Prior to his departure, Charles had entrusted a sum of money not to me or to Old Iota but to a butcher, the one who had the room above his shop, the one who had witnessed the Sacrament of Marriage, his sour yeast and unwashed feet stench in my nostrils. This man, round and soft with the flesh of the animals that he sold, was to be the holder of my purse strings because he could read and write. “You do not even know your numbers, Rosa. Old Iota is no better,” Charles had said, his eyebrows lifted in disbelief that I would object to the arrangement that he had made on my behalf. “You and Old Iota know what? One to ten, courtesy of your fingers?” he added. “That is not enough for such matters. That is enough for buying fish and garlic.”

I did not correct my husband, but he was wrong. I knew the number of name days that had passed. Twenty-seven by then, more than enough for buying fish, garlic, and more.

The butcher, Charles informed me, would pay the monthly rent on the house and Old Iota her wages. Every week, the butcher would dole out to me an allowance for foodstuffs and sundry expenses. If I needed to send news to Charles, the butcher would write to him on my behalf. The butcher, in turn, would read to me any letters that arrived from Charles. It was a gentlemen’s agreement between two men who knew more than fish and garlic.

Elesa, there is no need to write down what happened next—What good can come from Patricio knowing the ways of women?—but you, my dear, should know that it was an agreement that would work in my favor as soon as I understood that the butcher was not a gentleman.

In the absence of Charles, Old Iota never cooked beef. She preferred rabbit or chicken, the smaller animals of the land. The butcher’s youngest son, Geranium Leaves, made these deliveries to our front door. About a month after the birth of my blessed second, the butcher began to deliver Old Iota’s orders. He arrived in the early mornings with his hair combed and still wet, and he would ask if the Sióra was home. If told no, he would reluctantly leave the order plus a gift for me in Old Iota’s hands. He delighted in purchasing for me pastries and confections. Boxes full of kourabiedes, their little half-moons dusted with icing sugar; amygdalota, shaped like tiny pears, each studded with a clove for its stem; and pasteli, chewy and thick with sesame seeds. If I agreed to see him, then Old Iota would take Giorgio and Patricio out for a stroll.

Elesa, your eyes are betraying you. You must learn to hide their disgust, as the Sióra would tell you. Dear girl, do you think that I gave myself to this man of meats? I was not a fool, and I was not blind. Also, I could still smell him before he even turned onto my lane.