Beyond the Ties of Blood by Florencia Mallon Page A

Manuel had begun attending Temuco’s newest and most expensive private school, with a reputation for progressive learning methods. It was so different from his other school, a public one that welcomed all the children who had lived nearby, no matter how much money their parents made. The children of all the best families, the ones whose parents had the largest farms and the biggest lumber mills, went to this new school. They all lived in the same neighborhood, too, the one with streets named after European countries. Like all the other mothers in her new social circle, Sara Weisz de Bronstein was now too busy with her charity work and her Tuesday canasta games to pick her son up from school or take him to the park; but unlike the other children, he refused to be picked up by his father’s new chauffeur-driven car.
    He crossed the avenue into the downtown district and continued along the edge of the tree-lined plaza. A block further on, tucked between a large button store and a newly remodeled grocery right across from the Central Market, was his grandparents’ tailor shop. He knew they had opened the shop when they moved to Temuco from further north, where his grandpa had managed a farm after they had come over from Russia. Even before he opened the door, he caught a wisp of cinnamon and knew his grandma was baking rugelach in the wood-burning oven. As soon as she heard the clinking of the small bell nailed to the door’s upper corner, she emerged from the back, wiping her hands on her large flowered apron.
    â€œOh good, Manolito, it’s you. Come, you should taste the surprise I have for you.”
    She’d started calling him Manolito because she’d taken a liking to the Spanish bullfighter of the same name, the one whose picture hung on the ancient, dust-covered calendar on the wall. As far as Manuel could tell, she’d never seen a bullfight, nor did she want to. But there was something about the figure of Manolito, his impossibly thin waist, the way his matador cap sat jauntily on the edge of his forehead, that made her happy. And so the calendar had hung there, gathering its yearly layer of dust, from as far back as he could remember. The first time, on a visit to the tailor shop, that it had been him and his mama who’d gotten into a fight, Grandma had told him he was acting like a bullfighter, waving a red cape in front of his mother’s eyes. “Now I have another reason for the nickname, Manolito,” she’d chuckled gently the next time he visited on his own.
    As he made his way back toward the kitchen, his mouth watering in anticipation of the snail-shaped rugelach , their brown cinnamon and sugar syrup trapped between layers of crisp, warm dough, he saw Grandpa David stooped over the foot-powered sewing machine, a single electric bulb hanging above his head. He had his half-moon glasses all the way at the tip of his nose, concentrating on the collar of what looked like a dress shirt. His curly red hair, liberally sprinkled with white and grey, rose to several points along his forehead. Manuel knew he’d been pulling at it as he worked. He put his hand on his grandpa’s shoulder for a moment.
    â€œHi, Grandpa. You going to have tea with us?”
    It took Grandpa a full minute to come back into the room from wherever his head had been while sewing. “Ah. Manolito. Rugelach . Yes. Just a moment.”
    Manuel gave his grandpa’s shoulder a squeeze and continued toward the kitchen. For just a second, it crossed his mind that it was taking Grandpa longer every day to focus on the things going on around him. But then Grandma placed a mug of sweet, warm tea with milk and a plate of rugelach on the table and all concerns were swept away.
    A full twenty minutes later, Grandpa emerged from his sewing room. Grandma Myriam had served him some tea, then put it back on the stove, served him some cookies, then put the tray back in the oven, at least three times.