The Spanish Daughter(13)

I shivered just thinking about what might have happened to those missionaries the captain mentioned. If at least my final destination was Guayaquil, I could probably make it fine, but I knew nothing of Vinces or Ecuador’s geography. For all I knew, this assassin—because I was certain now that my assault had not been random—could’ve been hired by my father’s attorney. Only he knew I was coming and my arrival date. Cristóbal had mentioned the Valbanera in the telegram, and also the Andes, once we reached Cuba. For a moment, I contemplated the captain’s offer to return to Sevilla.

But what did I have left there? No family, no house, not even my chocolate shop. Everything had been sold. All my possessions lay in three trunks. I sat up and turned on my bedside lamp.

The trunks rested in a pile against the wall. I hadn’t given any thought to what I would do with Cristóbal’s earthly possessions. It would be a strain to carry his things across an unknown land for no real purpose, just sentimentality. I ought to give away his clothes to the third-class passengers.

Cristóbal would’ve liked that. He’d been a charitable man. I’d once caught him feeding three beggars in the back of the chocolate shop. His jackets would go missing inexplicably, especially during the rainy season, only to be spotted a few days later on the body of a vagrant sitting outside the church steps. He always said he didn’t need much to be content. Things didn’t make him happy—experiences did.

I opened his trunk. His trousers, vests, and undergarments were neatly piled, just as he’d left them, and there were bow ties of different sizes and colors that I’d bought him. That was the way he liked things: orderly, predictable. I tried to imagine what he would’ve done had I been the one who’d perished on this ship. Would he have returned to Spain? Or would he have ventured across a foreign land to honor his wife’s dying wishes? Whatever decision he would’ve made, things would’ve been much easier for him. He was a man, and as such, he was safer. Men would think twice before attacking him. Men were better fighters. Why, even someone as peaceful and intellectual as Cristóbal had put up a good fight with a criminal. He’d been much stronger than I’d ever imagined he would be. I pictured his shoulders, much wider than mine, his confident stride—so different from the delicate steps women were expected to take.

An idea flashed through my mind. I removed my husband’s trousers from the trunk. They were wide, but with some minor adjustments, they might fit me. I’d always been naturally thin and so tall that as a teenager, I would often hunch my shoulders and bend my knees a little when a short man asked me to dance. It had always been a constant source of friction with my mother.

“Stand up straight,” she would say, pulling my shoulders back. “Be proud. Men like confident women.”

“But I’m so gawky. Nobody is ever going to want me,” I would say. “Look at my arms. They go on forever!”

“Nonsense. With that body, you could be a dancer.”

But I’d never been interested in flamenco. Cooking had always been my calling.

As a youngster, my biggest concern had been to be forced to marry a short man. I’d been so relieved when my mother introduced me to Cristóbal and he’d been a few centimeters taller than me.

I glanced at my face in the mirror. My eyebrows were thick and if I didn’t pluck them for a few days, they might look more masculine. My nose was perky and small, but I could use Cristóbal’s spectacles to cover it. After all, my father had had the same nose. I rubbed my smooth chin. I needed something to cover up the fact that I had no facial hair. Beards always made men look older. I thought of the vaudeville circus’s members with those goatees and mustaches. The hair was fake—I’d seen them without beards the other day when they stepped out of their changing room to go to lunch. Perhaps I could sneak in there and take them? Maybe I would leave some money there for the trouble.

My long mane, Cristóbal’s adoration, well, that would have to go. And what about my voice?

The advantage was that I didn’t have a high voice. In fact, one of La Cordobesa’s grievances, when I attempted to sing, was that I was trying to perform like a soprano when my voice was naturally low. Cristóbal told me once that he found my throaty voice sensual. It was ironic how the physical traits that had once been a source of shame for me—my thick wrists, my nearly flat chest, my angular hips—might help me now.





CHAPTER 5

April 1920



As Aquilino put his spectacles on, he informed me that there had been a previous reading of the will in front of this group three months ago, but he was required to read it again “to avoid any misunderstandings.”

All hushed conversations ended and a tense silence followed.

Aquilino read a long and tedious document which stated that all of my father’s worldly possessions were to be divided in four parts: one for each of his children. But there was one caveat, one small detail I wasn’t expecting.

My father, the man I’d never really known and who, according to the will was “in full possession of his mental faculties,” had left me in charge of his most prized possession: his cacao plantation. As things stood, I held 43 percent of his assets, and the other 57 percent was to be divided among my three siblings, giving each one of them 19 percent. Since Alberto had renounced his part, his portion was to be divided among the three remaining sisters, giving me close to 50 percent of my father’s estate.