Treasure of the World Tara Sullivan (inspirational books for women TXT) 📖

mine at the beginning of a shift. Then we’re back in our seats, heads bowed, eyes closed.

I must have made a noise, because beside me, Belén whispers, “Shh, or we’ll get in trouble!”

I raise my head off my hands. I am not in the mine, I remind myself—I’m kneeling in a pew. Padre Julio is cleaning up the altar. Belén gives me a look that begs me not to wreck this special day by getting us in trouble. When we sit back, my eyes catch César’s, and hiding a smile behind one of his battered hands, he gives me a small wink.

I give him a tiny ghost of a smile and then stand with my family for the last blessing.

I’m worried we’re going to be stuck near the church forever while Mami and Abuelita talk to everyone they’ve ever known, but César says we should get going if we want to find a good spot to watch the parade. The streets are packed with people, but I don’t see Yenni or Santiago or Victor. Not that I’m really expecting to see any of them at the parade, of course. But still.

We find a spot on the steps of the cathedral, high enough above the street to be able to see the marching groups as they enter the plaza before they loop around in front of the bishop’s residence and the Municipality. César steps away from us, and I see him bend double in the shadow of one of the cathedral’s pillars, coughing. But then he straightens and finds a food vendor. When he comes back, he hands me a sleeve of popcorn and gives a big pink puff of cotton candy on a paper stick to Belén. If I hadn’t been watching him instead of the parade, I would never have known he had gone away for any reason other than to find us snacks. I want to ask him if he’s okay, but then the music cranks up and none of us would hear each other anyway. I smile to thank him for the popcorn and settle in to watch the groups.

There are hundreds and hundreds of people in the parade. All the divisions of society are represented there—from neat rows of government workers in suits to secretaries wearing makeup and high heels to construction workers holding their banners in thick-knuckled hands to blocks of kids in matching uniforms representing the different schools of the city. Belén squeals with delight when the traditional dancers passed us, dressed in short skirts and bright blouses, twisting and twirling to the music. My favorite are the crossing guards because of their silly white tiger costumes. Though I would never admit it to anyone, one of my favorite things about coming into the center of downtown Potosí is having the tigers take my arm and escort me across the crosswalks.

“Today is the day,” booms the mayor over the dance music, “that we commemorate the discovery of silver in our mighty mountain in 1545. Think of the glory,” he goes on. “A city built at the foot of a richness that changed the world. The great city of Potosí was larger than London, Paris, Rome, or Madrid. It was the hub of wealth of the Spanish empire; it was called the eighth wonder of the world. Is it any surprise that the first coat of arms of our city read: I am rich Potosí; I am the treasure of the world; I am the king of all mountains and the envy of all kings? No, because it was all that, and more.”

I lift my eyes from the mayor to the brick-colored beast looming behind the Municipality. Someone has put lights along its outline so that, even after dusk, people down here in the city can see the silhouette of the marvelous hill that has gifted the world with its treasure.

I live on that mountain. I walk its slopes and live in a house made with bricks and rocks from its sides. My father died on it; my brother was crushed in it. It has ruled my days and my nights for my entire life. And for all that, listening to the mayor as he drones on about the wealth of nations and the glories of the world, I don’t recognize it at all.

Worst of all, the music is no longer loud enough to cover the sound of César coughing.

I find I’ve lost my taste for popcorn.

Though we usually stay as long as possible to make the most of our trips to town, today we end up leaving early. When the parade ends and the mayor finishes his speech, even Mami and Abuelita notice that César isn’t feeling well. So, step after slow step, we all trudge home, onto the mountain that seems less and less of a thing to celebrate.

18

By the time we get home, César is having trouble walking more than a dozen steps without pausing to cough. And the cough is everything a cough should never be: a barking, wet, wrenching sound, followed by a rattling inhale. And then another. And another.

As soon as we get to the house, Mami hurries him into their bedroom and closes the door. Abuelita, Belén, and I trail in and stand awkwardly in the main room, unsure how to help.

“Ana, go put on some tea,” Abuelita says as she starts to loosen Belén’s braids. I move quickly, grateful to have something useful to do.

When I bring in the tea, Abuelita has managed to get Belén sitting in a corner, reading from her schoolbook, so I walk up to the bedroom door and knock. Mami lets me in and I hand her the pot and a cup. When she turns to set it by the bed, my gaze snags on César. He’s hunched over on the mattress as a coughing fit grips him, fighting to breathe. I notice he’s changed out of