Conquistadora (52 page)

He tossed and turned most of the night in anguish, begging God to take him, too. “I can’t live,” he prayed, “without her. I don’t exist without her.”

As the sun climbed over the distant mountains, he finally fell, the rosary clamped around his fingers. His chest rose and dropped in deep, smooth breaths that became shallow and uneven, until at last, and with a grateful sigh, he was released.

During his grandmother’s wake and funeral, and two months later, at his grandfather’s, Miguel was overcome by memories he didn’t know he had. He kept revisiting his father’s death nearly fourteen years earlier. He vividly remembered crimson stains on the hammock where Papá was carried from the accident. He heard again his father’s screams as he was lifted onto the cart, and he remembered Nana Damita’s surprising agility climbing in after him, and Mamá’s face pinched into an angry frown, as if she didn’t approve of the fuss being made over his father. He remembered dust from people running here and there, and Severo’s big horse and his dogs. The bright midday sun, he now remembered, made the shadows round.

So many memories! Nana Inés carried him from the
batey
to the rocks by the river where Nena washed clothes, and Indio and Efraín followed, and they cried inconsolably, even Nena, and no one told them to stop. When they returned to the
batey
, everything was quiet. Nana Inés took him to her
bohío
, and she cooked while he and Indio and Efraín built houses with scraps from the workshop. The next
morning, José was making a long box, and when Miguel asked what it was for, José’s eyes watered and Miguel knew his father was dead. He wailed, and Nana Inés left her
fogón
and took him in her arms, and Indio and Efraín stood next to her, and José rubbed his head, and they hugged and kissed him, which felt good, but not like when Papá caressed and kissed him.

“You have to be a good boy,” Nana Inés told him. “You have to be brave,
mi hombrecito
, because now you’re the man of the house.”

He didn’t know what she meant then but understood it now, in front of his grandfather’s coffin. He was the last Argoso of his clan. Even though he’d felt like a man the night he lost his virginity to Tranquilina Alivio, he knew for certain that his life as a man was only just beginning. And yet, all he could think about was how tenderly Nana Inés held him when he was just a boy, and how sweetly she kissed his forehead and murmured, “It will be all right,
mi hombrecito
. Everything will be all right.”

Elena and Siña Ciriaca had always known what to do for Miguel. After his grandparents died, the two women walked the rooms of the house aimlessly, looking after things that would never be used again, like Abuela’s harp and Abuelo’s saber and plumed hat. Miguel sensed that Elena and Siña Ciriaca needed something from him, but he didn’t know what that might be. He couldn’t bring himself to tell them what to do, which seemed to disappoint them, but he had no idea what they could do for him other than the usual. He was just as lost as they. If he left the house for a
cafecito
, to visit don Simón, or simply to stroll around the plaza for some air, the two women stood together at the top of the stairs watching him go until he’d closed the street door behind him. With their black garments and somber faces, they looked like twin crows with no potential for flight.

Because he was in mourning, Miguel couldn’t pursue the usual amusements that filled his hours. He gave up evenings at the Alivio house, playing cards with friends, and accompanying Andrés on the guitar while they sang love songs under the balconies of deserving
señoritas
. There were no more visits to Benito’s drugstore for discussions into the late hours, and the few men he knew to be part of the secret society had suddenly vanished from the city. A few days after Abuelo’s funeral, Andrés embarked for Spain, so
even his closest friend deserted him at the moment when he most needed him.

During the first weeks of mourning after the novenas, the only regular visitor to the Argoso home was Mr. Worthy. In his will, Eugenio had provided generously for Elena and left money and instructions for the purchase of Siña Ciriaca’s remaining two nephews and their wives. To Miguel’s and Elena’s shock, Eugenio left nothing to Ana. Miguel was now sole owner of Hacienda los Gemelos and his mother, technically, his employee.

Ever since the night of his discussion with Andrés about the fate of the slaves at Los Gemelos, Miguel had thought about them but did nothing. Andrés never mentioned it again. His father sold his farm with the workers on it, which wasn’t exactly the same as setting them free, since what he did was to free himself of them. Miguel expected that Eugenio’s testament would manumit the Hacienda los Gemelos workers, a not uncommon last wish from slave owners with guilty consciences, but there was no mention of them in the will.

