¿dónde está Pedro mano?
a short story by Montserrat Mendez
The capilla, that's a small church for those who can't read spanglish, stood in Rincon, Puerto Rico like a forgotten sigh, its whitewash peeling like old prayers, the convent clinging to the church like a widow to memories. Inside, the air was thick with incense and resignation, the nuns moving through the shadows like whispers in a language God had stopped listening to long ago.
And then there was Rosario Soledad, who prayed her rosary with lips that could make a sinner repent twice, first for his sins, and then for not sinning harder. Her Ave Marías rolled like honey over broken glass, each bead slipping through her fingers like a promise she wasn’t sure she’d keep. The saints watched. The nuns sighed.
And Rosario cried, ¿Dónde está Pedro Mano?
The Convent of Nuestra Señora de los Suspiros Desesperados had seen better centuries. Its walls, once white as a bishop's conscience, had faded to the color of weak café con leche. The crucifix in the chapel leaned slightly to the left, as if even Christ was trying to distance Himself from the whole affair.
Sister María Consuelo stood in the courtyard, her habit starched into such geometric perfection that Euclid would have wept. She had the posture of a ruler and the expression of someone who had just found a cockroach in the communion wafers.
The convent had acquired Rosario Soledad the way San Juan acquired white people who bought up their properties and paid no taxes; unwanted but inevitable. Nuns, as a rule, guarded their solitude like coquís guarding their last croak at midnight, but these were modern times. The 'Vacancy' sign had gone up on AirBnB (listed between a piragua stand and a psychic's parlor) before Mother Superior remembered that holy poverty shouldn't actually include being broker than the lechoneros after Three Kings Day.
And now here she was, the human equivalent of glitter, impossible to fully remove once introduced to one's living space. Rosario draped herself across the wrought-iron bench with the practiced carelessness of someone who'd never in her life encountered an unflattering angle. The rosary clicked through her fingers with suspicious fluency, like she'd learned to pray from romance novels rather than catechism. Sunlight, that shameless collaborator, lingered on the curve of her neck with such indecent focus that the nearby statue of Saint Teresa developed a sudden interest in examining its own sandals.
The sisters had theories about her, of course. Some whispered she was a fallen angel. Others suggested a more terrestrial origin involving casino debts and an unfortunate misunderstanding with a bachata band. What everyone agreed on was that no one who looked that good weeping into their prayer book had ever actually scrubbed a floor in their life.
"¿Dónde está Pedro Mano?" Rosario's voice could melt lead. Or vows. María Consuelo's eyebrows, those twin arches of disapproval, climbed toward her wimple. "No sé. No sé—"
"You must know." Rosario's sigh stirred the dust motes dancing in the air between them. María folded her arms, her sleeves crackling like papal decrees. "Tell me what happened."
Rosario pressed a dramatic hand to her bosom. "It's horrible!"
"How horrible?"
"A little horrible."
The convent's ancient clock ticked through the silence. Somewhere, a goat bleated. It might have been a comment on the situation.
"¡Por Dios!" Rosario flung herself backward, the bench protesting with a creak that sounded suspiciously like "ay bendito."
María made the sign of the cross with the efficiency of someone swiping a credit card. "Don't bring God into this. Por Dios, ¡Dile adios a Dios!."
"But doesn't the Lord giveth?" Rosario's eyelashes fluttered like wounded doves. "Oh yes," María nodded. "And then He takeths away and smashes it with a big hammer." Rosario's lower lip trembled with the precision of a seismograph detecting minor heartbreak. "But then He gives it back? No?"
"Sure," María conceded. "But without a dustpan to pick up the pieces, what's the use?"
A gecko scuttled across the courtyard wall, pausing just long enough to roll its eyes. Rosario exhaled a breath that carried the weight of generations of disappointed women. "La vida es puta."
"Sí. Puta es la vida," María Consuelo agreed, with the solemn nod of a woman who had seen life's treachery firsthand,
mostly in the form of poorly made flan in the convent kitchens. Rosario Soledad swayed like a palm tree in a hurricane of emotion. "Where do you think he is? Tell me, ¿Dónde está Pedro Mano?"
María grabbed Rosario’s shoulders with the firmness of a nun who had wrangled both wayward novices and the occasional feral goat. "Soledad, look at me. Look at me, ¡DAMN IT!" Her voice carried the weight of a thousand Hail Marys and at least three very stern letters to the Vatican. "He's nunca coming back." A beat. A gecko on the wall paused mid-scuttle, sensing drama. María continued, softer now, like a bulldozer attempting tenderness. "I think you should face reality and get out of the casa. It’s time for a new... beginning."
Rosario’s eyes welled with tears that could have filled a baptismal font. "Oh, my Pedro. ¿A dónde te fuiste? Where did you GO?"
