The Ladies of Managua Read Online Free Page B

in Las Colinas, where there was plenty of room. But there was college and in the breaks there were always internships and summer sessions and friends’ and boyfriends’ families to visit, so except for a few weeks here and there, she seldom slept under the same roof I did. We saw each other quite often, of course we did. She’s a good daughter, a dutiful daughter. But we never lived together again.
    I watch the young women Mariana’s age who work in the press office with me, I see how confident they are, how radiant, even the ones who aren’t beautiful. They’re lit with the energy of possibility: trying to make the best of the options open to them a reality, or steeling themselves against disappointment when an opportunity disappears—a job goes to someone else, a lover leaves, a parent insists they choose a more suitable career than politics, or settle down and get married. These girls talk to me as if I’m just a few years older, a big sister or a trusted aunt. Should she take the offer in Colombia, even if it means leaving her aging parents behind? Will he ever stand up to his mother and propose to her? What should she do next to ensure that she’ll end up like me—strong, successful, admired?
    And as I talk to each one I wonder, what are the questions my daughter is busy turning over in her mind as she stands in line to get her coffee to take a quick break from the gallery? And who does she talk to about them? Who does she admire? Who has access to her soul? Because I am fairly certain that Mariana spends a significant amount of time wondering what she should do next to ensure that she won’t end up the way she sees me—hard, cold, alone.
    *   *   *
    I parked in the lot next to International Departures, so as I walk toward the VIP area, I have to pass the statues of women representing the earth’s different nations and peoples. I know some of the models the sculptor used. I’ve written press releases about these statues, about how Augusto C. Sandino International Airport is the most modern in Central America, and how these all-female statues are inspiring for visitors of all races and countries, and especially for those of us who live here in what is still a machista culture. But the truth is, I hate walking past them. They’re carved out of black stone and the eyes have no pupils or irises, no definition. Their eyes are empty, but if I walk past them too slowly, I feel as if they’re watching me, judging me, finding me wanting. As if they know what I did. As if I’ve disappointed them more than they thought possible.
    Revolutionaries make bad husbands, Mama says. And she’s right. But as I rush past the statues of idealized women to meet my daughter, I have to wonder how revolutionaries shape up as wives, as mothers. I don’t want this to be true, but I suspect it’s an even harder trick to pull off.

 
    4
    Maria
    I thought I was going to make it through the airport without interference, but just as I rolled my carry-on up to the customs line, a bashful teenager appeared at my side. I smelled the kid before I saw him, soap, and underneath that, anxiety. He’s actually probably in his twenties, married, most likely, with a baby or several children, so he’s more of an adult than I am in the eyes of the world, someone who is responsible for the livelihood and happiness of others. But he looks like a teenager dressed up for Halloween in his French-blue-and-navy security uniform. He wouldn’t call it French blue, of course. Sky blue, maybe. Celestial. Such a beautiful word for a color that is meant to enforce, to intimidate. This boy is anything but intimidating, stammering as he introduces himself. His name is Jos é . Or Juan; I couldn’t quite hear over the hum of the airport.
    â€œSe ñ orita Vazquez,” he says, and when I nod, adds, “follow me,” and whisks me off to the VIP lounge.