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to see my aunt and cousins waiting or sitting in the seats behind him.
    “How many bags you got?” he asked gruffly.
    I shook my head. I didn’t understand. Bags? Why did he want to know about bags?
    “Bags, suitcases!” he practically screamed at me, and then pretended to hold one.
    “Oh. Uno, ” I said, holding up one finger.
    “Good. C’mon,” he said, gesturing, and led me to the baggage carousels, where we waited for my small suitcase to come around.
    He looked at me and squinted. He had big, pecan-brown eyes and a face that looked chiseled out of granite, the lines cut deeply and sharply around the corners of his mouth and at his eyes. He even had lines cut into his chin. I imagined his face suddenly shattering.
    “ No sabe usted hablar inglés ?” he asked.
    I shook my head.
    “Jesus, you don’t speak any English at all?”
    “ Poco, ” I said, afraid to say I spoke or understood more. Whoever spoke to me would expect me then to understand. I thought about reciting some of the words I did know, but he grimaced and shook his head.
    “Yeah, a little. Little good that will do you with Mrs. Dallas.”
    I perked up at the sound of my aunt’s name and looked around again.
    “Don’t worry. She ain’t here. No aquí, ” he said. “Like she would come to an airport to greet anyone,” he muttered.
    He pounced on my bag when I pointed to it, practically ripping the handle off when he grasped it.
    “It’s amazing this piece of junk lasted,” he said, tugging on my father’s belt.
    I knew he was making fun of my suitcase. I wanted to explain. After all, none of us ever traveled in an airplane, and whenever we did go on a trip, we put things in cartons. Before I could say a word, however, he turned quickly to march out of the airport. I had to walk very quickly to keep up with him. He led me to the parking lot, where a car that looked as if it were made of gold was parked. Later, I would learn it was a Rolls-Royce. The backseat was even more roomy than the limousine, but it also looked spanking new, not a smudge or anything on the windows or seats.
    As we drove away from the airport and headed for my aunt’s hacienda, my face was practically glued to the window. I was amazed at how well kept and new everything looked. The streets were so wide, and there were no potholes and cracks. Everyone seemed to be driving a brand-new automobile, too. The palm trees, varieties of bougainvillea, flowers, and even the grass all looked unreal. The mountains in the distance seemed more like scenery built for a movie.
    When we reached a side street and I saw gardeners working, I suddenly became very homesick. They paused in their work to look at us as we passed by, and I thought they surely thought I was some rich American girl safe in her fishbowl. If they only knew who I was and where I had just come from and why, they wouldn’t even bother turning in my direction.
    Of course, I was prepared to see a big house with a nice lawn, but I had no idea my aunt really lived in a palace, or at least what looked to me like a palace. There was a very tall chocolate-colored entry gate with elaborate scrolling that had to be opened first for us to enter the property. It swung in slowly, as slowly as the gates of heaven. I imagined the sound of trumpets.
    The driveway to the main house seemed as long as the road that had brought us from the airport. To the left of the main house were two smaller buildings, and farther in the rear I saw tennis courts and a very large swimming pool, as large as, if not larger than, most hotel pools I had seen. A small army of gardeners was cutting grass, pruning bushes, and trimming trees. Just to the right of the house was a four-car garage, but the driver, who had yet to tell me his name, stopped at the front of the main house.
    “This is it,” he said. “ Vámanos. Out.” He waved, and I opened the door while he went around to the trunk to get my suitcase.
    I waited, looking up at the grand