María sighed. "Just out of the casa." Rosario gestured wildly at the peeling fresco of Saint Sebastian, who looked, frankly, over it. "I AM out of the casa! This is not my home. This is the house of GOD. La Casa de Dios! The convent I came to wait for Pedro Mano’s return from... La Revolución Olímpica!"
María pinched the bridge of her nose. "The statement was rhetorical. I meant you must get some fresh air."
Rosario blinked. "Where do you want me to get it? Why? And where should I take it once I have it? I do not understand. ¡Yo no entiendo!"
María’s patience, already thinner than the convent’s budget for wine, snapped.
SLAP.
"Snap out of it, Rosario Soledad!"
SLAP.
"He was not good for you."
SLAP.
"He was never good for you."
SLAP.
"Pedro Mano nunca was good for you."
Rosario’s cheekbones, which had previously been known for their delicate beauty, were now achieving a distinct glow. She touched her face thoughtfully, as if conducting a scientific experiment. "María, if you slap me across the face one more time..." She paused. "It poses the question ---
Is there a number of slaps a woman receives before her head, tú sabes... ruptures?"
The convent’s ancient bell chose that moment to toll, as if God Himself was saying, "Good question." Then, at the convent door.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
Rosario gasped. "Pedro?" María groaned and threw her hands up toward heaven, possibly to ask why she’d been cursed with such a dramatic guest. "¡Ay, Santa Madre de—! Get a hold of yourself, Rosario!"
And then there was Rosario Soledad, who prayed her rosary with lips that could make a sinner repent twice, first for his sins, and then for not sinning harder. Her Ave Marías rolled like honey over broken glass, each bead slipping through her fingers like a promise she wasn’t sure she’d keep. The saints watched. The nuns sighed.
And Rosario cried, ¿Dónde está Pedro Mano?
The Convent of Nuestra Señora de los Suspiros Desesperados had seen better centuries. Its walls, once white as a bishop's conscience, had faded to the color of weak café con leche. The crucifix in the chapel leaned slightly to the left, as if even Christ was trying to distance Himself from the whole affair.
Sister María Consuelo stood in the courtyard, her habit starched into such geometric perfection that Euclid would have wept. She had the posture of a ruler and the expression of someone who had just found a cockroach in the communion wafers.
The convent had acquired Rosario Soledad the way San Juan acquired white people who bought up their properties and paid no taxes; unwanted but inevitable. Nuns, as a rule, guarded their solitude like coquís guarding their last croak at midnight, but these were modern times. The 'Vacancy' sign had gone up on AirBnB (listed between a piragua stand and a psychic's parlor) before Mother Superior remembered that holy poverty shouldn't actually include being broker than the lechoneros after Three Kings Day.
And now here she was, the human equivalent of glitter, impossible to fully remove once introduced to one's living space. Rosario draped herself across the wrought-iron bench with the practiced carelessness of someone who'd never in her life encountered an unflattering angle. The rosary clicked through her fingers with suspicious fluency, like she'd learned to pray from romance novels rather than catechism. Sunlight, that shameless collaborator, lingered on the curve of her neck with such indecent focus that the nearby statue of Saint Teresa developed a sudden interest in examining its own sandals.
The sisters had theories about her, of course. Some whispered she was a fallen angel. Others suggested a more terrestrial origin involving casino debts and an unfortunate misunderstanding with a bachata band. What everyone agreed on was that no one who looked that good weeping into their prayer book had ever actually scrubbed a floor in their life.
"¿Dónde está Pedro Mano?" Rosario's voice could melt lead. Or vows. María Consuelo's eyebrows, those twin arches of disapproval, climbed toward her wimple. "No sé. No sé—"
"You must know." Rosario's sigh stirred the dust motes dancing in the air between them. María folded her arms, her sleeves crackling like papal decrees. "Tell me what happened."
Rosario pressed a dramatic hand to her bosom. "It's horrible!"
"How horrible?"
"A little horrible."
The convent's ancient clock ticked through the silence. Somewhere, a goat bleated. It might have been a comment on the situation.
"¡Por Dios!" Rosario flung herself backward, the bench protesting with a creak that sounded suspiciously like "ay bendito."
María made the sign of the cross with the efficiency of someone swiping a credit card. "Don't bring God into this. Por Dios, ¡Dile adios a Dios!."
"But doesn't the Lord giveth?" Rosario's eyelashes fluttered like wounded doves. "Oh yes," María nodded. "And then He takeths away and smashes it with a big hammer." Rosario's lower lip trembled with the precision of a seismograph detecting minor heartbreak. "But then He gives it back? No?"
"Sure," María conceded. "But without a dustpan to pick up the pieces, what's the use?"
A gecko scuttled across the courtyard wall, pausing just long enough to roll its eyes. Rosario exhaled a breath that carried the weight of generations of disappointed women. "La vida es puta."
