92 Chico of the Andes bear dug busily until Grandfather saw him. “Go on! Get away from there. Leave those plants alone,” the old man shouted and waved his hoe. Chan sat back on his haunches and watched the old man with bright black eyes. Then, as soon as he saw he was not watched, he got busy again. When the field was half done, Grandfather threw down his hoe. “Ai-ya, I am tired,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “And besides, this is enough cargo for one trip. Let us rest.” Chico was glad to follow the old man away from the field. He threw himself down on the short, crisp moss of the Paramos and leaned back against a rock. Chan ran up and began to crawl over him. Chico pushed him away and lay back so that he could look at the deep blue sky. A black speck wheeled high overhead. While Chico watched, it grew larger and larger, circling over the mountains. The boy raised his arm. There was the old condor. Every day it flew over the Paramos looking for food. Once it had come so low, when Chico was out with Chan, that he had seen its red neck with the white collar of feathers around it and the strong curved beak. Chan had whined with fear, but Chico had not been frightened. The giant condor was like an old friend, a part of the Paramos.
IN THE POTATO FIELD 93 But Chico’s thoughts were far from the Paramos. Glancing at the old man who sat with half-closed eyes in the sun, he said, “Viejito, what is it like in Cuenca? Were you ever there?” Grandfather made a grumpy noise in his throat and answered, “Of course I have been there. Do you think I have always lived in the mountains?” “What is it like?” Chico repeated. “It is a city, like any other,” said the old man, “with a great many houses. Then, in the center of the town, there is a great plaza with flowers and statues. And around it are many buildings and the great cathedral. The streets are always full of people, pushing each other around and rushing to get somewhere. It’s not like here, where we have all the room we need.” Chico leaned toward the old man excitedly, his brown eyes shining. To think he would see all that! “What do the people do—so many of them? What do they eat there?” he asked. “Oh, they sell hats and bring in vegetables from their farms to the market. And some of them have stores where they sell cloth and shoes and tools. Everyone does something different. And the food,” the old man paused and ran his tongue over his lips, “there are all kinds of food. On market days the women set up little kitchens right on the street. As you walk along, you can smell pork frying, chicken
94 Chico of the Andes roasting, and spiced rice boiling. Then there are trays of sweet cakes and fruit. Oh, the food is good, that I will say.” “Won’t we have a fine time, Chan, in Cuenca?” Chico asked happily, pulling the bear close to him. “Think of all the things we shall see!” “Well, you have not gone yet, and there is work to be done,” said the old man. He lifted himself up from the ground. Grandfather sounded angry, but it was only because he was unhappy. When he thought of Chico going away, a lump came into his throat. The two walked toward the field again. Chico chattered all the way. They had just picked up their hoes and started digging when the old man threw up his head, listening. “What—?” Grandfather held up a finger to silence the boy. Chico turned his head to one side and listened. From the trail that led over the hill and past the house came a faint noise. Chico’s heart began to pound. Throwing down the hoe, he started to run toward the house. At the corner he looked for a moment and then turned back toward the old man. “It is, Old Man. It’s Don Ernesto. I can see him coming up the hill.”
“Won’t we have a fine time, Chan, in Cuenca?” Chico asked happily, pulling the bear close to him.
96 Chico of the Andes Chico jumped up and down with excitement. The old man, shaking his head sadly, followed the boy and stared down the trail. Yes, Don Ernesto had arrived, and his boy, his Chico, whom he loved so dearly, would leave him.
Ten CHICO GOES TO CUENCA Don Ernesto’s kindly, weather-beaten face beamed when he saw Chico. “Hola,” he called. “So, you got back safely? The condors did not get you after all.” Then, more seriously, he spoke to the old man. “I worried about the boy after he left me. There was such a storm that night.” Chico opened his mouth, his eyes dancing, to tell Don Ernesto all that had happened since he last saw him, but Grandfather interrupted, “Wait until Don Ernesto has some coffee, boy. Where are your manners? And take the cargo off the mules.” Chico ran quickly to the animals. “No, Chico. Leave them,” called Don Ernesto. He turned toward the old man. “I am not staying the night this time. I must go at once. I am weeks late
98 Chico of the Andes now. But I shall have some coffee, muchas gracias.” Don Ernesto moved toward the little hut, pulling his red poncho off over his head as he talked. Chico stood still, too stunned to move. He barely heard the muleteer grumbling about the bad weather, the worn trails, and the sick mules that had held him up so long. If Don Ernesto was going right away, then he, Chico, could not go. Automatically, Chico threw a few handfuls of dry grass to the mules. Then he went into the dark house. Grandfather was already telling Don Ernesto all that had happened on the Paramos. Don Ernesto sucked in his breath in astonishment. When the old man had finished, he stared at the boy before he spoke. “And you found nothing, joven? Just as I said?” His words tumbling one after another, Chico told of the Prayer Book. When he lifted it out of the chest, Don Ernesto turned it over and over, examining it and reading the writing. He nodded his head thoughtfully. “Sí—es posible,” he murmured. “It may have belonged to your mother. But what now, little one? Are you content now?” Chico drew a long breath and made ready to tell Don Ernesto what he had planned. Grandfather waved a hand for him to be quiet. There was silence while Grandfather sucked on
CHICO GOES TO CUENCA 99 his pipe and Don Ernesto drank his hot black coffee, sweetened with a little brown sugar. Then, suddenly, the old man said, “Don Ernesto, the boy wants to go to Cuenca with you. There, he feels, he will find something about his mother and father and where they came from.” The arriero looked startled. He glanced at Chico’s young face, shining with hope, and the eager, bright eyes, and from that to Grandfather’s wrinkled, sad, old face. “Cuenca!” he exclaimed. “What would he live on? Old Man,” he turned toward Grandfather accusingly, “you know as well as I do how much it costs to live in Cuenca. I would take care of him gladly—you know that—if I could. But with all those mouths to feed, it is all I can do to keep from starving.” “Sí, Don Ernesto,” Grandfather said. “I know. But you will not have to take care of Chico. He has a hat to sell.” “A hat!” Don Ernesto looked at the old man to see if he was joking. “And how long will that keep him? Perhaps a week.” Chico’s heart sank. For the moment, Grandfather forgot that he did not want the boy to leave him. With flashing eyes, he said, “This hat will bring fifty sucres—enough to feed the boy for a long time.”
