Conquistadora (24 page)

“Have you nothing to say?” she asked.

Ramón sighed again, and she expected him to argue, to apologize, to lie about it even, but not to calmly climb into the hammock and turn his back to her.

“Déjame tranquilo,”
he said with the same intonation as on that night months ago when she came to him not in anger but with love and compassion.

“How can you expect me to—,” she started.

“¡Déjame!”
he yelled, and sat up as if to strike her.

She froze, awestruck that Ramón, gentle, laughing Ramón, would raise his voice and a hand threateningly in her direction. She had the sudden urge to protect herself the way Flora did, but the next moment it vanished. In the room across the hall, Miguel cried and Flora murmured. Ana had the feeling that the whole plantation was alert, listening. They’ve all been waiting for this moment, she thought.
They’ve all known what was going on, and were waiting for me to realize it and to see what I’d do.

“Next time you go lie with that
perra puta
,” Ana said through clenched teeth, “don’t bother coming back here.” She turned to go, but he pulled her by her braids. He slapped her, but she slid from his grasp and ran screaming for the door. He blocked it and pushed her down, then kicked her so hard that it sent her sprawling across the room.

“You are the bitch,” he snarled. “You are the whore. You.”

On the floor, Ana tried to protect her face, her belly, and the back of her head, but Ramón’s blows found the parts of her that were exposed. She couldn’t see, but she heard footsteps running in her direction. Severo. He was there, suddenly, tussling with Ramón and pressing him against the wall. Then Flora was beside her, helping her up and leading her back to her bedroom. Through the thin slats that separated them, she heard Ramón abusing Severo, threatening to fire him, questioning his authority to come into his house, into his room. But soon Ramón was silent and both men left.

Ana couldn’t face Flora. Last night’s shame was now humiliation. She kept her eyes to the ground as Flora helped her to the bed. Flora called Inés, who listened to her instructions, then disappeared. Flora rolled up the mosquito net and helped Ana change from the torn, bloodstained nightgown into a fresh one.

“Easy,
mi niña
, slow, let Flora help,” she said, her strong hands moving in several directions at once, dropping the gown over Ana’s head, lifting her arms, and guiding them into sleeves, stroking the hair from her face, pulling the hem over Ana’s hips, tying the ribbons around the neckline.

Ana didn’t resist. She closed her eyes and let Flora’s competent fingers do their work. Her hands and knees were raw. She brought her right hand to her face and saw a splinter wedged into the fleshy mound beneath her right thumb. Through squinted eyes, Flora squeezed until her nails met around the splinter and, with one swift, painful jerk, pulled it out. She pressed her thumb over the hurt and held it there while with her other hand she wiped Ana’s cheeks with the hem of her apron.

“It only hurt for a little,
mi niña
,” she soothed.

Flora then turned her attention to Ana’s knees, which felt as if
they’d been scratched against the metal
guayo
used to grate yuca and plantains. Her right knee throbbed, and when Flora tried to straighten it, Ana groaned. The maid pressed the flesh under and around the knee.

“No worry,
señora
, not broke. Big bruise, that is all.”

There was a knock, and Ana tensed. Inés entered with a pitcher of cool water in one hand, a fragrant unguent in a gourd in the other, and a stack of cloths over her arm. She looked curiously toward the bed, but Flora immediately covered Ana and stood between them as Inés set the things on the bedside table and left with her head high and the air of someone who was denied but wouldn’t admit to being offended.

Ana let Flora tend to her bruises, unable to curb her tears. Until last night she’d never hit anyone, until this morning she’d never been hit, not by her anxious mother or strict father, not even by the rigid, vengeful nuns of the Convento de las Buenas Madres. In her experience, the only men who hit their wives were from the lower classes, their actions fueled by alcohol. Ramón was an educated man who didn’t drink much.

“You are the bitch,” he spat as he’d hit her. “You are the whore. You.”

“It was your idea,” she cried back. “It was your idea that I wife you both.”

