Conquistadora (45 page)

This time, Ana didn’t intercede. Cholera spared José and his sons twelve-year-old Efraín and eleven-year-old Indio, but it took his two youngest children, Pedrito, six, and Tati, four, who went into the fire hours after their mother. The only slave allowed to have tools without prior permission, José took refuge in his shop. While his sons toiled in the fields, and as his wife’s and two youngest children’s bodies smoldered, José chose and smoothed a mahogany board two heads taller than himself and two of his hands’ width. He studied the grain, caressed the length of the board, wiped sawdust and soot from both sides. Then, starting at the far left, he began to carve with the first death, Nena: hands pouring water from a pitcher. Then came a hoe, a machete, a horseshoe, a mortar and pestle, a lily, a hen with her chicks, a broom, another hoe, a shovel, a ham, two hibiscus flowers, a bell, another hoe, another machete, a cooking spoon, a top with its twine, a long-handled ladle used to skim boiling sugar syrup, a bellows, a kite, a butterfly, a rake, a bowl, a gourd. When he reached the spot for Flora he thought a long time, wishing he knew how to sculpt a song. Finally he settled on a malanga leaf because she once said it reminded her of the ones her people in Africa used for building their shelters. For Inés he carved full, shapely lips. And for his own two children, a sun and a moon.

In the meadow on the other side of the barracks, seven-year-old Conciencia stood on the periphery as red, orange, and blue fingers blazed to the heavens. In the transparent heat billowing from the flames and in the thick gray smoke of the consuming fires, she saw the spirits of the dead rise, some in song and others in writhing agony. Mesmerized, Conciencia directed her thoughts toward the spiraling clouds and asked her questions. The fire hissed and cackled
answers in puffs and swirls that took shape before her eyes as its sizzle whispered in a tongue only she could understand.

During the worst of the scourge, no one looked healthier than Severo Fuentes. No one moved on foot or horseback with more authority; no one else’s eyes peered so closely into every nook and hollow of the plantation; no one else paid as much attention to the smallest details of the operations as Severo Fuentes. From the
casona
, Ana saw him coming and going, ordering men and beasts, his voice hardly raised but heard everywhere by everyone. If he slept, she didn’t see it. He was out all night patrolling the lanes and canebrakes with his dogs. He stopped to see how she was doing, to bring news, and to remind her not to go into the barracks, to have no contact with anyone except for Conciencia, who delivered her meals and bathed her. Night was the hardest time. When Conciencia walked into the room, Ana always expected Flora with her bowls, her smile, her songs. Conciencia was serious, silent unless spoken to. Ana knew her entire history, so there were no mysteries about another life in another place. She was also a child, and Ana now realized how much it had meant to have another adult woman as her companion. Of course there were no confidences or intimate chats, but Flora, who was at least twenty years older than Ana, had been a reassuring presence.

With the other household slaves dead, and the survivors at some distance from the
casona
, Ana had less human contact. Flora was dead, Inés was dead, La Lavandera was dead, Pilar the cook was dead. Old Samuel, who was in charge of the pastures, the cattle used for hauling, and the cows raised for milk and cheesemaking, was dead. His two grandsons, Sandro and Chuíto, were also dead. Tomás, who was a smith, and Benicio, who cleaned and repaired the barns, corrals, and work buildings, were dead. Dina and her husband, Juancho, who worked with her in the gardens, orchards, coops, and dovecotes, were dead. Siña Damita’s husband, Lucho, who raised and fattened the pigs, butchered them, smoked the hams, and made sausages from their blood and intestines, was dead. Their daughter-in-law, Coral, was dead, as was her daughter Sarita. Other than her granddaughter Carmencita, the disease wiped out Siña Damita’s entire family.

The
batey
, once so full of life and activity, was nearly deserted most of the day. But still meals were prepared, linens were washed, cows were milked and fed. The gardens thrived, fruit was picked, pigs were slaughtered, sausages were made, eggs were collected, hams were smoked. The work Ana had overseen went on without her while she waited in the
casona
for the plague to end, accompanied only by a seven-year-old child.