100 Chico of the Andes Don Ernesto looked at him as if he thought the old man was crazy. “Fifty sucres! It will if he has a gold nugget wrapped up in it,” he laughed scornfully. Grandfather said no more. Chico crawled up on the bed and took down his bundle. Walking toward the fire where the men sat, he held it out. “You show him, Chico,” directed Grandfather. The boy unrolled the cloth carefully, and with a flip of his hand opened up the hat. It was almost finished. The brim was not yet tied, and a fringe of long straw hung down. Otherwise it was done. Silently, he showed it to Don Ernesto. The arriero stared. After wiping his hands on his trousers, he took it between two fingers. Without a word, he turned it around and around and looked inside. Chico watched him proudly. It was a fine hat. Even he knew that. The light, thin straw was tightly woven, and not a bump or knot marred it. “Wheew-w,” Don Ernesto whistled. Chico looked at him in surprise. “This is a fine hat, a beautiful hat,” he exclaimed. “I told you it was,” answered the old man. “This is almost as good as a Montecristi.” Don Ernesto could not seem to get over his surprise. He looked from one to the other.
CHICO GOES TO CUENCA 101 “Do not tell me the boy wove this. You must have, Old Man, even if your fingers are stiff.” Chico was hurt. After all the weeks of hard work he had put on the hat, now Don Ernesto did not think he had made it. “Of course he made it, Don Ernesto. You know these hands of mine can hardly weave the cheap ones, let alone one like that. I showed him how, yes, but the boy seems to have a knack for it.” “Sí, that is it,” said Don Ernesto as if to himself. “He has a knack. It is a knack only a few have. You know that, Viejo. Surely the boy must come from—.” “Not now, Ernesto,” broke in Grandfather. “I have thought of it, too. We shall talk of it some other time. Now—will you take the boy to Cuenca? He will never be happy until he finds out who he is.” Don Ernesto looked thoughtful. Outside, the mules stamped their small hooves restlessly. “Yes,” he exclaimed finally, “I’ll take him. Somewhere there must be word of his family. It is better that he find out.” Chico was so surprised that he did not move. He watched Grandfather. The old man’s face lit up happily at first; then it grew sad. “Well, do not stand there, boy,” said Don Ernesto. “Get your things. We leave in a few minutes, for we must cross the Paramos before dark.”
102 Chico of the Andes Don Ernesto and Grandfather filled the sacks with newly dug potatoes and tied them on the mules. Chico ran around like a wild thing, hunting his other trousers and his new sandals. He did not forget his mother’s shawl. He wrapped his fine hat and the precious Prayer Book in it and tied them all up in another cloth. Chico was waiting when the men came back from the potato field. He had his straw hat on, his poncho thrown over his shoulder, and his bundle gripped in one hand. He was ready to go. Then, as he saw Grandfather plodding along, his old head bent forward, he realized for the first time that he was leaving him. In all his dreams of going to Cuenca, he had not thought about leaving Grandfather. He swallowed hard. Perhaps he did not want to go after all. Perhaps he did not want to leave the Paramos with its strong sunshine and gray mists. And the towering peaks. And the condor which circled overhead each day. And especially Grandfather. Don Ernesto started the mules down the trail. “Come on, joven, we do not have all week,” he called. Then Chan ran out and stood on his hind legs, pawing the boy’s legs. “Caramba! I almost forgot you,” Chico exclaimed,
CHICO GOES TO CUENCA 103 forgetting his sadness. Leaning down, he scooped up the little bear and held him under his free arm. Chan wiggled and licked his neck with his rough little tongue. “Come!” Don Ernesto half turned around to call the boy and then stopped. “What are you doing with that thing?” he exclaimed. “What?” Chico looked behind to see what Don Ernesto was talking about. “The bear, Chan. Put him down and come along,” the arriero shouted impatiently. “Leave Chan? But he is going to Cuenca with me,” said Chico in bewilderment. “Oh, no, my boy,” Don Ernesto said firmly. “We will have enough to worry about without having Chan.” “Don Ernesto is right, Chico,” Grandfather said. “Chan would only be unhappy in the city. The dogs would bother him day and night. Leave him to keep me company.” Unhappily, Chico handed the struggling bear to the old man. Don Ernesto started off down the hill, taking long strides to catch up with the plodding mules. “You must hurry, my boy,” said Grandfather. Without a word, the boy took off his hat and stood in front of the old man with bowed head. The old
104 Chico of the Andes man lifted a trembling hand and touched his head with two fingers, blessing him. “Be a good boy, Chico. Remember what I have taught you. Do just as Don Ernesto tells you always. May you find that which you seek. If ever you want, come back to me, for here is always your home.” Tears came to Chico’s eyes as he listened to the kind, soft, old voice. “Vamos—” Don Ernesto’s voice called from far down the trail. “Adiós, Old Man,” Chico said haltingly and turned away to run after the mules as fast as he could. “Vaya con Dios, my son. Go with God,” called the old man after him. At the last turn, before the trail dropped down the hillside, Chico looked back. Through his tears, he could barely see the old man, with Chan in his arms, standing before the gray stone house. He waved. Then they rounded a turn and Grandfather—and the house—and Chan—were out of sight. Chico was on his way to Cuenca.