"Sí. Puta es la vida," María Consuelo agreed, with the solemn nod of a woman who had seen life's treachery firsthand,
mostly in the form of poorly made flan in the convent kitchens. Rosario Soledad swayed like a palm tree in a hurricane of emotion. "Where do you think he is? Tell me, ¿Dónde está Pedro Mano?"
María grabbed Rosario’s shoulders with the firmness of a nun who had wrangled both wayward novices and the occasional feral goat. "Soledad, look at me. Look at me, ¡DAMN IT!" Her voice carried the weight of a thousand Hail Marys and at least three very stern letters to the Vatican. "He's nunca coming back." A beat. A gecko on the wall paused mid-scuttle, sensing drama. María continued, softer now, like a bulldozer attempting tenderness. "I think you should face reality and get out of the casa. It’s time for a new... beginning."
Rosario’s eyes welled with tears that could have filled a baptismal font. "Oh, my Pedro. ¿A dónde te fuiste? Where did you GO?"
María sighed. "Just out of the casa." Rosario gestured wildly at the peeling fresco of Saint Sebastian, who looked, frankly, over it. "I AM out of the casa! This is not my home. This is the house of GOD. La Casa de Dios! The convent I came to wait for Pedro Mano’s return from... La Revolución Olímpica!"
María pinched the bridge of her nose. "The statement was rhetorical. I meant you must get some fresh air."
Rosario blinked. "Where do you want me to get it? Why? And where should I take it once I have it? I do not understand. ¡Yo no entiendo!"
María’s patience, already thinner than the convent’s budget for wine, snapped.
SLAP.
"Snap out of it, Rosario Soledad!"
SLAP.
"He was not good for you."
SLAP.
"He was never good for you."
SLAP.
"Pedro Mano nunca was good for you."
Rosario’s cheekbones, which had previously been known for their delicate beauty, were now achieving a distinct glow. She touched her face thoughtfully, as if conducting a scientific experiment. "María, if you slap me across the face one more time..." She paused. "It poses the question ---
Is there a number of slaps a woman receives before her head, tú sabes... ruptures?"
The convent’s ancient bell chose that moment to toll, as if God Himself was saying, "Good question." Then, at the convent door.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
Rosario gasped. "Pedro?" María groaned and threw her hands up toward heaven, possibly to ask why she’d been cursed with such a dramatic guest. "¡Ay, Santa Madre de—! Get a hold of yourself, Rosario!"
The door swung open to reveal not Pedro Mano (alas), nor even the suspiciously literate goat, but a man who stood in the threshold with the awkward stance of someone who wasn't entirely sure if he was delivering bad news or a pizza. "Not Pedro? No Mano?" Rosario whimpered from the couch, where she had arranged herself into what could only be described as a religious fainting couch situation.
María folded her arms. "We don't know. No lo sabemos." (This was a lie. They definitely knew. It was not Pedro.)
With a dramatic wave of her hand, the kind that suggested she was permitting the tides to turn, Rosario granted María permission to address the stranger.
"Who are you?" María demanded, in a tone that had once made a bandit confess to stealing and to having terrible taste in hats.
The man straightened. "I am Jose."
A beat. The convent's ancient walls absorbed this revelation with the enthusiasm of a sponge absorbing vinegar.
"Jose?" María repeated.
"Jose?" Rosario echoed, as if testing the name for hidden meanings.
"Jose!" Jose confirmed, with the energy of a man who had introduced himself exactly this way many times and was still somehow never believed. "Yes, I work for the Man."
María's eyebrows, those twin arches of skepticism, inched upward. "Who is 'the Man'?"
Jose nodded sagely. "The Man is el Hombre."
Rosario gasped. "The hombre is the Man?"
"That's correct," Jose said, with the satisfaction of someone who had just explained the universe's great mysteries using only two synonyms.
"Y... Pedro?" Rosario whispered, her voice trembling like a Jell-O in an earthquake. Jose's face did something complicated. "He is not the Man."
This was the final straw. Rosario burst into tears! Great, heaving sobs that shook the votive candles and made a nearby statue of the Virgin Mary look vaguely uncomfortable. María sighed and turned back to Jose, switching to the universal language of exasperated small talk. "Jose, ¿cómo estás?" Jose brightened. "Yo estoy fine." "¿Qué haces aquí?" María pressed, because while existential crises were all well and good, logistics were where she thrived.
María folded her arms. "We don't know. No lo sabemos." (This was a lie. They definitely knew. It was not Pedro.)
With a dramatic wave of her hand, the kind that suggested she was permitting the tides to turn, Rosario granted María permission to address the stranger.
"Who are you?" María demanded, in a tone that had once made a bandit confess to stealing and to having terrible taste in hats.
The man straightened. "I am Jose."
A beat. The convent's ancient walls absorbed this revelation with the enthusiasm of a sponge absorbing vinegar.
"Jose?" María repeated.
"Jose?" Rosario echoed, as if testing the name for hidden meanings.
