Conquistadora - Esmeralda Santiago [112]
“Who’s her mother?” Ana asked, ignoring Flora’s prognosis as she wiped the infant and changed her dirty rags for clean ones.
“No one I know. No, señora, no pregnant women here.”
“There are several pregnant women, Flora. Nena is pregnant; so is Damita’s daughter-in-law.”
“Nobody ready,” Flora said, “is what I mean.”
Other than the cry that let Ana know she was alive, the infant was quiet and strangely composed as she was changed.
“Poor little thing,” Ana said, stroking her head. “What pretty hair you have,” she cooed at the infant. “Oh, look, she’s vain.” She grinned at Flora, who watched her intently.
“Don Severo will be angry, señora,” Flora said.
Ana nestled the baby in her arms. “Go find Inés; she’s still nursing. This poor child probably has had nothing—”
“Is not my place, I know, señora, but maybe we wait for don Severo.”
“Flora, I asked you to get Inés.” Ana straightened to her full height, at least half a foot taller than her maid. “And burn those rags.”
Flora picked up the dirty scraps and went to fetch Inés, grumbling all the way.
The baby was not African and not Caucasian, but a creamy-skinned mixture of both races. Ana imagined she must belong to one of the families eking out a living on the periphery of the hacienda. In Spain, Ana had heard about women who, unable to take care of their children, left them on the steps of churches or on the thresholds of wealthy couples better able to raise them. Sor Magdalena, a nun at the Convento de las Buenas Madres, had been abandoned in the chapel as an infant and was taken in by the sisters to be raised among them. Almost always the abandoned children were girls.
Because of her size and handicaps, Ana thought this baby would probably survive only a few hours, as Flora predicted. She found her bottle of holy water and sprinkled some drops over the infant. As she made the sign of the cross over her forehead, she discarded the traditional names of saints and virgins.
“It is not a coincidence that you were left on my door the day I traded my son away. I have that, and much more besides, to answer for, mamacita. So long as you live, you’ll remind me, even when I try to forget, what I have done. For that reason, I name you Conciencia,” she whispered. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” She caressed the narrow, birdlike face with its too-close-together eyes. Conciencia’s face twisted into what Ana took to be a smile.
Siña Damita claimed to have no idea who would’ve left the child on Ana’s doorstep. “I deliver most babies around here,” she said. “This one not mine.” She unswaddled Conciencia and examined her thoroughly. “Umbilical cord cut with teeth,” she said. “Tied tight. The mother birthed before.” She turned Conciencia over and traced the tiny bones of her spine. She kissed her index finger, then gently poked the tiny hump. She bent and straightened the infant’s limbs and found that her joints moved freely. As she tugged on Conciencia’s leg, the child let go a stream of urine into Damita’s hand. “Everything work.” Damita laughed. She set Conciencia down and wiped the baby’s urine over her face and neck. “Born on a night with no moon,” she explained. “Her piss bring luck.”
Later there was a commotion in front of Inés’s bohío because everyone wanted to touch Conciencia’s hump for good luck. Afraid that so much handling would further weaken her, Ana had her returned to the casona. Conciencia, who slept through most of the day, opened her eyes, black and hard as onyx. She stared at Ana as if she were trying to communicate wordlessly, the way Ramón and Inocente did with each other.
“You must live,” Ana said vehemently. “I’ll help you.” She stroked the baby’s forehead. “You’ll be my conscience, but also my lucky charm.”
On their way back from Guares that evening, Severo’s dogs raced into the woods. There, leaning under a tree as if she’d just sat to rest, was Marta, her ears, eyes, nose, and mouth humming with flies. Her skirt and apron were stiff with dried blood. It was obvious