The Firefly Letters (3 page)

Cecilia and Fredrika live

in a hut in our garden, but they dine

in the big house with us,

and I must say that the Swedish lady

eats like a castaway

right after the long-awaited rescue

from starvation.

Fredrika tells us that her mother

never allowed her to eat her fill.

She was expected to be as thin and graceful

as a ballet dancer,

even though her natural shape

is sturdy and strong.

Hunger drove her to steal

strawberry cream cake from the pantry.

Anger made her toss her gloves into the fire.

Once, after writing a poem about the moon,

she burned it, because she knew

that nothing she did could ever be good enough

to please her stern mother.

On the coldest, darkest night

of Sweden's long winter,

I used to dress up as the Queen of Light,

with pine branches and candles

balanced on my head.

I walked carefully

to avoid setting my hair on fire

as I carried the traditional gift

of saffron buns to my parents.

I was ravenous, but I was permitted only

to keep half of one spicy golden pastry

for myself, even though girls

in other, more humble homes

were allowed to feast

during that midwinter celebration

of hope for spring.

I knew that I could not survive

as a half-starved rich girl

for the rest of my life.

Roaming the world

has been my escape.

My husband is a young man

of my own tribe.

He was chosen for me

by Elena's father.

His name is Beni

and he is a postillion,

a skilled horseman who rides

the fancy mare that pulls Elena's

swift high-wheeled volanta carriage

down the cobblestone street

whenever Elena and her mother

go out to buy silk and pearls

for her hope chest.

Perhaps, if I had been free

to choose Beni myself,

I might know how to love him,

but he is a stranger,

and now that I am living

in a cottage with Fredrika,

I hardly see my husband at all.

Out in the garden

lit by
cocuyos

I feel unattached

if not free.

I feel like a young girl again,

unmarried and skinny,

with a flat belly

that has never

known the kick

of an impatient baby

so eager

to be born

into this world

of confusion.

If I had been free

to choose my own wife,

I would have married the girl

I loved so long ago

before I was captured

by men with guns

who carried me to this island,

a world of noble horses

and human hatred.

I ride with my back straight

and my hands gentle

so my trusting mount will know

that I am balanced and alert,

a rider who will never allow a horse

to stumble and fall.

I cannot protect myself

from the sorrows of this world,

but I can guide any horse

that is placed in my care.

Fredrika tells me she was in love

with a country preacher in her homeland.

He asked her to marry him, but she said no

because she felt certain that as a wife

she would lose her freedom to roam.

Travel is the magic

that allows her to write

about the lives of women

whose husbands think of them

as property

instead of people.

Fredrika says stories can lead

to a change in laws.

I am glad that Fredrika

has chosen to write

about Cuba

and slavery.

When Elena visits us in the cottage,

we take turns leafing

through Fredrika's sketchbook.

Some of the drawings are pictures

of famous people Fredrika met

while she was traveling in North America—

poets named Emerson

and Longfellow.

Some are pictures of Fredrika's friends

in Europe: the Queen of Denmark

and a wonderful storyteller

named Hans Christian Andersen

who is in love with a famous singer,

Jenny Lind, the Swedish Nightingale,

even though he knows

that the singer will never love him.

There are pictures of slaves

in the United States.

Fredrika admits that, until she saw

the United States of America

with her own eyes,

she imagined she might find paradise

in the land of Emerson

and Longfellow.

Instead, she found the slave market

in New Orleans, with a schoolhouse

right beside it

where children were singing

about the Land of the Free

while, just outside

their classroom window,

other children

were bought and sold

or traded

like stolen cows.

Cuban fireflies are the most amazing