One evening, Severo brought news.

“The governor has closed the gates to the capital.
Sanjuaneros
are ordered to stay indoors, and they’re under curfew.”

“There’s cholera in San Juan, too?”

“In every town of the island. When I looked in on Luis, Faustina had just returned from Mayagüez. She saw an entire barrio burned to the ground. It appears that the cholera is worse in the poor barrios, so, on the advice of local doctors, the municipal council set them on fire. The Guares
cabildo
is doing the same thing.”

Pockets under his eyes and the tense edges of his mouth made him look much older than thirty-six.

“If the city is closed and the poor barrios are burned,” Ana asked, “where is the
cabildo
putting the people?”

“Neither the governor nor the councils have provided for that. All they care about is how to control the epidemic. People are sleeping in the open, under trees, in the church. Entire families are wandering along the roads.”

“Dios nos salve.”
Ana crossed herself and was instantly aware that it had been a long time since she had appealed so directly to God.

“We must move up the hill, Ana. The house is not finished, but it’s unsafe for us to live so close to the cholera.”

“But we have isolated the sick.”

“Flora got sick. She died, Ana. We’re all at risk. It’s been three weeks, and they keep dying. I’ll not endanger your life or mine.”

He’d never spoken harshly to her, never used less than the most courteous tones, addressing her as
usted
even in the intimacy of their bed. But his voice, which rumbled as if he were containing its power for her benefit, now carried the authority of an order and tolerated no challenge. She began to protest, but the warning in his eyes made her stop as if he’d physically restrained her. She again opened her mouth to speak, but once more his eyes said what his lips didn’t and
she was silenced. He nodded, accepting her surrender, and in one quick, catlike move, drew her to him, held her tight, and kissed her eyes. “I treasure you too much to let anything happen to you,” he said into her ear. “So long as I breathe I’ll take care of you.” He left her alone to ponder whether, in her entire life, she’d ever expected, or wanted, a man to care for her.

The next morning, Severo went through every room of the new house, opening and shutting windows and doors. Each was empty except for the one that was to be his and Ana’s chamber, where a camphor wood chest was pressed against the wall. He’d ordered Lola, the new laundress, to clean and press Ana’s city clothes. He’d imagined that in the house he built for her, Ana would sometimes wear the elaborate dresses and kid slippers put away years earlier. He looked forward to seeing her glide across the blue tiles, even imagined she’d demonstrate the salon dances she learned as a girl.

Lola had folded each item between layers of muslin pillows stuffed with fragrant herbs. When he touched them, the garments felt as if they’d melt through his fingers.

This is what a lady should wear, he thought, silks and lace and pretty things. Other than the first time he saw Ana in San Juan, and later in her riding costume, he’d not seen her in anything but plain cotton, black, gray, navy blue. He longed to see her in finery, hair glistening. He wanted her to be different from Consuelo, from the
campesinas
, from the slave women, better dressed and more refined than the
hacendadas
and
dueñas
in Guares and its environs.

For the past three weeks, he’d been surrounded by disease and death. He now touched these lavish things, held them in his hands, caressed them. His fingers were scarred and callused, and he was afraid to damage the liquid fabric or the intricate needlework. But he needed to hold something beautiful in his hands.

He lifted the embroidered silk and lace clothes and spread them on the floor. He laid a corset underneath a bodice with short sleeves, its edges frilled with lace. He butterflied a skirt below it and placed gloves where Ana’s hands would be. He arranged a mantilla to frame an invisible head, and posed delicate stockings inside dainty
kid shoes with satin bows ready to dance. He bowed in her direction, smiled, offered his hand, imagining Ana standing before him, perfumed and flushed with excitement, eager to let him lead her across the polished floor.

He closed his eyes to better see himself with soft hands and smooth nails wearing smart clothes—a white silk shirt, a black velvet
chaleco
with silver buttons, black pants, kid shoes with buckles, and a vermilion sash around his waist. He softened his knees and swayed from side to side. When he opened his eyes, Severo looked around, as if there were any danger that someone might see him behaving so foolishly.

