by Mills, Lisa
PEARLS
by Lisa Mills
Copyright 2012 by Lisa Mills
All Rights Reserved
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PEARLS is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
One
Awe bloomed in Isabel Palmer’s chest as she traced a line of the ancient script. The parchment, yellowed with age, felt soft like old linen beneath her fingers. “Abuela, this is a national treasure. It belongs in a museum,” she breathed.
“Sí,” Magdalena Montez answered, speaking her native Spanish. “But the descendants of Rodrigo Velasquez have not wanted to part with it.”
Isabel understood why. Imagine! A five-hundred-year-old journal. Rodrigo must have been one of the first Europeans to see Venezuela. “Mama spoke of this journal, but I never imagined something so extraordinary. To be honest, I thought she made it up because she always rambled on about some legend of stolen treasure.” Isabel chuckled at the absurd notion.
“The tales she spoke of are true, Isabel. Your ancestor, Rodrigo Velasquez, stole a case of pearls from the Spanish Navy.”
“Not you too, Abuela.” Isabel shook her head and smiled at her aging grandmother.
“Read it for yourself. You will see.”
Intrigued, Isabel looked more closely at the family heirloom. “My Spanish is good, but I’m afraid I’d need several reference books from the university library to translate these sixteenth century words. The phrasing reminds me of Shakespeare, only in another language. Too much to tackle in one afternoon, but I’m thrilled you let me see it.”
“Isabel, I am not showing you the journal. I am giving it to you.”
Isabel’s eyes widened in surprise. “Giving it to me?”
“I do not intend to live forever, Nieta. The Velasquez journal is a priceless piece of family history. I refuse to leave its fate to the greedy lawyers who will handle my estate. As my heir, you will see to its safekeeping.”
Isabel saw the determined glint in her grandmother’s eyes and knew further arguing would prove useless. Doña Montez was a woman who knew her mind, and here in the living room of her beautiful estate home, she commanded respect. “As you wish, Abuela.”
Her grandmother’s face softened, and she reached out to touch Isabel’s cheek. “Having you here in Caracas these last few months has brought such joy to my heart. I am proud of the woman you have become, beautiful inside and out. Your decision to study at Central University and pursue an education relating to your Venezuelan heritage pleases me. My daughter cared little about such things and brought me great sadness when she chose to move so far away.”
“Abuela, she loves Venezuela more than you could know. She never failed to tell me about the land of her birth.”
“But she loved your father more.”
Isabel laid a hand over her grandmother’s thin, wrinkled fingers. “Is that so terrible? They have a good life in America.”
“Venezuelan families stay together. We do not abandon one another as you Americans do.”
Isabel smiled. “If I’d followed the Venezuelan tradition and stayed close to my parents, I wouldn’t be here with you.”
Magdelena’s lips twisted in a wry grin. “You are a clever one, my Isabel. You trapped me with my own complaint.”
“You were not complaining. Just voicing your love for your family. No one can fault you for that. And I love the Venezuelan tradition of staying close together. It’s wonderful to have so many cousins and relatives living within walking distance on the lands of your hacienda.”
“Fourteen Montez families have houses on my land. I am responsible for them, and they for me. We take care of each other. This is our way.”
A servant entered, interrupting their talk. “Doña Montez, Alejandro is at the kitchen door. He wishes to speak with you and says his business is urgent.”
Magdelena gave a queenly nod and rose. “I must attend to Alejandro now. My foreman knows you are here and would not disturb me unless he truly needed my help.”
“Of course, Abuela. Go and see to him. I believe I’ll take a siesta in my room.”
Isabel watched her grandmother depart, admiring her ability to oversee the hacienda at seventy-one years of age. When her husband died eight years earlier, she’d taken over his responsibilities, directing and organizing her small kingdom with the grace and style of a true family matriarch.
Isabel placed the journal in the special airtight case which kept it safe from light, humidity, and other elements that would decay its delicate pages. Taking it with her, she strolled through the tiled hallways, enjoying the feel of the smooth stone floors beneath her bare feet. She loved Casa Grande, the main house on the hacienda, and came to stay here whenever she could get away from the university for a few days.
Surrounded by acres of avocado groves and peaceful farmland, the whitewashed stucco walls and red tiled roof stood majestic in the green terrain. The rich soil of the land nurtured exquisite tropical plant life, serving up a feast for her eyes after long weeks in a concrete jungle. Inside its walls, the arched doorways and breezy halls of her grandmother’s estate offered her a peaceful retreat from her tiny apartment in the bustling, crowded city of Caracas.
Arriving at her doorway, Isabel entered her room and tucked the journal into her suitcase. She would take a closer look at it when she returned to Caracas. Now, in the heat of the day with her stomach full of a hearty lunch, she only wanted to rest. Crossing the tiled floor to her bed, she slipped between the cool sheets and drifted off to sleep.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
During breakfast the next morning, the sound of an approaching car caught Isabel’s attention. Hurrying, she polished off the last few bites of her arepa. The cook served the flat disks of bread with every meal, but at breakfast, she filled them with eggs, fried meats, onion, and tomato, Isabel’s favorite morning meal.
