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She had had her own act at the Moulin Rouge for a little while, gyrating her way through foreign dances, aloof as an Iberian queen. Her bearing was both majestic and melancholy, as if she carried with her the remnants of some deep sadness. There was an air of mystery about her, and though she spoke little, she nevertheless managed to garner a great deal of attention without saying a word. Many other dancers envied her that, and made up for it by stabbing her in the back with their own words over and over again. When she did speak, it was quietly and with a thick accent, albeit not quite thick enough for anyone to determine whether it was Spanish or something else entirely.
It was the latter, naturally. Spanish was really from Panama.
Not that one more illusion mattered in that den of illusions. "Nothing at the Moulin Rouge is as it seems," people were fond of saying, and who was she to go against such a formidable declaration? It was in keeping with a theme, almost.
She had claimed, in a rare burst of loquaciousness upon her arrival, to be the niece of a disgraced Spanish grandee. It was an impressive story, whether the others believed it or not. Spanish nobility conjured up images of proud queens and dashing princes, of midnight serenades and rose- bedecked princesses who pursued torrid love affairs with matadors. She doubted mentions of Panamanian nobility would have evoked any such things. Not to mention some of the girls didn't even know Panama existed.
Spanish had created a rich past for herself over the years, so detailed and elaborate she could almost believe it herself. She would have liked for it to have been true. Her real background wasn't so terrible—far from terrible, in fact—but it was, she felt, unremarkable. And Rosanna, as she had been called then, had wanted more than anything to be remarkable.
Needless to say, that had been long ago.
Since childhood, she had lived her life as a drama, making up the narrative as she lived. But there was nothing remarkable about being ruled by Columbia and heckled by the States, nor about Papá's friends urging him to come to France.
Many years ago, in a tiny country far away, there lived a girl named Rosanna who dreamed of something more.
Her family had been considering sailing to France for some years. They were wealthier than most and Papá had been educated there. Rosanna was twelve when the decision was made. Eduardo was still young, only four, and didn't fully understand it. Aquilina had fought tooth and nail to stay behind. She was seventeen and still unmarried, though Rosanna had seen the looks that passed between her and Rafael from next door. They left in the summer, and Rosanna's hopes for the future were as high as the sun.
She had a good, kind family who gave her everything her heart desired and kept her from all harm. When the kingdom was besieged by a giant from the north, hundreds of nobles were desperate to escape. Bidding goodbye to, all they held dear, they fled for freedom and boldly set out across the sea, daring fate to do her worst.
France was disappointing. Mentally, Rosanna had unknowingly built it up to be so fantastical that anything would have fallen short of her expectations. Far from being the bubbling cauldron of exhilaration and intrigue she had imagined, it looked harsh and unctuous, and it was filled with strangers gibbering in tongues she couldn't decipher. She cried into her shawl and told Mamá it was because of the smoke.
Her family settled into a decent house, though it seemed to Rosanna far more shabby and cramped than their old home. For a time, she could think of nothing but how much she hated it all. She hated the cold and the unfamiliarity and not being able to understand anyone, even the servants Mamá hired. But she especially hated the letdown. France was supposed to satisfy every dream she had ever had, but it was beginning to seem no more interesting than Panama.
The maiden's heart leaped when the shimmering coastline appeared on the horizon. And yet, for all the promise that lay rife within this new land, it was not enough for Rosanna's wild spirit. With great determination, she set forth to satisfy it.
It would get better, she thought, hoping with every fiber of her being. It had to get better. Aquilina had other ideas.
They went out walking one afternoon and stopped on a bridge over the Seine to look down at the river. Like a rebellious child, Aquilina slung her legs over the railing and stood balanced on the other side.
Rosanna reached for her sister's arm. "Get down, you're scaring me."
Aquilina pretended to release the rail she held. "I'm fine," she said lightly when Rosanna shrieked. "Don't be an idiot."
Glancing around, Rosanna noticed they were alone; from a distance, it would be impossible to tell Aquilina was standing outside of the bridge rather than on it. "I'm not," she retorted nervously, crossing her arms. "It's a stupid thing to do; even I know that."
