The Spanish Daughter(79)

Snooping through papers? What interest would she have in his affairs?

“That’s strange,” I said.

“Indeed.” He pressed the handkerchief against his forehead. “The first time was over a month ago. I thought it was peculiar because I’d always thought she was illiterate.” He faced the front. “You know what’s even stranger?”

“What?”

“She was reading the telegraph you had sent me from Málaga with your itinerary.”





CHAPTER 37

The rest of my trip to Guayaquil happened in a daze. It was a good thing that both Paco and Aquilino were quiet men because I could do a lot of thinking while we traveled from one river to the next until we reached the Guayas.

So Mayra had been interested in knowing when Cristóbal and I were arriving in Guayaquil. As I recalled, Cristóbal gave Aquilino all the details of our trip: the dates, the names of our ships, the ports.

Could she be the mysterious woman who’d hired Franco? My first thought was that Mayra might be Elisa, but she’d claimed to have a relationship with Alberto, to be carrying his child, and my brother didn’t deny it. Elisa knew Alberto was her brother. I found it hard to believe she would’ve been intimate with him. It made more sense to think that she’d been gathering information for Alberto, who may have found out about Mayra’s pregnancy after he’d renounced his share. Perhaps when my father first died, my brother hadn’t foreseen he would be needing any money, but this baby changed everything. Now he had to hide what he’d done or maybe start a new life with Mayra.

Either way, he needed capital.

As soon as we arrived in Guayaquil, I thanked Aquilino for his help and got lost among the dozens of pedestrians heading toward downtown without giving him a chance to make further plans with me, or to find out anything about my mysterious visit to Guayaquil.

I removed the pocket watch and turned the case over. Engraved on the back was the watchmakers’ name, Bolivar e Hijos.

I asked at least ten people if they knew where the jewelry store was. After much confusion, I finally found a man who, without hesitation, pointed in the right direction.

A sign in cursive letters told me this was the right place.

As I pulled the door open, three austere men turned toward me. Bolivar and sons? They were standing behind a massive counter, working on some pieces. The older one, closer to the door, sported a curly mustache over his upper lip and a blue smock. The other two men looked like the younger and older version of the same person: the same angular nose, the large forehead, but one had a fuller face and a thicker frame.

“Can I help you?” the old man said.

“Yes,” I said, “I have gotten a hold of a pocket watch manufactured here nine years ago. I need to know if you have any record of whom you sold this watch to. I need to track down its rightful owner.”

He stared at me over his spectacles.

“It’s an issue of life and death,” I added, in an attempt to move him. At moments like this, I wished I could be myself. A woman could always use her charms to recruit the help of a man for any endeavor.

“Let me see,” he said.

I placed the pocket watch on the counter. He picked it up and examined it. “Lizardo, come.”

The one with thinning hair and fuller face approached us. Up close I could discern faint lines in the corner of his eyes.

“Do you remember this?” the father asked.

Lizardo took the watch. “God, yes. I can’t believe it.”

“What?” I said.

“This watch,” Lizardo said. “Where did you find it?”

“A woman in Vinces had it but she didn’t know how her son had gotten a hold of it.”

“I thought we’d never see it again,” the father said.

“It was one of the first watches I ever completed on my own,” Lizardo said. “I was so proud of it.”

“That damned woman,” the old man—Bolivar?—said.

The younger son stared at each one of us, expectant, his fingers leaving traces of moisture on the glass counter.

Bolivar turned to me. “I believe it was in 1914 or 1915. This girl, what was her name?”

Lizardo shrugged.

“Well, let’s call her María,” the father said. “She did our cleaning for us for a couple of months.” He turned to the younger one. “Do you remember her, Carlos?”

Carlos nodded. “She had a beautiful voice.”

“Oh, yes,” the old man said. “She was always singing while she swept and mopped. This one”—he pointed at Carlos—“this one was enchanted by her voice. He thought there was no one more charming in Guayaquil.”

“Papá . . .”

“But I do agree that there was something special about her. Even though she was poor, she was very neat. Her clothes were always clean, her skirts always starched. She had what they call class, and she was smart. I don’t know how, but she knew how to read and write, and she started helping this simpleton with his additions and subtractions.” He pointed at his youngest son with his chin. “You should have never trusted her.”

“We all did, Padre,” Lizardo said in his brother’s defense.

Bolivar shook his head. “One day, she didn’t come to work. We thought she was sick and didn’t make much of it, although she was always efficient and timely. But then, that evening we noticed that there were some watches missing. This was one of them.”