"Be careful," I said. "If anything shifts, you'll get injured." Yet in the middle of all of this mess, the glass was half full for this one moment, and after stretching his arm into a particularly tight spot, Rafael emerged with a book in his hand, which he held up to the Father.
"Is this it?"
The priest smiled gently at the badly shredded Bible in his hands, brushing it so lovingly and carefully that nobody had to spell out to me that this was his prized possession. "It looks a little worse for the wear," he said, greatly understating the damage done to the pages, "but it will do to bring some comfort to those in need. Thank you."
Rafael nodded, the blue edges around the pools of black in his eyes shimmering with an uncomfortable shyness I found surprising and endearing.
We continued our trek through the remains of town as Rafael assisted with lifting the injured and pulling out the dead. It was a torturous exercise as we mourned with parents, siblings and children alongside hardened officers and others of mixed descend like Rafael. By nightfall I had seen the Father and his shredded Bible administer last rites too many times, and each time anew I gave thanks that Rafael and Manuel had been spared.
The same couldn't be said for their home or most of their belongings. We caught up with Manuel on the north side of town where the hurricane had slammed their only cow into the ground, mangling her beyond salvageable condition. I could only get myself to briefly look at the destroyed body.
"Where are we going to bury her?" Rafael asked quietly.
"We aren't," Manuel replied. "Let's find something to start a fire. I want to burn the carcass now before any disease starts spreading."
Finding dry wood wasn't easy, as the hurricane's torrential rain had drenched just about everything that wasn't blow away. After scrounging up some splintered boards that had been buried amid other debris, Manuel and Rafael were able to light the cow's funeral pyre. They guarded the growing flames meticulously to make sure the occasional swoop of wind still passing by didn't carry any of the embers away. I tried to twist out of the path of a wind-borne palm frond, but it smacked squarely into my stomach.
With a jerk I brushed it away from my mid-section, surprised to find my stomach bare between bikini top and bottom. I was sitting and there was no longer a fire by my side, but the pale blue glow from the lights at the bottom of the pool. With a sigh I dropped back onto the sun bed, but only momentarily as I noticed the dark sky above. What time was it? I dug through my towel until I found my watch, my jaw slacking as I got a good look at it. It was two in the morning. I'd slept by the pool all afternoon and into the night, feeling more comfortably rested than I would have imagined possible on a sun bed. Fortunately, also mostly covered by a towel so that only my calves sported a slightly worrisome shade of red.
It was impossible to think of more sleep now, and I opted for some TV and a very generous soak in the tub instead until I could take advantage of the all-inclusive breakfast. I tried puzzling together when last night's storm had decimated the humble beginnings of San Juan. Rafael must have been about sixteen or seventeen then. It was the fourth time we'd been through this hurricane together. The first time I myself was sixteen, the second and third time not much older, which was probably why I'd more enjoyed hunkering down next to him than concentrating – or caring – about the outlying circumstances. This time I was approaching the experience more like an archaeological mind dig, one that would require an Internet café to see if I could puzzle together if and when it happened.
Chapter 9
My search for a cyber café took longer than it should have as I wandered off in the wrong direction and ended up circling various blocks only to find the café near my hotel. Freshly fed I didn't really mind the walk. I loved this old city. Even though most of the buildings were newer than those in Rafael's time, they still stood on the same ground and that was comforting and familiar.
I arrived too early at the cyber café and sat down on a bench in the square waiting for it to open. Turning my face into the sun, I listened to the variety of criss-crossing thoughts that wandered through my head. One of them asked about Valentín. Surprisingly, it was an important enough question that the rest of my brain traffic came to an expectant pause.
"Really?" I checked my watch. It was nine, and the cyber café was opening its doors. I pulled out my phone, still unsure if this was a good or bad move.
"¿Quién?" Valentín said groggily.
"It's me, Mel," I answered. "I'm sorry, I seem to be waking up everyone I'm calling these days."
"Hm." He yawned. ‘What time is it?"
"Nine. What is that to you in sleeping hours?"
"About six."
I sighed relieved. It wasn't a perfect night's sleep in my book, but decent enough that I didn't feel too guilty about waking him.
"What are you up to today?"
"Nothing yet," I said. "Just going to look something up on the computer at an Internet café."
He chuckled. "No hunting for abandoned yucca farms today?"
"Nope." I smiled. "I've moved on from that."
"Can I interest you in a picnic?"
I hesitated. I did want to continue my search for Rafael, but then again, a picnic sounded appealing. "Sure, why not. Is it going to be very far from here?"
"It can be if you want it to be," Valentín replied. "Although I was actually thinking of having it smack in town."
My brows drew close together. "You want to picnic in town?"
Valentín laughed. "Got you thinking now, don't I?"
"You do," I admitted.
"Tell you what. Why don't you hang out for about an hour and a half and I'll pick you up there."
