The Book of Want: A Novel

5. The Dreamer

39 THE DREAMER The dream came to Belén most nights, usually when los grillos sang their song during hot evenings and the open windows allowed this uninvited serenade to disturb her sleep. As Belén’s papá often told her, a restless night opens the door to bad dreams. “Mija,” Adolfo would coo to his only child, “if you keep sleep from your bed, you will be visited by bad dreams. Don’t fight sleep. It is your amigo. Let it take you away. You are only ten. You should have nothing but good dreams.” He wondered if his daughter listened to too much radio, that wild music from the United States rattling her young brain, Benny Goodman and those other locos with their “swing” mixing up his daughter. What was wrong with good, strong Mexican music? No other country—not even the United States—had such a diversity of traditional musical styles. Who could beat the wonderful mariachis of Jalisco that fill fiestas with laughter and tears all at once? What of corridos that recount the exploits of great Mexican heroes and villains? But Belén, even though quite young, knew that Benny Goodman and swing music were not responsible for her nightmares. No. And she knew that when the crickets chirped their rhythmic cry, Belén couldn’t avoid that dream. It would begin in the same way, innocently at first, a bit confusing, and then spin and spiral into something horrible, evil, wicked. The first time she told her parents about it, they both shook their heads in fear and wonder. Belén’s mother made a sign of the cross, in fact. But after a few more tellings, they grew a bit bored by the details. Their only concern was that Belén sleep through the night so that she could be awake the next day and not wander about with droopy eyelids, long yawns replacing words. Belén knew that the only way to cure herself of the nightmare was to find out what it meant. But she had no conception of how to do this. Her parents were of little help. They offered no explanation for what their daughter dreamt. 40 Belén’s best friend, Hortencia, believed that the dream would remain a mystery unless . . . unless . . . she went to Katrina for help. “The curandera?” said Belén, knowing full well that their town had only one Katrina and she was a curandera of the highest order. “You have no choice,” said Hortencia, nodding in such a way that made her look very wise. “But,” whispered Belén, “they say she’s loca.” “The best ones are,” Hortencia mused. “And besides,” continued Belén, “all curanderas want payment.” Hortencia thought about this. “Maybe she’d ask for very little because you’re little.” Though Belén’s fear was great, she did want to know what her dream meant. She pondered the issue of money for a few moments. Finally: “I’ll be right back.” She went into the house and saw her mother at the sink, soaking raw pinto beans. “Mija,” said Mónica without looking up, “did Hortencia leave already?” “No, Mamá,” said Belén as she continued toward her bedroom. “She wants to see my doll.” This was a good lie because, in reality, Hortencia hadn’t seen it yet. Belén retrieved a tattered sock from beneath her cot and stuck it under her doll’s dress. She walked past her mother and out of the house successfully. After she and Hortencia settled safely under the large pine tree that stood a hundred yards from the house, Belén opened the sock and dropped three coins onto the grass. “¡Ay!” said Hortencia. “Where did you get these?” “One is from my tío Normando,” said Belén as she touched one coin. “And these other two are from my parents, one from my last birthday, and one from the year before.” “You’re rich!” “Would this be enough for Katrina?” “Oh, yes.” Belén gathered up the coins and dropped them, one by one, into the sock. “Will you come with me?” she said softly as she stuffed the sock under her doll’s dress. Hortencia’s eyes widened. She pursed her lips and didn’t answer. “Please?” “But they say she isn’t Mexican.” “What is she?” Hortencia leaned close: “She’s from Russia!” 41 Bel...