Conquistadora - Esmeralda Santiago [96]
Some nights were so bright that his shadow was a solid black figure that mimicked his movements, and he found comfort in its company. Other nights were so dark that he walked right into trees and fences. He walked into a pond once and was knee deep before he noticed, terrified that he was being sucked into the mud, where he’d drown. He clambered out, sat on the bank until his heart regained its normal pace, then kept walking. In the morning his hair and beard were caked with fine clay, his clothes filthy, and the leather of his boots stiff, pinching his feet with every step.
Neither he nor Inocente had feared the night, even in Spain, where bandits roamed the countryside, city streets, and alleys robbing and murdering. They were excellent swordsmen, especially Inocente, who was agile and tricky. While each defended the other in encounters with outlaws, neither suffered more than minor scratches and torn clothes. The same couldn’t be said for their assailants, who mistook their foppish dress and light step to mean they couldn’t defend themselves.
Inocente always took care of himself, but he looked out for Ramón, too. He was fearless and should have made a career, like their father, in the cavalry. The military would’ve suited him, but he wouldn’t leave Ramón in order to pursue a soldier’s life. Ramón imagined that Inocente put up a vicious fight when he was ambushed. Beyond that certainty, he refused to let his mind go into the specifics of what his brother’s last moments might have been. When Severo tried to tell him how Inocente died, Ramón stopped him. He’d fought alongside his brother and had seen the fury Inocente unleashed against opponents, often out of all proportion to the offense.
Ramón didn’t carry a weapon anymore. Still, the slaves were afraid of him. They didn’t fear him like they feared Severo, who could whip or set the dogs upon them if he chose. No, the slaves’ fear of Ramón was superstitious, because he was alive and his twin was dead. He’d heard one say to another that he was a ghost. He felt as insubstantial as a ghost, as transparent, as useless. He’d never known such loneliness. He felt phantasmal, forever wandering alone while others lived, ate, and loved.
Sometimes when he walked, he was sure that he slept as he moved. He’d arrive someplace and wouldn’t know where he was, and had no memory of how he got there. He’d spent enough time outdoors with his father and brother to know that, if lost, he should be guided by the stars, but the constellations were arranged in different configurations in this part of the world, and he soon stopped looking up for guidance and simply waited for daylight. The bell tower or the windmill always showed him where the house was.
Some nights he’d be out walking and hear a horseman and know that Severo Fuentes was looking for him. Ramón was easy to spot in his white clothes, so he just waited until one of the dogs came up sniffing. He reached up his hand, and Severo pulled him up on his horse and he rode behind him, often falling asleep with his head between Severo’s shoulder blades, his arms around his waist, and next thing he’d wake up in Nena’s bohío. Other times he’d find himself at her door with no memory of how he got there. Nena the laundress led him inside and washed him and helped him climb into his hammock.
He liked Nena la Lavandera. She was shy and quiet, brown as cacao, and smelled like river water. She was warm and soft where Ana was cold and angular. She hardly ever spoke, unlike Ana, who constantly nagged and berated him.
He’d shared La Lavandera with Inocente, like they’d shared many women before Ana,