Conquistadora - Esmeralda Santiago [189]
AN EVENING IN GUARES
On April 25, 1865, a merchant ship trimmed a forested cove with a stretch of glistening white sand at the far curve. Miguel Argoso Larragoity rocked and bounced on tiptoe, trying to see beyond the windswept beach that the captain identified as the southern edge of Hacienda los Gemelos. The vessel would arrive in Guares just before dusk, but it was over a week later than expected. Miguel’s first ship had been delayed arriving in Liverpool, and he had to wait as it was prepared for the Atlantic crossing. The captain now suggested that if there was no one to receive him, Miguel should spend the night in the Frenchman’s inn.
“It’s not the most elegant place, but don Tibó will provide a horse and directions to Hacienda los Gemelos. I recommend you set out early in the morning.”
Miguel was both excited and nervous. He’d spent eighteen months in Europe traveling with Maestro de Laura, who insisted on painting en plein air to break Miguel’s habits of dreary formal portraits and even more lackluster still lifes. After hours in the outdoors, they returned to their hotels long enough to change into evening clothes. Nights, they haunted theaters, music halls, and brothels, where Miguel indulged enough to require a series of painful treatments for an unpleasant and most uncomfortable affliction. Now cured, he was more cautious. He’d lived a lifetime in a year and a half and was determined to return to Europe as soon as possible. Before he even set foot on it again, the island already seemed too small for him.
He hadn’t seen his mother in almost sixteen years. His murky memories were of a bigger-than-life woman with black, implacable eyes. Her letters had followed him to every city in his travels. Her reminders that she expected him to stand as godfather to his infant brother marred the last few months of Miguel’s sojourn. Only filial duty broke through his resistance, further propelled by Mr. Worthy’s insistence that he come back to Puerto Rico. Perhaps he’d heard about Miguel’s activities in Europe or, more likely, was concerned by the frequent requests for funds from every city he visited with Maestro de Laura. It was proving expensive to keep his tutor-mentor in good spirits.
Behind and above him, sails puffed and swelled, the high masts capped by snapping banners. Miguel’s clothes fluttered against his limbs and he pushed his jipijapa over his ears to keep it on, its brim bothering his cheeks, the back of his neck. To the east, a gray cloud hovered above the verdure. As they sailed closer to land, he was struck by the lilac and purple undulations like silk scarves beckoning sinuous mountains. Chimneys sputtered pearly smoke over the cañaverales.
Another beach sparkled beyond the jungled east leg of the cove, protected by a wall of palms on the landward side and by a narrow coral reef along the sea. High above the tide line, smoke drifted over the shed behind a porched house surrounded by a garden. Another building was on the far end, probably a barn. Enchanted by the view, Miguel quickly captured the outlines in his sketchbook. As the vessel passed beyond the beach, a woman emerged from the house and waved. She wore a flowing dress with no crinolines, so the cloth accentuated her comely figure. Her dark hair was loose to her waist. Miguel couldn’t see her features, but he sensed her smile and waved back. He kept his eyes on her as the vessel passed the cove, spellbound as she swayed along the beach. He hadn’t seen a sight quite like this in Europe.
The Guares harbor was clogged and there would be no anchorage for them until morning. Miguel was rowed ashore, between and around the towering, pulsing hulls above the dinghy. Harried foremen cursed the