Conquistadora (48 page)

By the end of June, when she had to settle the accounts for the harvest, Ana could report to Mr. Worthy that in spite of the losses during the epidemic, Hacienda los Gemelos was in excellent financial health. She was fully aware of the irony. Mr. Worthy and don Eugenio had no interest in the well-being of the people of Los Gemelos so long as the columns at the bottom of the ledgers showed a
positive outcome relative to losses. Her conquistador ancestors, she, Mr. Worthy, don Eugenio, Severo, and thousands like them, had come to this land to prosper from its riches—by might or fright. Their wealth and power was, and continued to be, erected upon corpses.

Life for Miguel in San Juan was good. He lived in a roomy, elegant home where he was coddled and spoiled by Abuela Leonor, Elena, Siña Ciriaca, and her daughter Bombón. The city was full of soldiers and people from all over the world. His grandfather was an important man who doted on him, and don Simón was a kind and inspiring teacher. Miguel had two great friends in Andrés Cardenales Romero and Luis José Castañeda Urbina, the first two boys he met in school. Like Miguel, they were born in Puerto Rico. Andrés, who was a year older, was tall and muscular with a head that seemed too big for his body. The ladies sighed over his long lashes and copious brown hair that required frequent visits to the barber. By eleven, he already showed an incipient beard, although his parents didn’t allow him to shave.

Luis José was short and chunky, blond and hazel-eyed with carob skin. He was endearingly mischievous and loquacious, a good mimic and irrepressibly cheerful. His family nickname was Querubín, to his dismay now that he was a big boy.

Miguel was thinner and shorter than Andrés, taller than Luis José. He had Ramón’s and Inocente’s graceful physique but Ana’s stature. He had light brown hair and, as don Eugenio liked to say, his grandmother’s gray eyes.

The three boys were inseparable once they discovered they lived steps from one another’s doors. Andrés was four houses down from don Eugenio’s, and Luis José lived directly across the street. When old enough, they were allowed to walk to and from school together and one was seldom seen without the others. They learned swordsmanship from the same masters, attended catechism classes, and received
their first Communion together. They were as indulged as princes but were also expected to conform to a strict code of behavior. Around ladies they were to be chivalrous, trustworthy, charming gentlemen, and the three boys learned their lessons well; but they lived in a fortress city, surrounded by soldiers, adventurers, and exiles. They were learning that when among men, they must be patently virile, courageous, honorable, and exhibit a zest for life while at the same time be willing to die for a worthy cause.

Andrés had a reputation as a seducer, even if, at eleven, he used his allure mostly to charm his way out of trouble or to cadge favors from his parents or servants. Luis José’s gift for palaver was touted as confirmation that he’d grow up to be a civil lawyer like his father, whose garrulous persona he emulated. Miguel was serious, reserved, fastidious, and dutiful. He was a bit of a dandy, but then again, don Eugenio was raising him. Part of the mystique of Spanish cavalry officers was that some were known to change their uniforms two or three times a day, even during battle.

The Argosos’ friends knew the dreadful story of the identical twin brothers who came to Puerto Rico to seek their fortune but found death instead. Some of the
vecinos
had met Ramón, Inocente, and Ana during their stay in San Juan years earlier, and the young men, especially, left lasting, favorable impressions. The
vecinos
attended Mass following the death of each brother, visited and comforted the Argosos after the tragedies, and took particular interest in Miguel.

The neighbors didn’t believe that his grandparents and godmother were raising Miguel just because Hacienda los Gemelos was so remote that he couldn’t get a good education there. Puerto Rico was crawling with unemployed émigrés from wars and conflicts in Spain, France, Italy, Venezuela, Mexico, the United States. Hundreds of tutors and governesses competed for posts with wealthy families in San Juan and the hinterlands. Even the most remote
hacendado
could find one or two teachers until their children were twelve or thirteen, when they were sent abroad to complete their education. Obviously, there was more to the story than the Argosos were willing to disclose, and the
vecinos
asked one another the same thing: What kind of mother never came to see her son and didn’t send for him during school vacations or holidays?

