The Spanish Daughter(6)

Eventually, Cristóbal had acquiesced. But with time, he’d become less indulgent.

A warm breeze caressed the back of my neck.

Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe.

I brought my hands to my throat, where there was an unbearable pressure, and felt a coil of rope. I didn’t even have enough air to cry out.

“Shhh, María,” a man whispered into my ear, “it’s going to be over soon.”

Who was this? How did he know my first name? My flailing hands touched two fists holding on to the rope. The man’s hands were big and callused. Much larger than Cristóbal’s.

Cristóbal, help me!

No sound came out. I turned my head to one side. The man with the burn scars. The pain in my neck was excruciating. I couldn’t get enough air.

“Hey! What’s going on over there?”

I could’ve sworn it was Cristóbal’s voice. But maybe I was imagining things, wishing them.

My assailant’s weight shifted. I stuck my thumbs between the rope and my windpipe. The pressure released a bit, but not enough.

Someone was coming.

I raked the man’s shin with the heel of my shoe. The rope slowly released and I could finally take in some air. The rope fell to the ground. I gasped and coughed, catching a glimpse of the two men fighting behind me.

I spotted my husband’s brown suit. His spectacles were on the tip of his nose, about to come off. Cristóbal had his arm wrapped around the man’s neck, but my attacker squirmed until the two of them fell into a heap on the ground.

As much as I wanted to help Cristóbal, I couldn’t stop coughing.

The man with the burn came to his feet first and drew a knife from his boot. Cristóbal stood, arching his body forward. I’d never seen Cristóbal like this, I never thought he had it in him to fight anybody. He was the kind of person who didn’t think it was his place to decide over the life or death of an insect, much less another human being.

The man plunged the knife forward and sliced through Cristóbal’s jacket. Cristóbal brought a hand to the wound in his arm, blood squeezing through his fingers. With a furious yell, Cristóbal lunged toward my assailant and tackled him to the ground. The knife flew out of the man’s hand, but I couldn’t see where it landed.

With my neck stinging, I went on a mad search for the knife, but the only thing I found was my husband’s spectacles. A raspy sound finally managed to emerge from my throat.

“Someone . . . help!”

The music and laughter inside the vessel were so loud nobody seemed to hear my pleas. The two of them were rolling on the ground again. Cristóbal’s body hit the railing.

I looked around for something I could use to hit the man. There was a lifeboat suspended by ropes not too far from us. I staggered toward it and climbed on the banister to reach the inside of the lifeboat. After another coughing spell, I grabbed an oar with both hands and hopped back to the deck.

Cristóbal now stood close to the edge of the ship. Something flipped inside my stomach when I saw him there, so close to falling into the immensity of the ocean. My assailant had somehow gotten a hold of the knife and stood in front of my husband, prodding at him with it. Only the handrail stood between the two of them. Cristóbal dodged the tip of the knife, holding on to the metal bar.

I lifted the oar to hit the man, but he was too close to Cristóbal and I didn’t want to hurt my husband. I pointed at an opening in the railing.

“Cristóbal! There!”

Cristóbal glanced at the opening but before he could inch toward it, the man dug the knife in my husband’s stomach.

“No!” I screamed, smashing the son of a bitch in the head with the oar.

The man folded over the banister, unconscious, and fell into the water, face first. Cristóbal brought his hands to the knife’s handle, now buried in the depths of his abdomen. His eyes opened so wide I could barely recognize his familiar face, engulfed in agony and fear.

“Cristóbal!” I darted toward him, reaching out my hand to him, but a wave hit the side of the hull, making Cristóbal lose his balance and tumble into the sea, right after the other man.

I screamed so loud my throat felt as though I’d torn a vocal cord. It would take a long time for me to be able to speak again without pain.





CHAPTER 3

Guayas River

April 1920



En route to Vinces, I noticed two things: The first was the cacophony of birds flying above our heads, as though we’d intruded upon a land ruled by animals and they disapproved of our presence. The second thing was how wobbly the canoe taking us up the Río Guayas was.

Neither my father’s lawyer nor the young man rowing made any attempt to help me onto the boat. For years, I’d taken men’s gallantry for granted. I’d never realized how much I’d relied on them, how Cristóbal always rushed to open any door I happened to be standing by, how he unscrewed a bottle of wine, opened a jar of preserves, or carried logs for our chimney.

Just thinking about Cristóbal brought an enormous lump to my throat. How could I ever move forward when everything reminded me of him?

I lowered my head to hide my tears.

I missed his company, his eagerness to please me, his sympathetic ear (when he was listening). Strange how self-sufficient men were. It was both an advantage and a disadvantage. In my case, a clear disadvantage as both of these men had looked at me as though I was less of a person when I struggled to keep my balance aboard and carry my luggage into the canoe at the same time.