Conquistadora - Esmeralda Santiago [204]
His valise had been sent ahead, and his cabin prepared with as much comfort as the merchant vessel could afford. At the end of the journey, someone would be waiting with a horse to lead him to El Destino. In spite of his sad mission, Mr. Worthy was looking forward to seeing Ana in person after two decades of correspondence, reports, accounts, and records. What an extraordinary woman! He’d met her only once, in the Argoso home on Calle Paloma. She was just a girl, but even then she conveyed spirit and energy. She’d endured the subsequent tragedies with admirable grace and unswerving vision. He wished that all his clients were like Ana Larragoity de Fuentes.
Mr. Worthy settled in front of the tiny desk in his cabin. He’d brought much work on this trip. His clients did not pay him to be idle. When he reached into his briefcase, his fingers brushed past the crisp envelope, notarized and sealed. He gave himself a moment to feel the heartache of his melancholy task. He’d known Miguel since he was a small child whose drawings and paintings he’d praised because he had to, not because he wanted to, and he wondered if anyone else who’d admired them felt the same way. He scratched a note to make sure an inventory was prepared of what might be left in the house on Calle Paloma and in the crates Miguel had sent ahead from Europe.
If the winds were favorable and the seas calm, Mr. Worthy would be in El Destino in less than a week, reading a will that would change Hacienda los Gemelos forever. All the de Argoso slaves, which now numbered 127, including elders and children, would be freed. Of that number, and according to doña Ana’s meticulous annual reports, those old enough to work made up two-thirds of the workforce; the rest were rented from Severo Fuentes.
Mr. Worthy was pleased that the reading of the will would come toward the end of the harvest. They might not be able to plant the additional fifty cuerdas doña Ana planned, but the upcoming tiempo muerto might give them some time to organize the work for the already on-the-ground 1866 zafra. This was surely the biggest challenge doña Ana and don Severo had faced so far: five hundred cuerdas of cane to be cut and processed with a nearly nonexistent workforce. How would they do it? Mr. Worthy couldn’t imagine, but if it was possible, he knew, those two would do it.
AMEN
The ancient ceiba tree near Ramón’s grave was massive. Its root system had formed cavelike spaces around its trunk, and it was possible to believe, like the taínos did, that there was an underworld in the hollows where the souls of the dead were confined during the day and released in the dark of night to walk in the living world. Even though she rode past the site almost every day, Ana hadn’t visited the grave since the day Eugenio, Severo, and Luis had dropped shovelfuls of earth over the carved lid of Ramón’s coffin. It was a lovely spot, and she imagined that someday she’d be buried here. By then, if Conciencia was right, she’d be an old woman, and the people around her now might have preceded her. Who would carve flowers and leaves, hummingbirds and butterflies, a crucifix with perfectly straight edges and a halo over it like the one José had created for Miguel? Who would stand by her tomb, the moist earth fragrant of humus, promising life? There was Segundo, now but a year old, too young to know about death and sorrow. Would he pray for her?
It was midmorning, too hot for late April. Her black garments drew the sun and heat; the mantilla she’d unfolded from her bride’s chest still smelled of cedar and memories. She’d adjusted it to veil her face, like the sevillanas of her childhood, a barrier between herself and the men and women, most of them strangers, who’d come to bid Miguel good-bye. Through the fine lace she could see them, but they could not see her dry eyes.
Earlier, as she was dressing, she’d looked in a mirror for the first time in months. She was startled by how time had cast her features into sharp angles. She was thirty-nine years