"Jose!" Jose confirmed, with the energy of a man who had introduced himself exactly this way many times and was still somehow never believed. "Yes, I work for the Man."
María's eyebrows, those twin arches of skepticism, inched upward. "Who is 'the Man'?"
Jose nodded sagely. "The Man is el Hombre."
Rosario gasped. "The hombre is the Man?"
"That's correct," Jose said, with the satisfaction of someone who had just explained the universe's great mysteries using only two synonyms.
"Y... Pedro?" Rosario whispered, her voice trembling like a Jell-O in an earthquake. Jose's face did something complicated. "He is not the Man."
This was the final straw. Rosario burst into tears! Great, heaving sobs that shook the votive candles and made a nearby statue of the Virgin Mary look vaguely uncomfortable. María sighed and turned back to Jose, switching to the universal language of exasperated small talk. "Jose, ¿cómo estás?" Jose brightened. "Yo estoy fine." "¿Qué haces aquí?" María pressed, because while existential crises were all well and good, logistics were where she thrived.
Jose blinked, as if just realizing he'd walked into a theological telenovela. "What am I doing here?" he repeated, suddenly unsure if he was the messenger or the next sacrificial lamb.
María's patience, already stretched thinner than the convent's toilet paper budget, snapped. "Yes, ¿qué haces aquí?" Her tone suggested that "here" was a metaphysical concept Jose was failing to grasp. Jose straightened his collar with the dignity of a man who'd been sent to evict a weeping woman from a convent and was now questioning all his life choices. "I'm sorry to tell you ladies," he began, in the tone of someone reading from an eviction notice written by a poet with commitment issues, "But Pedro Mano did not pay his last month's rent on the hacienda. The landlord says he's a-tired of awaiting for you to a-move your things out." He took a deep breath. "I must have to kick you out onto the streets, Rosario."
Rosario's face crumpled like a lottery ticket with bad numbers. "I don't understand."
Jose, a man who clearly believed in the power of repetition (if not in the power of tenants paying rent), sighed and delivered his lines again, "I'm sorry to tell you ladies, But Pedro Mano did not pay his last month's rent on the hacienda. The landlord says he's a-tired of awaiting for you to a-move your things out." He took a deep breath. "I must have to kick you out onto the streets, Rosario."
Rosario clutched her rosary like it was the last life raft on the Titanic. "But if I am to be on the streets, how will Pedro find me?"
María, ever the pragmatist, muttered, "In need of a shower, most likely."
Jose, sensing an opportunity to offload this problem onto a higher power (preferably one with real estate), brightened. "Maybe there is a convent you can stay?"
Rosario gestured grandly at the peeling fresco of Saint Sebastian, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. "I am already in a convent waiting for Pedro Mano." Jose nodded, as if this made perfect sense. "Then your problema has been solved."
Rosario's eyes took on a faraway glaze, the kind usually reserved for people who’d had too much sun or not enough therapy. "I remember when he left me that morning," she sighed, "with his yellow jogging suit on. He said to me, 'I am going to Guadalajara to see a man about a hearse.'"
Jose blinked. "That was thirteen years ago."
Undeterred, Rosario continued, "Then he wrote me a postcard and said he was joining the Austrian Olympic Committee in Sydney. He wanted to be part of La Revolución Olímpica!" María pinched the bridge of her nose. "Sydney is in Australia, Rosario."
Rosario gasped, as if geography was a personal betrayal. "Then where is Austria?"
Jose, María, and possibly even the goat outside shared a moment of silent despair.
Somewhere, Pedro Mano—whether in Guadalajara, Sydney, or simply hiding in a very deep hole. was definitely not paying rent.
María's patience, already stretched thinner than the convent's toilet paper budget, snapped. "Yes, ¿qué haces aquí?" Her tone suggested that "here" was a metaphysical concept Jose was failing to grasp. Jose straightened his collar with the dignity of a man who'd been sent to evict a weeping woman from a convent and was now questioning all his life choices. "I'm sorry to tell you ladies," he began, in the tone of someone reading from an eviction notice written by a poet with commitment issues, "But Pedro Mano did not pay his last month's rent on the hacienda. The landlord says he's a-tired of awaiting for you to a-move your things out." He took a deep breath. "I must have to kick you out onto the streets, Rosario."
Rosario's face crumpled like a lottery ticket with bad numbers. "I don't understand."
Jose, a man who clearly believed in the power of repetition (if not in the power of tenants paying rent), sighed and delivered his lines again, "I'm sorry to tell you ladies, But Pedro Mano did not pay his last month's rent on the hacienda. The landlord says he's a-tired of awaiting for you to a-move your things out." He took a deep breath. "I must have to kick you out onto the streets, Rosario."
Rosario clutched her rosary like it was the last life raft on the Titanic. "But if I am to be on the streets, how will Pedro find me?"
María, ever the pragmatist, muttered, "In need of a shower, most likely."
