Maria

Maria (many years later)

No one here speaks German. It is good. Another day with fresh air and open space. I love feeling the wind come down from the mountains. It is full of the scent of flowers and grass. Even the shit from the farms smells good because it is honest and true.

The sky is so big. I could never have imagined so much sky. Once, when Albert took me to his mountain lodge, I saw the sky, but it seemed out of context and unreal. Now I live with it every day. It is good.

My children are such a joy. Emma and Lilo, and another on the way. Jorge says that it is not possible for me to be pregnant again, but I tell him that we are making up for lost time.

I do not tell him about the child that I lost so many years ago. I have left all that behind.

I don’t understand why they call this the New World. Our ways are much older thant those of Europe. We farm. We eat. We dance. We sleep. We have sex. There is not much more to our lives. Isn’t this an older way to live? They think of us as children, stupid and foolish. But they waste their lives on buildings and plays.

Strange to have my portrait painted. I never would have thought of it, but Jorge says that it will bring prestige to our family. So perhaps we are becoming old world. I could not object. It brings him such delight to see me sitting. I made Candido promise not to paint my stomach. The last thing I want to be remembered as is another Madonna.

I do miss the Protestants. Though I go to the Catholic church and stand and kneel with all my friends and family, I miss the honesty and simplicity of Viennese worship. We needed no priest to speak to God. We gathered more for the pleasure of company, for the music, to be seen, and perhaps to learn a bit.

These poor people I live with listen to the Mass in Latin and understand so little. It is a miracle that they come back every Sunday. But then again the Church is so powerful, can be so powerful. And the church is beautiful. It is cool on a hot day and warm on a cold day. The priest in his robes looks like a king.

Why must there always be kings? Why can we not live on the farm, keep our sheep and grow our corn without slicing out portions for kings and mayors?

From time to time Jorge asks me what I want. He knows that my life before here was so different. He longs to ask me questions, but I will never tell him the truth.

I touch his hand, brown, rough from work, and I say I want nothing more than to live here with you my entire life, surrounded by friends and family, and die when I am old.

He seems surprised at this, but it is the right answer because Jorge is not an ambitious man. He owns the farm of his father and grandfather, and would love nothing better to pass it along to a son. I would like to please him. I sold all of my jewelry to pay off the mortgage, and buy Jorge a tractor. When I handed him the papers he stood so still. So surprised. He said that this was now my farm too. And he hugged me. And the next day we went into the city to change the name of ownership on the papers. He is a good man. Perhaps this new life will be a son.

Candido keeps asking me to smile. Can’t he see that I am? I am glowing. He is painting furiously. I hope that fool Candido is using good oil because otherwise we might have to start again.

The wind is coming. I can smell the rain in the sky. We will have to run for the house soon. I think the lamb stew will be ready.

This baby makes me so hungry. If he is a boy, I think I will call him Franco, and he will be strong, but kind. If she is a girl, I will name her Modesta. And she will be lovely and powerful.

I feel the first drop of rain on my cheek. So pure.

THE END

Albert | Franz