Sunshine broke through the chinks in the walls, and the morning bell clanged the beginning of the workday. There was another knock and Flora returned with a pot of steaming coffee.

“Inés made this for you,” Flora said. “Don Severo took Marta away.”

She dozed and woke to Miguel’s gurgling laughter. Ana closed her eyes and listened. What was Inés doing? Was she tickling him, making funny faces? Ana didn’t make her son laugh. Even when she spoke endearments, Miguel’s mouth remained set in the angelic pout of all handsome children, his eyes solemn and watchful, as if he didn’t trust her. Ana knew it was ridiculous to believe that a baby could have such feelings, but she couldn’t help it. The boy, she was certain, didn’t love her. The thought made her desolate.

To her left, Flora was wrapped within the folds of her
hamaca
as if inside a shroud.

Ana tried to get up, but she ached with every move. Her left knee throbbed. A sharp pain around her ribs made her groan when she lifted an arm. Her left elbow bent only with effort and heavy breathing to ward off the pain. Her lips were swollen.

Ana’s moans brought Flora to her side.

“Let me help you,
mi niña
.”

At the sound of Flora’s voice, Inés’s and Miguel’s giggles were replaced by Ramón’s hurried footsteps toward her room. Flora turned her back to the opening door; over her shoulder Ana saw Ramón standing on the threshold, waiting to be invited inside. His eyes met hers and immediately turned to focus on Flora’s back.

“
Déjanos
, Flora,” he said. The maid held on to Ana with such force that Ana’s ribs hurt. Ramón took one step into the room, leaving the door open. “Flora, you can go,” he said again.

The maid didn’t budge, but Ana felt her trembling. Ana loosened her grip on her. “Wait outside,” she said, and Flora reluctantly let her go and backed out of the room, her arms wrapped around her middle. Ramón watched Flora leave as if she were some newly discovered creature. When she further shrank from him as she passed him, he blushed crimson.

Had she not seen that change, Ana might have cringed against her pillows. Instead she felt satisfaction at his insecure step, at the way he held on to the bedpost and couldn’t bring himself to come nearer. The left side of his face had long, red scratches from her fingernails.

“Ana. Ana. I’m so sorry,” he said with so much emotion that she thought he’d burst into tears.

“You’re sorry,” she shot back, looking at her hands, now fists. She released and flattened them against her belly. “You’re sorry,” she repeated, taking small breaths, each punctuated by sharp pain in her ribs.

“Sí,”
he said, in a broken voice.
“Sí, lo siento. Perdóname, mi amor.”

He stood at the foot of the bed, his hand around the bedpost, begging forgiveness, waiting for her to grant it before he stepped closer. Ana turned her face away to avoid his sheepish expression, his hesitancy, the way his lips moved but the only sound that came from them was the intention.

“Get away from me!” she said quietly, and Ramón jumped in place as if she’d screamed.
“Canalla. ¡Sinvergüenza!”

Flora peeked around the half-open door and quickly moved back
to the hall. Ramón seemed to be pinned to the floorboards, and his body was as rigid as the carved bedpost.

“Don’t talk to me like that,” he said, lips barely moving, but his voice resonated with the same steely edge from earlier that morning. He continued rooted to the floor, however. An invisible wall was between them that he couldn’t cross, and she felt no fear of him.

“
Cobarde
. Only a coward would strike a woman.”

Ramón seemed about to burst through the invisible wall, but instead he thrust his index finger in her direction. “I swear that if you were a man I’d kill you for your insults.”

She tightened her jaw and held his gaze. He dropped his arm and the sheepish expression overtook him, and he was once again the pathetic reproduction of the elegant, handsome, cheerful man she’d met four years before.

“I’m not the same man,” he said mournfully, reading her thoughts. “Who have I become?” He looked hopefully at her, as if she had an answer. When all she did was stare, he continued. “Coming here was a mistake. Let’s go home.”