Jose, sensing an opportunity to offload this problem onto a higher power (preferably one with real estate), brightened. "Maybe there is a convent you can stay?"
Rosario gestured grandly at the peeling fresco of Saint Sebastian, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. "I am already in a convent waiting for Pedro Mano." Jose nodded, as if this made perfect sense. "Then your problema has been solved."
Rosario's eyes took on a faraway glaze, the kind usually reserved for people who’d had too much sun or not enough therapy. "I remember when he left me that morning," she sighed, "with his yellow jogging suit on. He said to me, 'I am going to Guadalajara to see a man about a hearse.'"
Jose blinked. "That was thirteen years ago."
Undeterred, Rosario continued, "Then he wrote me a postcard and said he was joining the Austrian Olympic Committee in Sydney. He wanted to be part of La Revolución Olímpica!" María pinched the bridge of her nose. "Sydney is in Australia, Rosario."
Rosario gasped, as if geography was a personal betrayal. "Then where is Austria?"
Jose, María, and possibly even the goat outside shared a moment of silent despair.
Somewhere, Pedro Mano—whether in Guadalajara, Sydney, or simply hiding in a very deep hole. was definitely not paying rent.
"¿Qué?" Rosario Soledad blinked, her expression suggesting that the very laws of geography were a personal affront designed specifically to ruin her day. María Consuela sighed the sigh of someone who had explained basic facts to Rosario approximately 1,742 times and was now considering sainthood purely for patience. "Sydney. Is in. Australia." She enunciated each word as if speaking to a particularly slow child. Or possibly a rock. Jose, whose understanding of world geography had until this moment been roughly on par with a tortilla's, frowned. "Sydney is in Australia?" Rosario nodded sagely, as if this was somehow new information, she was generously relaying. "She says Sydney is in Australia."
"I heard her," Jose snapped. Then, with the cautious tone of a man who had just realized his entire mental map might be upside down: "Are you sure?" Jose scratched his head. "I would have thought Austria." Rosario, meanwhile, had already moved on from this crisis of cartography. With the solemn ceremony of a priest unveiling a relic, she reached into her décolletage and produced a crumpled letter that had clearly been stored against her heart for years (and possibly used as a napkin during a particularly emotional lunch).
"My Querida Soledad," she read aloud, her voice trembling with the weight of misplaced romance. "He liked to call me that. He said it sounded... lonely."
María pulled out a small, well-worn book from the folds of her habit with the dramatic flair of a wizard producing a spellbook. "I am sure." The cover read 'Spanish-English Dictionary for the Extremely Confused (Or Very Stubborn)'.
María didn't even look up from her dictionary. "That's because that's what it means." "¿Qué?" Rosario's voice went up an octave.
"Soledad. It means 'lonely'. In Spanish. You see." María held up the dictionary, open to the relevant page, where someone (possibly María herself) had circled the definition in angry red ink and added several exclamation points.
Rosario's face did something complicated, as if her entire understanding of romance was being dismantled by a nun with a reference book. "Stop crushing my dreams, María Consuela!" Jose, who had been following this exchange with the growing realization that he was trapped in a particularly surreal play, cleared his throat. "The letter?"
Rosario blinked. "The letter?" María rolled her eyes so hard the convent's foundations shook. "Yes. The letter."
Somewhere in the distance, a goat bleated in existential despair. Rosario held the letter like it was a sacred text, which in a way it was, if your religion was Bad Decisions and Poor Life Choices. She cleared her throat dramatically, the way people do when they're about to make their own poor life choices everyone else's problem.
"My Querida Soledad," she began, her voice quivering with the weight of thirteen years of delusion, "On my way to Guadalajara I have decided to pursue my sueño and join the Austrian Olympic team. I will be abandoning you to be inside Sydney. Adios, my amor. I shall never return. Wait for me." She handed the letter to María with the solemnity of a widow presenting evidence at a murder trial.
Jose squinted at the paper. "It says Austrian Olympic Team?"
"Sí," Rosario nodded, as if this explained everything.
"It should say Australian," Jose said, with the confidence of a man who had just learned this fact thirty seconds ago and was now an expert.
Rosario turned to María with pleading eyes. "María, which is it, Austria or Australia?" María examined the letter like a forensic scientist, then flipped it over. "El es-stamp is from Hoboken."
A collective gasp shook the room.
"¡Madre de Dios!" Rosario clutched her pearls.
"¡Madre de Dios!" María echoed, clutching her rosary.
"¡Madre de Dios!" Jose added, clutching his eviction notice.
At this perfect moment of divine invocation, Sister Amarga entered like the punchline to a joke God had been setting up for centuries. "Did someone call?" she asked, blinking at the scene before her.
"No, Sister," Rosario sighed. "We just think Sidney might be in Australia."
"We think there's a pretty good chance," Jose added helpfully.
