Conquistadora - Esmeralda Santiago [186]
On the early morning of April 7, 1864, after a twelve-hour labor, Ana awoke to the hush of women. She kept her eyes closed, mentally surveying the soreness in her body. She had a vague memory of Conciencia placing the squirming, slippery infant on her throbbing belly, and of Paula wiping the child clean once Conciencia cut and tied the umbilical cord.
“A son, señora.”
Gloria helped Paula wash and swaddle the baby, and then the old woman brought him to Ana and pressed his face to her chest. Paula pinched Ana’s nipple and guided the baby’s mouth to it. Ana lay back and closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth of his hungry mouth and the release that came as the milk dropped.
She must have fallen asleep because, next thing, Severo was kissing her on the forehead, the baby in his arms.
“He’ll be named after your great ancestor,” he said, “to honor you.”
He presented the swaddled child as if the infant were another of the packages with rare goods he brought her from time to time. The next moment, Paula was at her side, squeezing her nipple into the baby’s mouth, and Ana had the sensation that everything she was or would ever be was flowing through her breast into her child’s body. Again she fell asleep as he nursed.
“You’re awake, mi señora.”
“Sí, Conciencia.” Ana opened her eyes to daylight. The shutters were half closed to keep the room shadowed and cool.
“El niño needs to suck again.” Conciencia helped Ana to sit. Behind her, Paula held the baby, her wrinkled face alight with the miracle of an infant in her arms.
“I just fed him,” Ana said.
“No, mi señora, that was some hours ago. You’ve been sleeping.”
Again his hot mouth released the milk, but this time, Ana didn’t sleep. She looked at her son.
Around the bed the women of her house—Conciencia, Paula, and Gloria—were smiling proudly, as if Ana were the first mother and he the first child ever born and nursed.
“Can he see me?” she asked Conciencia.
“He knows you’re his mother,” she said.
“His eyes are like mine, but otherwise, he looks just like his father,” Ana observed. The women nodded.
“El patrón went to Guares to register the birth,” Paula said before Ana asked.
Ana looked at her child again. His hair was golden, like Severo’s, and his little body was compact but heavy. “Severo Hernán Fuentes Larragoity Arosemeno y Cubillas. Such a big name for such a little boy,” Ana said into her child’s ear. “Can you live up to it?”
As Padre Xavier formed the characters for the two names and four surnames on the top line of a fresh page of the parish register, he marveled at the habit of the rich to keep adding names to their offspring, climbing the family tree as high as they could until they reached the most illustrious ancestor they could claim.
“There it is.” Padre Xavier turned the book so that Severo could see that he’d used his best handwriting. Everyone knew that Severo Fuentes had enough offspring in the environs to fill several pages of the records if he chose to recognize any of them, but except for Severo Hernán, his other children were officially listed under other men’s names, or those of their mothers.
“And which of these illustrious names will you use in everyday life for your son?”
“Segundo,” Severo said.
“Ah! After his father and—?”
“My wife’s ancestor.”
“I see. Bless him,” Padre Xavier said, forming a cross in the air. None of the child’s official names referred to saints.
“We will celebrate a baptism Mass when my stepson, Miguel, returns from Europe. He’s agreed to be his godfather.” Severo pulled a pouch from his pocket and handed it to the priest. “In celebration of our son’s birth, my wife and I wish to make a donation to your church.”
Padre Xavier resisted the urge to look inside but felt the solidity of many coins. “God bless you and your family, señor Fuentes,” he said humbly. “Your