The Dreamer: List 2

Mountains slid into valleys, houses wallowed in shallow lakes, and the rocks and dirt that held fast to the train tracks disappeared.

Rodolfo nodded. “The chucao bird. If you hear it call on your right side, it is a good omen and means fortune and happiness. If you hear it call on your left, it is a warning and means bad luck and disappointment. They say the chucao bird does not lie. You will hear it before you ever see it, though. It is a very shy bird.”

The relentless rain forced everyone to stay indoors, and the mud prevented any wagon from maneuvering the streets.

The relentless rain forced everyone to stay indoors, and the mud prevented any wagon from maneuvering the streets.

Neftalí put his finger on Uncle Orlando’s paper. “What is that word?”
“That word is Mapuche. They are the indigenous people who live in Araucania—our neighbors.”

“I suppose that if this keeps up, I will have to make you my partner someday.”
Neftalí smiled and nodded vigorously.

Mamadre stood with her hands on her hips. “I see that the dreariness of the rain has made us all need a diversion,” she said. “Enough of sitting in this one room. Come. I will read to you in the salon.”

"Promise me you will never open this trunk!”
Neftalí looked wistfully toward it. “I p-p-promise.”

Neftalí looked up. “With a s-s-song?”
“My sentiments exactly,” he said, propping one foot on a chair and the guitar on his knee.

Rodolfo smiled and put on the top hat. He began, softly at first. “Libiamo, libiamo ne’lieti calici che la belleza infiora…” Let us drink from the goblets of joy adorned with beauty....

Neftalí could not take his eyes from Rodolfo’s face, which had lost all traces of anger and sullenness. His voice was deep and rich and operatic.

Rodolfo opened his arms wide and sang, his tenor round and full and so beautiful that Neftalí’s eyes filled with tears.

Uncle Orlando finished the song with several resounding chords to accompany Rodolfo’s last long note.

He ran to his family and threw his arms around them, wanting this elation to last forever.

Meanwhile, Mamadre glided from one preparation to another: from the kitchen for a tablecloth to the dining room, from the cabinet for candelabras to the table. Attentive and methodical, she folded napkins and set out glasses and plates without saying a word.

Neftalí’s mouth watered at the suggestion of the potato turnovers and the steak smothered with onions.

He watched Mamadre turn and walk to the kitchen, her face now wan and preoccupied.

He watched Mamadre turn and walk to the kitchen, her face now wan and preoccupied.

Father sat at the head of the table, jovial and generous to his guests, passing around stories as easily as he passed around el pan amasado, the homemade bread.

They do not want to conform to the ways of the townspeople.

Father shifted in his chair. His face reddened. “Do not pay attention to him. He is absentminded. And he spends so much time in idle thought he can barely speak. There’s no telling what will become of him.”

Father shifted in his chair. His face reddened. “Do not pay attention to him. He is absentminded. And he spends so much time in idle thought he can barely speak. There’s no telling what will become of him.”

I am poetry, lurking in dappled shadow.

I am poetry, lurking in dappled shadow.

I am the confusion of root and gnarled branch.