Cesária Escobar was sixteen when she walked down the aisle, arm in arm with a man she had only met once. Her seven brothers and sisters watched in dismay, but her widowed mother wished her well. The man, Apolinário Barandirán García, made no conditions to her family—he accepted her lack of fortune, her average looks, her mixed blood.

Cesária Escobar tinha dezesseis anos quando aceitou casar com um homem que vira apenas uma vez na vida. Seus sete irmãos e irmãs estremeceram ao ver o casal descer do altar de braços dados, mas a mãe, já viúva, beijou-lhe a testa e desejou aos dois toda a sorte que o mundo pode dar. O homem, Apolinário Barandirán García, não fizera condição alguma à sua família, e aceitou a pouca fortuna, a beleza medíocre, o sangue miscigenado.

The bomb detonated silently, coating the street with a brief yellow burst like the mother of all paintball hits. As far as I could see, everything and everybody bloomed yellow, the cars, the houses, the early shoppers.

Toen de bom ontplofte, was ik bijna binnen in de dameskledingwinkel waar ik werk. Als ik die leuke jongen op zijn scooter niet had nagekeken was ik al veilig geweest.

You can't catch water with a fist, they say. And yet, no sooner does he unclench his fist than glowing jewels appear before their very eyes.

يلفُّ سَجَائِرَهُ بِأَصْوَاتِهَا بأَنْفَاسِهَا، يعْركُ رَغِيفَهُ بِرَوَائِحِهَا بطُعُومِهَا، يُضمِّخُ صَمْتَهُ بِمُوسِيقَى شُقُوقِهَا، يشْرَبُ رَحِيقَ تَجَاعِيدِهَا المَكْتُومَةِ.