The Spanish Daughter(74)

After the forced handshake between Angélica and the newcomer, the conversations slowly renewed. Catalina’s comment in the sewing room came to mind. She’d mentioned something about a woman coming back to town. And Angélica hadn’t looked pleased. What was the woman’s name? This was probably her.

Martin greeted me with a low “hello.” His attitude had definitely changed since he’d found out I was a woman. He was no longer relaxed and uninhibited around me. Now he seemed to plan every gesture and every word before opening his mouth. I missed our old camaraderie.

“Who was that woman?” I asked him, ignoring my racing pulse as his sleeve brushed against mine.

He avoided my eyes, looking around the parlor without saying a word.

“Martin?”

“I heard you.”

“Well, who is she?”

“A friend of Angélica’s, I think,” he added, as an afterthought.

“They didn’t seem too friendly.”

He didn’t comment.

“What’s her name?”

“Silvia.”

Yes, that was the name.

“So, what’s wrong with them? Why was everybody staring when they greeted each other?”

“You should ask Angélica.”

He didn’t say he didn’t know. In fact, he gave me a feeling of knowing more than he let on. Since he’d reached me, he hadn’t looked at my face once and he seemed as uncomfortable as a freemason in ballet class.

“So, what are you doing here anyway?” I said. “I thought you didn’t like social engagements.”

He loosened his tie a notch. “I don’t, but this is a good business opportunity that only comes once a year. During the festivities, new buyers come. It’s the perfect time to make new connections.”

How odd that being business partners of sorts, Angélica and Martin never seemed to spend time together or work as a team (except when they fought with Don Fernando). It was the opposite—they appeared to repel each other, to make separate decisions. Another thing that was strange was that Laurent had no involvement whatsoever in any of the business decisions.

“Are things different now that my father is gone?” I asked Martin in a low voice.

“Like night and day.”

“You don’t see eye to eye with Angélica.”

“It’s that obvious?”

Martin was tense and distracted with the people parading behind me.

“Do you want to go?” he said, out of the blue.

“But what about your potential customers?”

“We have a whole week ahead of us. There will be other opportunities. I don’t like the atmosphere here today.”

I glanced at my sisters, each one immersed in separate conversations with their friends and acquaintances—although Catalina kept looking at me with eyes that screamed of boredom and discomfort. Angélica, on the other hand, seemed to have forgotten the uneasy encounter with her former friend and had returned to her charming self. But I didn’t believe those forced smiles and her phony laughter. It was a good thing that Fernando del Río had not shown up, or he would’ve shattered Angélica’s calm fa?ade.

“Yes, let’s go,” I said now that Catalina had peeled her eyes off of me to greet an old woman who spoke to her with the same respect and adoration people reserve for priests and nuns.

La Santa.

I could see now, firsthand, how the town viewed her, how her loyal followers surrounded her.

Martin set his glass on a nearby table and, without another word, led the way toward the entrance, squeezing between arrogant guests and hectic waiters.

*

Though it was a warm night, it was a relief to be outside, away from the scrutiny of folks whose biggest preoccupation was their image and how they compared with others. I was both fascinated and repelled by this micro-society, this Paris in the tropics. I’d observed similar glances in my chocolate shop sometimes, but I never got involved. As the hostess, I had bigger concerns than what so-and-so was wearing or who was sitting with whom.

Martin said he needed a drink so the two of us walked to the cantina. Oddly enough, I’d grown more comfortable in this cheap bar filled with cheerful men and salacious women than surrounded by the wealthy.

“I didn’t realize there was so much money in this region,” I said, sitting in my usual spot and ordering my customary puro.

“Oh, yes,” Martin said, as if I’d opened up the most fascinating subject in the world. “Cacao completely changed the economy and politics of this country. It used to be that all the money and power was in Quito—with the traditional elite and the Church—but after the cacao boom a new oligarchy was born in Guayaquil and we finally have a say in national politics. The last few presidents have been liberal and have pushed for modernization and the separation of Church and State. Am I boring you?”

Martin leaned over the table, resting his arms on the flat surface while he watched me.

“Not at all,” I said.

He continued telling me about local politics and regionalism. He smiled often, but it was a guarded smile, one might even call it rehearsed. His voice was not as loud as it used to be nor was his laughter as boisterous. He was also careful with his language. Not a single curse word was voiced in my presence anymore.