Conquistadora - Esmeralda Santiago [123]
When he first appeared at the druggist’s, Simón worried that the discussions were seditious, the rumblings of island-born men who, like him, had nothing but their intellect to make them feel superior to the españoles who ruled over them. He soon learned there were people at the highest levels of society who shared the same views, even if the official position was more conservative.
His poverty, somewhat relieved during the school year by the modest dues he charged, made it impossible for Simón to frequent the salons modeled on the ones he’d haunted in Madrid. Elena’s refinement, her serenity, her fair complexion and melodious voice were what he’d sought in the woman he would have married had his father not squandered his inheritance.
The first time he saw her, she was walking across the plaza with doña Leonor. On that day, she wore a yellow dress and a straw bonnet that shaded her face. A green ribbon banded the crown, with a length that dangled behind her, playing in the breeze. When he passed the two ladies, he saw her face, the serious eyes, and the V-shaped lips that seemed to smile at him, although he knew that was impossible. They hadn’t formally met and wouldn’t be introduced for another year, by don Eugenio, when the whole family was in mourning. He saw her subsequently at church, at holy day festivities, or in the audience when the military orchestra performed in the plaza.
Elena was his muse, the first person he thought about upon waking, the last face he envisioned before sleep. Knowing that he’d see her again gave him something to look forward to every day.
Some nights the discussions in don Benito’s drugstore didn’t offer anything new, or he didn’t have the few coins it took to pay for the homemade aguardiente the druggist dispensed. Simón walked the city then, from the slippery alleys around the docks where sailors and prostitutes drank and dickered, to the fragrant park around the governor’s mansion, to the iron gates of Fort San Cristóbal, to the seawall beaten by relentless waves. Regardless of where his peregrinations took him, they always ended in front of Colonel Eugenio Argoso Marín’s house with its tiled threshold and massive double doors. Upstairs and to the right of that door were Elena’s window and the tremulous light of her candle bleeding through the seams of drawn curtains.
Many nights, while he waited in the shadows for her to blow out her candle, he heard don Eugenio and doña Leonor returning from some amusement whose delights were evoked by the rustle of her dress or by the clicking of his heels on the cobblestones. Simón backed into a doorway and watched them enter their home, Eugenio’s hand on her elbow as the fringe of her shawl hushed the night. They’d been married so long that they moved as one, and Simón envied their closeness, the familiar way she turned as he helped her up the steps.
The streets of San Juan seemed more dismal on the way home, his loneliness greater. He entered the silent house and tiptoed past his mother’s door, which she left ajar so that she could hear him come in. Sleep always overcame her. Her snores and dreamed conversations punctuated his light step as he walked down the hall to his own room, where he composed love poems to Elena.
Every night, after Miguel said his prayers, Elena read to him from the book of heroes and monsters. “It’s poetry,” she said, “written a long time ago.”
“I like it better than the poems don Simón reads to us.” Miguel made a face.
“What kind of poems?”
“About ladies and birds and flowers.”
“Don Simón likes the romantic poets,” she said, coloring.
Miguel stared at her. When she looked at him, he averted his gaze. “Is something bothering you?”
“No,” he said, but after a moment, he worked up his courage. “Yes.”
“What is it, mi amor?”
“If Abuelo gave don Simón some money, would he marry you?”
“Miguel, what kind of question is that?”
“The boys in school say that don Simón is in love with you, but that he can