1

Lima, Peru, June 1997

Get with the program or get out. In my head, I saw those words emblazoned across the gray skies of Lima as the taxicab I was in sped toward the Colegio Roosevelt, the premier American international school in the city.

My two daughters, Pia and Abril, and I had landed two weeks ago, pseudo refugees from Bucharest, Romania. For the time being, the children were schoolless. The house we owned was rented until August, and we were lucky I had been reinstated as head of the translation department of the foreign office of Peru for the princely salary of five hundred and fifty dollars a month.

However, I’d had to beg Ambassador Marta Toro, head of the Administration Department, not to publicize my appointment, as when I had left Lima in 1994 to marry a junior diplomat, Rafael Asturias, I had left Graciela Gadea as department head. Furthermore, at present, we were guests in Graciela’s parents’ house, therefore, she could not discover her demotion. 

But too soon, the taxi dropped me off in front of the Colegio Roosevelt, uncaring of my personal, social, and logistical problems, to face the conundrum of my children’s schooling on a shoestring budget.

Outside the sprawling, single-story complex of Colegio Roosevelt, the security protecting the grounds were as tight as I recalled from when I had taught there in 1990. Without an appointment, the armed guards hesitated to let me on the premises. Remembering how the school operated, I argued my way in to meet what the guards described as the school’s counselor. That person would receive me in an anteroom attached to the guard post.

I waited at a table with four chairs for a person I presumed was Marilyn’s equivalent in Lima. Marilyn Frank had been the school counselor at the American School of Bucharest.

The current lady, when she showed, was of African American or Afro-Peruvian descent. She greeted me in insolent Spanish, as if assuming I wouldn’t speak English. “Why are you here?” she demanded without introducing herself.

I explained how my children had been excellent students at the ASB, in Romania, recounting Headmaster Fred Weston’s eagerness to secure them scholarships. But Fred’s efforts had been rejected outright by the ASB board of directors, which reserved their scholarships exclusively for Romanian children. I lost the counselor lady as soon as I uttered the word “scholarship.”

She interrupted, “Sorry. We can’t accept your children.” She stood. “We don’t do charity cases in this school. Go beg elsewhere.”

“Listen, you horrible witch, I’ve taught at this school before, so stop underestimating me. As Peruvians, my children are entitled to scholarship consideration, or don’t you know that?” Shit, I shouldn’t have lost my temper.

The lady smiled a nasty smile. “Of course. Come back by all means when our headmaster returns, and I’ll inform him how you insulted me. Now leave before I instruct the guards to throw you out.”

During my ride back to the foreign office, my tears wouldn’t stop falling. Did I just completely mess up my children’s one chance to join this American school?

Meanwhile, the taxi driver urged me to place my purse under the passenger seat to avoid a possible carjacking. I took out the change he quoted as his fare and did as I was told.

The cityscape flashed by, while I cringed at how Pia and Abril were stranded with no school to attend. Under the circumstances, the children’s old school, the Colegio Villa María, gained credence with each passing minute as the only plausible option. As weak as their English program was, at least in the Villa I could plead ex-student status. For sure, I had lost Pia and Abril’s hardship scholarship, but I had taken that risk when I’d trusted Rafa and moved countries—and the gamble had failed. My mistake—and my children’s price to pay. Currently, the Villa was the better option, if compared to a full-scale Spanish-speaking school, which would break my children’s spirit. I wiped my tears, so distracted that the driver had to touch my arm.

“Señora, we’re here. When I stop the car, hop out fast. Calle Lampa is a busy street.”

I thrust the fare money into his outstretched hand and jumped out of the taxi.

Inside the foreign office foyer, I groped my hips and shoulders. No! Did I leave my purse in that taxi? It contained my wallet, our passports, our Peruvian ID documents, my Peruvian driver’s license, sixty dollars in cash—more Peruvian money, and worse, I had also lost my address book, meaning I couldn’t contact a single friend in Brazil or Romania.

I entered an elevator, feeling as if I had been cut loose in outer space. In Peru, most taxis didn’t belong to a company. They were private citizens who stuck a “taxi” sign on their windshields and moonlighted for extra income. No informal taxi driver who found my purse with cash in it would return my property—especially the ID documents. In Peru, those, too, could be sold on the black market for a price.

I had barely stepped into our office when Graciela, an overweight, cheerful soul with a short black haircut that framed her face, grabbed my arm and dragged me to the corner of the first room.

She whispered, “Is it true, you’re the boss now and I have been demoted?”

Caught off guard, I gawked at her, having no leeway to lie. She must have experienced the salary cut since all payments had probably been deposited into individual bank accounts that day, before noon. Asking her how she had found out the new development would only anger her worse, so I placated her. “Gras, it wasn’t my choice. The mandate came from the secretary general himself. But I specifically requested Ambassador Marta Toro not to publicize how I’ve replaced you. So, unless you scream the contrary to the four winds, you are still the boss. If you haven’t told Celia and Laritza about it, they certainly won’t hear it from me.”

