Rebirth: Choosing a College Husband novel · Chapter 1 of 12
Chapter 1: The Matchmaker's Day
The last thing I saw was my husband's arm raised, the belt dangling from his hand.
The last thing I heard was my seven-year-old daughter screaming, "Daddy, no, Daddy, no," her voice breaking.
Then there was a blow, and then nothing.
I opened my eyes.
It smelled of wood smoke, boiled potatoes, and chamomile.
My neck was stiff, my back straight, and a thick braid fell over my shoulder.
I was sitting on a wooden bench in my parents' courtyard, wearing the blue anaco my mother had made for me when I was eighteen.
I was twenty years old.
Twenty, again.
My hands trembled.
I looked at them.
They bore no purple marks from Holger's fingers on my wrists, no scar on my lip, no old callus from the firewood.
The courtyard was full of people.
About twenty neighbors in wool hats, red ponchos, and colorful shawls.
My father, standing by the door, head bowed, hat in his hands.
My mother, busy with the big pot of hominy.
My sister Blanca, beside me, eyes downcast, hands folded in her lap, so still she looked like a statue.
And in the center of the courtyard, standing, with a red shawl and a eucalyptus cane, the matchmaker.
A seventy-year-old woman, wrinkled as a raisin, who had spent forty years arranging marriages in the community of Cunchibamba.
"All right, all right," she said, tapping the ground with her cane. "Today is a day for decisions. Both daughters of Taita Tipán are of marrying age."
I froze.
I remembered.
I remembered everything.
This was the day.
The day when, in my past life, I had chosen Holger.
"First," said the matchmaker, "those who offer themselves."
She pointed with her cane.
"Wilson Quishpe, day laborer. No land, no livestock. But good hands."
A broad man with a crooked smile, standing in the corner of the courtyard with his hat against his chest, turned red to the ears.
"Second, Holger Guaman, son of Taita Guaman, president of the commune. Twenty hectares, a truck, and a store."
A murmur rose.
At the other end of the courtyard, a young man with light hair and a starched white shirt stood up.
Tall, handsome, with a new felt hat in his hand and the smile of someone who has never lost.
Beside him, his mother, a stout woman with a gold necklace, nodded her chin.
My stomach churned.
It was him.
My husband.
The man who had kissed my hand on our wedding day.
The one who, a few years later, had taught me the taste of blood.
"And third," added the matchmaker, "there's another, but he's not offering himself; he's just passing through."
She pointed with her cane to a corner of the courtyard.
There, sitting on the ground against the adobe wall, knees bent and an open book on his thighs, was a young man I hadn't seen all morning.
Skinny as a rail.
With round glasses mended with wire.
A worn black jacket, sleeves too short.
And long, slender fingers that turned the pages with a nun's care.
He didn't look up.
He wasn't paying attention.
He was reading.
"Angel Pilco, student teacher in Riobamba," said the matchmaker. "A boarder in this house during the holidays. He has nothing, but he reads."
There was laughter.
My sister Blanca tensed beside me.
"Now," said the old woman, "the eldest chooses."
Everyone looked at me.
But before I could open my mouth, Holger Guaman stepped forward.
"Forgive me, grandmother," he said, in a voice I knew even in my dreams. "Before Miss Narcisa speaks, I want to make an offer."
"What offer?"
"I want the younger one."
I couldn't breathe.
My sister Blanca lifted her face abruptly.
She was nineteen, with one leg shorter than the other, and had never received a single glance from a man in her life.
"Blanca?" my father asked.
"Blanca Tipán," said Holger. "With respect."
"But... son... she..."
"I know about her leg. I don't care."
Doña Guaman, his mother, let out a satisfied little laugh.
"We had already discussed it," she said. "My son has a good heart."
I was trembling.
I looked at Holger.
He looked at me.
And in his clear eyes I saw something that chilled my blood: a brief, cold spark of recognition.
It wasn't the look of a man seeing a woman for the first time.
It was the look of a man who has returned home and knows where everything is.
He too.
He too had come back.
And he had chosen my sister because in his other life he had seen her bear five sons to another man.
He thought the gift was hers.
Not the land's.
Not her husband's.
"Narcisa," said the matchmaker. "It's your turn."
I stood up.
My parents looked at me with anguish.
Blanca looked at me with tear-filled eyes and a thread of hope.
Holger was smiling.
The smile of someone who has already won.
"I..." I began.
My voice came out hoarse.
I scanned the courtyard.
Wilson Quishpe, the laborer, stared at the ground, hopeless.
Holger and his mother.
All the neighbors.
And in the corner, by the wall, the poor student, who kept his nose buried in his book, oblivious to everything, with a lock of black hair falling across his forehead.
I felt something open up in my chest.
It wasn't love.
It was a door.
I took a deep breath.
I raised my hand.
And I pointed at the young man in the corner.
"I will marry him," I said.
The courtyard fell silent.
The student lifted his head.
He looked at me over his wire-rimmed glasses.
For a moment, he didn't understand.
Then he stood up, slowly, with the book pressed against his chest.
He was much taller than I'd thought.
And barefoot.
"Miss," he said, in a thin voice. "I don't even have enough to buy you bread."
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