Alejandro’s first voice.
“…a few more days and he will sign everything.”
Then another voice answers, an unknown male voice, low and irritated. “You said the girl was obedient.”
Girl. The word flows through your whole body.
Alejandro laughs softly. “Yes. Usually. But because of the grief, he was suspicious for a moment. I had to increase the dose when he started asking for the bank documents.”
Bank documents.
You are getting colder.
After your mother’s death, half a dozen legal documents were published and
They vanished from the dining table like cards in a magician’s hand. Property transfers. Medical bills. Debts you had never heard of. Alejandro kept saying that everything was in order, that Mother had left her estate in a terrible state, that her tax return had failed, that he needed your signature on a temporary power of attorney to keep the creditors at bay. You refused twice. The next day, he started bringing you tea himself.
‘There are other methods,’ says the stranger. ‘Suppose the color is uncertain. Then the doctors can be convinced.’
Alejandro’s voice sounds dismissive. “It is too complicated. I want it to be in accordance with the rules, not binding. If you sign it at the notary next week, the house and the orchard will be transferred without any problems. Then you can have the rest and still think you have won.”
Your breath catches for a moment.
The house and the orchard.
Not everything. Only the things that matter most. The land with the old water rights. The land your mother never mortgaged to anyone, no matter how bad the situation was. The land the lawyer claimed was worth more than the rest of the estate put together, because of the underground spring bubbling beneath it. Now you remember that conversation. Mama is sitting in her armchair by the fireplace, pale and tired but determined, and she says: “The orchard behind the house will remain in my name until both my children understand what people do for water.”
Back then, you thought it was one of his strange lessons about the Earth