Eleven CUENCA It was the end of the fourth day. For a long time now, the train of mules, led by Don Ernesto, had been following a steep, cobblestone road. At first, there was a house only here and there; then gradually, they became closer together until the road was lined with them. Lean, hungry dogs, their ribs showing under their skins, ran out from the whitewashed huts and barked at the mules. Chico knew they must be getting near Cuenca. Once a man, wrapped in a woolen poncho, came to the doorway of his brown mud hut to see what caused the commotion. He waved and called, “Hola, Don Ernesto. How are you? How went the journey?” He looked curiously at Chico as he spoke and asked the muleteer who he was. “He is the huérfano—the orphan—of Don
106 Chico of the Andes Fernando at Chan-Chan,” Don Ernesto answered. The man leaned back into the dark house and called to someone. A woman came to the door. She examined Chico from head to foot and shook her head, setting her pigtail swinging. “Poor little one,” she murmured. Chico hung his head. A dull flush crept up under his skin. Then, as they passed by, he forgot his shame. He knew the journey was almost over, and he was eager to arrive in the city. The sharply pointed peaks of the higher Andes were gone now. There were hills, of course, for Cuenca was built at 8,000 feet, between the two mighty ranges of the Andes. But these hills rolled away gently from the valley floor. Their crowns were covered with tall, slim eucalyptus trees, swaying gracefully in the breeze. Their sides were patchworked with the green and brown squares of the little farms that covered them. Chico sniffed the air. It was softer here and did not sting his nose as it did high in the mountains. It carried the sweet odors of grass drying in the sun and the smell of new-plowed earth. Don Ernesto climbed to the top of a little hill on the road. He turned back, smiling, and waved to the boy. “Aquí estamos—here we are,” he called. Chico poked excitedly at the last mule to hurry it
CUENCA 107 on. Slowly, slowly, they mounted the hill until Chico stood beside the arriero. In front of him lay the city of Cuenca, its red tile roofs flashing in the afternoon sun. Above these rose the square towers and round white domes of the churches. To Chico’s eyes there seemed to be a thousand houses. He had never imagined Cuenca would be so large. Moving more quickly now, the little caravan wound down the road to the banks of the Rio Tomebamba that glittered past the town and rushed noisily down the valley. They mounted the high, curved stone bridge that crossed it and clattered across to a narrow, winding street. They were in Cuenca. Chico was so busy with the mules that he had very little time to look around, but he did see that the street was filled with people, all pushing and shoving to get by. Chico’s mouth hung open in astonishment. Indian women dressed in layer upon layer of orange, red, and blue wool skirts passed him. Around their shoulders were wrapped wool scarves, and on the head of each, a cheap Panama hat was perched. The men wore white trousers, like Chico’s, and long red ponchos. Each person carried something. Some were bent over under loads of firewood or red clay pots that almost hid them from sight. Others carried fresh vegetables or crates of chickens. Even the tiny children,
Chico was so busy with the mules that he had very little time to look around, but he did see that the street was filled with people, all pushing and shoving to get by.
CUENCA 109 pattering along behind their parents and dressed in tiny copies of their clothes, carried little baskets with small packages in them. As the Indians passed Don Ernesto and the boy, they took off their straw hats and said, “Adiós, sus mercedes,” in soft, slurred voices. And Don Ernesto answered, “Adiós.” Suddenly, they entered a street where few people walked. Don Ernesto shouted happily, “Soon we shall be home, Chico. There is the cathedral.” Chico nodded. He was too bewildered to say anything. He had never thought that a city could be so noisy or so full of people. His ears ached already. From overhead came a sharp “clang.” It was repeated once. Then from rooftops all over the city, the clatter of a hundred church bells arose. The few people in the street stopped as if a hand had reached out and held each one quiet while they worshipped God. The clamor of bells was over in a moment, and once more, the Indians began to move. Don Ernesto led the way down the street past the cathedral. The great wooden doors stood open. Chico peered inside and then moved on, a prayer on his lips that he would find what he had come to seek. At one house with whitewashed walls and a pale blue door, no different than the rest to Chico’s eyes, Don Ernesto stopped. He pounded on the door
110 Chico of the Andes and rattled the lock. He shouted loudly and happily, “Hermana, open up. Open the door. It is Ernesto.” From inside came the buzz of voices and a shrill cry. Then there was a patter of footsteps, and the double doors flew open. “Ernesto! Ernesto! Thanks be to God! Thanks be to God; you are home again!” A little woman in a black dress, two long pigtails swinging behind her, stood at the door, her great dark eyes full of tears. Don Ernesto threw one arm around her and gave her a big hug. “Well, sister, and did you think Ernestico had been lost in the mountains?” he asked with a full laugh. A head popped out from behind Tía Maria’s skirts, then another, and another, until Chico lost count. Gleaming brown eyes looked shyly at the uncle, gone for so many weeks that they had almost forgotten him. The same eyes, pair by pair, shifted to Chico and stared. Suddenly, Chico felt strange and unhappy. He wished that he had stayed at home with Grandfather. Then he would not have had to meet all these boys and girls who stared at him as though he were some wild animal from the mountains. He looked down at the ground and twisted his bare foot in the cobblestones. Before Chico could think about himself anymore,
