists – cuffing me to him. I
cried for help, but the people behind the curtain chose to turn away
– my calls fell upon deaf ears. I bit viciously into the chewy flesh of
his hand. He shrieked in agony and his eyes turned dark – pushing
my chest so I toppled to the ground – my back scraping against the
panelled decking, my head spinning. Momentarily, I had a view of
the blushing sky, swirling like when you mix
Sangria
. Then he picked
me up by the collar, blood from his hand, staining my dress. He held
me against the low railing of the balcony, threatening to throw me
over – my body creating shadows on his face. I gripped his arm
steadfastly and threw my weight backwards. We fell to the ground.
One day – what? Eduardo asked, moving out of the shadows of
the rock pool into the soft touch of the sun’s rays.
Américas, I whispered.
‘
La Frontera
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