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Ignazio's eyes met the boy's. He felt a surge of—what? fear? fascination?
shame? It struck him, then—the obvious and unthinkable fact that he
was in a strange land, worlds and worlds and long blue worlds away
from home. His ribs tightened inside him. He longed for his only friend.
He searched, pushing past women's wide baskets and sailors' hard smiles,
until he finally found him, smoking a cigarette (how had he found one?)
and leaning nonchalantly against a stucco wall. "Don't worry," Pietro
said. "We'll get used to it." He laughed. "Here, have a smoke. What do you say
we find a place to eat, a woman or two? We can think about jobs and rooms in
the morning."
He slapped Ignazio's back, and they began to navigate the brackish
din of Montevideo.
Monte. Vide. Eu. I see a mountain, said a Portuguese man, among the
first Europeans to sight this terrain from sea.
Monte. Vide. Eu. But Ignazio saw no mountain at all, just flat, cobbled
streets.
Monte. Vide. Eu. City of sailors and workers, of wool and steak, of
gray stones and long nights, biting-cold winters and Januaries so humid
you could swim through hot air. City of seekers. Port of a hundred flags.
Heart and edge of Uruguay.
It was El Cerro they'd been talking about. Those Portuguese. They
had glimpsed El Cerro from their ship, and spawned the city's name.
Excerpted from The Invisible Mountains by Carolina De Robertis Copyright © 2009 by Carolina De Robertis. Excerpted by permission of Knopf. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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