CUENCA 111 Don Ernesto shooed the children out of the way and drove the mules through the doorway into the inner courtyard. There, with the help of Chico and a barefoot servant boy, Don Ernesto took off the saddles and sacks of potatoes. Then, clattering over the stones, the animals were taken off to the pasture. The house of Don Ernesto and his sister was built around a square patio. A covered passage ran along the edge, and from this opened the rooms. To Chico, who knew only a one-room house, this house seemed large enough for many more people. There were doors in whatever direction he looked. Bright flowers and grass grew in the patio. It was like a little garden inside a house. It did not take the children long to get over their shyness. They threw themselves on their uncle while Tía Maria stood by, her hands twisted into her big apron, and smiled. Chico looked at the children carefully. There seemed to be three girls and two boys, although he could not be sure of this, for they darted back and forth so fast that he could hardly keep track of them. One boy, about Chico’s size, wore straight black pants that came just below his knees. His legs were covered with long black cotton stockings, and he wore a pair of high black shoes. The other little boy wore white trousers, somewhat like Chico’s. The little
112 Chico of the Andes girls had on cotton dresses of blue and white and wore little white and black shawls. Chico looked down at his own ragged clothes and felt even more shy. Amidst the chattering of the children came Don Ernesto’s voice saying, “Here, niños, you have forgotten your manners. I have brought you a visitor.” He turned to his sister, Maria, and said, “Hermana, this is Chico. He is the little orphan of whom I have often told you. He lives with Don Fernando.” The little woman threw up her hands and exclaimed, “Ai-pobrecito.” She held the boy close to her for a second, so close that Chico could smell the black cloth of her dress. The boys and girls lined up, and Chico could see that they were like steps. The highest step was the oldest girl; then came another girl, the two boys, and then the smallest girl of all. While he was still noticing this, he heard Don Ernesto’s kind voice, the only familiar sound in this strange place, saying, “Chico, these are my sister Maria’s children. They are Juana, Olivia, Pedro, Olmedo, and this is little Mariana.” As he spoke, he pointed to each child. The girls curtsied and giggled, and the boys bowed stiffly. When he came to little Mariana, she rushed forward, her tiny pigtail swinging, and threw her arms about the boy and kissed him. Chico blushed. It was
CUENCA 113 the first time in all his life that anyone had kissed him. All the children gathered around him now. They all talked at once in high excited voices. “What is it like in the mountains?” one asked. “Are there any wild animals?” another asked. “Is it true that a great giant lives high in the Andes?” still another wanted to know. Chico thought his head would come off as a result of turning it back and forth to look from one to the other. His mouth opened, but he had no chance to answer. The questions were coming too fast. Tía Maria, at last, said sharply, “That is enough now. Leave the poor lad alone. You, Pedro, must get some wood. Juana, you and Olivia go to the kitchen. Rápido. If we are to have any dinner tonight, we must get to work.” Chico stood still in the center of the courtyard as the children ran off in all directions. His ears rang with the strange sounds. “Well, don’t you want dinner, Chico?” Don Ernesto asked, smiling. “I promise you it will be good. Tía Maria is a famous cook.” Chico glanced down at his dirty, torn trousers and muddy hands. He was thinking that he could not eat with these people in their fine clothes. Don Ernesto understood. “It is all right, Chico,” Don Ernesto said. “Tía
114 Chico of the Andes Maria understands. See, I, too, have torn clothes. When you sell your hat, though, you can buy some new clothes and, perhaps, even get a haircut.” He reached out a big hand and rumpled Chico’s shaggy hair. Chico smiled. Almost happily, he followed Don Ernesto along the passageway that led to the kitchen. He had realized suddenly that he was hungry. Outside the kitchen door, there was a wooden bench with a tin basin on it. Don Ernesto dipped cold water from a jug and poured it over Chico’s hands; then Chico rubbed them with soap. In a few minutes, he had most of the mountain mud off his face and hands. When he had wet his hair and combed it, he looked quite a different boy than the one who had arrived. When Chico was through, he found that Don Ernesto had disappeared into one of the rooms. A little lost, Chico started back toward the patio. He did not know where to go, except there. He had to pass the kitchen door first, and from the kitchen streamed cooking odors like steam from a kettle. Never before had Chico smelled such odors. He stood there, sniffing hungrily. Inside the kitchen all was abustle. Tía Maria directed her oldest daughter, Juana, and spoke sharply to Olivia when she got in her way. And all the while,
CUENCA 115 she worked busily at the well-scrubbed wooden center table. Chico slipped inside the door and looked around. What a wonderful place! Imagine having a whole room just for cooking! The kitchen was almost as large as Grandfather’s whole house. The walls were painted white, and the shadows made by the candle climbed up them to the ceiling. In one corner stood a large square stove with four holes in it. Over the four holes hung wire hooks, and from each hook hung a black iron pot. It was from these that the good smells came. Tía Maria half turned, her full skirt swinging, and asked, “Is that you, Pedro? Then fan the fire, por favor?” Chico wanted to answer, but the words stuck in his throat. “Oh, it is you, little one,” she said, smiling. “Well, you may help, too. Here—” she handed him a fan made of broad strips of straw. “Sit here on the stool and fan the charcoal.” Chico certainly knew how to make a fire burn. He sat timidly on the edge of the three-legged stool and fanned. His arm moved back and forth furiously. As the charcoal began to burn noisily, Tía Maria said, “Chico, not so hard. Do not burn the house down.” She spoke so kindly in her soft, whispering voice that Chico was not frightened and even smiled timidly up at her.
