Conquistadora - Esmeralda Santiago [76]
“How dare you,” she hissed, “deceive me with that … that woman?”
The room was unlit, but she could distinguish Ramón’s shirtless figure near the hammock. He sighed, long and low, emptying himself of air. She could smell his warm, tobacco breath and pungent sweat.
“Have you nothing to say?” she asked.
Ramón sighed again, and she expected him to argue, to apologize, to lie about it even, but not to calmly climb into the hammock and turn his back to her.
“Déjame tranquilo,” he said with the same intonation as on that night months ago when she came to him not in anger but with love and compassion.
“How can you expect me to—,” she started.
“¡Déjame!” he yelled, and sat up as if to strike her.
She froze, awestruck that Ramón, gentle, laughing Ramón, would raise his voice and a hand threateningly in her direction. She had the sudden urge to protect herself the way Flora did, but the next moment it vanished. In the room across the hall, Miguel cried and Flora murmured. Ana had the feeling that the whole plantation was alert, listening. They’ve all been waiting for this moment, she thought. They’ve all known what was going on, and were waiting for me to realize it and to see what I’d do.
“Next time you go lie with that perra puta,” Ana said through clenched teeth, “don’t bother coming back here.” She turned to go, but he pulled her by her braids. He slapped her, but she slid from his grasp and ran screaming for the door. He blocked it and pushed her down, then kicked her so hard that it sent her sprawling across the room.
“You are the bitch,” he snarled. “You are the whore. You.”
On the floor, Ana tried to protect her face, her belly, and the back of her head, but Ramón’s blows found the parts of her that were exposed. She couldn’t see, but she heard footsteps running in her direction. Severo. He was there, suddenly, tussling with Ramón and pressing him against the wall. Then Flora was beside her, helping her up and leading her back to her bedroom. Through the thin slats that separated them, she heard Ramón abusing Severo, threatening to fire him, questioning his authority to come into his house, into his room. But soon Ramón was silent and both men left.
Ana couldn’t face Flora. Last night’s shame was now humiliation. She kept her eyes to the ground as Flora helped her to the bed. Flora called Inés, who listened to her instructions, then disappeared. Flora rolled up the mosquito net and helped Ana change from the torn, bloodstained nightgown into a fresh one.
“Easy, mi niña, slow, let Flora help,” she said, her strong hands moving in several directions at once, dropping the gown over Ana’s head, lifting her arms, and guiding them into sleeves, stroking the hair from her face, pulling the hem over Ana’s hips, tying the ribbons around the neckline.
Ana didn’t resist. She closed her eyes and let Flora’s competent fingers do their work. Her hands and knees were raw. She brought her right hand to her face and saw a splinter wedged into the fleshy mound beneath her right thumb. Through squinted eyes, Flora squeezed until her nails met around the splinter and, with one swift, painful jerk, pulled it out. She pressed her thumb over the hurt and held it there while with her other hand she wiped Ana’s cheeks with the hem of her apron.
“It only hurt for a little, mi niña,” she soothed.
Flora then turned her attention to Ana’s knees, which felt as if they’d been scratched against the metal guayo used to grate yuca and plantains. Her right knee throbbed, and when Flora tried to straighten it, Ana groaned. The maid pressed the flesh under and around the knee.
“No worry, señora, not broke. Big bruise, that is all.”
There was a knock, and Ana tensed. Inés entered with a pitcher of cool water in one hand, a fragrant unguent in a gourd in the other, and a stack of cloths over her arm. She looked curiously toward the bed, but Flora immediately covered Ana and stood between them as In