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front door. It looked as if it were made of copper or brass, and it had the emblem of a lion embossed on its surface.
    The driver charged past me to the door and pressed the buzzer. He looked back at me and shook his head. Did he pity me or disapprove of me? Why was he so annoyed? Had he been pulled away from some far more important work?
    An elderly lady in a maid’s uniform, not much taller than I, opened the door.
    “Here she is, Mrs. Rosario,” the driver told her, and nodded at me. “She don’t speak much English at all,” he added.
    Mrs. Rosario nodded. She had soft eyes sunk in a round face with plump cheeks and a small mouth with puckered lips. Her complexion wasn’t quite as dark as mine, and there were strands of gray woven through her tightly brushed black hair pinned back into a bun. A small silver cross rested just below the base of her throat.
    “ Venga adentro, ” she told me, and stepped back.
    The driver handed me my suitcase, and I entered the grand hacienda. Señora Rosario closed the door, and I stood there gaping at everything. There were statues of two half-naked African women facing each other, with large, colorful tapestries above each that nearly reached the high dome ceiling. The floor was dark marble with white spots that looked like milk dripped over it. It led down a short stairway to a living room the size of our casa back in Mexico, if not bigger. The ceiling was as high as a church ceiling, and there were embossed elephants, birds, and tigers. I couldn’t drink it all in quickly enough.
    All of the furniture must have been built for a family of mythological giants, I thought. The sofas were long and thick, and there were oversized chairs that I was sure would swallow me whole if I sat on them. There was a very long and wide center table with carvings in its wood frame and other matching marble tables beside the chairs and sofa.
    Artwork of every kind was everywhere I looked, from grand paintings of what I imagined were scenes of world-famous cities to busts on pedestals, more tapestries and glass-doored armoires filled with crystal figures, as well as other kinds of collectibles. Everything appeared sparkling clean and new.
    Large area rugs were set over the travertine floors. Across the room were tall glass doors that opened to a grand Spanish tiled patio. I could see a large pink fountain, more statuary, and pretty turquoise, red, and yellow outdoor furnishings. The patio led down to a walkway through gardens, more fountains, and beautiful beds of flowers. I felt certain that the president of Mexico didn’t live any better or in a grander casa with as many servants. When people back in my village said Americans lived like kings and queens, they were surely thinking of people like mi tía Isabela.
    “Put your suitcase against the wall,” Señora Rosario told me, and nodded to my right. She spoke in fluent Spanish. “And go sit on the sofa on your left and wait. Don’t touch anything. Señora Dallas will be here soon.”
    I did what she asked and then walked into the living room. The richness of everything and the way everything glittered and sparkled made me feel as if I should tiptoe and be extra gentle. As I had envisioned, when I sat on the sofa, I felt lost, as if I could drown in gold. Señora Rosario watched me absorbing the richness and wealth. Finally, she softened her lips. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was on its way. I wondered if she had reacted in a similar way when she first had entered this hacienda.
    “ Como se llama ?” she asked.
    “Delia,” I told her.
    “Señora Dallas quisiera que usted me llama Señora Rosario, but,” she added, still in Spanish, “when we’re alone, you can call me Alita, but never, never in front of Señora Dallas,” she emphasized.
    “It’s so beautiful here,” I told her.
    She nodded like someone used to hearing it. “It’s all very expensive. Almost everything is imported from one place or another.”
    “It’s like a