The Spanish Daughter(25)

Carmela and I turned into a narrow, paved street. And the magic of the plaza and the impressive architecture were gone. In their place stood the skeletons of what must have been a once-prosperous neighborhood. Carmela squeezed my hand and pulled me with determination into a weary building and up a narrow staircase.

“Listen, Carmela,” I started as she unlocked a door in the hallway. But she wasn’t listening. She pushed the door in and we entered a room, which was both tiny and cluttered. I hesitantly stood by a vanity table overflowing with bottles of castor and peppermint oil, powders, and earrings. Feathers and necklaces hung from an oval mirror and there were gowns scattered on the bed and on the floor.

“Forgive my mess,” Carmela said, grabbing a handful of dresses from the bed and dumping them inside the armoire.

While she picked up, I made my way between shoes and scarves toward the window and moved the curtain to one side. Across the alley was a building with peeling paint and cracked windows that blocked the view. The alleyway was empty except for a scrawny cat treading along the street with hypnotic movements. There was music nearby, but I couldn’t tell if it came from this building or a two-story house at the end of the block.

When I was done inspecting the neighborhood, I turned around. Carmela was already waiting for me on the bed.

Naked.

She patted the side of the bed. “Come here, papi.”

As she moved her arm, one of her bare breasts spread on the sheet like a pile of raw dough. I looked away and paced the room.

“Carmela, cari?o. I didn’t come here for that.”

“Don’t tell me that you’re one of those men who . . .” She sat up. “I thought that might be the case, but don’t worry, I can find you someone else, but it’s going to cost you double.”

“No, no. I don’t need anyone.” I sat on the edge of the bed, trying to avoid the sight of her flaccid body. “Is there a hotel nearby where I could stay?”

I dug for my wallet in my back pocket. I removed some bills and placed them by her hand.

She stared at the money. “Are you in some kind of trouble, mister? Are you hiding from someone?”

“No, no. The truth is I recently lost my wife and I don’t think I can touch another woman. Ever.”

Her smile vanished.

“But do you mind keeping this between us?” I said. “I don’t want people to start talking about me. You know how small towns can be and my reputation is important to me.”

“You must have loved her a lot.”

I nodded, without looking at her.

“You may keep this for your troubles,” I said, setting the bills on her hand. “Now tell me, mi alma, where’s the closest hotel?”





CHAPTER 12

The closest hotel, as it turned out, was across from the brothel and it wasn’t a lot nicer than Carmela’s room. I’d barely been able to get any sleep in that squeaky, old bed and discolored sheets. The only fortunate outcome from my insomnia was that the dark circles under my eyes had intensified, which made me look less feminine—I needed all the help I could get.

The receptionist gave me directions to Banco Agrícola y Ganadero and I left the hotel as soon as the sun rose.

“Don Cristóbal!”

?Por los clavos de Cristo!

I looked over my shoulder. Tucking his striped shirt inside his trousers, Martin strode in my direction.

“Here you are!” He patted my back. “I was wondering where you went. Did you have a good time with Carmela last night?”

He was smiling like a child opening a present. I was about to tell him that I was in mourning and hadn’t touched Carmela (and never, ever would), but why give him any explanations? It might just give him a reason to doubt my masculinity—if he wasn’t suspicious of me already.

I nodded, nonchalant, and kept walking.

His perception of me seemed to have changed. He was more relaxed, friendlier. Apparently, I’d been accepted into the male clan after drinking and visiting prostitutes without any objections. How different expectations for men were. If a woman had spent the night outside her home, in a hotel such as this one, she would’ve been shunned by society. But a man received praise and approval from his peers.

He shoved his hands inside his pockets. “And here I thought you were, you know . . .”

“I was, what?”

He was silent for a moment. But I knew what he meant. This was the second person who thought I was an effeminate man, one who indulges in forbidden pleasures with other men.

I frowned.

“Never mind,” he said. “Are you ready to go back to the hacienda?”

“You go on without me, Don Martin. I need to go to the bank to exchange some money.”

I didn’t wait for an answer. I crossed the street and followed the receptionist’s instructions to the bank, which was five blocks away.

It was odd how as a woman, I’d always been considered slightly masculine. My mother never understood why I wasn’t like other girls my age and she was cross at me for months after Cristóbal and I opened the chocolate shop. She always said women belonged in their homes, not in the workplace, and why couldn’t I just be a little more feminine?

But now, disguised as a man, all my femininity—so eclipsed in my normal life—seemed to come through.