I agreed, taking to waiting at a computer in the café's back corner. I typed in hurricanes in Puerto Rico. A website for the Tuna Point Lighthouse in Maunabo popped up, showing a comprehensive list of storms that battered the island from 1515 on. I was pretty sure Rafael was 16 or 17 at the most during last night's hurricane. Scanning the list, one date stood out immediately: October 4th, 1526. Next to the date, it simply said ‘great damage in Puerto Rico.' Another storm exactly a year later to the date only ‘affected' the island and heaven knows that would be a gross understatement of the carnage and destruction I had witnessed. The next storm on the list – a series of three storms – didn't happen until 1530. That no longer fit with the town's development or Rafael's age.
Pulling out my notebook, I jotted down the hurricane entry, aware that the date on the page looked painfully far away. The first few times I had gone through the storm I had been too busy just recalling every one of Rafael's features, but this time I remembered his beautifully designed bracelet. No doubt it looked a gazillion times better than the drawing I now made, but chills still ran down my spine as I stared down at the image I'd hijacked from my dreams and brought into the present.
After logging off the computer, I walked up to the counter where one could buy computer time, coffee and a handful of different snack foods. But what caught my eye was a vacation brochure holder, one flyer in particular. It showed an exquisite pair of elongated earrings, adorned with over twenty individually set emeralds each. While the top and bottom were a round and teardrop shaped piece, respectively, the center flared out into two bow halves, making the whole thing look like it was loosely based on a cross, but mounted in four separate pieces. It wasn't exactly something that I had seen before, but the style was not unlike what Manuel created, and I turned the brochure inside out looking for more detail about the piece.
"Excuse me," I finally said to the young woman behind the counter. She paused her texting, looking up to see who was interrupting her.
I held up the page. "Would you know where I can see these?"
The girl scrunched up her face, then shook her head. "I can check," she said, her expression saying that she'd rather return to texting, but I took her up on the offer. She made a phone call, jotting down some information on a napkin.
"It's a sales exhibit," she said, pu
shing the piece of paper over to me. "A one-day-only event. Tomorrow."
"Do you know where at?" I smiled as gratefully as possible while she redialed the number, clearly not amused at having to do this much work this early in the day. She returned with a second napkin and the street address. To thank her I dropped a five dollar bill into her tip jar.
"Tipping a hundred percent of the cost of computer time, that's pretty generous." Valentín's outline in the doorframe blocked out the sunlight.
"She's been very helpful," I said, waving at the girl as I headed out, but she was already back to texting. I folded the napkins into my purse, looking at the small cooler the detective carried. "So where's the mystery picnic location?"
"About five blocks from here," Valentín said.
I should have known by now that he would greet me with a kiss, but it still took me by surprise, and I lingered longer than I intended. If only he didn't smell so good. He reached for my hand and walking with him along the cobblestone streets, my emotions moved back and forth between centuries like the palm frond that had smacked me in the stomach. This moment was here and now, I reminded myself. The buildings were all here and so was I. Yet for an instant, on parts of the road I knew had been here long before Valentín, I closed my eyes and let my hand be held by Rafael. It was surprisingly easy to picture his fingers wrapped around mine, and I would have liked to remain standing right where we were, even if for just a minute longer. But Valentín obviously knew where he wanted to go and so we kept on moving.
After four more blocks, we left the last of the narrow streets behind and cut over toward the Atlantic shoreline, which was kept out by the massive city walls that led up to El Morro.
"Will they let you take the cooler inside the fort?" I asked.
A smile played around Valentín's mouth. "I don't know," he said, "but since that's not where we're going, I suppose it doesn't really matter."
Guessing had never been my strong suit, but I couldn't help but crease my brow as we worked our way around the city walls. "The only thing down there is the cemetery," I said.
"Yes."
I stopped so abruptly that bottles rattled in the cooler. "You're taking me to eat among dead people?" Amusement pinched Valentín's dimple into his cheek, and I knew I had guessed his picnic location.
"You're not superstitious, are you?" he asked, pulling gently to move me forward.
"No. Although I can't say exactly that I'd purposely go to a cemetery to eat either."
"I figured since you liked to see unusual sights, this would be something not everybody does."
"For obvious reasons."
The detective laughed. "What happened to you liking to do things differently?" He walked with great purpose toward the center of the cemetery where we took the five steps up into the shaded walkway of the domed neoclassic chapel. He sat the cooler down in the corner. "Come on, let's go look around."
I had to admit that it was a beautiful cemetery. Behind it loomed the dark city wall and in front of it spread the fitful waters of the Atlantic. The breeze blew over the treeless area and the crashing of waves was a constant companion of those interred here.
"When the cemetery was built, people were afraid of death," Valentín said, as we stood at a grave overshadowed by the towering marble statue of a weeping willow. "Life and death weren't really meant to co-exist, so the cemetery was built outside of the city wall. Facing the ocean also made for a nice symbolic gesture of the journey into the afterlife."
"It's been here a long time then?" I asked, racking my brain to see if I recalled it from any of the dreams.
Valentín shrugged. "Let's check inside the church, I'm sure it says somewhere."
According to the plate we found, construction had begun in 1863. Old, but not old enough. Maybe that was a good thing, as I would be able to enjoy the visit just like any other tourist would. Although I noticed most of them stayed away, within the city walls.