Miguel wondered the same thing. Whenever he mentioned Hacienda
los Gemelos, Elena assumed he missed his
mamá
, and told him something about her. “She’s not very tall,” she once said, “but so strong! And a magnificent horsewoman. That’s why you’re such a good rider.”

When he told Abuelo that he was a good rider because his mother was so proficient, Abuelo grunted.

“Your father and uncle were expert horsemen before they met your mother. Don’t forget that I’m a colonel in the cavalry and taught them, and you, to love horses and to ride well.”

As he grew up Miguel learned not to mention his mother or Hacienda los Gemelos, especially around Abuela, who squinted and pressed her lips so hard that they disappeared into her mouth.

He was not allowed to forget either his mother or the hacienda, however. Every Sunday evening Miguel had to write to Mamá while Elena knitted nearby.

“Remember to mention that you have the highest mark in drawing, and include one of your sketches,” Elena prompted.

He hardly remembered Mamá, but whenever he thought about her, he felt acute anxiety.

“Why does she always write that I belong with her at Hacienda los Gemelos?” he finally asked one night as he wrote another letter when he’d rather be with Andrés and Luis José near San Juan Gate, where a new regiment from Spain was disembarking.

“Because your
mamá
misses you so much,
mi amor
,” Elena said. “She loves you very much.”

“Then why doesn’t she come to see me?”

“I’m sure she wants to. Of course she does. But your darling
mamá
has many responsibilities at your hacienda, and she can’t be away for long. Maybe you should go for a visit.”

“Maybe.” The idea was not appealing, but Elena’s sky-blue eyes lit up at her own suggestion.

“I’ll go with you. We can go by ship. Why don’t you ask permission from your grandparents,
amorcito
?”

Clearly Elena was excited about going to Hacienda los Gemelos, and Miguel liked to please her. But he was afraid to ask Abuelo or Abuela. What if asking to go to the hacienda would sound to his grandparents as if he didn’t want to be with them? He was reasonably certain that neither Abuelo nor Abuela liked Mamá, and if they
thought he did, then they might not like him anymore and not want him to live with them in the beautiful big house on Calle Paloma just steps from his best friends in the world.

A few days later, Miguel wanted to show Elena his sketches of the gurgling fountain in the courtyard. It had taken Miguel three days to finish them, and he was proud of the details he’d captured from every angle. He was not in the habit of listening in on adult conversations, but as he approached the
sala
, he heard his name, so he stopped just outside the half-open door.

“It’s natural that Miguel would want to see his mother,” Elena was saying.

“She’s made no effort to come to see
him
.”

“You know that she will not leave the hacienda, Tía Leonor.”

“That’s her choice, isn’t it?”

“I used to think so but don’t believe that anymore. For whatever reasons, she can’t leave. I don’t think she knows why.”

“It’s because she’s mad. I’m glad she’s there with that … that man she’s married. He’s another one—”

“Please forgive me, Tía, if I speak harshly to you, whom I respect and love, but it’s cruel to keep Miguel from his mother if he wants to see her.”

There was a moment of silence and Miguel was about to tiptoe back to his room, but he froze in place with his grandmother’s next words.

“You admire her so, but you don’t know her. She doesn’t care about Miguel. She traded him for Hacienda los Gemelos. Traded him, Elena, the way she trades for slaves. That’s why she’s there and Miguel is here. I will never allow him to go there, never.”

“Please, say no more, Tía Leonor.”

“That place is cursed and that woman is a witch. My two sons died because of her, and if Miguel sets foot there, he will not come out alive.”

“Tía Leonor, please!”

Miguel didn’t hear the rest. He ran to his room, closed the door, and pressed his pillow around his head, wishing he could erase those words from his ears.

———

The cholera epidemic did not spare San Juan. Civilians were ordered to stay home, close their shutters to the street, and avoid contact with others. Communication practically ceased. What few letters managed to get through had black stripes along one edge, indicating that an acquaintance had died. Confined indoors, Leonor practiced the harp for hours. Her melodies resounded to the street, where the few passersby stopped to listen to the sweet music and to wonder whether there were angels trapped behind the carved doors.