Sister Amarga's gaze slid to María. "María, is Sidney in...?" "¡Sí, you pendejos!" María exploded, throwing the dictionary into the air where it miraculously landed open to the 'Countries That Definitely Exist' page.
A heavy silence fell. Somewhere, a goat facepalmed.
Finally, Rosario sniffled. "Sister... I need a hug."
"I heard her," Jose snapped. Then, with the cautious tone of a man who had just realized his entire mental map might be upside down: "Are you sure?" Jose scratched his head. "I would have thought Austria." Rosario, meanwhile, had already moved on from this crisis of cartography. With the solemn ceremony of a priest unveiling a relic, she reached into her décolletage and produced a crumpled letter that had clearly been stored against her heart for years (and possibly used as a napkin during a particularly emotional lunch).
"My Querida Soledad," she read aloud, her voice trembling with the weight of misplaced romance. "He liked to call me that. He said it sounded... lonely."
María pulled out a small, well-worn book from the folds of her habit with the dramatic flair of a wizard producing a spellbook. "I am sure." The cover read 'Spanish-English Dictionary for the Extremely Confused (Or Very Stubborn)'.
María didn't even look up from her dictionary. "That's because that's what it means." "¿Qué?" Rosario's voice went up an octave.
"Soledad. It means 'lonely'. In Spanish. You see." María held up the dictionary, open to the relevant page, where someone (possibly María herself) had circled the definition in angry red ink and added several exclamation points.
Rosario's face did something complicated, as if her entire understanding of romance was being dismantled by a nun with a reference book. "Stop crushing my dreams, María Consuela!" Jose, who had been following this exchange with the growing realization that he was trapped in a particularly surreal play, cleared his throat. "The letter?"
Rosario blinked. "The letter?" María rolled her eyes so hard the convent's foundations shook. "Yes. The letter."
Somewhere in the distance, a goat bleated in existential despair. Rosario held the letter like it was a sacred text, which in a way it was, if your religion was Bad Decisions and Poor Life Choices. She cleared her throat dramatically, the way people do when they're about to make their own poor life choices everyone else's problem.
"My Querida Soledad," she began, her voice quivering with the weight of thirteen years of delusion, "On my way to Guadalajara I have decided to pursue my sueño and join the Austrian Olympic team. I will be abandoning you to be inside Sydney. Adios, my amor. I shall never return. Wait for me." She handed the letter to María with the solemnity of a widow presenting evidence at a murder trial.
Jose squinted at the paper. "It says Austrian Olympic Team?"
"Sí," Rosario nodded, as if this explained everything.
"It should say Australian," Jose said, with the confidence of a man who had just learned this fact thirty seconds ago and was now an expert.
Rosario turned to María with pleading eyes. "María, which is it, Austria or Australia?" María examined the letter like a forensic scientist, then flipped it over. "El es-stamp is from Hoboken."
A collective gasp shook the room.
"¡Madre de Dios!" Rosario clutched her pearls.
"¡Madre de Dios!" María echoed, clutching her rosary.
"¡Madre de Dios!" Jose added, clutching his eviction notice.
At this perfect moment of divine invocation, Sister Amarga entered like the punchline to a joke God had been setting up for centuries. "Did someone call?" she asked, blinking at the scene before her.
"No, Sister," Rosario sighed. "We just think Sidney might be in Australia."
"We think there's a pretty good chance," Jose added helpfully.
Sister Amarga's gaze slid to María. "María, is Sidney in...?" "¡Sí, you pendejos!" María exploded, throwing the dictionary into the air where it miraculously landed open to the 'Countries That Definitely Exist' page.
A heavy silence fell. Somewhere, a goat facepalmed.
Finally, Rosario sniffled. "Sister... I need a hug."
Sister Amarga gave José a look that conveyed, with perfect ecclesiastical clarity: You're the closest thing we have to a man here, so congratulations, you're now the hugging committee. José, who had not signed up for emotional labor when he took this eviction gig, awkwardly extended his arms. "There, there..." he said, patting Rosario's back with the enthusiasm of someone testing a hot iron.
Rosario dissolved into his arms like a tragic opera heroine. "¡Sidney is in Australia! ¡Sidney is in Australia!" she wailed, as if this geographical fact was personally responsible for all her life's disappointments (which, to be fair, it might have been). María, who had the subtlety of a brick through a stained-glass window, seized the moment. "Sister Amarga," she said brightly, "don't you think Rosario should get out of the convent for a while? Maybe take a cruise."
Rosario's head snapped up. "¡Qué no! I will not leave the convent. I am a woman in pain." She clutched her chest dramatically. "I don't need Tom Cruise." María rolled her eyes. "Not Tom Cruise. A boat cruise. Perhaps to... Australia?" She wiggled her eyebrows meaningfully. "Right," said Sister Amarga. "Right," echoed José, who was still trapped in the hug and now sweating slightly.