Down on the hill, Ana studied the four rooms of the
casona
and saw what she had ignored for years. It was small and crudely made. The green walls echoed the color of the fields, so there was no respite for the eye from the vegetation. She suddenly felt claustrophobic and stepped onto the porch. The whimpering of the sick was intolerable, so she fled to the other end, away from the barracks. In the workshop, José banged something or other, and a bird trilled in the breadfruit tree.

Ana felt powerless. She hated the feeling that she was inadequate to what was happening around her. They depend on me to take care of them, she thought, and I don’t know what to do. I want to be a good mistress.

The morning had warmed. Conciencia was collecting more
sacabuche
, even though it had already proved ineffective against cholera. So had sweetened
higüero
pulp, crushed papaya seeds, guava root bark, and lemons. But they had to give the sick something to hope for. Clearing the miasma in the barracks did nothing either. In spite of every effort, she’d failed in her duty.

Ana felt a heavier burden than she wished to acknowledge, but wouldn’t call it guilt. She’d accepted her role as a slave owner and did everything she could to fulfill her obligations. She knew it was inevitable that the slaves would be set free someday, but
jornaleros
were expensive, unreliable, and didn’t work as hard. She hoped it wouldn’t happen in her lifetime.

From the first she’d sensed that she should never bow before
Severo, that among the things he most valued was her strength of character. But there were moments, like now, when she wished she could allow herself the female prerogative to be weak, to cry loudly. She’d swallowed so many tears that someday she might be unable to hold more inside and they’d overflow into a torrent.

She never asked why she focused all her energy and sorrow on the fate and fortunes of Hacienda los Gemelos. She only knew that from the moment she saw it, the land and everything and everyone within its borders were essential to her existence. It couldn’t be questioned, challenged, or explained. It just was. But over the past three weeks, she’d found it impossible to talk herself into the optimism that drove her over the past eleven years. Grueling years … No, I can’t think this way. She shook her head to clear the morbid thoughts that simmered like bubbles over boiling oil. I’ve been alone too long, she said to herself, and went down the stairs to the
batey
.

Even though Severo forbade it, she had to look in on the sick. There was nothing more she could do for them, but she had to see them, to let them know that she hadn’t forgotten them, that even though she didn’t own a single human being—they were all owned by don Eugenio and Severo—they were hers,
su gente
, and she couldn’t in all conscience abandon them.

Fela and Pabla were sitting in the shade by the door, each with a baby in her arms. The women were old, but they looked ancient now, their faces ashen, their eyes veiled with grief and hopelessness. Even though she was standing right in front of them, they didn’t look at her, as if the only people they could see were the ones about to die. Ana could go no further. They, too, will die, she realized. We could all die.

She turned around and sprinted up the stairs to the
casona
. Severo was right. They were in danger. After years of struggle, her life could end in a few hours, just as it had for her long-ago ancestor, in an ignoble death. In filth and failure.

Leaving the
casona
now, while
su gente
died in the ramshackle barracks was not a defeat. It was a temporary surrender. To fulfill her responsibility to
nuestra gente
, she must live.

———

Early the next morning, Ana closeted herself in her study while men moved the furniture onto carts. She packed her books and pamphlets, catalogs and gazettes, Ramón’s and Inocente’s letters to and from their parents, her correspondence with Jesusa and Gustavo, Elena, and Miguel. In another crate, she placed communications to and from Mr. Worthy, the deeds, titles, reports, and transactions, dated and stamped.

Conciencia brought her lunch when the bell rang in the canebrakes. Ana sent it back without touching it. She ordered that her labeled crates be moved and was left alone, in the hottest part of the day, with her ledgers.

She kept the human inventory in a brown leather book, the pages divided into columns. The left column showed the date acquired, followed by the purchase/rental price or a check for babies born on the premises. In the next column she entered the name, then
h
for
hombre, m
for
mujer, n
for
niño
or
niña
. Within parentheses she entered their ages. The next column indicated particular skills. The last was another date and a note marking changes:
vendido
, and if sold, a price;
escapado
, and whether the runaway was captured; and
muerto
, dead.