(from The New Yorker, Oct. 6, 2008)
“You sing beautifully,” I said.
“What was it about?”
“Just old songs.”
“Henry said you were singing about love.”
She had a lovely laugh: clear and unpretentious, like moonlight. “He doesn’t speak Quechua,” Tania said. “Must have been a lucky guess.”
A Google search leads me to believe that this story is set in Puerto Rico, but I enjoyed not knowing specifically where I was. This was a sublime story to sit back and enjoy, watching this hardscrabble little trio tramp across a muddy valley, these actors are like activists, or like folksingers. Veterans from harsher, more serious times, but not satisfied that things are getting a little better.
Read it here.