Miguel spent a sleepless night mentally rehearsing the first real decision he’d ever made, while thunder, lightning, and rain pounded the city. It was painful for him to think of this, but no, his grandfather hadn’t done the right thing, and Miguel intended to right that wrong. He felt noble, principled, and generous. On the blazingly clear morning after, he walked to Mr. Worthy’s offices on the second floor of a new building across the street from the docks and warehouses. Mr. Worthy and his two partners occupied private rooms fronting the harbor, while the clerks and secretaries worked at facing desks along the length of the windowed corridor overlooking a side street.

After the preliminaries, Miguel cleared his throat to deepen his voice. “I’d appreciate it, Mr. Worthy, if you could begin the necessary paperwork to free the slaves at Hacienda los Gemelos.”

Mr. Worthy nodded soberly. “I see,” he said, and whirled in his chair toward the view of the harbor. Miguel followed his gaze. The bay was cluttered with merchant ships, their gold-and-red flags in garish contrast to the cerulean sky. Mr. Worthy returned his eyes to Miguel. “I’m sorry, young man, that your request, while laudable, cannot be fulfilled.”

“Why not?” Miguel said, sounding even to himself like a child denied.

“Because don Eugenio’s will stipulates that major decisions affecting business operations are the purview of the trust established until your twenty-fifth birthday. You do remember my explaining this to you the day we read the will?”

“It was a very confusing time,” Miguel mumbled. “Can you remind me of the terms?”

“Of course.” Mr. Worthy strode to a cabinet by the wall and riffled until he found a thick brown folio tied with red ribbon. “Here it is,” he said, spreading before Miguel parchments with seals and signatures and dangling ribbons that looked ominously official. “My two partners and I administer your trust until you come of age. These are the documents that set forth the terms; you will recognize don Eugenio’s signature here and here, and on these documents, duly witnessed and notarized. These are the certificates of ownership of the businesses we manage on your behalf. These are for the stocks, here are the titles to the wharves and warehouses that you own, these are the leases of your tenants, here the deeds to your house in San Juan and to Hacienda los Gemelos. You can examine these documents whenever you wish so that you can familiarize yourself with your holdings. This is an inventory of the furnishings and jewelry that your grandparents identified as heirlooms that cannot be sold or given away until after you reach majority, should it be necessary. Obviously, your grandparents hoped that you would not do such a thing and wished that those items remain in the family in perpetuity. This is the receipt for the box where your grandmother’s jewelry is stored. The key will be given to you upon your twenty-fifth birthday.”

Miguel was glad when Mr. Worthy finished explaining what all the papers represented. He was certain that it would be some time before he could distinguish one from the other. But the man was not done. He pulled out more parchments from under the folio.

“Here are the pedigrees for your horses, and lastly”—he removed a stack from inside an envelope and fanned the pages on the desk—“the most recent chart of accounts for Los Gemelos indicating that, contrary to all expectations in these difficult times, the plantation is doing rather well.”

Miguel stared at the documents, unable to make sense of any of them but feeling like he must say something. “It all looks very … complete.”

Mr. Worthy collected the papers into a neat pile. “Freeing the slaves now would be financially devastating for your mother and the hacienda. It must disappoint you to be unable to handle your own business affairs, but you see, don Eugenio thought that you should be more experienced before making decisions that would affect your future financial well-being.”

Miguel stared at the stack of papers representing who he was in the world to men like Mr. Worthy. It was clear that, if only these papers were consulted, he was a man of consequence, even power, but he felt neither important nor commanding. He’d entered this office with one idea in mind—to free the slaves. He now realized that don Eugenio hadn’t trusted him. Who better to control his impulses than this gloomy
norteamericano
whose every word led only in the direction of the acquisition, expansion, and protection of wealth?

“If I may”—Mr. Worthy interrupted his reverie—“there’s something I’d like to ask, if you allow.”

“Yes, of course.”

“You remember that in his will don Eugenio made no provision for your mother?”

“I’m aware of that.”

