He pounced on my bag when I pointed to it, practically ripping the handle off when he grasped it.
“It’s amazing this piece of junk lasted,” he said, tugging on my father’s belt.
I knew he was making fun of my suitcase. I wanted to explain. After all, none of us ever traveled in an airplane, and whenever we did go on a trip, we put things in cartons. Before I could say a word, however, he turned quickly to march out of the airport. I had to walk very quickly to keep up with him. He led me to the parking lot, where a car that looked as if it were made of gold was parked. Later, I would learn it was a Rolls-Royce. The backseat was even more roomy than the limousine, but it also looked spanking new, not a smudge or anything on the windows or seats.
As we drove away from the airport and headed for my aunt’s hacienda, my face was practically glued to the window. I was amazed at how well kept and new everything looked. The streets were so wide, and there were no potholes and cracks. Everyone seemed to be driving a brand-new automobile, too. The palm trees, varieties of bougainvillea, flowers, and even the grass all looked unreal. The mountains in the distance seemed more like scenery built for a movie.
When we reached a side street and I saw gardeners working, I suddenly became very homesick. They paused in their work to look at us as we passed by, and I thought they surely thought I was some rich American girl safe in her fishbowl. If they only knew who I was and where I had just come from and why, they wouldn’t even bother turning in my direction.
Of course, I was prepared to see a big house with a nice lawn, but I had no idea my aunt really lived in a palace, or at least what looked to me like a palace. There was a very tall chocolate-colored entry gate with elaborate scrolling that had to be opened first for us to enter the property. It swung in slowly, as slowly as the gates of heaven. I imagined the sound of trumpets.
The driveway to the main house seemed as long as the road that had brought us from the airport. To the left of the main house were two smaller buildings, and farther in the rear I saw tennis courts and a very large swimming pool, as large as, if not larger than, most hotel pools I had seen. A small army of gardeners was cutting grass, pruning bushes, and trimming trees. Just to the right of the house was a four-car garage, but the driver, who had yet to tell me his name, stopped at the front of the main house.
“This is it,” he said. “Vámanos. Out.” He waved, and I opened the door while he went around to the trunk to get my suitcase.
I waited, looking up at the grand front door. It looked as if it were made of copper or brass, and it had the emblem of a lion embossed on its surface.
The driver charged past me to the door and pressed the buzzer. He looked back at me and shook his head. Did he pity me or disapprove of me? Why was he so annoyed? Had he been pulled away from some far more important work?
An elderly lady in a maid’s uniform, not much taller than I, opened the door.
“Here she is, Mrs. Rosario,” the driver told her, and nodded at me. “She don’t speak much English at all,” he added.
Mrs. Rosario nodded. She had soft eyes sunk in a round face with plump cheeks and a small mouth with puckered lips. Her complexion wasn’t quite as dark as mine, and there were strands of gray woven through her tightly brushed black hair pinned back into a bun. A small silver cross rested just below the base of her throat.
“Venga adentro,” she told me, and stepped back.
The driver handed me my suitcase, and I entered the grand hacienda. Señora Rosario closed the door, and I stood there gaping at everything. There were statues of two half-naked African women facing each other, with large, colorful tapestries above each that nearly reached the high dome ceiling. The floor was dark marble with white spots that looked like milk dripped over it. It led down a short stairway to a living room the size of our casa back in Mexico, if not bigger. The ceiling was as high as a church ceiling, and there were embossed elephants, birds, and tigers. I couldn’t drink it all in quickly enough.
All of the furniture must have been built for a family of mythological giants, I thought. The sofas were long and thick, and there were oversized chairs that I was sure would swallow me whole if I sat on them. There was a very long and wide center table with carvings in its wood frame and other matching marble tables beside the chairs and sofa.
Artwork of every kind was everywhere I looked, from grand paintings of what I imagined were scenes of world-famous cities to busts on pedestals, more tapestries and glass-doored armoires filled with crystal figures, as well as other kinds of collectibles. Everything appeared sparkling clean and new.
Large area rugs were set over the travertine floors. Across the room were tall glass doors that opened to a grand Spanish tiled patio. I could see a large pink fountain, more statuary, and pretty turquoise, red, and yellow outdoor furnishings. The patio led down to a walkway through gardens, more fountains, and beautiful beds of flowers. I felt certain that the president of Mexico didn’t live any better or in a grander casa with as many servants. When people back in my village said Americans lived like kings and queens, they were surely thinking of people like mi tía Isabela.
“Put your suitcase against the wall,” Señora Rosario told me, and nodded to my right. She spoke in fluent Spanish. “And go sit on the sofa on your left and wait. Don’t touch anything. Señora Dallas will be here soon.”
I did what she asked and then walked into the living room. The richness of everything and the way everything glittered and sparkled made me feel as if I should tiptoe and be extra gentle. As I had envisioned, when I sat on the sofa, I felt lost, as if I could drown in gold. Señora Rosario watched me absorbing the richness and wealth. Finally, she softened her lips. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was on its way. I wondered if she had reacted in a similar way when she first had entered this hacienda.
“Como se llama?” she asked.
“Delia,” I told her.
“Señora Dallas quisiera que usted me llama Señora Rosario, but,” she added, still in Spanish, “when we’re alone, you can call me Alita, but never, never in front of Señora Dallas,” she emphasized.
“It’s so beautiful here,” I told her.
She nodded like someone used to hearing it. “It’s all very expensive. Almost everything is imported from one place or another.”
“It’s like a museum.”
She smiled fully this time but then quickly erased it.
“Don’t say that to Señora Dallas. She thinks it’s a home.”
She told me she was goin
g to let mi tía Isabela know I had arrived and left to do so.