Before we go any further I need to explain that I really was a very pretty girl. I'm not being vain, any vanity I had was scoured from me that year.
I was tiny, small-boned like my mestizo mother, and with her dark eyes and feathery brows, but with a tumble of silver-blond curls.
My father always said I got my blond curls from my grandmother and as a child, I believed she'd died so I could have her hair. Isn't it strange, the things we believe as children, almost as fantastical as what we believe as adults?
He was touching my hair and smiling, and there was something like greed in his eyes. I could sense my mother's distress.
She said: "Generalissimo, can I offer you something to eat?"
He turned and smiled charmingly at her if you could imagine his heavy-jawed face lightened by charm. "What is that I smell, my dear?" he asked. "Chupe?"
My mother nodded and pressed her hands together. "Yes," she smiled nervously. "Chupe de camarones. It's Friday..."
The Generalissimo sighed. "I haven't eaten a bowl of honest chupe in years. They insist on French cooks at the Presidential Palace, and they can't make chupe...Not like my mother's..."
"I'll get you a bowl, Generalissimo," my mother said immediately, but he held up a hand. I noticed it was even bigger than the meaty-handed man's.
"No, no!" he cried. "I will dine with your family, we will wait for your husband. He was one of my warriors. I want to see him, talk about old times."
His smile widened and he added: "But I don't want to add to a good housewife's troubles!"
"No," my mother said. "It will be no trouble and a great honor!" I saw her cast me a nervous glance and wipe her palms on her dress. "If you will excuse Dita, she will set the table."
I hurried to obey, but he caught my hand as I was passing. "No, no!" he cried. "Please, Mrs. Hernandez, allow Dita to remain here with me. If you'll excuse her from her chores of course. It's not often I have a chance to speak to the young ones, to hear their views. After all, they are the citizens of the future!"
"Of course, Generalissimo," my mother said, but I could see that it wasn't alright, and that made me even more uneasy.
"Please don't call me Generalissimo, Mrs. Hernandez," he said. "My friends, my family call me Papa Juan."
"Papa Juan," mama said, and looked horrified. The bloodiest dictator in South American's bloody history wanted my mother to call him Papa Juan.
He laughed delightedly and raised my hand which he was still holding to his lips. "You too, precious angel!" he cried.
Obediently I chimed in like a little parrot: "Papa Juan." He kissed my hand again. He didn't let it go and I didn't dare pull it away even though it was getting sticky with sweat.
My mother stood in the doorway to the kitchen looking uncertain, and he waved her away. "Don't worry, Mrs. Hernandez, Dita will entertain me."
He pulled me to our thread-bare sofa and sat me beside him, so close I could feel the heat of his body. He was still holding my hand.
"Tell me, Dita," he said in a quiet, gentle voice. "Tell me your dreams."
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