Conquistadora - Esmeralda Santiago [151]
He laughed softly. “And because you know that a río revuelto, ganancia de pescadores.”
“It’s hard to believe that there is opportunity here now when the workers we depend on keep dying.”
“Look at it this way. There will be bankruptcies by planters and farmers unable to bring in their product. Most commit their profits to vendors and taxes before they even seed the ground.”
“Everyone does that. We do.”
“Yes, but we’re in a better position. You can always appeal to don Eugenio. Most of our neighbors will have to sell assets in order to save themselves. Someone with a bit of capital can pick up land, equipment, and slaves at a bargain.”
“I’ve never asked anything from don Eugenio.”
“You’re not asking, you’re telling him about an investment opportunity. Credit is hard to get in Puerto Rico, and if he doesn’t know that, Mr. Worthy is aware that hacendados and farmers resort to private loans.”
“From people like you.”
“I’ve been most generous to our vecinos, and while I don’t want to take advantage of them when they’re so vulnerable—”
“—they need cash and we need brazos.”
“But, of course, I don’t have an inexhaustible wallet.…”
“I see. This is where don Eugenio can be helpful.”
“The more distressed vecinos might be willing to rent or sell their slaves.”
“That would help them and us.”
“We’d be doing them a favor.”
“Of course. I’ll write to Mr. Worthy tomorrow.”
She inhaled his smoke again. In the days following their move up the hill he’d been as passionate as in the first days of their marriage. It was hard to believe it had been almost six years. She desired him, his rough hands, muscular body. Most of all, his attention, the focused gaze of the lover, his alert listening to every word she uttered, his uncanny ability to guess what she was thinking.
“Would you like to try a smoke?” The tobacco was grown on his land, for his use. The cigar was thick, soft but firm, warm, and the tightly rolled leaves had a pleasing texture, especially along the delicate veins. She sucked and her lungs caught on fire. “Slow,” he said. “A little puff, not a deep breath. Just kiss it.”
She did so, and a delightful light-headedness made her feel as if she were melting.
“We should name the house,” he said after a long silence.
It was another of his ideas about what rich people did. It wasn’t enough to build a new house, to fill every room with custom-made furniture, to order glassware, china, cutlery, and bolts of fine cotton, damask, linen, and silk from the United States and Europe. The place must be named, like a newborn child.
“Did you have one in mind?” she asked, knowing perfectly well he wouldn’t have brought up the subject otherwise.
“El Destino,” he said, savoring the word as if it were a ripe fruit.
“El Destino,” she repeated, liking the sibilance before the sharp ti, and the way her lips appeared to send forth another kiss, this one with the soft, final vowel.
Ana hadn’t seen Miguel in seven years, although correspondence to and from San Juan was frequent. In her letters she never let Miguel forget that she was building Hacienda los Gemelos for him. But she had no idea whether Los Gemelos meant anything to him. She wondered whether he still resembled her, like he did as a boy. Or had he grown to look more like Ramón and Inocente? What she knew about Miguel was in his correspondence, and she hoped he wasn’t as dull and unimaginative as the letters and sketches he enclosed. He was now almost twelve years old, and not once had he asked to return to the place where he was born. Ana hadn’t forgotten Leonor’s contempt, Eugenio’s eagerness to raise him under his roof. If Miguel wanted to visit her, she was sure neither doña Leonor nor don Eugenio would encourage him. Still, it bothered her that there was no regret in his letters about their long separation.
She’d had no word from San Juan for six months, but in late 1856 a letter from Miguel reached Los Gemelos. The Argosos had survived the plague and things were back to normal in the capital. She wrote to his grandparents requesting that they send Miguel