Conquistadora (37 page)

When she was not knitting, embroidering, or sewing, she massaged Abuelo’s shoulders, or moved knickknacks around, or straightened Miguel’s vest, or tightened the sash that held Siña Ciriaca’s apron around her waist. Abuela wore curls that bounced around her face with every move and required constant tugging and pinning into place. Her black garments had ruffles, lace, and ribbons that she fussed with if there was nothing else nearby to occupy her fingers.

Miguel thought Abuela’s hands were nervous because they were so quiet when she played the harp. During the period of mourning, the instrument, covered with a linen cloth, took up a corner of the parlor for months before he knew what it was. It was like a huge headless ghost, and he avoided looking in its direction. Evenings after supper Abuela uncovered it, leaned her right shoulder into it, and prepared to make music. When she played, her whole body grew still, her eyes seemed to be looking at something far away, and her hands rested gently on the strings before she began plucking, as if she had to subdue the strings before she could strum them.

In Los Gemelos the only instruments Miguel had ever heard were the sticks José clicked to keep rhythm, or the dried gourds that
Samuel scratched with a wire to make a raspy sound, or the maracas and rattlers that Inés and Flora shook, or the drums that Jacobo and Benicio fashioned from the hides of goats and cattle, then beat with their hands. Those instruments sounded very different from Abuela’s harp. She stroked its long strings gently or plucked them with her fingertips, eliciting a sweet sound. At Hacienda los Gemelos, José, Inés, Jacobo, and Benicio rubbed, scratched, or banged their instruments, and the sounds they produced made Miguel’s heart race. Abuela’s playing was soothing and brought to mind images of butterflies and wispy clouds. The music in Los Gemelos was fast, and when Flora and the other women sang, their voices rose up and down in throaty wails that gave Miguel goose bumps.

When they made music, everything around the barracks came to vibrant, unforgiving life. The women laughed and clapped, the men stomped their feet, and their bodies swayed, then jerked into dances that, even when the occasion was a solemn one, became a celebration of movement and sound. But when Abuela played, the world slowed and quieted as she rippled the strings. Abuelo and Elena’s faces, like Abuela’s, softened, and if Miguel moved or fidgeted, Abuelo scowled and Elena waggled her fingers to let him know to sit still. When Abuela played, Miguel wished that she’d bang on the strings. He wished that Elena and Abuelo would clap their hands, and that Siña Ciriaca and Nana Bombón would come from the kitchen thumping their pots with wooden spoons and that he could swirl and stamp his feet in the middle of the room the way he used to do in the
batey
, the drums beating through him into the night.

One Sunday after Mass, Elena walked Miguel up the hill to the fortified wall surrounding San Juan so that he could look at the sea. Soldiers tipped their plumed hats and bowed as Miguel and Elena passed. “Friends of don Eugenio’s,” she explained when Miguel looked at her inquiringly. He could tell that the soldiers admired how pretty she was in her brimmed hat and lace gloves and black dress with a satin black sash at her waist, but she paid no attention to them.

When they turned a corner, a gust slapped their faces, as if the houses kept the wind on the other side of the city. They crested the
hill and Miguel found himself before an enormous expanse of blue-green water stung with whitecaps. The sun reflected off the waves, making him squint. He brought his hand to his brow as if he were saluting, and turned his back to the sea. When his eyes stopped tearing, he saw misty mountains. He pivoted from the mountains to the sea, from the gentle green curves of the land to the endless flat ocean as if he needed to believe in one before he could apprehend the existence of the other.

“Spain is over there.” Elena pointed to the horizon, as if she expected something to come from that direction. She looked sad, and when she noticed that he could tell, she turned him slowly toward the horseshoe harbor and brightened her tone. “We came on a ship like that one.” A tall-masted schooner floated toward port, its square sails puffed like huge pillows.

“Spain is far away,” Miguel said, but Elena knew this was a question.

“It took us a month to get here.”

“Nana Inés says that there are pirates in the ocean.”

Elena raised her eyebrows. “There used to be pirates in these waters, but not anymore.”

“Mamá said that there were horses on her ship.”

“Ay, your
mamá
was so funny!”

“What did she do?”

Elena sounded as if she wanted to laugh but shouldn’t do so in public. “She and your
papá
were on the same ship with horses for the soldiers. She teased him that she’d ride one of the horses over the waves like Perseus rode Pegasus.”