116 Chico of the Andes Chico fanned more gently, and the coals hummed softly. While he worked, he watched Tía Maria working at the wooden table. His mouth watered when he saw her mix mashed potatoes with soft yellow cheese, salt, pepper, and chopped green onions. Tía Maria felt his eyes on her, and said, “These are llapingachos, Chico. Have you ever eaten any?” Chico shook his head shyly. Then he spoke up quite boldly, “No, señora.” “Well, you will tonight. And you will help cook them, too,” she answered. Turning toward the white stove with a flat potato cake in her hand, she dropped the cake into a pan of hot grease. Little bubbles rose around the edge, and the cheese sizzled. The wonderful smell made Chico’s mouth water. Tía Maria handed the boy a flat wooden paddle and showed him how to slip it under the potato patty and flip it over. Carefully, he did just as she told him while she dropped more llapingachos into the pan. When the potato cakes were all cooking, Tía Maria took out a small iron pot and began to mix a sauce. To frying onions she added tomatoes, rich milk, and creamy peanut butter. This bubbled gently on the back of the stove while she removed a large piece of pork that had been cooking in the largest iron pot. Everything, at last, seemed to be ready. Don
CUENCA 117 Ernesto and Pedro and Olmedo and Juana were all there. Only Mariana was missing. Juana and Olivia helped their mother carry the steaming dishes into the little room where a long table was laid with spoons and dishes. First, there was a fish soup with bits of parsley floating on the top and potatoes swimming in its depths. Next came roasted pork, fat and crisp, with the peanut and tomato sauce on the top. Chico carried in the potato patties. There were even fried eggs and boiled rice. But still, Mariana had not come. Chico was so hungry now that he could have eaten a roast llama. Doña Maria called once more and then said, “Do not wait. Go on. When that naughty Mariana returns, she may eat in the kitchen.” As they sat down at the table, Tía Maria called again, “Mari-a-na, Ma-ri-a-na—Venga. Come at once.” Then he heard no more, for, seated with the others, he had already begun to eat his fish soup. All his attention was given to his food.
Twelve IN THE NIGHT Chico moved restlessly on the straw-filled mattress. His stomach was acting strangely. Perhaps, as Don Ernesto had said, he had eaten too much of the rich pork. But how good it had tasted. Even now he licked his dry lips with the tip of his tongue. It was the middle of the night. A candle gleamed fitfully from behind the cloth screen that divided the large, square, white-walled sleeping room. The sharp bark of a dog sounded from the street. Somewhere in the distance, a cock crowed. Chico lay for a moment with eyes half-open. What was Old Man doing now? Perhaps he, too, could not sleep and lay propped up on one elbow, smoking his pipe and watching the flickering fire. A lump came into the boy’s throat as he thought of Grandfather. It seemed such a long time since
IN THE NIGHT 119 he had been in the little stone hut on the Paramos. Now, in the quiet of the cold night, he felt lonely and strange. He wished that he had not come to this city. He wished that he had stayed on the Paramos with Grandfather. Chico heard the soft voice of Tía Maria from the other side of the screen. Turning toward it, he could see the shadow of her small figure and her head, with its long pigtail, nodding up and down as she asked, “Pobrecito! Pobrecito! What will become of the poor little one?” “That I do not know, Hermana,” the deep voice of Don Ernesto answered, “but the boy would come. He would have eaten his heart out there in the mountains. All his life he would have longed to know who he was. The only thing to do was to let him come to Cuenca to search.” “And the old one? Was he not heartbroken to see the boy go?” “Ah, yes, but what could he do?” “But, Ernesto, how will the boy find his family? It is like searching for a needle lost in the ichu grass. What will happen if he fails?” “That is what worries me, Maria. There is only one clue, but I have said nothing of it to the boy. You have not yet seen the hat he wove. It is a fine one. It is the kind made by only a few families in Cuenca or
120 Chico of the Andes Biblian. Now—this may seem unbelievable—but I think that Chico is the son of some member of one of those families. You may argue,” he went on stubbornly, “but I believe that to weave fine hats, one must be born into a family which has woven them for many years. It is not something just to be learned from the old man. Chico has the knack, and he must come by it from his family.” “What will you do, then?” “I intend to ask quietly about the town. Perhaps I shall even go to Azogues and Biblian and Cañar. Surely, among those families who weave, someone will remember if a little boy and his parents once lived there.” “And if you find his family?” “Then Chico will go to them, of course, and go to school just as I wanted him to.” Chico turned on the straw mattress. He did not want to live with strange people, even if they were his family, he decided. He wanted to stay with Grandfather forever. The dry straw rustled. He saw Don Ernesto hold a finger to his lips. “Chico?” Don Ernesto called softly. “Sí, Don Ernesto?” “Are you awake?” “Sí, señor, I ate too much, I think.”
IN THE NIGHT 121 “Well, you must go to sleep.” “Sí, Don Ernesto, but—” Don Ernesto broke in, “No, go to sleep now. See, we are all going to bed. We must be up early tomorrow.” “Why, Don Ernesto?” “Because tomorrow is Thursday. It is the day of the Panama Hat Fair.”
