Hershey's Box

Judit Pousada Freire

“What a night, Alma, what a night you missed!” Aurora whispered as she let herself drop on the chair next to the bed where Alma had been dozing the whole day. A faint early morning light enveloped the tiny one-bedroom apartment Alma and Aurora shared.

“Champagne, caviar... They even lit the Murano chandelier in the main lobby! The works!!!” Aurora was softly recalling the details of the night while painfully removing with quiet moans, so as not to wake Alma, the three-inch lilac sequined shoes she had been wearing for over ten hours.

For the past year and a half Alma and Aurora had been picking up double shifts at El Lido Varietés Nightclub, serving drinks and smiles indistinctly and in unison, and stashing inside a Hershey’s Chocolates tin box under the mattress the booty they had been amassing. Tonight there had been a large private party at El Lido and the tips had been fabulous! Aurora was convinced that today, they finally had enough money to give Cholo who had promised to get them work as chambermaids on board of the Vulcania, one of the cruise ships that regularly sailed from Barbaña to New York via the Azores. “The rest will be up to you,” Cholo told them with a slightly mischievous smile.

Aurora had never felt the need to go anywhere beyond Barbaña, and until she met Alma, she was content to be where she was now. She had arrived in Barbaña eight years ago from Maceiras, an inland village nestled in the furthest Northern Province of Spain, fleeing from four demanding brothers and a father who, as the years passed, had become increasingly more irascible and unpredictable. Aurora knew her future, like that of so many other young women from Maceiras, was to look after the family home until she married a boy from her village, preferably with a trade. She saw herself spending the rest of her days birthing children, most of which might die in infancy, and taking care of her husband and her aging father.

So, at midnight on a frigid day in late January 1920, without further thought, Aurora made up her mind. She tied what little she had into a bundle, put on her clogs, threw her shawl over her shoulders, and, while her brothers and father slept cloaked within the exhaustion of a long day of arduous fieldwork, she snuck out of what had been her home during the first fifteen years of her life.

She walked all night along the muddy road, barely guided by the flickering light of an oil lamp until she reached Capela. Wrapped in her shawl and in the cold mist rising from the damp ground, she waited until dawn for the bus that would take her to Barbaña, where she had every intention of starting her new life.

Aurora massaged her aching calves, propping her feet up on the edge of the bed. “I think we have more than enough to give Cholo. I'll have to count it to make sure,” she said with a fatigued voice, more to herself than for Alma to hear.

Alma, the only and late child of the Pombals, a near-well-to-do family from Vilacastro, spent her adolescence locked up in her room, dazzled by the allure of the photos of American and Spanish actors and actresses, that sipped from the glossy imported pages of Life Magazine and Blanco y Negro without discriminating between Clara Bow or La Bella Guerrero. She would cut their photos and put them in one of the many Hershey’s Chocolates tin boxes her father procured her from America. She began daydreaming of the day when she too would move to America and marry one of those tall, handsome, world-traveled millionaires that she kept in her Hershey’s boxes who would take her in his strong Douglas Fairbanks’ arms and melt in a passionate, ever after kiss while fading to black.

But all her parents offered her instead—as their noble, parental ambition dictated—was the option to choose between the forty-three year-old Navy Commander, Ilmo. Señor Don José Ramón Fidalgo y Saliente, whose mouth reeked an eternal putrid algae smell making Alma nauseous every time he grabbed her by the elbow at social gatherings, picnics, and patron saint celebrations when he approached his mouth to her ear in the futile hope of impressing her by revealing some highly irrelevant state secret.

Her other option was Don Ricardo Abrente Pereira, a 27-year-old, mustachetwisting, eye-twitching, half-balding local merchant, who with his thumbs always tucked in his vest’s front pockets, boisterously commented on the progression of eight-hour workers᾿ plight in Madrid, where he claimed to go very often for business. He had inherited from his late father a chain of discreet, yet profitable, lingerie and haberdasher’s shops. Although under the laced fans in the Casino and the Racetrack it was murmured that, along with the shops, he had inherited his father’s mistress as well, but, of course, those were only rumors spread by idle and envious gossipers.

