Conquistadora - Esmeralda Santiago [74]
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One night, Ana and Ramón were having their coffee on the porch while listening to the tree frogs: coquí-coquí-coquí. A candle burned by the door, its flame sputtering every time an insect flew into it. When she noticed him staring at her, Ana expected him to speak. Instead, he blinked without acknowledging her, then turned his gaze to the treetops beyond the railing and took a long drag from his cigarette. The gesture was so offensive that she stood abruptly and went into the bedroom, expecting him to follow, asking what was wrong, or at least to apologize. But a while later, when her door opened, it was Flora who entered with her bowls and cloths and cheerful hum. There was a moment when Ana’s mood showed enough to change Flora’s smile into a worried frown.
“I do something wrong, señora?” she asked, instinctively stepping back.
“No, Flora.” Ana let Flora bathe her, but the usually relaxing ritual was marred by anger.
Ana had experienced reactions like Ramón’s in the mirrored salons of Sevilla society, in the waxed halls of the Convento de las Buenas Madres, on the streets of Cádiz and San Juan. It was a look that said, “I see you, but I deign not to speak to you.” It said, “I see you but I do not share the high opinion you have of yourself.” It said, “I see you but you’re not who I want to see.” It said, “To me, you don’t exist.”
After her bath, Ana sent Flora to let Ramón know she was ready for bed, but the maid returned with a sheepish expression. “El señor no está.”
“Where did he go?”
“I don’t know, señora.” Flora looked away.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” Ana asked, and the maid seemed to be caught between wanting to please her and wanting to protect someone else’s secret.
“No le sé decir, señora,” she finally said. The phrase could mean “I don’t know how to tell you” or “I can’t tell you because I don’t know,” but Ana suspected that Flora meant the former.
“I order you to tell me what you do know.”
“Por favor, señora.” Flora shrank away, but she couldn’t leave the room without permission and couldn’t refuse to obey. “No sé nada,” she whimpered, but Ana knew she was lying. Before Ana even realized what she was doing, she slapped her. Flora dropped and quickly folded into a position that exposed only her back and her hands wrapped around her head.
Ana had never hit anyone before. In the orange glow of the candle, she stared at the protective lump Flora had become and she was filled with shame. Her hand smarted, and it would be Flora she’d complain to about the hurt. Flora would examine her fingers one by one, then rub something on them to stop the pain. But Flora was now whimpering at her feet, expecting another blow, protecting her face, her breasts, and her belly from the woman whose naked body she’d just washed and powdered. Ana turned and walked off with a heavy tread so that Flora could hear her moving and expect no more blows.
“¿Señora?” Flora knelt, prepared, Ana thought, to curl up again if she should strike.
Ana walked as far as the candlelight reached, to the shelf that held her brushes and hairpins. “You can go, Flora,” she said, but the maid didn’t budge. “Vete,” Ana repeated, but Flora stayed on the floor, staring in front of her and wringing her hands.
“What is it now?” Ana asked with undisguised exasperation.
“If you didn’t ask,” Flora said.
Ana heard a buzz in her ears, like when she stood up too quickly. A deafening ringing followed, but it couldn’t silence Flora’s words.
“He goes to Marta, señora. Like don Inocente