Rosario drew herself up like a queen defending her castle. "No! I will wait here, just as per Pedro's instructions." Her voice took on the dreamy quality of someone who had thoroughly internalized her own tragic backstory. "Mi Pedro, mi Mano. My hombre... a woman like me always does what a man like him tells a woman like me to do."
María and Sister Amarga exchanged a glance that said, We really need to work on her self-esteem. Then, with the timing of a seasoned conversational ninja, María casually dropped: "But I hear the national bird of Australia is... el emu."
Sister Amarga perked up. "The national bird, you say?"
"Sí," María confirmed. "It's el emu."
A beat.
Rosario's eyes widened. "...And I do love emu."
Just then, the church bell rang, a chaotic, clanging affair that sounded less like a call to prayer and more like a drunk blacksmith had taken up campanology as a hobby. "Oh!" Sister Amarga clapped her hands. "The bell rings for Mass! The Mass bell rings! Ding dong! Ding dong! Dong ding ding dong!"
Rosario, now fully distracted, nodded sagely. "As a general rule," she announced, "emu meat should be cooked to an internal temperature of between 150 and 160 degrees Fahrenheit." The convent's collective pause was so profound you could have heard a pin drop. Or, more likely, a goat sighing in the courtyard. Rosario's eyes misted over with the sort of nostalgia usually reserved for lost loves and really good pasteles. "Oh, I remember my mami used to make it para El Día de Los Muertos Y Los Santos Separados por el Ingreso," she sighed, waving her hands like a conductor orchestrating her own culinary memories. "She would slice it, broil it, bake it, and then grill it in a pan. ¡Ay, cómo amaba su emu!"
María, who had clearly been waiting for this exact moment to drop some avian wisdom, folded her arms and declared: "Emu is the bird of infidelity." She paused for dramatic effect. "And you--you must fly, fly free of this convent, fly free of this suffering, fly free of Pedro Mano!"
Rosario gasped as if struck by divine revelation. "¡Sí! I shall fly free! No Pedro, no Mano shall dictate my life!" She raised a fist triumphantly. "¡I am una mujer. Watch me cook my emu! "At this precise moment, José, who had been standing there like a man who had just realized he was in the wrong story, found himself suddenly and enthusiastically pulled into Rosario's orbit. There was kissing. There was falling. There was the distinct sound of someone's elbow knocking over a very old, very fragile figurine of the Virgin Mary.
"¡Ay, Pedro—I mean, José!" Rosario giggled between kisses. "Your emu es so long!" José, proving that men will always find a way to make anything about themselves, grinned. "You should see it when it puts its head in the hole to turn the eggs." Then, with the strength of a man who had clearly been waiting for this moment, he lifted her up and carried her off toward the bedrooms like a romantic hero; or possibly a man who had just remembered he had a train to catch.
Sister Amarga watched them go with the expression of someone who had seen many things in God's house but had not signed up for this. "She's off to sauté the emu in the bedroom of God's house," she muttered. "This could only lead to Calamity." María nodded solemnly. "You are so right, Sister. Should I go warn Calamity?" "No," Sister Amarga sighed. "I'm sure she'll hear them come in."
María hesitated. "If Pedro were to return... what are we to do, Sister?"
Sister Amarga gave her a look. "I'm not your sister."
But then.
KNOCK.
KNOCK.
Both women froze. The door rattled again.
Sister Amarga's eyes widened. "Who? Who? ¿Quién could it be?"
María squinted. "A postman?"
Somewhere in the distance, an emu screamed. Or maybe Rosario moaned. At this point, even the goat had stopped keeping track.
Rosario dissolved into his arms like a tragic opera heroine. "¡Sidney is in Australia! ¡Sidney is in Australia!" she wailed, as if this geographical fact was personally responsible for all her life's disappointments (which, to be fair, it might have been). María, who had the subtlety of a brick through a stained-glass window, seized the moment. "Sister Amarga," she said brightly, "don't you think Rosario should get out of the convent for a while? Maybe take a cruise."
Rosario's head snapped up. "¡Qué no! I will not leave the convent. I am a woman in pain." She clutched her chest dramatically. "I don't need Tom Cruise." María rolled her eyes. "Not Tom Cruise. A boat cruise. Perhaps to... Australia?" She wiggled her eyebrows meaningfully. "Right," said Sister Amarga. "Right," echoed José, who was still trapped in the hug and now sweating slightly.
Rosario drew herself up like a queen defending her castle. "No! I will wait here, just as per Pedro's instructions." Her voice took on the dreamy quality of someone who had thoroughly internalized her own tragic backstory. "Mi Pedro, mi Mano. My hombre... a woman like me always does what a man like him tells a woman like me to do."
María and Sister Amarga exchanged a glance that said, We really need to work on her self-esteem. Then, with the timing of a seasoned conversational ninja, María casually dropped: "But I hear the national bird of Australia is... el emu."
