Pearls (2 page)

Raúl reached over and placed his warm hand on her knee, dragging his thumb in lazy circles over her skin. Currents of electricity surged along her nerves, and her irritation waned with every stroke. When she glanced at him, his charming, confident smile went straight to her heart and melted away her remaining displeasure.

“
Mi amor
, I have told you, God and I have an understanding. Though I do not attend services regularly, I am a devoted follower. As for Sunday, I’ve already committed to taking some of my friends out on the yacht. We can meet later Sunday evening. I will take you to dinner.”

“Good. I’ll look forward to it.” She smiled his way.

Raúl nodded and changed the subject, launching into a description of the art pieces he’d purchased.

Isabel closed her eyes and focused on the timbre of Raúl’s voice. His velvety baritone and smooth, cultured Spanish lent a poetic quality to his words. Just being near him filled her with a sense of well-being.

Handsome, charming, and affluent—she couldn’t believe he’d been attracted to her. They’d first met at a coffee shop in Sabana Grande, a popular business and shopping district near the university. He sat at the table beside her, looking utterly appealing in his business attire, and she couldn’t help but steal glances at him. To her embarrassment and thrill, he caught her eye and smiled. Outgoing and gregarious, he struck up a conversation. Soon he sat at her table, suggesting plans to spend the evening together.

After only one date she was addicted to the playful, romantic way he treated her. He made her feel like a beautiful princess with his compliments, gifts, and solicitous behavior. She’d never been so pampered and adored.
Abuela is right. He is different from American men. He’s better by far.

Laden with books, Isabel spied an empty study carrel in a quiet corner of the library and hurried to deposit her heavy burden on the desk.

“Why are reference books always so heavy?” she muttered as she settled into the chair and dug through her backpack in search of her tablet and pen. After finding them, she took out the journal’s case. With slow, careful movements, she snapped open the clasps and removed the precious book from its protective shell. Opening to the first entry, she began the arduous task of translating the five-hundred-year-old script.

The reference books smelled of dust, and the light bulb overhead flickered and danced as she bent over her work. Once the first few paragraphs took shape on her notepad, excitement swept through her, and she forgot all else.

June 5th, 1505

We have become the vilest of animals. With our lips we proclaim we are from the civilized world, but our actions betray the truth of our dark nature.
 
We call them savages, and in the same breath, we order atrocities committed against them. Our cruelty is unparalleled. We sentence the natives we enslave to death without cause, and to their misfortune, death at the hands of the Spanish Navy is despairingly slow and painful.

The men are pressed into service as pearl divers, forced to make repeated trips to the bottom of the ocean from morning to night without rest. We brutally whip them if they delay for even a moment between dives. Without time to adequately rest and regain their breath, drowning and exhaustion claim many. The sharks lurking in the coastal waters take others. Thousands have submerged into watery graves never to walk in the light of the sun again.

Those men who endure the torture we inflict on them develop sores on their skin from hours in the salty water. We feed them rotting oysters and perhaps a bit of bread. Their bodies grow skeletal from lack of proper food. For their hard labor and suffering we reward them with a block of wood to sleep on and chains to ensure they do not escape the fate to which we have sentenced them in the name of greed and power.

But while the physical suffering of the men is great, it is by far preferable to that which the women endure. When the slave ships arrive to unload their fleshly cargo, the men stationed here at Cubagua crouch on the docks like hungry jackals, eager to satiate their foul lusts on the female captives. The officers callously give the women and girls over to the soldiers and ignore the chilling screams that fill the air when the carnage begins. Every female over the age of eight is subjected to this inhumane treatment. Those who survive their initial trial are kept under lock and key, forced to endure the violence day after day, subject to the whim of any sailor who will part with a few coins in exchange for female company.

At 24 years of age, I am not immune to or unaffected by the sight of the naked women unloaded from the cargo holds. Though looking on the beauty of their exposed flesh causes my blood to stir and awakens my carnal needs, as of yet I have not participated in the evil. I cannot feel satisfied in my abstinence, for I have done nothing to stop their torture either. In my eyes I am as guilty as those who partake in the flesh trade.

My complacency condemns me. The dark, round eyes and smooth, fresh faces of the young native women remind me of my younger sister. If circumstances were different, the soldiers might feast their lusts upon her. Such thoughts torture me daily. For this reason I cannot participate, and for this cause I have been moved to commit a rebellious act of treason for which I could be hanged.

An unusually high number of women arrived on the slave ship that entered Cubagua’s harbor today. Fewer soldiers lurked on the docks, as two fully-manned battleships were sent to deal with rogue pirates attempting to poach the pearl beds off the western coast of the island. Usually the soldiers outnumber the women five to one, and they are forced to “share” the bounty. Today, there would be enough women for each man to have his own companion.

My feet carried me into the midst of the rowdy sailors, and I soon laid claim to one of the maidens. I rushed her into a grove of banana palms unnoticed and pressed further into the undergrowth until we were hidden from sight. I removed my shirt and gave it to her. As she was small of stature, the shirt hung to her knees, covering her modestly.

 
I led her further away from the port, following the shore but careful to stay hidden in the trees and vegetation. She shrank away from my touch and refused my help, but she did not offer undue resistance. After a two-hour walk, we arrived at the abandoned hut once occupied by an Indian fisherman now captured and enslaved.

