The Spanish Daughter(47)

Oh, not the prostitutes again!

I placed my hand on my stomach. “No, Don Martin, I can’t. I felt terrible doing that to my wife so soon after her passing.”

He stared at me with a mystified expression. Was I the only man ever to decline such an offer? The experience of going to the brothel had saddened me more than anything. Even though Carmela had seemed enthusiastic to offer her services to me, there had been a void in her eyes I couldn’t ignore. A painful resignation, if you will, that had broken my heart.

“I understand,” he said.

He did?

“Let’s go to town anyway.” He patted my arm. “There’s a place I think you might like.”

*

Thirty minutes later, we were in downtown Vinces driving toward the Malecón. From this angle, the turquoise walls of the Palacio Municipal stood out, like an overdecorated cake. We turned toward a park surrounded by a metal fence, palm trees, and various shrubs attempting to escape their metal captors. We drove slowly—we happened to be the only car in the area—and stopped for a group to cross the street. What struck me the most were the women’s short, stylized haircuts, so similar to Angélica’s, and their fancy stoles. Among the crowd was Alberto in a starched, white linen suit and a toquilla straw hat. This was the first time I’d seen him wearing something other than a cassock.

Martin rolled down his window. “Alberto!”

My brother kept shambling, pale, with his gaze straight ahead, as if sleepwalking. In the middle of the afternoon?

Martin called him again. He must have heard him—we weren’t far at all. But Alberto didn’t turn. Instead, he reached the steps of San Lorenzo church and went inside.

“What the hell’s wrong with that idiot?” Martin said.

We continued down the street and I recognized Soledad’s house. Her teal door opened and a young woman stepped outside. I’d seen her before, but where? I leaned toward the window to get a better look at her face. She removed a handkerchief from her purse and blew her nose. She seemed to be crying.

Martin was facing the road. I was going to ask him if he knew her, but we drove too fast and I lost my chance.

We parked next to a cafeteria across from the miniature Eiffel Tower. It was bizarre to see such a precise replica in this small South American town. To think that I’d always dreamt of seeing the real one. Strange that after having a French father, I would be exposed to this monument first.

We sat on a patio facing the Vinces River and Martin told me this place had the best coffee in town, known as café arábigo. I couldn’t help but imagine myself selling truffles in a restaurant like this one, overlooking this spectacular river—I missed my chocolate shop so much, my Cordobesa, and most of all, Cristóbal. But my past seemed like it had belonged to someone else, especially because all those dear things were gone and would never be mine again. What I wasn’t counting on was missing the chocolate-making process so much. It had always been predictable, reliable, and gratifying. I looked forward to it every morning. It offered me a relaxation and ease that no other activity did (except when La Cordobesa burned my beans). I loved to see the beans transform into a liquid blend—it was almost magical. The memories made me remember why I’d come here in the first place. It wasn’t a need for revenge, it was a need to find the primary source of my passion.

“This coffee would go well with a piece of chocolate,” I said.

Martin took a sip. “I’ve always wanted to taste it, but nobody here knows how to make it.”

“So, in the meantime you chew cacao beans, like Ramona?”

He chuckled.

“The process is long, but not too complicated,” I said. “I learned from watching my wife.”

“And who taught her?”

“Her grandmother, Do?a María Purificación García. She was the first one in the family to discover chocolate and she passed on her passion to her son-in-law, Don Armand.”

“I’d love to try it one day, if you say it’s so fantastic.”

“It is.”

“Well, I’m afraid we can’t offer you anything so exquisite. So, until chocolate reaches this humble region, you must settle for our simple humitas,” he said. “It’s the closest thing to heaven you’ll find here.”

“What are those?”

“Don’t ask me how to make them. All I know is that the dough is made out of corn and they wrap them in cornhusks and steam them. Oh, and I think they throw in some anís. Trust me, you’ll like them. I haven’t met a single person who hasn’t.”

Martin was right. Humitas were an unexpected delicacy—moist and fluffy and with a slight sweetness to them, but Martin said they also made them savory.

“These are delicious, Martin,” I said.

He barely smiled. He seemed preoccupied, not the usual easygoing man I’d come to know.

“I have a business proposition for you,” he said finally. “I trust this will stay between the two of us?”

Was he going to propose that we open a café like this one together?

“I know that you will soon inherit a portion of your wife’s land and I’d like to buy it from you.”

I would’ve rather he slapped me.

“I know it’s a lot of money, but I have my life’s savings, plus I think I may be able to get a loan from Banco Territorial or Banco Agrícola y Ganadero.”