“It is, of course, not up to me to question the colonel’s reasons or motives,” Mr. Worthy said while doing just that. “But other than what would come to her in the event of her husband’s death—and I’m not privy to his financial health, since he seems to manage those affairs himself—doña Ana has been left unprotected … financially, that is.”

Miguel said nothing.

“She receives a salary, of course, and as the
mayordomo
, don Severo is paid rather handsomely,” Mr. Worthy continued. “The colonel might have thought that with her income from him and her marriage to señor Fuentes, doña Ana didn’t need a separate legacy. But she had a considerable investment in the hacienda when she first came to Puerto Rico that has never been recognized—and again, I’m speaking strictly of the financial realities. It could be an oversight,” Mr. Worthy concluded, “that perhaps you’d care to remedy.”

“A few moments ago, sir, you said I could make no decisions until I’m twenty-five—”

“You’re only eighteen, and it might seem like a ridiculous concern now to be preparing for your eventual demise. It’s wise, however,
now that you’re a man of property, for you to have a will. You might eventually marry and have heirs, at which time we’ll discuss those provisions. For now, however, you might wish to ensure that, in the unlikely event that you predecease doña Ana, she need not rely on the auspices of either her husband or your future survivors. I only met her once, but I know her to be a proud and tenacious woman. What she has accomplished at Los Gemelos is impressive, and should be rewarded.”

“Thank you, Mr. Worthy,” Miguel said. “You’re right. What should I do?”

“We can draft the necessary language, based on your current position, for you to review. Once you’re comfortable with the distribution, the document need only be signed and dated before witnesses.”

“Please get it under way then.…”

Mr. Worthy scratched a note on a pad before him.

Now it was Miguel’s turn to look toward the harbor, and beyond it, to the sinuous line of the Cordillera Central. “I’ve not seen my mother in years,” he said. “I’d like to protect her interests, of course, as much as possible. She has protected mine.”

“She has indeed,” said Mr. Worthy. “It is unfortunate that you’ll have no time for a visit to Los Gemelos before your trip to Europe.”

Miguel blanched. All talk about Madrid had ended the day it started.

“I know that your grandfather and don Simón went to great lengths for you to get an apprenticeship with Maestro de Laura.”

“They mentioned something like that,” Miguel said, “but after Abuela died, and he—”

“I understand.” Mr. Worthy allowed a silent moment to pass before he continued. “A few days before his untimely death, don Eugenio came to make sure that I’d prepared your paperwork for the trip. By then I’d already arranged for your crossing and lodgings according to his instructions.” He removed an envelope from a drawer on his desk. “Here are all the particulars. You’re leaving in ten days.”

“Mr. Worthy, I—”

“Don Eugenio was most insistent that you go to Spain for an extended period,” Mr. Worthy said, “most insistent.”

“He said that to you?”

Mr. Worthy walked to his door, checked that no one was listening,
clicked the door closed again, and returned to the middle of the room. “I believe that if people are given the information they need, they can make the best decisions,” he said. “From our discussions and my own observation, it appears to me that your grandparents, may they rest in peace, might have protected you too much—”

“I’ve had a very happy childhood, but I’ll be the first to admit that much was kept from me.”

“And you have kept secrets from them, haven’t you?”

Miguel startled. “What do you mean?”

“Don Eugenio was worried about your … affinity with certain persons.”

Did Mr. Worthy know about the secret society? Miguel said nothing.

“Your grandfather had it on good authority that it was best for you and Andrés Cardenales to be away from the island for a while. Of course, with your recent bereavement, that was impossible. As your trustee, however, it behooves me now to strongly advise you to do as don Eugenio wished.”

“Am I in danger, sir?” Miguel’s heart pounded so hard against his chest that he was certain Mr. Worthy could see it palpitating even through his shirt, vest, and jacket.

“You’ve committed yourself to activities that could place you in danger. The governor appreciated don Eugenio’s work with the militias and his illustrious service to the nation. When your name was mentioned among others in illegal ventures, your grandfather assured him that if you were involved, it was due to your youth and impressionable nature. He was promised that if you left the island for a while, concerns about your association with men considered dangerous to the authorities would be overlooked.”