Ever since she had memories, Alma had a suffocating sensation whenever she looked outside her bedroom window in the narrow Serpe Street, where she was born and had never left, and told herself that there had to be more to life than dinners and dances at the Country Club or the Racetrack with Don Fildago y Saliente or Ricardo Abrente.

Doña Ifigenia blamed her daughter’s fidgety spirit on so many movies, so many magazines, and so many books that had affected her brain. Don Leandro, always pragmatic, was beginning to lose his patience with that untamable daughter, for whom the years were passing by and who seemed uninterested in stepping up and deciding who she was going to marry.

“Make her choose already! If she doesn’t, then I’ll do it for her,” he thundered demandingly at his wife while storming out of their home on his way to his Import Export office by the docks.

So, in the early hours of a frosty day at the end of January 1924, without further thought, Alma made up her mind. She took from her closet her favorite Hershey’s tin box, the brown suitcase, and her hatbox where she threw in all the jewelry she had been hoarding over almost twenty-two years of birthdays, Christmases, and all other pertinent occasions. She walked the four and a half blocks that separated the train station from her home, where her parents placidly slept with the confidence provided

by the knowledge of having the family honor intact, and she waited for the 07:32 am train to Barbaña, the first stop in her journey to America.

Through the rattling window of her second-class compartment, she could picture herself disembarking in America where the avenues were spacious and clean, the streets were lit day and night, and there were movie and theater performances every day. Alma had it all well planned out: as soon as she arrived in America, she would get a job, any job—as a salesgirl at Macy’s for instance—rent a tiny, bright apartment, and go to every movie and every play in the theater... And would meet interesting people and who knows? Maybe even marry a Valentino look-a-like...

As the train clattered its way to Barbaña the daylight began to show the frosted fields and naked trees. Although she knew that her life was somewhere else, the suspicion of having made a mistake began gnawing at her. What if she couldn't make it to America? What if, when she got to America, she couldn't find a job? Or not even be able to rent the tiny apartment? Suddenly a free-fall feeling began to take over her, as if the floor of this train that was heading towards that much desired life, was opening under her feet leaving her with the certainty that there was no turning back and that from now on she must live with the consequences of her decision. Aurora stretched her legs, “Alma, we should call the doctor,” she whispered while resting her feet on the border of the bed. “I think we have more than enough to give Cholo. I’ll rest for a bit and then count it just to be sure,” she said to Alma while leaning her head back on the chair and half-closing her eyes. Although she knew Alma was still sleeping, she said it aloud for the pleasure of hearing the words. “After I finish counting it, I’ll wake her up and call Dr. Paredes,” she thought.

Alma and Aurora had found each other in the Central Gardens of Barbaña in mid-1924. Alma was sitting pensive on a bench. Things weren’t going the way she thought they should. When she arrived in Barbaña, she tried pawning her jewels but what they offered her was not even enough for half a 3rd class ticket.

She had been in Barbaña for six months already and all she had managed to get was a position as a governess with a family who only provided her with room and board and some change. Aurora walked by the Gardens every night on her way to El Lido, and for some weeks now she had seen Alma sitting there, looking at the horizon, discerning, waiting. And Aurora knew: she knew that gaze of longing and recognized the sadness of the outsider looking in—she had been that outsider once. Aurora sat on the bench next to Alma and they both instantly recognized themselves in each other and smiled.

