I unlocked the safe and remove a rectangular metal box. I tried to guess its contents. Money? Jewelry? A gun? But I was wrong. The only thing inside the box was a package of letters tied with a string.
I sat on a nearby bench and looked through the envelopes. There were about a dozen letters for my father from his daughter Elisa and, according to the stamps and addresses, they’d been sent from different locations in the country: Guayaquil, Manta, Machala. A couple were sent from Quito, the capital. They were piled up in order of dates: from the oldest to the most recent. Her handwriting had changed with time. On early envelopes, her letters were large and ended in curly tails, but in later ones her strokes were fast and reflected the evolution of a girl into a woman. If I had to guess, I would say she was an artist, though I didn’t know much about calligraphy readings. I checked the date on her last letter: it had been sent three years ago from Quito. Why had she stopped writing him?
I turned to the first envelope, dated 1909, and removed the letter.
Dear Papá,
It’s been two years since the last time I saw you. Did you see me on the hill when your daughter said she saw the Virgin? I gave her my doll so you would know that I came to visit. Do you remember me? I’m 12 years old now, but people say I look young for my age. I have been studying hard to be able to write to you. My teacher says I have good penmanship and “dedication.” I like school but sometimes I just feel like lying around, belly up, thinking.
Since we left Vinces, we’ve lived in many places. My mother is now with a puppeteer named Benjamin. She says they’re married, but I don’t remember any ceremonies. I just remember her coming to me one day and introducing him as my new father. She said to call him Papá, but I told her I already have a French father and his name is Armand Lafont. Did I do right, Papá?
I’m now learning to handle the puppets because Benjamin needs help with the show, but I’m a little tired of always performing the same story: La Caperucita Roja. I told him people already know it by heart and are getting tired of seeing the wolf eat the little girl and the grandma. The worst part is some silly tune I have to sing whenever Caperucita is wandering about the forest. I can’t get it out of my mind all day!
I told Benjamin people want love stories, but he says puppets are for the little ones. I sometimes pretend the puppets are all a big family living in La Puri.
Right now, we’re in Machala. We usually stay in the Costa because Benjamin says the Sierra is too cold and here we can sleep outdoors. Sometimes Benjamin takes other jobs, like fishing or collecting cacao pods, because he says we can’t only live from “art.” My mother goes from house to house offering to wash people’s clothes and when she gets a job, she takes me with her to do the washing. I hate it. I keep asking her if we can go back to Vinces and live with you in that big house like we did when I was small, but she says we can’t. She says your wife doesn’t want us there.
When am I going to see you again? As soon as we have a permanent address, I’ll send it to you so you can come visit.
I miss you,
Elisa.
I opened the next envelope.
April 30, 1910
Dear Papá,
We’re up north now, in Manta. My stepdad is working as a fisherman. I’ve seen the ocean and I’m not afraid of it. My face is so tan now I don’t think you’ll recognize me. Also, my hair has gotten really curly!
I’ve made some friends here. Mostly young fishermen and cocada vendors （have you ever tried them?）。 The bad thing about all this traveling is that I can’t go to school. I’m not complaining too much because I know a lot of kids would love my life, but I want to learn all I can so one day I can go back to Vinces and help you with La Puri. Mamá says you write a lot when you work, so I have to learn how to spell and do sums and subtractions, too.
Back in Guayaquil, I used to sneak into a school. The arithmetic class was so big that the teacher never noticed me. He didn’t even know his own students’ names! My classmates didn’t seem to care or notice me, either, though once in a while, someone was mean to me.
That’s all for now.
Your daughter who misses you,
Elisa.
I checked the dates and skipped a few letters until I reached a letter from 1914.
Papá,
Mamá says you’re never going to write back even though I’ve had this same address for a year. I tell her you probably didn’t receive my other letters so you don’t know where to send yours. We all know that the post office in this country is lousy! And besides you’re a busy man and according to my calendar, the harvest must be at its bloom.