Graciela’s hands clenched. “You know what? Go find somewhere else to live. You’re not welcome at my home past this weekend.” The day was Thursday.

Without a word, I left the office. In the lobby, ten floors down, I headed out of the building.

Needing a destination to ground me, I headed toward Torre Tagle Mansion, which still housed the who’s who of the foreign office. Past the horse-carriage entrance, I spotted the door into the library and hoped the rabbit warren of a place would be empty.

Inside, I shouted, “Maestro Castañeda?” like Oso Gonzalez, a young diplomat friend, had done, three years ago when he had just met me.

“Yes?” After a minute, the old man shuffled out of an inner doorway.

Clearly, he didn’t recall us meeting. “Señor—do you remember Sergio Santander?”

“Of course! I couldn’t keep him out of this library in the late 1960s. I treasure the silk scarves he brought me from Tokyo and Paris.”

“Señor, I’m his widow. Did you know he died?”

“When you reach my age, you come to accept how mostly the good die young. What can I do for you?” Maestro Castañeda smiled, displaying crooked, discolored teeth.

“Would you mind I if checked the ‘L’ section of the Espasa-Calpe?” The Espasa-Calpe was the reigning Spanish language encyclopedia collection.

“Back wall—last chamber. Second shelf. Right corner. Save me work, and place it back on the shelf once you’re done?”

Grateful the last room of the library was empty, I plunked the L-section tome on a wooden table. Tired fingers opened to the word Libélula, feeling Oso’s spirit hovering around me. My eyes stung as I read up on the dragonfly. Symbolically, they remind us to overcome times of hardship and reconnect with our strength, courage, and happiness. In certain ancient cultures, they symbolize change, transformation, adaptability, and self-realization…

I had been three years old the first time my father had caught a green dragonfly in the garden of our Calcutta home and delicately tied a thread to its tail, handing me the insect to fly like a kite for a while before he set it free again. In time, as I’d watched my dragonflies fly, their gossamer wings shining brilliantly under the strong Indian sun, I had begun to imagine I was the dragonfly, flying on fairy wings, thus creating my lifelong association with the insect.

At last, I snapped the tome shut, biting my lower lip. Pia and Abril will keep their English proficiency. I would find them a school to attend. If that school was a Spanish-language one, we would institute a strict English study routine at home. Read novels, write book reports, discuss the stories. Among ourselves, we only spoke in English anyway. I put the Espasa-Calpe back on its shelf space to help old Maestro Castañeda. I forced myself to square my shoulders. I can only fail if I give up—and I haven’t given up yet.

Outside the library, I headed to gabinete, praying Ambassador Sylvia Bianchi had a minute to spare. At present, she was the director of gabinete, the most important office within the hierarchy that managed the foreign minister’s direct agenda.

Sylvia, as I last remembered her, resembled a porcelain doll whose passion was music. She was an accomplished concert pianist who happened to earn her bread as a diplomat. When my ex-husband, Rafa, had threatened to kick my children and me to the curb in Romania, in desperation, I had written to Sylvia for help, as she and my children’s father, Sergio, had been close friends.

I knocked before entering the vast gabinete office, and Sylvia’s piercing brown eyes crinkled at the corners. “I’ve been expecting you.” But at the sight of my face, she asked, “Noor, what’s wrong?”

“Oh, Sylvi, right now, I’m in so much trouble, I can’t breathe.” I rubbed my chest.

“How can I help?” Sylvi’s eyebrows rose.

I recounted every sorry angle of my morning except the Graciela showdown.

Without missing a beat, Sylvia said, “Forget the Roosevelt, and try the San Silvestre.” The Colegio San Silvestre was the leading all-girls, British school in Lima. They were as exclusive and as expensive as the Roosevelt.

Confused, I asked, “What about the San Silvestre?”

“I can wrangle you an interview there”—Sylvia crossed her slim pianist’s fingers, displaying a gorgeous topaz ring—“because I am an alumnus and Kisha graduated from there last year.” Sylvia gave her son and daughter only the best. “Politeness will force the headmistress to heed my request, as I’m also an ambassador.”

“To what purpose? The San Silvestre has a three-year waiting list for alumni children. They won’t admit Pia and Abril fresh off the street—much less for no money.”

“Noor, what do you lose by attending an interview? Go beg in the Villa María after that. I’ll arrange the San Silvestre interview and call you.”

            After our chat, I left Torre Tagle to head to the Banco Latino to retrieve some operating money, as Graciela needed time to calm down. However, I had to do something to find alternate accommodation, unless I cared to pay for a motel daily, which would add up to at least a thousand dollars a month.

To play it safe, I also retrieved three hundred dollars to pay Graciela’s mother the July pension for feeding three extra mouths, in case I couldn’t resolve my accommodation situation. I thrust the money into my pants pocket, as I still hadn’t replaced my lost wallet. Would Graciela really throw me out if I have nowhere to move by Monday?