Conquistadora - Esmeralda Santiago [69]
Severo kept his head down, the brimmed hat pulled tightly over his ears to block the onslaught of flying insects into his face. He’d been on these paths at night so many times that it didn’t feel much different from riding them in the full brightness of day, except that, were he to look back, he’d have no sight of the windmill in the middle of the plantation.
A hundred meters from where the trail disappeared into the forest, he halted under a mango tree. Still mounted, he removed the whip from around his arm and tied it, coiled, to his saddle. He unbuttoned his shirt and flapped it back and forth to drive the sweat from his damp undershirt and armpits. He rebuttoned and tucked in the shirt, tugging at the collar until he thought it looked straight. He removed his hat, ran his fingers through his hair, and wiped the sweat off on his pants legs. Satisfied, he urged Burro around the tree, onto a path barely visible in daylight that now appeared to swallow him.
He crossed a swale and was once more in the cane, along the narrow berm between two rows of sugar. He rode at a walking pace, the cheeping frogs competing with the whispering cane on either side of him. The field opened into a meadow. On the far side, a solid wall of coconut palms grew so close together they seemed planted deliberately to keep intruders away. Burro took the path that wound around two huge palms, along an avenue of coconut and almendros toward the clearing where Consuelo’s bohío rose on piles fifty feet from the placid Caribbean Sea.
“Consuelo, mi consuelo,” he called in a low voice as he unsaddled Burro and led him into a shack where he fed and watered him. He took off his shirt and undergarment, and splashed water on his head and neck, under his arms, around his chest. He rubbed his torso and arms dry before he dressed again, tucked the garments in neatly, refastened his belt, and combed his wet fingers through his hair. He walked around to the front gate and was immersed in fragrance, as if the garden emitted smells only within the space enclosed by its reed fence.
“Pasa, mi amor,” Consuelo called from the hamaca strung across the porch beams.
The end of her cigar was a beacon, her voice syrupy and languid, filled with promises. Below her on the floor was a bottle of rum. Severo reached for it, swigged, and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He sat on the edge of the hammock. The ropes around the beams groaned, and the cotton stretched to hover a few inches from the floor. He leaned against her. She was naked, her long body all curves and mounds, fleshy until she seemed boneless, like a giant sea creature. She brought the cigar to his mouth, pressed his fingers around it. He inhaled the tobacco until it, and the rum warming his belly, made him light-headed. Her hands roamed his body, undoing the buttons he’d so recently fastened, tugging at the shirt tucked in minutes earlier, removing the belt that held up his pants, pulling off his musky undershirt. She unlaced his boots and he kicked them off. With agile toes, she rolled off his socks, pulled down his pants, and let them fall over the side of the hamaca. As naked as she, Severo twisted and turned, rubbed himself against her ample flesh, seeking the wet.
“Ay, mi amor, qué desesperado,” she laughed, but didn’t make him stop.
Severo was not the first desesperado to find his way to Consuelo Soldevida. Every man needs consoling at one time or another, and she, who took her name literally, provided it. Her mother, Consuelo, brought comfort to men. Her daughter Consuelo would, too, as would untold