IT WAS a July day in the city of Lima, with the sun hiding behind the thick blanket of mist which generally covers the coasts of Peru and Chile from June until September. Maria de Oliva Flores shivered as she went out into the large garden behind her house. Such days as these, with no sunlight, did not please her. The air was heavy and damp. She felt like sleeping all the time.
“Marianna! Are you out here?”
From the other end of the garden, out of sight among the trees and flowers, came a girl’s voice. “Sí, señora. I am with little Isabel.”
Maria de Oliva turned into a narrow path, bending her head as she passed under a spreading fig tree. She might have known. Marianna, the Indian servant girl, always came out here after lunch with the baby of the Flores family. Three-month-old Isabel was definitely Marianna’s favorite. Now Maria quickened her steps as she came to where Marianna was sitting beside the child’s cradle. There was a proud smile on her face as she lifted the lace covering and looked down at her youngest child.
“Marianna, I’ve had many children, but I believe Isabel is the sweetest of all. Such pretty dark hair and eyes! And those little pink cheeks….”
The young Indian girl smiled, her white teeth flashing in the bronze of her face. “Isabel is like a flower, señora. And so good! I’ve never seen such a lovely baby.”
“Like a flower, Marianna? What flower?”
“A rose, señora. A beautiful pink rose. Just look at her now, smiling at us as though she knew what we were saying!”
Maria de Oliva was quiet a moment. This child had been born three months ago—on April 30, the feast of Saint Catherine of Siena. On May 25 she had been baptized by Father Anthony Polanco at the Church of San Sebastián and given the name Isabel. This had been to please her grandmother, Isabel de Herrera, Maria de Oliva’s own mother. But did that name really suit the child? Wouldn’t it be better to call her Rose, after the flower she resembled so much?