"Let's sit down and eat," Valentín suggested after checking his watch. "We can continue to walk around afterwards."
Since the noon-day sun did burn down rather fiercely, sitting in the shaded walkway with our backs against the cool chapel wall felt good. Valentín spread a towel on the ground between us.
"Two maltas," he said, opening the bottles with the sweet malt drink. Fortunately, they were ice cold. If Elena could have been a fly on the wall, she would have asked how in the world I could drink something so sweet when I gave her so much grief over the considerably less sticky Coke she loved to guzzle.
"Also some coco water," Valentín continued. He explained with great pride that the seafood filled turnovers were called pastelillos. I had to agree that the arañitas – fried clusters of shredded plantains – were pretty tasty. Despite the time of day, I also discovered that I had zero difficulty enjoying a second helping of lechón asado, sinfully delicious grilled young pig.
A satisfied moan rolled off my tongue as I let my hand glide over my full belly as though I were caressing an unborn child. "I feel like I'm eight months pregnant," I said, staring down at the plump belly under my dress. "Lechón Ricada. I probably would traumatize a child by naming it after a roasted pig."
The detective laughed. "Do you have any kids?"
I shook my head. "No."
He moved to sit at a cross-legged angle that allowed him to look at me. "How come? Don't you want any?"
"Why would you assume I don't want any?" The question came out sharp.
Valentín's hands went up in the air. "Whoa. Why am I thinking I just stepped on a landmine? Let's go back to that first question then. How come you don't have any?"
"You're still on the landmine," I said, resting crossed arms atop my food baby.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm just trying to get to know you, that's all. Wanna tell me about it?"
I had never been asked by a guy to explain why I didn't have children. Most of them, if they even asked, were usually either not interested enough or simply relieved that there was no complicated baggage.
"My ex couldn't have any," I started slowly. "After my divorce…it just never happened." Trying to muster a smile, I patted my roasted pig belly again. "Other than the occasional food baby, I think the baby train now has left the station."
"Women still get pregnant at your age," Valentín replied. "Much older women, too."
"I don't think I would want my child to introduce the gray-haired woman with the walker as her mother at high school graduation."
"You could adopt."
"I suppose I could," I said. I don't know if it was the unusual male interest in the subject or the anonymity of telling this to someone who lived far from where I resided, but it suddenly felt important to share something not even my best friend or family knew.
"Years ago when I still lived in California I drove down to Mexico," I started. "I stayed at a friend's summer home for the weekend. Driving over was a cinch, but on the way back the line to cross the border was horrendous.
"There was a young boy, perhaps eight or ten years old, who went from car to car selling chiclet. He held his little box of chewing gum up to my car window and when I declined, he just stood there, looking terribly tired. He rested his head against my car door, and it was the only time in my life that I seriously considered kidnapping someone." I swallowed hard. "I still think of him now and then, wondering what happened to him, how he grew up. If ever I feel that close to a child again, maybe I'd still adopt."
It was strange, sharing this experience with someone. Usually I just thought about the little boy on those days when it hurt that I had never had children of my own. It made it less painful somehow. It also made me worry that I'd killed a light-hearted afternoon, but Valentín didn't look upset, just pondering what I'd said.
"What about you," I asked. "Do you have any children?"
"Two," he answered. "One son, one daughter."
I smiled. "From your conquest by the romantic fossilized tree?"
He laughed. "My son. My dau
ghter is from another relationship."
"Do you see them much?"
"Probably not often enough," he admitted. "The mother of my daughter lives in New York, so I only get her for a couple of months during the summer. My son lives in Ponce. I see him maybe once a month."
"Probably not often enough," I agreed.
"Thanks." The detective grimaced, and I felt bad.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that."
Valentín made a throw-away gesture. "Don't worry. After I upset you first, turn-about's fair play. Besides, you're probably right." He rolled forward onto his knees. "Let's put this away and keep walking around some more."
I helped gather up the empty containers and bottles. "Maybe we can talk about some light and fluffy stuff that doesn't get either of us tied into a knot. How's your job going, for instance."
Valentín laughed without humor as he put the last of the leftovers back into the cooler. "You consider that light and fluffy?"
"Apparently not that fluffy," I said. "Don't you like being a cop?"
He shrugged. "It's alright. Gives you certain privileges."
"Maybe I've watched too many cop shows," I said, "but I always thought that's the kind of work one does out of passion, not just because it pays the bills."
The detective glanced at me with his hazel eyes. "Who says it pays the bills? Like I said, it gives you some privileges. Access to things others don't have. Comes in handy for other jobs I do here and there."
"To help with the bills," I said.
"Well, there are the ex-wife, the ex-girlfriend, the son, the daughter," Valentín replied. "You get the picture."
I did. "Sounds complicated at best."
"Yeah, sometimes it gets a little tricky." He squinted into the sunlight. "Come on, let's explore the cemetery."
We meandered without any particular rhyme or reason inbetween the large gravesites. Many of the tombs were adorned with crosses, obelisks, figures of angels and weeping statues. As things caught my eye, I darted back and forth. We kept reading dates off to each other to see who could find the oldest tomb.
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