The Spanish Daughter(2)
I hesitated. “A case of Spanish influenza.”
“And they didn’t quarantine the ship?”
“No.” I let go of the trunk. “Only a few passengers contracted it, so it wasn’t necessary.”
He stared at me in silence. Did he know I was lying? I’d never been a deceitful person and I despised having to do this.
“What a disgrace,” he finally said. “We didn’t hear anything about it here. My sincere condolences, se?or.”
I nodded.
“Help me with my trunk, will you?” I said, not as a favor, but as a command. Men didn’t ask, men ordered.
Aquilino grabbed the other end of the trunk and together we carried it across the street. It was heavier than a dying bull, but I couldn’t let the lawyer see how weak I was. By the time we reached the vehicle, I was panting and a layer of sweat covered my face and armpits. No wonder men sweat all the time!
He plunked down his end of the trunk next to a glossy, black Ford Model T. I hadn’t known many people in my hometown who owned a car, much less an imported one. I wouldn’t have imagined there would be such modern vehicles in a place that Cristóbal had called a “land of barbarians.” This Aquilino must make good money as a lawyer, or maybe he was one of those men who found other means to build a personal fortune? Favors here and there, perhaps even a hand—a sort of tax, if you will—on another person’s inheritance. Or maybe, he himself came from money.
I’d only traveled in an automobile a couple of times. In my native Sevilla, I walked everywhere. But when I visited Madrid to see about the expired patent to my grandmother’s invention—her fabulous cacao bean roaster—I rode an automobile similar to this one, except that these seats seemed softer. Or perhaps it was my exhaustion.
Pushing on a lever by the steering wheel, Aquilino informed me that, unless I’d made other arrangements, I would spend the night at his house. We would depart to Vinces first thing in the morning to “see about Don Armand’s will.” He was unable to look me in the eye as he said this.
I recalled the words from the letter—I’d read it so many times I’d already memorized it: As one of the beneficiaries, you are required to come to Ecuador and take possession of your portion of your father’s estate or to appoint a representative who may sell or donate the property on your behalf.
One of the beneficiaries.
I’d been giving this some thought. I’d never heard of my father having other children, but one could never be too sure with men. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’d started a new family here. After all, he’d left my mother twenty-five years ago to pursue his dream of owning a cacao plantation in Ecuador. It was inevitable that he should have found someone else to share his bed. The incident aboard the ship left no doubt that someone wasn’t pleased with my coming. The question was who.
During the drive, Aquilino inquired about María Purificación’s passing, shaking his head and clucking his tongue in apparent disappointment. It was surreal to talk about my own death, to hear my name repeated as though I weren’t present. I wanted to scream at the injustice of it all. I wanted to demand an explanation on Cristóbal’s behalf, but instead, I played along. I needed to make him believe I was my husband.
I looked out the window. Guayaquil was far from the village I’d envisioned and more modern than many towns in Andalucía. We drove past the river—the Guayas, he said—toward a quaint neighborhood along a hill stacked with colonial houses bursting with flowerpots in balconies and entryways. Aquilino said it was called Las Pe?as and the hill, Santa Ana. The serpentine, cobbled streets reminded me of the small towns near Sevilla. The realization that I might never return to my country hit me for the first time since I’d left. Even more heartbreaking was to think that Cristóbal would never explore this new place with me. I stared at my hand, empty without the warmth of his.
Incomplete.
We stopped at a light blue house with a mahogany door and entered. In all likelihood, Aquilino was a bachelor; there was not a single feminine touch in his parlor. No flowers, no porcelain objects, no embroidered linen. Instead, stale landscapes hung on the walls and the life-size sculpture of a Great Dane stared back at me.
A door on the far side of the parlor opened and a girl with cinnamon curls entered, drying her hands on a lime apron. Her dress so loose it swallowed her.
“Lunch is served, patrón,” she said with a soft voice.
“Gracias, Mayra.”
The table in the dining room was much too large for just one person. My eyes set on the colorful dishes awaiting us. The girl called Mayra had prepared us fried sea bass, rice with calamari, and plantains—which they both called patacones.
In the last week, I’d skipped several meals—I couldn’t eat after the nightmare I went through on the Andes—but today, I was ravenous.
Aquilino gestured for me to sit down and he took the spot at the head of the table while Mayra served us. Although I was curious about Aquilino, I didn’t ask him anything. I feared that if I spoke too much, he would discover my secret. So, I said as little as possible, answering the maid with single syllables, nodding often, and shaking my head when appropriate. This seemed to suit Aquilino just fine. Like my husband, he said very little. I’d also gotten into the habit of coughing frequently to make my voice hoarse.