Aquilina was looking at her with something that could have been anything from tenderness to pity. "You're not old enough to understand," she said suddenly, as if continuing a previous conversation. "I don't like it here."
"Me either," Rosanna confessed, certain her sister was referring to something more than the bridge. "It's not at all as exciting as I wanted it to be, but I can't say that at home."
The sun was setting, but it was still light enough for her to make out the frown on her sister's face. "'Lina, what's wrong?"
Her sister shook her head. "That isn't it. I'm sure I could be happy here if I didn't know I would be happier somewhere else."
Rosanna was bewildered. "You mean you want to go home?"
"Rafael wanted to marry me." Aquilina's hands were white where they clenched cold metal and the black strands of hair falling loose around her face lent her a disturbingly corybantic appearance. "To marry me. You'll know someday how important that is, knowing someone wants to stay with you for all of life and beyond. And then it was stopped before it could even begin because we came here." Her voice had risen almost to a yell; Rosanna was unsure whether to hold her or run from her. "How can I be happy in this place when I know how much it ruined for me?"
"I...don't know."
"I can't," she said flatly. "And that's something I'd rather not be around to know."
There must have been something of a dramatist in Aquilina as well. She let go of the rail.
Tranquility reigned until her sister, driven mad by grief and longing, threw herself into the roaring river that ran near their new home. Rosanna was distraught, knowing full well that, had she but kept hold of her sister's hands, had she but cried for assistance, such a tragedy might have been averted.
The narrative that forever ran within Rosanna's head reached a fever pitch. Step on for your solo, little one. She knew from the instant Aquilina's eyes dropped in defiance and her body dropped in resignation that her sister was dead, never mind the time it takes a human to drown, never mind the depth of the Seine; she wanted to die, no sense in stopping her. As Rosanna ran home she could almost hear an audience crying for her, a brave girl who had just witnessed a terrible event and was now forced to bring the awful news to the rest of her family. But no one noticed her as she tore through the street like an urchin, breaths ragged, hair flying unattractively out of its plaits.
Mamá's head shot up in alarm as she burst through the door. "Rosanna, mija, what happened?" Rosanna carefully caught her breath until the entire family had gathered before her. She let one hand clutch her heart and the other grope weakly at the wall. And, more tragic heroine than grieving girl, she opened her mouth and delivered her lines with a poignant solemnity that wrenched every heart in her audience: "Aquilina is dead."
And that was all. The family clung together in the face of the tragedy until they grew accustomed enough to Aquilina's absence for almost everything to continue as usual. Just a funeral and some crying, and then nothing changed. Rosanna was disappointed. If even a death couldn't make life more interesting, her family must be doing everything all wrong.
And so it was that Rosanna, innocent and full of hope, came to Paris seeking joy and learned not to find it. Her idealism dashed, she fled in torment, ashamed to burden her family with her pain. She sought life elsewhere, striving mightily to overcome the ills of the past and encounter the adventure she had always dreamed of.
Every now and then she would reach back behind the life of grandees and scandals she had concocted, back further, back before her name became a nationality, back when she had dreamed of a future instead of dreaming a past. And she would try to regret, just to see if she could. She never could.
No doubt there was some sort of symbolism in that. She was empty of anything, a vessel on the stage, twisted to match whatever reality or unreality was in the air.
She dreamed of it very rarely but always vividly. Mamá sewing as the servants made dinner, nodding indulgently while Papá talked on about the stock market. Eduardo laughing as he ran from room to room. Aquilina giggling with Rafael behind the garden wall. And she, Rosanna: with crooked braids, a book on her lap, and a pensive look on her face.
When she woke, it evaporated as easily as if it had never existed at all. And Spanish neatly folded her dreams into the back of her mind, adjusted her mantilla, and went out to dance. Years rolled by, each one more intricate than the next. Bravely, having sacrificed her very birthright, she found a place for herself in a new and beautiful world. And all was well forever after.