“Who is Per …?”

“Perseus was a hero in ancient stories and Pegasus was a horse with wings.”

Miguel looked at the harbor studded with tall masts like giant pins stuck into the shimmering water. He tried to imagine his mother upon a winged horse skimming over the ships and the smaller boats bobbing in the sun.

“What else did Mamá do?”

Elena’s V-shaped lips narrowed and smiled, even though her eyes were serious. “You miss her, don’t you?”

He lowered his head and breathed hard to keep from crying. He missed Nana Inés, and how she rubbed his back to help him sleep.
He missed playing with Efraín and Indio, and the high towers they built from the blocks José made for them. He missed Nana Flora’s laughter, her songs to the trees, and her stories about where she lived when she was a girl in the forest. He missed José’s workshop, the smell of wood, the sawdust on the ground, the way shavings curled when José planed a board. He missed his father. Mamá told him that Papá was in heaven, and Miguel knew that meant he’d never see him again. He missed Papá’s long fingers through his hair, the way he held his hand when they walked, his tight embraces. He missed his soft voice and tender eyes. But in San Juan, every time his father’s name came up, Abuela’s eyes filled with tears and Abuelo cleared his throat.

“We can talk about your
mamá
anytime you like,” Elena continued. “I’ve known her since we were girls.”

Miguel furrowed his brow. It was hard to imagine either Mamá or Elena as anything but grown women.

“Did you know my
papá
, too? When he was a boy I mean.”

“Yes, of course. Doña Leonor is my
madre de crianza
. I grew up with your
papá
and your uncle. They were a little older. Your
mamá
and
papá
met at my birthday party.” She stopped, and her eyes again looked toward Spain. She moved her head side to side as if she both liked and didn’t like the thought. “Goodness, listen to the church bells. It’s fifteen minutes to twelve. Let’s go back.”

They hurried through the narrow streets, avoiding people on foot, soldiers on horses, wagons pulled by oxen or donkeys, vendors carrying baskets or sacks.
“¡Carbonero! ¡Carbonero aquí!”
called the coal seller.
“¡Tengo yuca y malanga!”
called the vegetable man;
“¡Tengo ñame y yautía!”
The kindling man carried a tall stack on his head, and his reedy voice soared over the whinnying horses:
“¡Leña para la doña!”

As they walked, Miguel felt the difference between the fresh wind whirling around the seawall and the air down the hill. He could smell the lower city, the stench of animal droppings, the open sewers, smoke, meat grilling, sweat.

“When I have a house, I want it to look to the sea.”

“It would be lovely,” Elena said, “but sad.”

“Why?”

“Because you’d always look toward where you came from.”

“But I didn’t come from the sea like you did.”

“You’re right,
mi amor
. I’m being silly. We turn here.”

“Will you tell me stories about the horse with wings?”

“Yes, of course. Tonight I’ll read you the story of Perseus and Pegasus.”

That night she sat on the rocker by his bed and read to him from a thick book of stories about heroes and magical creatures. She stopped at the section where Perseus cuts off the Gorgon’s head and Pegasus rises from her blood. “This might give you nightmares.”

“It won’t. I watched Lucho slaughter pigs and goats. It doesn’t scare me.”

She seemed surprised but continued the marvelous tale to the end. When he had no questions, she listened to his prayers, tucked him in, kissed his forehead, and left the room.

He felt heavy and at the same time light, as if he were floating over the streets of San Juan. The air was clean, the sky bright blue and clear. Below, El Morro fortress with its parapets and cannons faced the vast ocean. He gamboled in the wind, sometimes racing toward the soft green mountains, sometimes dipping to tease a ship with sails like pillows. He dreamed he was Perseus, riding upon Pegasus, battling monsters, saving princesses chained to rocks battered by the sea. But when he woke up he was just a little boy who’d spent the night chasing a dream.

On a bright, cool morning a month before his sixth birthday, Bombón and Elena walked Miguel to don Simón Fernández Leal’s school. Bombón waited outside while Elena brought Miguel inside.

“Ah, here’s young Argoso,” don Simón said.
“Buenos días, señorita Elena.”
They were the first to arrive. “You sit here,” the teacher said, leading Miguel to a desk in front. “That way I can keep an eye on you.”

It was supposed to be a joke, Miguel thought, because Elena smiled and blushed. Just then chimes struck the hour.

