—I told you, that woman was trouble. You should‘ve tied her foot to the almond tree in the backyard, Don Chan said. Esperanza was from the de los Santos clan. Many of the men in her family worked for Trujillo, and throughout the years supported his predecessor, Balaguer. —What else do you expect from the daughter of a man who protected Trujillo?

Santo kicked the chair and broke its last good leg. He threw the lamp with the missing bulb and punched the mattress. He tossed the pillow, still warm with Esperanza‘s breath, against the wall, tipping over the painting of Jesus. He didn‘t know how to face his son, Roberto María. How would he explain that his mother had left him? That she didn‘t trust her husband enough to help her. He would‘ve taken that yola if it had meant that much to her. Better him than her. Santo racked his brain, wondering how he had failed Esperanza. Yes, their lives were simple, but they had a roof over their heads, food on the table. Wasn‘t that enough?

Doña Caridad let Santo sulk, and after a few days, slapped him across the face when Don Chan wasn‘t looking.

—Hijo, stop walking around like she cut off your dick. If you love her, go after her. You find a way to get to wherever she is and be with her. Following her doesn‘t make you less of a man. It makes you a devoted father who cares for his family. Don‘t worry about us. We‘re not going anywhere. Believe me, I‘ve lived long enough to know that in one‘s lifetime, very little changes.

Santo applied for a visa at the embassy and waited, while Esperanza worked as a housekeeper in Puerto Rico. He counted the days until he would see her again. He wanted to be present when their daughter was born.

And when Santo insisted they meet in Nueva York, where he had already lined up a job driving a taxi, she couldn‘t help but be disappointed.

—Who cares if it‘s Dallas or the moon? What matters is that we‘ll be together. How are we going to live without papers? We have no family in Dallas. At least in Nueva York, I already have a job lined up. Mujer, ten paciencia. You‘ll see, amor. It‘ll all work out, Santo insisted.

Ten years later, Esperanza stood in the kitchen in New York City. She was much older, heavier, and tired. She scrubbed the chicken, chopped its limbs, gutted its belly, and damned those men who were too content spending all their hours talking políticas. Just like they did in Los Llanos, sitting in the backyard with friends, carrying out Don Chan‘s every whim, because among the campesinos, Don Chan was the only one who had traveled as far as China.

—You‘re all fools for listening to his stories, she mumbled under her breath. And in a campo like the one they lived in, stories had a way of catching on. Even the same fruit could acquire multiple names, creating an illusion of an agricultural variety in their town that existed nowhere else in the world. It didn‘t matter that Don Chan had no recollection of ever living in China; among the people of Los Llanos, he was the only one who looked Chinese, and nothing could take that away from him.