Conquistadora - Esmeralda Santiago [191]
Miguel stopped an urchin sitting on the curb.
“Can you tell me where to find don Tibó’s inn?”
“The cantina is over there.” The boy pointed listlessly in a direction that could have been ahead or to the left.
“May I help you, sir?” a voice came from behind.
The corpulent young man removed his hat with the air of someone who recognized a specimen of the same breed. He was as well dressed and elegant as Miguel, except that he was taller, wider, and with the ingratiating air of a native facing a lost tourist.
“You’re very kind.” Miguel asked about don Tibó’s.
“I can guide you part of the way.” The young man stretched his hand out. “Manuel Morales Moreau, at your service, but everyone calls me Manolo.”
“How do you do. Miguel Argoso Larragoity.”
Manolo’s eyebrows rose. “Hacienda los Gemelos?”
“Yes.” He explained why there was no one to meet him and the captain’s suggestion.
“No, my friend, you can’t go to don Tibó’s. Out of the question,” he said. “Your uncle and late father, may they rest in peace, were great friends of my family. My father is Luis Morales Font, owner of San Bernabé, Los Gemelos’s closest neighbor. Your stepfather has been most attentive since Papá had his stroke. No, you’re absolutely forbidden from spending the night anywhere but in my home, where the food and accommodations will be superior to what our French vecino can provide.”
“I couldn’t possibly impose.…”
“It’s our pleasure, and you can make Angustias happy by sharing the latest from the Continent. Ladies place much stock on news from Europe, much more so than us men, whose concerns are more focused on local affairs.”
Miguel was somewhat embarrassed by Manolo’s ebullience, his familiarity, the way he tugged Miguel’s elbow to keep him from stepping on puddles of questionable origin.
“I’m not surprised you were lost. Guares is growing fast in every direction, thanks to King Sugar,” Manolo said. “Until the expansion of our port three years ago, we couldn’t accommodate the larger merchant and passenger vessels like the one that brought you back home.”
They entered a plaza where the church faced official buildings of stately construction decorated with impressive coats of arms and a very large Spanish flag. Commercial buildings lined the other two sides of the plaza, and Manolo explained that local landowners and businessmen were raising homes along the thoroughfares radiating from it toward the countryside.
The Moraleses’ street stretched for three blocks behind the government buildings. Beyond the newest homes, muddy alleys connected a warren of helter-skelter shacks and tumbledown barns. The squatters, campesinos, and libertos who’d settled on the sites before the town began to grow were being displaced to the outskirts, along the military road, in the swampy marshlands, or up the steep hills.
“These barrios are an eyesore,” Manolo said when he noticed Miguel’s interest. “The municipal government is doing everything possible to move them and make way for decent people.”
“Wealthy people, you mean,” Miguel said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The people in the barrios are poor. It’s their poverty that’s indecent,” Miguel said.
“Yes, of course.” Manolo coughed. “It’s terrible that they choose to live in such conditions. Ah, look—here we are.”
“Allow me to introduce you to my wife and her mother.” Manolo led Miguel into