My Name is Emilia del Valle

As a young girl, Molly was submissive and pious, seeming to delight in sacrifice and suffering. This is what Papo has told me anyway, but it is hard to imagine it seeing the warrior woman she is today, capable of leading street protests and, armed with her rolling pin, facing down any drunk, bandit, cop, or other scoundrel making trouble in our neighborhood. Little Molly spent so many hours on her knees, fasted with such fervor, and accepted the mockery of her pers with such resignation that she was dubbed “Saint Molly” by the other orphans. […] Her father and brothers never returned for her or even sent news and so she eventually accepted that those three good sisters were her only family. [… Her] religious fervor remained unwavering and at age fifteen she begged to be accepted as a novice.

She never clarified what being a good woman consisted of exactly, but it seemed to the be the traditional idiot who submits to rules imposed by others. One day, in the midst of a tantrum, I shouted that I wanted to be a bad woman. I was six years old at the time. It’s the only real mutiny that I remember from childhood; my true acts of rebellion came later, when the two protuberances appeared above my ribs […] My mother invoked God as her witness and raised a sandal in the air, but my Papo managed to hold her back. My dear stepfather used that scene to mock the notion of a “good woman” and he did so with such eloquence that my mother had to admit that on certain occasions it was better to be a bad woman, while never making a fuss, of course, no need to cause a commotion.

It is true that I was not responsible for Owen’s actions […] but the experience taught me to be more cautious.

My Papo, who does not believe in sin or divine punishment, follows one very simple rule: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. I would suffer very greatly if another woman took the man I loved, even if it was a meaningless tryst. Perhaps Owen’s wife never suspected what went on between the two of us, or perhaps she is aware that her husband is a womanizer and she looks the other way because the pleasure he is able to offer her makes up for his faults. Whatever the case, I will never again take part in any betrayal. I decided from that moment onward that I would only accept the company of a man who had no other commitment.

I should clarify that, in spite of my many outward displays of self-sufficiency, I still lived at home with my parents, just like any respectable unmarried woman from a middle-class family. Although we weren’t exactly middle-class, my mother was implacable when it came to matters of reputation. For the past ten years, I had slept in the same little bedroom that my Papo built for me when I turned fifteen. […] I did not wish to live anywhere else. That little house in the backyard of Aztec Pride was my safe harbor: I could sail the world with the confidence that the compass would guide me back to those shores. Eric Whelan believed me to be a liberated woman. He would’ve laughed if he had discovered that the ambitious journalist and suffragette I presented myself as was still dependent on her parents.

Egan then quietly explained that, in Chile, political and economic power was held by a handful of families, landed gentry who owned the large haciendas and managed them like feudal lords. Whippings and the stockade were common punishments for tenants, who were often sold along with the lands they worked. This did not constitute slavery, he said, because the campesinos were free to leave, but in reality, they had nowhere else to go. No one else would hire them and they would end up as beggars and vagabonds on the roads and in the cities.

The upper-class families used the surnames of both father and mother to locate a person’s place in the social hierarchy and within the intricate web of relatives. Del Vale was a high-ranking surname, according to Egan, but no one had heard of Claro from Chihuahua.

Finally, in the early hours, we managed to doze off with Covadonga between us for warmth. That night I learned that I am stronger and more resilient than I ever imagined. Whenever I felt that I could not bear another minute of the cold, hunger, and fear, I closed my eyes and thought of my Papo showing me a map of the world, of my mother kneading bread for the poor, of Eric Whelan, my best friend, with a pencil behind his ear, commenting on some news story. I did not know who I truly was until circumstances put me to the test.

The captain let me know that this was as far as he could take me, to this threshold, beyond this point I will continue on my own until I find what I am looking for. He must return to the Niña Juanita, to his crew and his life. But he assured me that I will not be alone because the boatman will take me to the southern edge of the lake, where someone will be waiting for me.

Thanks to this notebook, which keeps me occupied, the hours slip by easily and the morning has soon spent. I write and write although I can barely make out the letters through the cottony gloom. My notebook is full, and when I reach the foot of this final page, I will not be able to add a single word more. But I will continue writing my life in another until I run out of memories.