Thirteen THE PANAMA HAT FAIR “Buy my meat cakes! Buy my sweets!” The shrill voice of the food vendor carried over the heads of the gaily dressed, chattering Indians. “Empanadas—” A wooden tray of hot meat pies was waved under Chico’s nose. He sniffed the odor of spices, garlic, and hot grease hungrily. From the little stoves set up on the sidewalks (just as Grandfather had said) came the smell of roasting chicken. There were great clay jars filled with spiced rice, colored red with achiote seeds. Hot boiled corn, each kernel as large as a marble, sent up steam into the cold morning air. Frying pork hissed and sputtered like small firecrackers. There was food everywhere. Chico had never dreamed there could be so much. He skipped excitedly. Later, when he had sold his hat, he would
THE PANAMA HAT FAIR 123 buy some. He would buy a little of everything. “Cuidado!” someone shouted behind him. Chico jumped aside, and none too soon. Two black oxen, laden with giant sacks of charcoal, plodded down the narrow street and right over the spot where he had just stood. As he jumped, Chico heard a clatter. He turned around and saw that he had bumped into a tray of needles, buttons, and thread and knocked them to the ground. They had been held by a little street-seller. “Perdón,” he cried and bent down clumsily to pick up the thread which had rolled into the street. The street-seller, looking at him angrily, exclaimed loudly, “Ai! Look what you have done.” She turned toward the neighboring vendors and went on plaintively, waving her square hands in the air, “Here I was, sitting quietly, trying to sell my poor little things, when along comes this great, clumsy boy and knocks them into the street. Who will buy my thread now?” she wailed, holding up a tiny spool with dirt on it from the gutter. The other street-sellers nodded. They looked angrily at Chico with their sharp black eyes. “I am very sorry,” Chico repeated, his face a fiery red. He escaped into the crowd of Indians, but the woman’s shrill voice followed him down the street. Chico had been up since dawn. When he had
124 Chico of the Andes slipped through the blue door into the cold morning air, the streets were already crowded. Indian women, wrapped closely in blue or red wool scarves, were driving their stubborn pigs down the middle of the street to market. Woodcutters staggered into town under loads of wood, which rose high above their black-haired heads. Last of all, people carried stacks of Panama hats with long, uncut straw hanging to their feet. All hurried toward the marketplace. Chico carried his own hat still wrapped in cloth. Timidly pushing his way through the crowds, he came to the streets that led to the great square where the Panama Hat Fair was held. It seemed as if the buyers and sellers could not wait until they reached it, for each street was blocked by crowds of Indians with their hats. Little groups gathered around the hat buyers. Everyone screamed or chattered. Chico was bewildered. How could he make a buyer listen to him? Chico picked out one buyer who was taller than the others and whose black felt hat could be seen above the Indians. He squirmed toward him and waited at his elbow. A bargain was being made between an Indian hat seller and the agent. Chico listened quietly and watched the crowds surging by. “Seven sucres, señor, not a penny less.” The man with the hat was a short, barefooted Indian in white cotton trousers. When he spoke, his
THE PANAMA HAT FAIR 125 face wrinkled and twisted earnestly. “Seven! For this hat?” The buyer pointed scornfully at the coarsely woven straw. “Three, no more.” “It is a good hat. See.” The Indian turned it around and around to show all sides. But he was careful to hold his finger over the spot where he had spilled his coffee this morning. “As it is you, and you have bought many of my hats, I will take six,” he said with a haughty smile. The agent sniffed. He stared out over the crowd of people as though he had lost interest. His eyes wandered toward the market square and then back to the Indian. “Four,” he mumbled. The Indian threw up his rough hands. “Five, but I am being robbed,” he exclaimed. The buyer counted the five sucre pieces into the other’s hand. He reached for the hat and threw it down on the mounting stack beside him. “Do not forget to bring me your hat next week,” he said agreeably. The Indian nodded. He was as satisfied with the bargain as the buyer. Each had known from the start how much the hat was worth, but it was necessary to dicker over the price. Now it was Chico’s turn. He gulped once and found his voice.
126 Chico of the Andes “Señor—” No answer. “Señor, if you please.” The man turned abruptly, and Chico jumped. “What is it, boy? I am busy now.” “My hat—” Chico whispered. The man shook his head. But Chico had already begun to unwrap the Panama. The buyer watched as, bit by bit, the finely woven hat appeared. Chico’s hand trembled as he handed it over. The man turned it over and looked inside, counting the number of rings in the crown. “M-mmm—where did you get this?” he asked. “I made it, señor,” Chico managed to say. “You?” The buyer looked doubtfully at the boy. Before Chico could answer, he went on, “No matter, I cannot buy it.” Not buy it! Chico looked dazed. Everyone had said it was a good hat! “Take it to the American buyer—that two-story house down there,” the man said, pointing down the street. “I only buy ordinary hats, not expensive ones.” Chico laughed shakily. The man had really frightened him, he thought, as he hurried down the street toward the Casa Americana. At the tall, white house, the double doors were open. Chico walked into a big room piled high with
THE PANAMA HAT FAIR 127 Panama hats. On one side of the room sat three young boys, each with a hat in front of him. Chico stopped to watch them. They were rubbing a yellow-white paste into the straw. This must be the sulfur bath which whitened the hats. The boys’ hands moved so fast that the hats were blurred. A tousle-headed boy sneezed and looked curiously at Chico. He pointed toward the stairs when Chico questioned him, and said, “El Americano? Through there, then upstairs.” Chico climbed the steep wooden stairs, looking down on the rows and rows of hats drying and bleaching in the sunlight. He entered another large room. In the very center, almost hidden by a tumbled pile of hats, sat a dark-haired man. This must be the American, Chico, who had never seen a foreign person, decided. The man’s black-rimmed spectacles glinted as he turned his head from the hat in his hand toward the agent standing near him. “Too high! Can’t use it,” he said curtly. The American was measuring the crown and brim of each hat with a little ruler. When the hat seemed to be the right size, he nodded and threw it down beside him. When it was too high in the crown or too narrow in the brim, he handed it back to the agent and shook his head. Suddenly, as though he had eyes in the back of his
128 Chico of the Andes head, the man turned and said, “What is it you want, boy?” “Here, señor.” Chico stepped forward quickly and gave him the hat. The American pursed his lips and set his glasses more firmly on his nose. “Did you make this?” he asked, looking at the young boy. Chico nodded. “It is a very fine hat.” Chico smiled. “The brim is a little too narrow and the crown too high for this year’s fashion. See—this is the size we want.” The man measured two straws and broke them off. These he laid alongside the hat—four inches for the crown—five for the brim. Chico, himself, could see that his hat was wrong. His crown was taller than the brim was wide. “Where did you get these measurements?” the American went on. Chico shook his head. He had had no measurements, he said. Grandfather had shown him how to make it. “Well, that is the reason it is old-fashioned, then.” The man looked at Chico kindly. Did he see his mouth trembling?