“I think Raúl is here, Abuela.” She dabbed her napkin to her lips and smiled in anticipation of seeing the man who’d become very special to her since her relocation to Venezuela four months ago.
Her grandmother continued to eat, showing no enthusiasm about the arrival of Isabel’s novio.
“Abuela, must you show such disdain for him? I’ve never seen you treat anyone this way. I would think you’d be grateful to Raúl. I don’t know how I would have survived my first weeks in Caracas without his help.”
Magdalena wiped her fingers on her napkin and lifted stern brown eyes to meet Isabel’s gaze. “We shall have a talk about Venezuelan men soon.”
The thought of getting dating tips or a “birds-and-bees” lecture from her aging grandmother turned up the corners of Isabel’s lips. “Maybe during my next visit,” she suggested, barely suppressing the laugh that bubbled up inside.
At her grandmother’s scowl, Isabel made an effort to be serious. “If his behavior concerns you, I assure you, he treats me better than most of the men I dated in the United States.”
“He is different,” her grandmother assured, pronouncing the words like a prophecy of doom.
“We’ll talk ne
xt weekend.” Isabel leaned to kiss her grandmother’s cheek. “I love you, Abuela.”
Isabel hurried to the door and met Raúl on the porch. Deep dimples appeared on either side of his smile, sending her heart into a staccato rhythm. His pale linen shirt and tan pants offset his dark curling hair and dreamy brown eyes.
“Hello, Raúl.” She lowered her eyes, feeling suddenly shy.
He pulled her into his embrace and planted a kiss on her brow. “You look rested. Did you enjoy your weekend here, mi amor?”
My love. Her heart thrilled at the endearments that rolled off his tongue, made more beautiful by the fluid grace of his speech. “You know I did. The hacienda is peaceful.”
He nodded and looked to the door. “Is your grandmother going to greet me today?” His smile reflected the amusement he felt at Magdalena’s continual rebuffs.
“She’s finishing her breakfast. Did you eat?”
“I did. I am ready to return to the city. May I carry your bags to the car?”
When they reached the luxurious Mercedes Benz, Raúl loaded her luggage in the trunk and came to open the car door for her.
“Did your business dealings go well?” she asked.
“Yes, I purchased several older pottery pieces and a striking painting by a newer artist. I think they will sell quickly in my gallery.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Isabel turned and slid into the soft leather passenger seat. A moment later, Raúl took his place behind the wheel. He held a beautiful cluster of tropical flowers, which he deposited on her lap.
“They’re wonderful, Raúl. You spoil me.” She raised them to her nose and breathed in their delicious scent. From the moment of her arrival, she’d fallen in love with the sweet fragrance of the tropical blooms. Often the wind at Casa Grande carried the perfumes of the tropical plants that grew profusely in her grandmother’s gardens. Raúl had discovered her love of flowers, and he indulged her often.
“The man who sold me the pottery had a green finger,” he explained.
Isabel laughed. “I think you mean a green thumb.”
Raúl smiled at his mistake. “He was a fine gardener. When I told him how much my beautiful señorita would like his flowers, he cut some from his garden.”
“Thank you.” She reached for his hand and wove her fingers through his.
“I missed you, mi amor. We have not spent much time together lately.”
She turned to him, puzzled. “We meet at the coffee house for lunch almost every day.”
“Sí, but it is such a public place. Perhaps next Sunday we could go out on my yacht and spend the day sailing. It sounds romantic, no?”
Disappointment wafted through her like a cool, damp breeze. “I promised my grandmother I’d attend church with her. Remember, we talked about it. I had hoped you would join me, Raúl.”
The look he gave her made Isabel feel as if she’d suggested something outrageous. She pulled her hand from his and turned to stare out the window.
Raúl reached over and placed his warm hand on her knee, dragging his thumb in lazy circles over her skin. Currents of electricity surged along her nerves, and her irritation waned with every stroke. When she glanced at him, his charming, confident smile went straight to her heart and melted away her remaining displeasure.
“Mi amor, I have told you, God and I have an understanding. Though I do not attend services regularly, I am a devoted follower. As for Sunday, I’ve already committed to taking some of my friends out on the yacht. We can meet later Sunday evening. I will take you to dinner.”
“Good. I’ll look forward to it.” She smiled his way.
Raúl nodded and changed the subject, launching into a description of the art pieces he’d purchased.
Isabel closed her eyes and focused on the timbre of Raúl’s voice. His velvety baritone and smooth, cultured Spanish lent a poetic quality to his words. Just being near him filled her with a sense of well-being.
Handsome, charming, and affluent—she couldn’t believe he’d been attracted to her. They’d first met at a coffee shop in Sabana Grande, a popular business and shopping district near the university. He sat at the table beside her, looking utterly appealing in his business attire, and she couldn’t help but steal glances at him. To her embarrassment and thrill, he caught her eye and smiled. Outgoing and gregarious, he struck up a conversation. Soon he sat at her table, suggesting plans to spend the evening together.