Aurora looked again at the bed where she guessed that Alma was sleeping, half-covered by the bedsheet. Careful not to wake her, she removed the Hershey’s box from under the mattress where they kept all the money they were saving up and began counting out the coins and bills. From her bosom she took out that night’s crumpled tips and continued counting. She added with her fingers, then recounted all the money, moving her lips, as if in a silent prayer. She placed on the bedspread the coins in neat little piles and flattened the bills stretching out the corners well. With eyes sparkling from excitement, she turned to Alma. “I told you! Didn't I tell you? We already have enough, we have more than enough!” She sprung from the chair agitated. “Alma, Alma!” she yelled jumping to her knees on the bed. Alma moved indolently to the rhythm of the old mattress, partially covered by the sheet, dark circles under her eyes, her hair matted after days of continuous fever.

During the first two years together, Aurora, not with some skepticism, had been listening to Alma talk nonstop about going to New York: People in America were so civilized! Everyone in America had a beautiful home with running hot and cold water and electricity! In America all the men wore bowler hats, opened the door for the ladies, and shared the household chores. Besides, Alma had everything laid out: when they got to America, they would work as salesgirls in a department store, rent a small, bright room near Broadway, go to cafés, and smoke freely as she had seen Gloria Swanson do in one of her latest films that had been screened at the Rex Cinema in Barbaña.

When she still lived at home, she managed to study some English. She began to teach Aurora, so they would be ready when they arrived in America.

“Jelou! Uat is yur neim?” she patiently pronounced for Aurora.

“Mai neim is Aurrrorrra,” Aurora replied, somewhat dazed, arming herself with resignation and incipient hope.

Alma had devoured all the magazines featuring vacuum cleaners, dryers, and coffee pots, being able to describe their smallest details, as if she had them right in front of her. She had also memorized all the Photoplay, McCall’s and Cosmopolitan she could get her hands on, because all the fashion and glamor was there, in America. She even cut her hair short, like Louise Brookes, to the surprise and delight of Aurora, who didn’t quite understand Alma’s madness for everything in America.

Finally, Aurora decided to start believing her and they began to plan the trip together, especially when Cholo told her that yes, it was true, that “in New York, the streets were lit day and night and not with kerosene like in Barbaña, no... But with real electric light. Night seemed like day and there were cinemas, theaters, and variety-shows every day of the week and every day of the year... And there is also work.” He told her lowering his voice, as if making her an accomplice to a very well-kept secret. “A lot of work... and they pay well, you know? You can earn in a week what you earn here in four months...” He knew it very well, because the nephew of one of his cousins lived there. So, Aurora began to think that perhaps Alma was not so far off with her craziness about America.

“Alma?” she called with a tremor in her voice as a cold bolt ran down her spine. “Alma... We already have enough money,” she repeated, as trying to push away a dreaded omen that seemed to be coming true. “Know what?” she began to say in a hurry, chasing away the fear that was beginning to creep inside her. “I’ll tell Cholo that we're leaving in a month. Better still, in three weeks! Do you

hear me?” Aurora froze, kneeling by the bed. “Alma, wake up. Please wake up. We already have the money,” she whispered with a hint of defeat. She carefully brushed the sticky hair away from Alma’s face. Then touched her forehead and livid lips, raised the stiff arm that lay on the sheet and felt Alma’s hands cold as the belly of a lizard. Stunned, Aurora saw how the perfect little mountains of coins were scattered over the bed and she felt as if a black cloud shrouded everything around her, not letting her understand anything. She quickly stood up, snatched angrily the scattered bills and coins she had counted and recounted earlier and put them back haphazardly inside the Hershey’s box.

“We should have called Dr. Paredes,” she scolded Alma angrily. “I told you we had to call him...” With her hands on her hips Aurora continued, reproachingly, “But noooo... We had to wait... We couldn't spend any money...”

Feeling the betrayal of sudden abandonment, Aurora furiously shoved Hershey’s box back under the mattress. Choking with tears and anger, she muttered, “What am I going to do without you, uh?”

Sitting down again on the chair next to the bed, she leaned over Alma and tenderly caressing her forehead, she whispered, “Just tell me... What am I supposed to do now?”

Outside it was already daylight.