The Spanish Daughter(22)

“Nonsense!” Angélica said, standing. “We live on a plantation. Of course there’s cacao.”

My sister darted through the kitchen door.

“Quiere cacao, quiere cacao.”

Alberto launched toward the cockatoo and covered her face with his long napkin.

“There, go to sleep, Ramona.”

The cockatoo moved its feet up and down from the back of the chair, whistling.

As Julia placed a coffee in front of me, I longed for my cocoa. I hadn’t had one since I left my country. “If Angélica manages to find some beans,” I said, “I could prepare hot cocoa for all.”

They all looked at one another. Had I said something wrong? Of course. Men did not prepare anything for others (unless it involved alcohol). They could barely cut the food on their own plates. What an idiot I was—I’d given myself away with my innate desire to serve.

“Hot cocoa?” Catalina said. “What is that?”

“Chocolate,” I said. “Mixed with milk, sugar, and cinnamon. Served warm.”

“You would think that with all this cacao around, we would’ve tried those delicacies,” she said, “but we exporters don’t ever get to see the other part of the cacao cycle.”

I couldn’t believe it—they’d never tried chocolate.

“I have,” Laurent said. “My country practically invented chocolate.”

“Actually,” I said, “it was the Spanish who brought chocolate to Europe from the American continent, and we were the first ones to add milk and sugar to it.”

“Don Cristóbal is right,” Martin said. Of course, anything to contradict Laurent.

Ramona let out a loud screech, her body bouncing up and down.

“Ramona! What’s happened to you?” Angélica was back, nestling some seeds in her hand. She removed the cloth from the bird’s head. Ramona puffed, exposing the yellow plumage under her wings, and went on a tirade of indecipherable insults. “You’re not funny, Alberto. Honestly, I don’t know how people confess their sins to you,” Angélica said.

“Well, they do. Happily,” he said. “In fact, you should, too.”

“Thank you.” Angélica took her seat and calmed her bird with the seeds. “But I’m perfectly content with Father Telmo.”

“That’s because he falls asleep while you talk.”

“Alberto!” Catalina said. “Enough blasphemy, please. What is Don Cristóbal going to think? That we mock our faith?”

I didn’t know what to think of them, honestly. I forced myself to finish my coffee—it was so bitter in comparison to my cocoa.

After dinner, my sisters played their instruments. They made a great duet: Angélica with the harp and Catalina with the violin. It was obvious that they’d had formal musical training. Had my father sent for me years ago, I might have had my own instructor and could have become a proficient performer, too—I loved music so.

I refrained from humming or swaying, though I was moved by the beautiful sounds coming from my sisters’ dextrous fingers. I wished I could accompany them with my singing, but it would be disastrous if I did. For one, I had no ability as a tenor or a baritone, so my singing would be an obvious giveaway. Then there was the fact that I’d become insecure about my voice ever since Cristóbal and La Cordobesa had gotten into the habit of shoving cotton balls into their ears every time I sang. The nerve of those two! I knew I wasn’t La Caramba or one of those legendary zarzuela singers, but I liked to think I had some flair when I sang, which I did often, usually when roasting cacao beans at the shop. I sighed. How I missed my old life. But it was gone for good.

“Don Cristóbal?” Martin’s voice interrupted my thoughts.

My sisters were done performing and stared at me expectantly.

“Yes?” I said.

“I was asking if you’d like to join me and Alberto for a drink in town?”

A drink with a priest? My first inclination was to decline. I didn’t like to stay up late and I didn’t particularly enjoy Martin’s company, but I stopped myself. This might be a good opportunity to get some information from these men. Moreover, if I found a way to spend the night in town, I could take the check to the bank first thing in the morning and find out who had signed it. Otherwise, I would have to find a ride to Vinces in the morning or climb on one of those horses again and take myself to the bank. My sore bottom didn’t like that idea one bit.

“Sure,” I said.

While my brother said goodbye to my sisters, I rushed upstairs and collected the check.





CHAPTER 11

It was apparent I knew little about males and their habits because I’d never heard of priests going to bars. Or maybe my brother was different from other men of God. But tonight, I had the rare opportunity to enter the male mind without any restrictions. To my surprise, I was growing excited to get to know this mysterious world of theirs.

I followed Martin and Alberto to a dim room, where the laughter and the clicking of bottles and glasses became louder. We walked past a long bar aligned with stools and two bartenders in pressed white aprons hustling behind the counter.

We settled in one of the back tables. As the first round of aguardiente was passed, I studied my two companions. There was a camaraderie between them that hadn’t been apparent at the house, in a way I’d never experienced with women. With the women in my life—my mother, my friends, my assistant—I always had to choose my words carefully, lest I hurt their feelings. But these two men were completely at ease with each other. Martin explained that the two of them had known each other all their lives even though Alberto was three years younger than Martin.