After only one date she was addicted to the playful, romantic way he treated her. He made her feel like a beautiful princess with his compliments, gifts, and solicitous behavior. She’d never been so pampered and adored. Abuela is right. He is different from American men. He’s better by far.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Laden with books, Isabel spied an empty study carrel in a quiet corner of the library and hurried to deposit her heavy burden on the desk.
“Why are reference books always so heavy?” she muttered as she settled into the chair and dug through her backpack in search of her tablet and pen. After finding them, she took out the journal’s case. With slow, careful movements, she snapped open the clasps and removed the precious book from its protective shell. Opening to the first entry, she began the arduous task of translating the five-hundred-year-old script.
The reference books smelled of dust, and the light bulb overhead flickered and danced as she bent over her work. Once the first few paragraphs took shape on her notepad, excitement swept through her, and she forgot all else.
June 5th, 1505
We have become the vilest of animals. With our lips we proclaim we are from the civilized world, but our actions betray the truth of our dark nature. We call them savages, and in the same breath, we order atrocities committed against them. Our cruelty is unparalleled. We sentence the natives we enslave to death without cause, and to their misfortune, death at the hands of the Spanish Navy is despairingly slow and painful.
The men are pressed into service as pearl divers, forced to make repeated trips to the bottom of the ocean from morning to night without rest. We brutally whip them if they delay for even a moment between dives. Without time to adequately rest and regain their breath, drowning and exhaustion claim many. The sharks lurking in the coastal waters take others. Thousands have submerged into watery graves never to walk in the light of the sun again.
Those men who endure the torture we inflict on them develop sores on their skin from hours in the salty water. We feed them rotting oysters and perhaps a bit of bread. Their bodies grow skeletal from lack of proper food. For their hard labor and suffering we reward them with a block of wood to sleep on and chains to ensure they do not escape the fate to which we have sentenced them in the name of greed and power.
But while the physical suffering of the men is great, it is by far preferable to that which the women endure. When the slave ships arrive to unload their fleshly cargo, the men stationed here at Cubagua crouch on the docks like hungry jackals, eager to satiate their foul lusts on the female captives. The officers callously give the women and girls over to the soldiers and ignore the chilling screams that fill the air when the carnage begins. Every female over the age of eight is subjected to this inhumane treatment. Those who survive their initial trial are kept under lock and key, forced to endure the violence day after day, subject to the whim of any sailor who will part with a few coins in exchange for female company.
At 24 years of age, I am not immune to or unaffected by the sight of the naked women unloaded from the cargo holds. Though looking on the beauty of their exposed flesh causes my blood to stir and awakens my carnal needs, as of yet I have not participated in the evil. I cannot feel satisfied in my abstinence, for I have done nothing to stop their torture either. In my eyes I am as guilty as those who partake in the flesh trade.
My complacency condemns me. The dark, round eyes and smooth, fresh faces of the young native women remind me of my younger sister. If circumstances were different, the soldiers might feast their lusts upon her. Such thoughts torture
me daily. For this reason I cannot participate, and for this cause I have been moved to commit a rebellious act of treason for which I could be hanged.
An unusually high number of women arrived on the slave ship that entered Cubagua’s harbor today. Fewer soldiers lurked on the docks, as two fully-manned battleships were sent to deal with rogue pirates attempting to poach the pearl beds off the western coast of the island. Usually the soldiers outnumber the women five to one, and they are forced to “share” the bounty. Today, there would be enough women for each man to have his own companion.
My feet carried me into the midst of the rowdy sailors, and I soon laid claim to one of the maidens. I rushed her into a grove of banana palms unnoticed and pressed further into the undergrowth until we were hidden from sight. I removed my shirt and gave it to her. As she was small of stature, the shirt hung to her knees, covering her modestly.
I led her further away from the port, following the shore but careful to stay hidden in the trees and vegetation. She shrank away from my touch and refused my help, but she did not offer undue resistance. After a two-hour walk, we arrived at the abandoned hut once occupied by an Indian fisherman now captured and enslaved.
The small, crude hut would serve as a refuge for the maiden, at least for a time. Set a distance away from the beach, trees and brush surrounded the structure. Vines and mosses grew over its walls, providing effective camouflage. I entered the hut alone, checking for snakes or scorpions lying in wait for a victim.
When I emerged and gestured for her to enter, she recoiled in terror, as if certain I intended her harm. The fearful way she looked at me made me ashamed to be a man. Rather than force her in, I decided to coax her with food and drink. I removed my canteen and set it inside the doorway. Nearby trees offered a variety of foods including bananas, guavas, and avocados. I gathered a selection and placed them inside with the water, then strolled away, giving her time to make her choice.
When I returned, she sat inside, eating and drinking the meal I had provided. Upon seeing me, she scrambled into the corner, bearing the look of a frightened animal. I left her crouching in the hut, unsure whether I’d see her again.