One Day a Year
The tower stands above the village, at the top of the island, and for three hundred and sixty-four days a year it is closed.
The last Sunday in September is a traditional day here. Six old buildings open their doors to the public. Only one of them has a hundred and eight steps.
Esperanza waits at the bottom of the stairs with a metal box for coins. “The roof costs money,” she says. “Put something in, or don’t. Then follow me.”
The first floor is empty and cool. Farmers kept salt here, and later olive oil, in jars taller than a child.
The second floor has one window, and the window looks north. Soldiers sat here for two hundred years and watched the sea for ships.
The third floor was a prison. There is a name on the wall and a date under it: 1811.
Then there are forty-two more steps, and on those steps nobody talks.
At the top there is the bell. It is smaller than people expect.
“A man stood here every night,” Esperanza says. “One man, all night, in the rain too. When he saw a ship, he rang the bell, and the whole village ran up into the hills.”
“Did he ever ring it?” a boy at the front asks.
“Twice,” Esperanza says. “In two hundred years, twice.”