17‘José, José, José . . .’
I heard the call dozens of times a day from my grandfather, and although I longed for a real name, it made me want not to have a name at all, at least when Grandfather was around, so that he couldn’t call me. The reason for the constant summoning wasn’t that he wanted to talk to me. When Mendoza called my name, an order was bound to follow. ‘Fill the trough with water for the cocks.’ ‘Clean out the pen.’ ‘Take the scraps to Whitey.’ ‘Climb the mango tree and pick some mangoes.’ ‘Warm up the oil and follow me.’
No one but me obeyed Mendoza, especially after my mother moved to her husband’s house and had Adrian. She insisted on staying with Adrian in a better environment, away from her father’s house, even if her new place was just a little house at the end of th
