Conquistadora (50 page)

Reports about the outbreak of civil war in the United States had arrived through ship’s captains and periodicals smuggled onto the island. In early 1863, copies of the text of the Emancipation Proclamation arrived in Puerto Rico, but by then
sanjuaneros
knew something momentous had happened
en el norte
because large numbers of Spanish soldiers disembarked and were sent directly to the hinterlands to discourage rebellion once the nearly 42,000 slaves learned
the news. Letters from business associates and family members in Cuba reported even tighter control over the nearly 370,000 slaves working in the sugar industry of that island.

One night following another debate, Andrés seemed particularly thoughtful. Miguel invited him to take his mind off his worries with a visit to the Alivio house, but in spite of the distractions with the smiling
chicas
, Andrés still seemed troubled as they walked home.

“Tell me,
amigo
, what’s bothering you so much that you wouldn’t sing along with La Chillona? You’re not yourself.”

Andrés stopped under one of the gas lamps in the plaza. Unlike Miguel, who affected poetic shoulder-length hair but was clean-shaven, Andrés cut his thick hair short but seemed unable to keep up with the luxurious growth on his face. His abundant eyebrows and thick lashes also resisted efforts to control them. They shaded his gaze so effectively that many people didn’t know his eyes were hazel.

“How long have we known each other?” Andrés asked seriously, as if he truly couldn’t remember.

“Let’s see, I’m almost seventeen, and we met when I was almost six. Eleven years at least.”

“And in all that time we’ve always told each other the truth, haven’t we?”

“Of course.”

“I’ve meant to say this before, but haven’t spoken from respect for you.”

He was so dejected that Miguel searched his mind for how he might have offended Andrés in the recent past.

Andrés continued. “You don’t speak of it, yet everyone knows that don Eugenio owns a plantation and you are, presumably, his only heir.” Miguel nodded. “But there never has been any discussion about the fate of your slaves, Miguel.”

He spoke the last sentence with more than a tinge of resentment. The emotion behind his words surprised Miguel.

“What do you mean my slaves? They’re not mine,” he stammered, and was immediately sorry because, even to himself, he sounded defensive. “What I mean is—”

“There’s no need to explain to me,” Andrés said. “But it is a matter of conscience for you. Especially if you continue to be a part of our activities.”

“I don’t own any slaves, my grandfather does. Some of the others are slaveholders. Why am I singled out?”

“You’re not being singled out. I speak for myself, to you. No one else is involved.” He put a reassuring hand on Miguel’s shoulder, then took his elbow and began walking down the street. “You see,
mi hermano
, we spend hours talking about the evils of slavery, drafting papers and resolutions that will put an end to this abominable practice. And you’re right, some of our friends own slaves, yet they speak as passionately as if their workers were free. Don’t you see the hypocrisy? It seems to me that if we truly believe what we say, we should set an example.”

“But compensation for slaveholders is at the heart of our discussions. We can’t expect people whose entire fortune is tied up in such an investment …” He stopped midstep and pressed his fingers to his face. “Holy Mother of God, what am I saying? Whose words are these?”

Andrés put his arm around Miguel’s shoulder. “You understand, then. All our talking and debating continues to disregard the fact that they’re human beings. Even we think of them as property. As humanists,
hermano
, we’re failures.”

Miguel didn’t know much about his grandfather’s business. Even though he often mentioned that Miguel was his heir, the old man made no effort to train him in more than the manly arts of riding, swordsmanship, drinking, whoring, and gambling while his grandmother and godmother drilled him in the social graces of a
señorcito de buena familia
. Years after he came to live with his grandparents, Miguel still had little idea what Eugenio did to keep them firmly ensconced on the respectable side of colonial society. His meetings with Mr. Worthy took place in the lawyer’s office or behind the closed doors of the study. Not once was Miguel invited to the conferences within the amber-colored room that smelled of aged port, cigars, and men’s conversations. He knew that slaves were the workforce of Los Gemelos, but like other slave-owning abolitionists, the Argosos fell on the side of indemnity upon manumission, not an unusual position for even the most liberal families.

Eugenio and Leonor raised Miguel to think of slavery as a sin. They reminded him that, while Siña Ciriaca and Bombón were purchased from Luis Morales Font, they freed both women once they arrived in San Juan. Over the years, the Argosos helped Siña Ciriaca buy the freedom of her three other children and their spouses. But they hadn’t extended their moral stance to the far-off plantation that made their comfortable lives in the city possible.

Andrés’s words affected Miguel, but he couldn’t bring himself to challenge Abuelo. Respect for him, gratitude for the life he’d made possible, and love for both grandparents prevented him from doing anything to cause them to question his loyalty or affection. He wondered if it was a sign of weakness to avoid a discussion that would surely be interpreted by his grandparents as criticism. Miguel avoided confrontations of any kind, and did mostly as he was told, even when it meant he lay awake at night asking himself questions he might have best answered in daylight, with a frank exchange of opinion and a willingness to argue his point. His evenings at don Benito’s were mostly spent half-listening to others debate while his mind wandered.

Miguel recalled a childhood filled with love and every material and intellectual exigency of a wealthy
señorcito
from whom important things were expected. Who he was to become, however, was never clearly defined, and he often felt as if he were floating in a sea of expectations with no clear destination. When he thought about it, he was grateful for the happy, comfortable childhood his grandparents and Elena made possible. The only dark cloud over his rosy life was the fading memory of a wild and distant place with an insistent female voice.