Elena felt the change in the city most at night, when she prayed on the roof. The evening chatter and novenas rolled in, muffled by closed windows and doors. Even the church bells tolling the hours were hushed. As soon as it was dusk, patrols increased throughout the city.
El sereno
—the night watchman established eighteen years earlier, during a slave unrest—continued his rounds. His mournful chant,
“Todo bien, gracias a Dios, salve la Reina,”
echoed through the cobblestone streets. Added to his call was the jingle of soldiers’ spurs as they walked up and down the streets enforcing the curfew. Elena missed don Simón’s walking down Calle Paloma to stare at her window until she blew out her candle.

In late July, no one could ignore the cries from the Urbina Castañeda house across the street. Leonor and Elena prayed constantly, but on the fourth afternoon they heard a cart pull up to the door. Through chinks in the shutters, Leonor, Elena, and Miguel watched as a priest went into the house and emerged praying and blessing doña Patricia as she carried the small body of her youngest daughter, Ednita.

“Que Dios les bendiga,”
Leonor and Elena called as they crossed themselves, but doña Patricia didn’t respond. She went in and out of her house three more times carrying a small body while the priest’s invocations lulled the afternoon. The last, the heaviest body she carried from the house, was wrapped in a blanket. Before Leonor or Elena could stop him, Miguel opened the shutter and leaned over the sill.

“Doña Pati,”
he cried,
“¿dónde está Luis José?”

Her eyes were blank and her lips a solid line, as if she’d decided never to smile again. “All my children are dead,” she said in a monotone.
“Mi Querubín está con Papá Dios.…”

Miguel didn’t care that boys, like men, should never cry, especially before women. Elena pressed the sobbing Miguel into her chest.

“Is there anything we can do for you?” Leonor called.

“Pray for my husband,” doña Pati said. “He’s still sick.” The priest helped her climb into the cart. “Pray for their souls, Leonor. Pray for me.”

“Every day, Patricia.” Leonor crossed herself.
“Que Dios te bendiga. Que Dios los bendiga a todos.”
She prayed at the window until the cart turned the corner.

“Come,
querido.
” Elena took Miguel away. “Let’s go to your room.”

“Will you all die?” he asked as she wiped his face.

She knelt before him. Miguel was a frightened little boy, with a distant mother, a dead father. Behind his question was the fear that everyone else he cared about—her, doña Leonor, don Eugenio, Siña Ciriaca, Bombón and her husband, Mateo—would die and leave him alone. He couldn’t imagine himself dying, but it was possible to think that everyone he loved would.

“We’re all healthy and doing everything possible to stay safe from disease,” she said. “Only God knows when he wants us back in heaven. This is such a sad time,
mi amor
, that maybe Papá Dios needed Querubín by his side because he needed someone to make him smile.”

In 1857 Miguel turned twelve years old, the age when boys were sent abroad to continue their education. He was closer than ever to Andrés, and especially after Querubín died, the boys were more like brothers than friends. Andrés’s father had lost his wife and three other children to cholera, and was reluctant to send his son away. Leonor also wanted to keep Miguel nearby, so the adults chose to enroll both boys in the local parochial school. Don Simón would supervise and supplement their work and help them to prepare for exams and school projects. Miguel also studied at an art academy established by a recently exiled painter.

Outwardly, the boys were disappointed that they wouldn’t go to Europe, but Miguel, at least, was relieved. He wasn’t adventurous by nature, and were it not for the more fearless Andrés, he’d be just as happy in the big house on Calle Paloma, reading, painting, and being pampered and indulged by Abuela, Elena, Siña Ciriaca, and Bombón.
While he enjoyed sketching, he didn’t like the public aspect of it, especially in a city where his every action was noticed and talked about by the
vecinos
. He eschewed landscapes and focused on still lifes and portraiture. He flattered friends and neighbors by asking them to sit for him, and their likenesses hung on their walls in a chronology of his evolving skill. He always signed his initials on the lower left side of the canvas—RMIALMC, for his official name, Ramón Miguel Inocente Argoso Larragoity Mendoza Cubillas. Three generations later, a collection of nineteenth-century Puerto Rican art and crafts was donated to the Smithsonian Institution, among them fifteen canvases with the enigmatic initials. The paintings were cataloged and stored in a warehouse near Andover, Massachusetts, where they languished alongside thousands of other paintings by dead artists no one remembered.