“This is our home.”

“No. No, it is not. Let’s go back to Spain. There’s no disgrace if we admit we were wrong. We’d be leaving the plantation better than we found it. We can be proud of what we’ve accomplished.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“There’s no real society here, no culture, no comforts. We live only slightly better than the slaves. This is not how you or I were raised to spend the rest of our lives. No, Ana.”

“We knew this would be a challenge. We all agreed.”

“My brother is dead, Ana! Viciously murdered and buried who knows where, far from his country, his people.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “My poor mother.”

She was moved by his grief but disgusted by his tears, by the stench of regret that weighed him and threatened to crush her. There was a time when she would’ve wrapped her arms around him, sought to console him with kisses and caresses. But mention of doña Leonor, and a vision of her curls, laces, and ribbons, brought to Ana’s mind a life she refused to accept as her destiny. She would not be bound by the stifling rooms of the city either here or in Spain, by the despotic rules of women without enough to do and little power over their
lives. And I won’t be like Elena, Ana thought, silent and distant in muslin with a perpetual, servile smile, eyes cast down humbly. I refuse to be that woman.

Ramón’s shoulders heaved in silent sobs and Ana looked away, embarrassed by his weakness and sentimentality. No, Ana thought. I’m wrong about Elena. I’ve always been wrong about her. Elena would’ve been a stronger partner. She has more backbone than all of us put together. I should’ve encouraged Inocente to marry her from the beginning, to bring her with us. He would’ve done it. He would’ve done anything I asked then. He would be alive now.

Through the window she saw movement in the foliage. A tiny bird buzzed around a branch of the flowering breadfruit tree. It wasn’t a hummingbird, nor did it seem interested in the abundant white buds. It perched on a branch, its green feathers blending into the leaves, its long beak pointed upward. In one smooth, sudden move, it flew horizontally, trapped an insect in its beak, and returned to its perch, to wait silent and still. Ana watched closely because the bird was so tiny that it was easy to lose sight of. Once, twice, three times the bird darted from its branch, beak open, to snap it closed around an unseen insect. Each time it flew back to the same spot, to stand immobile and wait for its next prey.

When she looked back at Ramón he was staring at her, his red face stained with tears, anger, and hurt. “You don’t care,” he said, and the revelation changed his world. “You’re not even listening. You don’t care about me, you don’t care about my brother, that he’s dead, dead, dead. You don’t care about your son, our son, Miguel. You don’t care about anyone but yourself. You simply do not care,” he repeated talking himself into believing his own words.

“Ramón …,” she started, but he stood and pointed again, shaking his finger.

“You’re the reason my brother is dead. You bewitched us.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ramón.”

“I’ll never forgive you,” he said. “
Jamás
. Not so long as I live will I forgive you. Never.”

The words were barbs, and for a moment they stung, but the next second she was angry because she knew that his imperious attitude would crumble with one word from her, one look, and he’d again become a weak-willed, easily crushed shell.

“I haven’t asked for your forgiveness, nor do I need it,” she said through gritted teeth. “I’ve done nothing wrong.” Ramón stared, trying to recognize a new Ana, and the shell began to crack. “I’ll never forgive you for raising your hand to me. Now leave.”

Ramón backed away. He stood at the threshold for a moment, his unblinking eyes lizardlike, empty. She turned her gaze from his, seeking the tiny bird she’d noticed earlier, but it was gone.

After the terrible night Ramón beat her, he never again slept with Ana. José had crafted a second bed, identical to the one in the marital bedroom, intended for Inocente, and Ramón set it up in the other room. When he stayed in the
casona
, however, he seldom slept through the night. Almost as soon as they retired, Ana heard him leave and didn’t see him until the next day. His shuffling gait worsened; he let his hair, beard, and nails grow and lost so much weight that he looked like an elongated figure in an El Greco painting. If she mentioned his appearance, or asked about his health, or suggested that he seemed tired, Ramón snapped that he was fine.