The small, crude hut would serve as a refuge for the maiden, at least for a time. Set a distance away from the beach, trees and brush surrounded the structure. Vines and mosses grew over its walls, providing effective camouflage. I entered the hut alone, checking for snakes or scorpions lying in wait for a victim.

When I emerged and gestured for her to enter, she recoiled in terror, as if certain I intended her harm. The fearful way she looked at me made me ashamed to be a man. Rather than force her in, I decided to coax her with food and drink. I removed my canteen and set it inside the doorway. Nearby trees offered a variety of foods including bananas, guavas, and avocados. I gathered a selection and placed them inside with the water, then strolled away, giving her time to make her choice.

When I returned, she sat inside, eating and drinking the meal I had provided. Upon seeing me, she scrambled into the corner, bearing the look of a frightened animal. I left her crouching in the hut, unsure whether I’d see her again.

Isabel leaned back and quietly expelled the breath she’d been holding, feeling as if she could breathe for the first time in an hour. The words had swept her into another time and place, full of danger and intrigue and life-or-death struggles the likes of which she had never experienced. The journal was more spectacular than she could have imagined, the entries full of raw emotions and the setting vivid with harsh realities and cruel fates.

She ran her finger along a line of script. This man, Rodrigo Velasquez, was her ancestor. She’d come to Caracas seeking information about the Venezuelan side of her heritage, who she was, where she’d come from. The answers lay before her, written in the careful handwriting of the man who’d begun it all, the story of how her people came to live in this part of the world. The entries offered her a poignant glimpse into his life ... and his heart.

She looked at the clock with a woeful eye. Suddenly she wanted to translate all night, but her classes would start early the next morning and she had yet to tackle her homework assignments. Reluctantly, she returned the journal to its case and packed her bag. “Tomorrow, Rodrigo Velasquez, we will meet again.”

I have to focus. Taking university-level classes in Spanish is hard enough without distractions.
Isabel glanced at the clock and willed the last five minutes of class to pass quickly.

Since translating the first journal entry, she’d been able to think about little else. This was why she’d come to Venezuela, to learn about her heritage and maybe discover herself in the process. Who she was. Where she belonged.

The moment the professor dismissed them, she started the long trek to the library. Central University accommodated nearly 70,000 students on its expansive campus. As she hiked across the substantial grounds, she felt like a pack animal weighted down by all the books in her backpack. She ignored her aching shoulders and continued on, beckoned by the mysteries waiting to be uncovered in the journal.

In contrast to the tropical heat outside, the interior of the library felt cool and comfortable. Isabel shuffled into the elevator that would carry her to the floor bearing the reference books she needed. When the doors opened, the librarian on that level greeted her with a smile.

“Isabel,
cómo estás
?”

“
Muy bien
,” Isabel answered. “May I have my books?”

When Isabel had explained she would be using the reference books on a daily basis, the woman had graciously agreed to keep them near the reference desk for the duration of her project. Isabel retrieved the heavy tomes and hurried to a quiet corner of the room, unable to contain her curiosity. Now familiar with some of the older phrasing, she translated more quickly than she had the night before.

June 6th, 1505

I returned to the hut today, unsure if I would find her there. Nevertheless, I carried with me a blanket, rations of dried meat, and a small loaf of bread—items intended to make her more comfortable if she chose to remain in my care. I felt both surprise and relief to find her sitting in the center of the hut when I stepped into the doorway. My sudden presence startled her, and she moved warily toward the corner, eyeing me with fear.

I smiled and said hello, but my good humor did not alleviate her apprehension. Her dark, watchful eyes remained fixed on me, her body tensed as if preparing to flee at the first sign of danger. I knelt in the doorway, hoping to appear less threatening by lowering myself to her level. Moving slowly, I extended my arms, offering her the gifts I’d brought. She glanced at the package but refused to move toward me to accept it. Sighing, I set it on the floor and went to forage for more fruit in the surrounding trees. I could not be sure when I would return, and I wanted to ensure an ample food supply for her. Though I knew she could retrieve the fruit herself—perhaps with more skill than I—doing it for her gave me pleasure.

When I returned, she sat with the blanket in her lap, examining the meat and bread I’d brought. As my shadow fell across the doorway, she glanced up, her eyes focusing for a moment on the fruit I held in my hands. Her gaze rose to meet mine, and I saw the questions in her eyes. Why? Why was I doing all of this for her? Why had I not abused her as the other men surely had?

I offered her no answers. I could not put into words the forces that drove me to act as I did. Even if I could, she would not understand me, for only a few Indians have learned enough Spanish to communicate.

I set the fruit near the door and bade her farewell with a smile.

June 7th, 1505

I worked long and hard today, and if I had adhered to my logical nature, I would not have made the arduous trek to the hut. Yet my feet had a will of their own, and I found I could not resist the urge to see her.

My arrival was met with less apprehension than before. She must have heard my approach, because as I neared the hut, she appeared in the doorway. Her expression did not hold fear as before, nor did she welcome me. Her steady, probing gaze suggested I was a curiosity to her, a puzzling specimen she struggled to understand.