Ana wrote frequently and assured Miguel that no matter what other preoccupations filled his days, she had only one fervent wish—to have him by her side. As he grew older, Ana’s letters came more often. The hand-cut pages were dense with baroque descriptions of the
campo
illustrated with amateurish drawings of people, flowers, fruits, buildings, and animals. Whenever the postman delivered one of her letters, Miguel found every excuse not to read it right away, and let it languish among less important correspondence. Days would pass until Elena gently asked what news there was from Hacienda los Gemelos before he remembered to read it. Ana’s letters
left him feeling as if he’d failed her in ways he didn’t understand and couldn’t help. And it unnerved him that over the last fourteen years every one of her single-minded, relentlessly cursive letters was signed with the same words: “Your loving mother, who waits for you.”

Leonor was not a melancholy person. She grieved the inevitable sorrows of a long life, she mourned the untimely deaths of her two sons, the passing away of parents, brother, sisters, and friends, but she always found her way back to her natural spirit, involved in her life and that of her loved ones. One morning, however, as she turned from the mirror after pinning her hair, she was seized by an overwhelming desire to cry. She faced the mirror again, as if the reason for the tightness in her chest and the sting of tears in her eyes could be found there. “I’m old,” she said aloud, surprising herself both by the sound of her voice and by the fact that she’d never uttered such an observation.

Eugenio peeked in from the alcove next door, where he slept when he came home late after evenings without her.

“Did you say something, dear?”

“No, talking to myself.”

He disappeared back into his room. She finished her toilette and left her chamber, afraid to face the mirror.

It was a busy month.

The city was observing the 355th anniversary of the conquistador Juan Ponce de León’s first settlement in Puerto Rico. The conquistador was exhumed from his place of rest in the Iglesia de San José, and eminent doctors from Spain in the presence of representatives of the queen examined the remains. His body was then reinterred in a new lead coffin within a cedar box in the Cathedral of San Juan Bautista. There was to be a Mass, a lecture, exhibitions, and dinners to commemorate the events. Besides attending the activities surrounding the observance, Leonor was to host a luncheon and coffees for the ladies of the Peninsular dignitaries.

She held herself together during the two weeks of ceaseless activity, but it was hard. Every word directed at her was an intrusion into a grief she couldn’t name. Her throat ached and nothing relieved the pressure around her chest except locking herself in her room to cry for a few minutes. Everyone in her household noticed her red eyes and distraction, but only Elena dared say something.

“Are you unwell?” Elena asked after she noticed that Leonor counted the same napkins for the luncheon four times before she got the number right.

“A bit tired.”

“It’s been hectic the past few days. Why don’t you lie down for a while? Bombón and I can finish with the linen.”

“Yes, that’s better.”

Elena’s and Bombón’s eyes followed her, worried, she knew, because she rarely took a siesta, and never before noon. She was drawing the drapes when Siña Ciriaca appeared, doubtless alerted by Elena. The maid helped her unlace her corset, took her shoes off, and covered her with a light blanket. The moment she was alone, tears sprung and Leonor let them slide down her temples. She dozed, but woke up when she bit her tongue in her sleep.

She couldn’t account for her sadness. Certainly it shouldn’t have come unexpectedly that at sixty-seven she looked like an old woman. She was aware that her looks had changed years ago, when clothes didn’t fit quite the same, when her hair changed color and grew sparser and less manageable. She’d adjusted her dress according to what her body accepted and seemed appropriate for her age; but until the past few weeks, she hadn’t felt the years quite so much.

“It’s all this activity around Ponce de León,” Eugenio said. “The exhumation was macabre.”

Leonor managed to get through the lectures and Masses, through the dinners with personages and the coffees with their wives, but she felt as if she was performing, while all she wanted to do was to crawl under the bedcovers.

The morning after the festivities were over and the dignitaries gone, Leonor said she was too tired to get out of bed. She closeted herself in her chamber, curtains drawn, refusing food but agreeing to the
yerbabuena
and
manzanilla
tisanes Siña Ciriaca served her.

“Shall I call the doctor?” Eugenio asked the second day.

“No,
mi amor
. I’m exhausted, that’s all. I’ll be fine.”

“Promise to eat something, then. You can’t regain your strength if you refuse food.”

“I will,” she said, and closed her eyes.

Eugenio found Elena in her room. “What shall we do about Leonor? I’ve never seen her like this.”

“It’s been only a day. Maybe she really is tired. We should let her rest and she’ll be fine in a few days.”

“I’m worried about her.”

“Let’s indulge her and watch for any other signs of illness. She’ll probably be up and about again in a day or two.”

Three days later, the doctor was called. Leonor received him and allowed him to take her pulse and listen to her heart, but when he emerged from her room, he could only report what Eugenio, Elena, Miguel, and Siña Ciriaca already knew.

“Her pulse is slow, but not alarmingly so. Let her rest as much as she needs so long as she takes liquids.”

Siña Ciriaca prepared dove broths and alternated them with the tisanes with honey. Eugenio, Elena, and Miguel visited her, but only for a few minutes, because while Leonor seemed happy to see them at first, she’d soon close her eyes and fall asleep.

Ten days after she’d taken to her bed, Leonor rose, dressed, and joined them at the midday meal as she always did, except that she pushed her food around.

“It’s wonderful to have you up and about again,
querida
,” Eugenio said, kissing her hand.

“I was tired, that’s all.”

She’d lost weight. Her round cheeks had drooped, and her face had lengthened. Deep lines crisscrossed her features, and the loose skin under her neck shook with every movement. Eugenio, Elena, and Miguel tried not to stare as Leonor listlessly chewed a piece of bread and sipped her sherry. The conversation over the meal was sparse, because they were all afraid of saying something that might upset or make her sad again. Leonor didn’t notice. She nibbled bread and asked Miguel to pour another glass of sherry, which at least brought some color to her cheeks.