Conquistadora - Esmeralda Santiago [93]
Ramón had arranged for them to stay their last night on the road at Finca San Bernabé. The Argosos drove into the tamped dirt yard in late afternoon, followed by the escort. The residence was a long wooden house with a peaked roof known as techo de dos aguas. Next to it, a larger, square masonry house with a flat roof and central courtyard was under construction. When they pulled into the drive, the workers on the new building stopped and stood with their heads bowed while the ladies were helped from the carriage and up to the front porch of the original dwelling, where Luis and Faustina waited to greet them. Their boys stood next to their parents and were introduced as Luisito and Manolo. They all looked alike—Faustina a female copy of her husband, Luisito and Manolo smaller echoes of the same features and corpulent shapes.
“Bienvenidos, please come in, welcome, this way, please make yourselves comfortable.” Faustina’s voice resounded from her bosom with an undertone of jollity, as if remembering a joke she was eager to share. Luis, too, seemed to be enjoying himself enormously, and their two boys were all smiles and ingratiating gestures. Leonor accepted as a good omen that the closest neighbors to Los Gemelos had such high spirits and took obvious delight in their country life. Their size and rosy cheeks, their smiling, hospitable air were comforting, as if closeness to these happy people somehow reached over the miles of overgrown paths and stony roads to the center of Los Gemelos. Forgetting her intimate knowledge of her son’s and daughter-in-law’s true personalities, and contrary to every fear and concern suffered over the past four and a half years, Leonor now imagined Ramón, Ana, and Miguel as round and jolly and loquacious as every member of the Morales Moreau household.
From the outside, their home seemed a simple wooden rectangle with a broad front porch, but it proved to be airy and roomy inside, furnished simply but comfortably. It was clear from the doilies that covered the side tables, the cushions propped against the wooden and cane chairs, the valances over the shutter windows and adorning the doors leading to interior rooms that Faustina was a prolific crocheter.
“I’m sure,” Faustina said, “that you’d like to freshen up.” She led Leonor and Elena to the rear of the house and showed each into a different room, where maids waited to help them with their ablutions.
“What’s your name?”
“Ciriaca. A sus órdenes, señora,” the maid answered, neither docile nor assertive, but in a combination of both. She was a striking woman, with almond eyes and high cheekbones. The bright orange turban circling her head, the ends tied into an insouciant bow at the side, enhanced the undertones of her chocolate skin. “Shall I pour for you?” she asked, and with a steady hand she tipped the clay pitcher just enough for a stream of water to fill Leonor’s cupped hands over the basin. She splashed her face, her neck, and just as she was about to ask for the towel, Ciriaca presented it to her unfolded, releasing the scent of lemons. Their eyes met, and Ciriaca dropped her gaze immediately, but again, Leonor thought that the woman was not submissive so much as well-mannered. “If you permit me, señora,” Ciriaca said, and with the used, now damp towel, she brushed away pieces of leaves, dead insects, and twigs from Leonor’s clothes and, kneeling in front of her, used what corners of the towel were still clean to wipe the dust from the hem of her dress and from her shoes.
Elena came from her room at the same time as