Conquistadora - Esmeralda Santiago [78]
“Cobarde. Only a coward would strike a woman.”
Ramón seemed about to burst through the invisible wall, but instead he thrust his index finger in her direction. “I swear that if you were a man I’d kill you for your insults.”
She tightened her jaw and held his gaze. He dropped his arm and the sheepish expression overtook him, and he was once again the pathetic reproduction of the elegant, handsome, cheerful man she’d met four years before.
“I’m not the same man,” he said mournfully, reading her thoughts. “Who have I become?” He looked hopefully at her, as if she had an answer. When all she did was stare, he continued. “Coming here was a mistake. Let’s go home.”
“This is our home.”
“No. No, it is not. Let’s go back to Spain. There’s no disgrace if we admit we were wrong. We’d be leaving the plantation better than we found it. We can be proud of what we’ve accomplished.”
“I’m not leaving.”
“There’s no real society here, no culture, no comforts. We live only slightly better than the slaves. This is not how you or I were raised to spend the rest of our lives. No, Ana.”
“We knew this would be a challenge. We all agreed.”
“My brother is dead, Ana! Viciously murdered and buried who knows where, far from his country, his people.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “My poor mother.”
She was moved by his grief but disgusted by his tears, by the stench of regret that weighed him and threatened to crush her. There was a time when she would’ve wrapped her arms around him, sought to console him with kisses and caresses. But mention of doña Leonor, and a vision of her curls, laces, and ribbons, brought to Ana’s mind a life she refused to accept as her destiny. She would not be bound by the stifling rooms of the city either here or in Spain, by the despotic rules of women without enough to do and little power over their lives. And I won’t be like Elena, Ana thought, silent and distant in muslin with a perpetual, servile smile, eyes cast down humbly. I refuse to be that woman.
Ramón’s shoulders heaved in silent sobs and Ana looked away, embarrassed by his weakness and sentimentality. No, Ana thought. I’m wrong about Elena. I’ve always been wrong about her. Elena would’ve been a stronger partner. She has more backbone than all of us put together. I should’ve encouraged Inocente to marry her from the beginning, to bring her with us. He would’ve done it. He would’ve done anything I asked then. He would be alive now.
Through the window she saw movement in the foliage. A tiny bird buzzed around a branch of the flowering breadfruit tree. It wasn’t a hummingbird, nor did it seem interested in the abundant white buds. It perched on a branch, its green feathers blending into the leaves, its long beak pointed upward. In one smooth, sudden move, it flew horizontally, trapped an insect in its beak, and returned to its perch, to wait silent and still. Ana watched closely because the bird was so tiny that it was easy to lose sight of. Once, twice, three times the bird darted from its branch, beak open, to snap it closed around an unseen insect. Each time it flew back to the same spot, to stand immobile and wait for its next prey.
When she looked back at Ramón he was staring at her, his red face stained with tears, anger, and hurt. “You don’t care,” he said, and the revelation changed his world. “You’re not even listening. You don’t care about me, you don’t care about my brother, that he’s dead, dead, dead. You don’t care about your son, our son, Miguel. You don’t care about anyone but yourself. You simply do not care,” he repeated talking himself into believing his own words.
“Ramón …,” she started, but he stood and pointed again, shaking his finger.
“You’re the reason my brother is dead. You bewitched us.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Ramón.”
“I’ll never forgive you,” he said. “Jamás. Not so long as I live will I forgive you. Never.”
The words were barbs, and for a moment they stung, but the next second