Conquistadora - Esmeralda Santiago [174]
“I came here with the goal of freeing the slaves at Hacienda los Gemelos,” Miguel said quietly, “but you’ve given me much more to think about than I expected.”
Mr. Worthy also turned to face the window and the busy harbor. After a moment, he spoke again. “While I’m not at liberty to contravene your grandfather’s will, I can help you look for ways to fulfill your humanitarian aims,” he continued. “For example, your will can specify that the slaves be freed upon your death. It’s standard practice among slave owners.”
Miguel flinched; he hated the sound of those words applied to him. “I understand. Please include it in the document you’re drafting.”
“Of course,” Mr. Worthy said, noting it again on the pad before him. “And upon your twenty-fifth birthday, you can dispose of all your property as you like. The trust can’t interfere, although I hope you will allow me to advise you.”
“Of course. Thank you, Mr. Worthy.” Miguel stood and extended his hand. “I appreciate your help.”
“If I can be of further assistance arranging your journey—”
“I’ll let you know.”
Miguel drifted down the hallway, pushed by a wave of pen scratches against parchment, of fluttering papers, of secretaries and clerks in muted garments, of their hushed voices, of the smell of ink, of the floating motes inside a triangulated sunny shaft on the painted cement wall, of the stillness and heat of the approaching equinox as he stepped into the cobblestone street.
The slamming of doors as merchants shuttered their businesses for the almuerzo and siesta fractured the sense that he was in a dream. Pedestrians hastened indoors, the street cleared, and Miguel faced the stark reality that he was about to leave Puerto Rico for the first time in his life. There’d be no time to visit Hacienda los Gemelos, an idea that hadn’t occurred to him until Mr. Worthy said he couldn’t go there. He was strangely elated, as if having an excuse not to visit his mother had weighed on him. I’ll go there first thing after I return from Europe, he thought.
He knew that the Miguel who walked into Mr. Worthy’s office didn’t leave it. The Miguel who went inside had dissolved among bills of lading, notarized documents, leases, contracts, and brown folios knotted with ribbon. He had all the right instincts, but not the strength of character to stand on his principles. Betances had already been exiled once, returned to Puerto Rico, and it appeared that he was about to be desterrado again. How much had the patriot lost in his struggle to free men and women whom he didn’t even know? Miguel was a different man. The minute his easy life was endangered, his integrity crumbled. He had another long-forgotten memory: his mother under a tree, still as a post, while everyone and everything in the batey whirled and circled around her. It could not be a real memory, it could not have happened that way, but that was what he remembered, her stillness and her black eyes staring at him.
It was probably a good thing for his growing sense of self that he wasn’t going to face his mother’s shrewd, penetrating gaze at Hacienda los Gemelos.
III
1860–1865
EL QUE VIVE DE ILUSIONES MUERE DE DESENGAÑOS.
He who lives on illusion dies of disappointment.
VISIONS AND ILLUSIONS
During the zafra, Severo Fuentes had no time for society. While he had daily interactions with men, he could rarely be with them as equals. His power over their lives prevented him from befriending the day laborers and small farmers. He felt comfortable among military officers and ship captains, but as a landowner he belonged to the settled establishment, not to the transient hierarchical society of soldiers and sailors. The business and professional men in town were not disposed toward greater intimacy with him than civility demanded because many of them were indebted to him.
From time to time Severo called on Luis Morales Font, the only planter in the environs