THE PANAMA HAT FAIR 129 “I am sorry, my boy. We have no sale for this hat now. But, I tell you, this is a fine weave, as good as many we buy for fifty sucres. Here is what I will do: you take these straws,” he handed the measuring straws to the boy, “and make me a hat just like this one, with the crown as high as the short straw and the brim as wide as the other. I will pay you fifty sucres for such a hat. And I will buy as many as you can bring me. How is that?” He sat back and smiled. “You do not want this hat then?” Chico dragged the words out. He could not believe it. “No, I am sorry.” Chico turned away slowly, gripping the unwanted hat in his hot hands. “Where do you live, boy?” came the American’s voice. “No place.” “But your name? Who is your family? Perhaps I know them.” “Chico, señor,” he whispered. “And the last name?” “Nothing more—just Chico.” Before the man could say anything, Chico stumbled out of the room and down the stairway. Slowly, he went out into the street. He stared blindly at a whitewashed wall on the opposite side.
130 Chico of the Andes Just Chico! Chico from nowhere. That was all he would ever be now. He could not sell his hat. His plans were over.
Fourteen IN THE CATHEDRAL Chico walked slowly along the narrow sidewalk. He was careful not to go near the crowded streets that led to the marketplace. He did not wish to see the fine clothes and rich food now. Poor Chico! His brown eyes were dull, and his full lips curved down like the rind of a melon. Both hands clutched the unwanted hat. His feet, in their woven white sandals, padded aimlessly over the rough cobbles. Chico was really unhappy. This was much worse than finding out that he was an orphan. Then there had been something to do and something to plan. There was nothing he could do about this. Chico was ashamed to have to tell Don Ernesto that he had not sold his hat. Instead, he would wander around the town until dark and perhaps go to the cathedral and pray as Grandfather had taught him to
132 Chico of the Andes do when he needed help. When it was late, he would slip into bed unnoticed. A sharp ting-a-ling made Chico raise his head. He was just passing a tiny, one-roomed shop. In the doorway sat an old man on a low wooden stool. His gray head was bent. Ting-a-ling. The sound came from a silver plate which the old man struck over and over again with a little hammer. The old man lifted his head and smiled, showing his toothless gums, and said, “Buenos días.” “Buenos días, señor,” Chico replied in a low voice. “How do you like the plate?” The old man held it up for Chico to see. “It is very nice.” Chico’s head bent lower to examine it. “It is tin?” He had never seen this bright metal before. “Tin?” The silversmith laughed. “No, señor. This is silver. And this, also.” He reached behind him and held up a bracelet. The silver in this had been spun like a piece of thread. The silver thread was wound around and around, making a delicate pattern inside a framework of solid silver. “Where have you been that you do not know silver from tin?” asked the old man good-naturedly. “I have always lived in the mountains, señor,” Chico answered, waving his arm toward the faraway peaks of the higher Andes.
IN THE CATHEDRAL 133 “Ah, well, then, no wonder you do not know about the silver workers of Cuenca. We are famous all over the world, though.” The silversmith reminded Chico of Grandfather. He would have liked to stay and talk to him more, but he could think of nothing to say. The old man bent his head and started to tap-tap-tap on the plate. Chico wandered away. The empty sunlit street led right to the plaza. Chico looked at the large square curiously. Yes, it was just as Grandfather had said. There were the beds of flowers that made pictures and words. The tall statue of General Calderón, who had liberated Ecuador from the Spanish Crown, was in the center. And there was the bandstand where the band would play on Sunday. Chico sat down on a bench in the warm sun. His unhappy frown deepened when he saw a policeman staring at him. Perhaps poor people in ragged clothes were not permitted to sit in the park. He got up and moved away. Suddenly, a bell clanged. Then came shouts and the shrill voices of young boys. He looked around. Boys in black school-boy suits were streaming from a nearby building, swinging their books by straps. In the midst of one laughing group, Chico saw Pedro, Don Ernesto’s nephew. And he was coming right toward him. Chico looked around. Where could
134 Chico of the Andes he hide? He did not want Pedro to see him, for he did not want to tell him about the hat. Not yet. The heavy wooden doors of the great white cathedral stood open. Chico crossed the uneven stone pavement and slipped inside. There he crouched quietly until he heard the boys pass by. The cathedral was empty, or almost so. On one side, near a small altar, knelt an old woman dressed in black. At the far end of the church, the padre moved in front of the main altar. Chico removed his battered straw hat and crept farther down the center aisle. With half-open mouth, he stared around at the high-vaulted ceiling and tall stone pillars. Across the ceiling stretched long chains of red and green paper flowers. Fresh flowers covered the altars and overflowed to the aisles. Grandfather had told Chico about the cathedral, but he had never imagined that it could be so beautiful. This was like heaven itself. Chico hardly noticed when someone came down the aisle behind him. He looked up, though, when a heavy man with a round, full face passed him. It was obvious that this must be some great man of the town. He was dressed in a black suit and a pair of shining black shoes. As he walked with measured step, he held up his shiny cane to keep it from tapping on the stone floor. He walked straight up to
IN THE CATHEDRAL 135 the altar, bent his knee, and turned to the padre. “Buenos días, Padre,” he said in the slurred, tightlipped, yet soft speech of Cuenca. “And is everything ready for the fiesta tonight?” The man’s bold brown eyes wandered over the decorations, pondered on each, and then moved on. He seemed satisfied until his eyes reached the figure of the Jesu Cristo on the right of the great altar. Then a reproachful look came over his face. “Have none of our good people found it in their hearts to give our beloved Christ a new hat for the celebration?” he asked in a mild tone. As if tied together by the same string, the padre, in his long black robe, and the boy, Chico, swung toward the figure. Their eyes examined the statue of Christ. It was true. The Panama hat, which is placed on all the beloved figures in the churches of Cuenca, was old and soiled. Chico’s hand, hidden by his knee-length poncho, tightened on the fine one he held. “We must have another one at once,” said the rich man in a firm tone. He looked around. He spied Chico. “Here, boy. Run to the hat dealers and tell them we need a new hat. I, myself, Don Saraceno, will pay for it.” Chico gulped. His cheeks flamed red, and he took a deep breath.