Sister Amarga perked up. "The national bird, you say?"
"Sí," María confirmed. "It's el emu."
A beat.
Rosario's eyes widened. "...And I do love emu."
Just then, the church bell rang, a chaotic, clanging affair that sounded less like a call to prayer and more like a drunk blacksmith had taken up campanology as a hobby. "Oh!" Sister Amarga clapped her hands. "The bell rings for Mass! The Mass bell rings! Ding dong! Ding dong! Dong ding ding dong!"
Rosario, now fully distracted, nodded sagely. "As a general rule," she announced, "emu meat should be cooked to an internal temperature of between 150 and 160 degrees Fahrenheit." The convent's collective pause was so profound you could have heard a pin drop. Or, more likely, a goat sighing in the courtyard. Rosario's eyes misted over with the sort of nostalgia usually reserved for lost loves and really good pasteles. "Oh, I remember my mami used to make it para El Día de Los Muertos Y Los Santos Separados por el Ingreso," she sighed, waving her hands like a conductor orchestrating her own culinary memories. "She would slice it, broil it, bake it, and then grill it in a pan. ¡Ay, cómo amaba su emu!"
María, who had clearly been waiting for this exact moment to drop some avian wisdom, folded her arms and declared: "Emu is the bird of infidelity." She paused for dramatic effect. "And you--you must fly, fly free of this convent, fly free of this suffering, fly free of Pedro Mano!"
Rosario gasped as if struck by divine revelation. "¡Sí! I shall fly free! No Pedro, no Mano shall dictate my life!" She raised a fist triumphantly. "¡I am una mujer. Watch me cook my emu! "At this precise moment, José, who had been standing there like a man who had just realized he was in the wrong story, found himself suddenly and enthusiastically pulled into Rosario's orbit. There was kissing. There was falling. There was the distinct sound of someone's elbow knocking over a very old, very fragile figurine of the Virgin Mary.
"¡Ay, Pedro—I mean, José!" Rosario giggled between kisses. "Your emu es so long!" José, proving that men will always find a way to make anything about themselves, grinned. "You should see it when it puts its head in the hole to turn the eggs." Then, with the strength of a man who had clearly been waiting for this moment, he lifted her up and carried her off toward the bedrooms like a romantic hero; or possibly a man who had just remembered he had a train to catch.
Sister Amarga watched them go with the expression of someone who had seen many things in God's house but had not signed up for this. "She's off to sauté the emu in the bedroom of God's house," she muttered. "This could only lead to Calamity." María nodded solemnly. "You are so right, Sister. Should I go warn Calamity?" "No," Sister Amarga sighed. "I'm sure she'll hear them come in."
María hesitated. "If Pedro were to return... what are we to do, Sister?"
Sister Amarga gave her a look. "I'm not your sister."
But then.
KNOCK.
KNOCK.
Both women froze. The door rattled again.
Sister Amarga's eyes widened. "Who? Who? ¿Quién could it be?"
María squinted. "A postman?"
Somewhere in the distance, an emu screamed. Or maybe Rosario moaned. At this point, even the goat had stopped keeping track.
Sister Amarga shook her head solemnly. "No. The postman only rings twice."
KNOCK.
María Consuela clutched her rosary. "Could it be?" Sister Amarga's eyes widened. "He?" "Pedro, Pedro Mano?" María whispered. Sister Amarga bit her lip. "How do we invite a man back in when the emu has taken flight?"
From somewhere down the hall came the distinct sound of José enthusiastically proving that, yes, his emu was indeed very long.
María grimaced. "Perhaps we should not answer."
KNOCK.
A silence heavier than Sister Amarga's mortification settled over them. Slowly, with the dread of someone reaching into a dark hole that might contain either treasure or scorpions, Sister Amarga extended her hand toward the doorknob.
The door creaked ominously on its hinges. Maria Consuela gasped, ¿Pedro? ¿Pedro Mano?
KNOCK.
María Consuela clutched her rosary. "Could it be?" Sister Amarga's eyes widened. "He?" "Pedro, Pedro Mano?" María whispered. Sister Amarga bit her lip. "How do we invite a man back in when the emu has taken flight?"
From somewhere down the hall came the distinct sound of José enthusiastically proving that, yes, his emu was indeed very long.
María grimaced. "Perhaps we should not answer."
KNOCK.
A silence heavier than Sister Amarga's mortification settled over them. Slowly, with the dread of someone reaching into a dark hole that might contain either treasure or scorpions, Sister Amarga extended her hand toward the doorknob.
The door creaked ominously on its hinges. Maria Consuela gasped, ¿Pedro? ¿Pedro Mano?
Copyright 2001
A One-Act Version of this Short Story has been performed:
2021 - City Theatre, South Florida2009 - Ingenius Festival, Manhattan Theatre Festival
2007 - City Theatre, South Florida
2003 - Rutgers University
