So Jovana went to live with Delfina, though in those early months, she would wake up and go back to her home, hoping to find her parents alive and well, ready to welcome her into their arms. The home was always empty, always as cold and lifeless as their bodies. She finally had to stop when another family moved in. They did not take kindly to someone asking to see her dead parents.
It wasn’t long until Jovana settled into her life with Delfina, who worked in El Mercado selling pottery that she made by hand. Delfina, her hands knotted, her hair white, began to fold esa jovencita into her life as best as she could. She invited Jovana to help her with little things at first: like carrying freshly made pots from the studio to the windowsill to dry. Like teaching Jovana to shape the pots as she spun the mud and clay. Soon, that sad girl filled her spirit with Delfina, who never made Jovana feel like anything but her own daughter.
Jovana met her first cuentista while wandering around, trying to find a suitable meal for herself and her new mother. Her name was Soledad, and she was gorgeous, haunting, irresistible. Jovana had never met anyone so tall, who commanded the attention of those who cast their gaze on her. She coaxed Jovana into her stall, brushing aside her black hair, which was so long that it swept across the floor.
Jovana sat before her, her hands out, and Soledad took her story. She told her everything: of her life while her parents were still living, of Delfina, of the creeping loneliness that invaded her late at night as she wished for a different life.
When the telling was over, Jovana felt lighter. More alive. “Puedes ser una cuentista, también,” Soledad had told her. “It is a lucrative practice, and there is always someone with guilt in their heart.”
“Lucrative?” Jovana had asked. “What does that mean?”
Soledad held her hand out and demanded that Jovana pay her for her services.
She learned her lesson the hard way that day when she returned to Delfina without food, then had to lie about where the money had gone. Delfina had just shaken her head at Jovana and told her that everyone makes mistakes, that she would have to be more careful next time so that the money did not fall out of her pocket. She did not seem to suspect that Jovana had lied, and for some reason, that hurt Jovana more.
Yet she couldn’t stop seeing Soledad. The woman allowed her to sit in her stall, hidden behind a curtain in the back, while Soledad took desperate customers, pried their secrets out of them, then charged them modest prices to do so.
They always paid.
They always came back.
She never gave any of those stories to You, but what did those people know? As far as they were aware, Soledad was one of the most sympathetic and understanding cuentistas in Obregán. She never judged others for what they had done, what they had felt, who they were. When those customers left her stall, they were alight with the hope that they could become better, that they would stop doing You wrong.
This continued for years, and Jovana found herself spending more and more time hidden in Soledad’s stall. Delfina never bothered to ask where Jovana would disappear to; she always welcomed her back.
Jovana shared this with Soledad one day, and Soledad smiled. “It is rare to meet someone so unconditionally good,” she said. “But Delfina is an exception. Most people are hiding something, and if you promise them good fortune in the eyes of Solís, they will admit it to you.”
She brushed her hair back, and then she said, “Come. It is time for me to show you the real power of being a cuentista.” She ran her hand lovingly through Jovana’s hair. “You are ready.”
She swept Jovana away, into El Mercado, and they headed for the section where the jewelers flourished, where everything arranged on the tables and racks glittered and sparkled and shimmered. Soledad found one of the stalls where all the gems were a stark, deep red, and the jeweler—a man named Márquez—greeted Soledad with a smile. “What do you have for me today, mi cuentista?” he said.
“How much?” She held her hand out, exactly as she had done when she first tricked Jovana.
“What is your story worth?”
“It is worth nothing to me, Márquez,” she said, her voice syrupy and lush. “It is more a matter of what it is worth to you and your business.” Jovana watched as Soledad glanced dramatically to the left at the vendor next to them, then back at Márquez. The other man was deep in conversation with a potential customer.
Márquez said nothing. He reached under la mesa, then dropped a small cloth bag into Soledad’s outstretched hand. She did not count what was inside, but merely tucked it into the folds of her cloak. She leaned forward.
“Ignacio has been stealing gems when you go to relieve yourself.”
His face changed—a flash of shock—and then he relaxed. “Gracias, Soledad,” he said. “Your gift is eternal.”
As they walked off, Jovana heard a sharp yell and spun around. She watched as Márquez left his stall, reached over Ignacio’s mesa, and ripped the man into the aisle.
Then he slashed Ignacio’s throat. Blood spilled forth, as red and deep as the gems that had been stolen.
Jovana looked back at Soledad, who wore a subtle smile. She was twisting the bag of coins in her right hand.
When the time came, years later, Jovana began to take stories, too.