136 Chico of the Andes “Señor, I have a hat,” he gasped. “Yes, my boy, I see you have one.” Don Saraceno smiled as though from a great distance, as he looked at Chico’s own ragged hat. “But it is little better than the one we have now. There must be a new one. The finest that money can buy.” A look that must have come, at one time or another, into the eyes of all his ancestors crept into Chico’s eyes. It was as if a veil had been drawn over them. In the place of a timid little boy, there stood a bargainer with something to sell. Slowly, as though unwilling even to show his hat, Chico unrolled it and flipped it open with a snap of his wrist. There was no doubt about it; it was a fine hat, finer than any of the Cuencanos had ever given to the Jesu Cristo. In Cuenca everyone knows the value of hats. The padre, as well as the rich man, knew that this was a hat worth money. Over Don Saraceno’s face came the same look that had changed Chico’s. These two, the man and the boy, were going to bargain. “How much?” breathed Don Saraceno. He ran his fingers over the soft, pliable straw but looked at it as if it were not much of a hat. “Seventy sucres.” If Don Saraceno had not been in the church where they had to whisper, he would have snorted. Seventy,
IN THE CATHEDRAL 137 indeed! Did the boy take him for a fool? Why he, himself, had once been a boy not much different than this one. He, too, had worn a poncho and sandals. It was only by hard work—and clever bargaining—that he had become the richest man in town. “Thirty,” he whispered. The padre stood by silently. It was not strange to him that these two should bargain for a hat as a gift to the church. These were his people, and bargaining was their life. It was as much a part of them as the deftness of their hands. “Sixty,” answered Chico stubbornly. Old Man had told him that the hat was worth at least fifty sucres, and that is what he would have. Moreover, he needed the money for his search for his family. But Don Saraceno’s next price was forty. Chico knew that by the rules of bargaining, he should say fifty, and the hat would finally sell for forty-five. He decided on a bold move. Without another word, he rolled up the hat and began to walk slowly away from the altar, as though the business no longer interested him. There was a moment of silence. Chico could feel the eyes of the padre and the rich man on his back. “Pssssst.” Don Saraceno’s whisper floated down the aisle. “Fifty sucres, then, but not a centavo more.” Chico had won. Trembling with excitement, he held out both hands while the man counted the silver into
138 Chico of the Andes them. When Don Saraceno tried to give him some paper money, he shook his head stubbornly. That was only paper. It was the silver he wanted, no matter how heavy it was. And it was heavy. When he had filled his two front pockets, his trousers hung down so that he had to tighten the string around his waist. Just wait until Don Ernesto and Tía Maria and Pedro saw it all! Chico could hardly wait now to get back to Don Ernesto’s. Murmuring an adiós to the padre, who stood by with twinkling brown eyes, he started off. “One moment, my son,” the padre called softly. Chico turned around guiltily. Perhaps the padre was angry that he had sold the hat in the cathedral. “Who are you, my son?” he asked. “What is your name? Your face is familiar to me, but I am sure I have never seen you in the church before.” All the joy went out of Chico. For a moment, he had forgotten that he was no one. “My name is Chico, Padre,” he answered, so low that the priest had to bend to hear him. “Chico what, my boy? Where do your people live? From the fine hat you brought, they should be well known to me. Not many of our people can weave so well.” The gentleness of the padre brought tears to Chico’s eyes and loosened something hard around his heart. He would not mind telling him about himself.
Chico could hardly wait now to get back to Don Ernesto’s.
140 Chico of the Andes “My name is just Chico, Padre,” he said. “I am an orphan. I do not even know my other name. That is why I needed to sell my hat, so that I might search in Azogues and Cañar for my family. Don Ernesto said that perhaps my family had lived there.” Then he explained that Don Ernesto had found him on the Paramos. The old padre looked sad. He patted the boy’s arm as he listened. He did not tell him not to worry. He understood his people and knew that, to be happy, they must know their bit of tierra. “Have you no idea where to look, my son? There are many families in those towns. You might look forever.” “None.” Chico shook his head hopelessly. Then he remembered. The Prayer Book! Surely, if anyone did, the padre would know about the Prayer Book. The boy tugged eagerly at his back pocket. He pulled out the weather-stained little book and handed it to the padre. As the padre read the few letters on the first page and examined the book, he became more and more thoughtful. Once more he looked closely at the boy and nodded his head a little. “My son, let me keep this book tonight,” he said. “Perhaps in the records of the church I may find something. Be of good hope. Perhaps we shall find out
IN THE CATHEDRAL 141 who you are. Run home now to Don Ernesto before he worries about you. Give him my greetings. And come back tomorrow, for I may have news for you.” The padre blessed the boy and, with a wave of his hand, dismissed him. Chico walked slowly out of the church. He was happier than he had been in a long time. Once on the street, he broke into a run. He could hardly wait to get back and tell Don Ernesto all that had happened. With the silver clanking against his legs, he ran through the plaza and toward Tía Maria’s house. Darkness was just falling.