Don Simón grabbed a large bell from his desk. “Thank you for bringing him to my school.” He bowed to Elena, which elicited more blushes on their faces.

“Don Eugenio wouldn’t think of sending him anywhere else,” she
said. She stopped before Miguel’s desk and took his face in her fingers. “I’ll come later to take you home.” She kissed him and floated from the room. Bombón waved from the street as she followed Elena. Knowing they’d return made him feel better about being alone while don Simón stepped to the door to ring the bell.

The classroom was once the living room of a private home. Two floor-to-ceiling shutters opened to the street, the lower half barred in ornate wrought iron. Double doors led from the street into a hall leading to a gallery around a courtyard lush with potted plants. Several birdcages dangled from the branches of a ficus tree in the middle of the courtyard, the canaries’ song drowning out some of the sounds coming from the street, chief among them children’s laughter.

The scholars trampled in, some boys a little younger, a few older, but all dressed in crisp cottons, their hair neat, the backs of their necks and ears and their fingernails, like Miguel’s, scrubbed. The older boys took desks in the rear while the younger ones scattered in what looked to Miguel like a predetermined order, which he later learned was by age. They joked, teased, and playfully punched one another as if they were the best of friends. Three of them were brothers, and two of the older boys were cousins. They looked at him curiously.

“I’m Luis José Castañeda Urbina,” the boy who sat next to him said importantly. “And you?”

“Ramón Miguel Inocente Argoso Larragoity Mendoza Cubillas,” he said, nearly running out of breath by the time he reached the final
s
.

“¡Mi madre!”
Luis José said. “I don’t want to be you when
el profesor
teaches us to write our names.”

There was a tap on his shoulder. Miguel turned around to a pair of hazel eyes, luxurious lashes, and shaggy brows that seemed to belong to a different face from the one they were a part of, whose lower half showed a delicate nose and finely shaped lips.

“Don Simón is in love with your nana, but they can’t get married because he’s poor.”

“But Siña Ciriaca is so old!” Miguel argued.

“Not her.” Luis José laughed. “Señorita Elena!”

“She’s not my nana,” he protested, but before he could continue, don Simón walked in with the last straggler and rapped his knuckles on the desk.

“Buenos días, jóvenes.”
Before him was a class of fifteen mostly well-behaved boys sent to him for their elementary education. He would have each for six years until they graduated to the Catholic boys’ academy or were sent to finish their education in Europe. “It’s good to have you back.” He nodded to the familiar faces. “Welcome,” he said to Miguel, the only new student. “Andrés,” he said to the bushy eyebrows, “please lead us in the Lord’s prayer.”

Everyone stood. Miguel watched don Simón. He was so thin that his clothes moved on their own. His hair was the color of a dry palm frond, and large, sad, light brown eyes bulged from under curved brows. The end of his long nose dipped over a thick mustache that curled up at the ends, separated from a golden, short beard that covered his chin. His voice was deep and silvery, and he didn’t have to raise it for it to carry to the back of the room.

Miguel wondered if don Simón was handsome, and if it was true that he was in love with Elena. The way they blushed and smiled convinced him that Andrés was probably right. Still, Miguel couldn’t understand why being poor should keep them from marrying. Many people were poor. Even the slaves, who didn’t have much, married one another.

He remembered when Coral married Poldo, Siña Damita’s son. Coral wore a blue turban and decorated it with
flamboyán
blossoms. Poldo wore a white shirt over his washed and pressed work pants. He walked to the women’s
cuartel
and sang to her while Coral stood on the threshold surrounded by the other women, smiling and poking each other with their elbows. Poldo and Coral walked hand in hand to the
rancho
, with the others behind them clapping, singing, and dancing. The celebration lasted until the bell rang for everyone to go to sleep. Surely, thought Miguel, if slaves could get married and have a party afterward, Elena and don Simón should be able to do the same.

Simón taught reading, writing, and arithmetic in what was once the parlor of his home, but rudimentary science took place in the courtyard, with its potted shrubs and flowering plants. Presiding over the science lessons was a bad-tempered parrot who terrorized the chirping birds (and the scholars) with human-sounding screeches.
Along one wall, jars held the preserved remains of a piglet, a couple of frogs, three snakes, and a monkey, which were the source of curious dread for the boys. At least a couple of times a day, Kiki, his dog, escaped from the upper floor to visit his master and to be petted by the boys’ eager hands.