by Maria Duenas
They did not hide their credentials, either: an army colonel; the proprietor of Le Grand, a fashionable French restaurant; a tobacco planter; two high-ranking Spanish officials. To his surprise Porcio, the garrulous Italian tailor who had made the linen suit he’d been wearing most of the day, was also there. And last but not least, the host, Lorenzo Novás, owner of the business.
Despite the obvious value of the items around them, the room was little more than a storehouse with ashen-colored walls. In keeping with the décor, the furniture consisted of a rustic table flanked by benches. The only provisions on offer were a flagon of rum and a few half-filled glasses, a sheaf of cigars bound with red ribbon, and a pair of tinder lighters—courtesy of the house, he assumed.
“Well, gentlemen . . .”
Novás rapped the table ceremoniously with his knuckles to catch their attention. The voices died down, and everyone became seated again.
“To begin with, I’d like to thank you for placing your trust in me, for agreeing to listen to what I offer you in this promising venture. That said, permit me to go straight to the point by outlining the pertinent facts all of you will want to know. Firstly, I’d like to inform you that our ship has docked at the Regla quay: a brigantine built in Baltimore, fast and well made, like the majority of vessels that came from that port before the Yankees went to war. They glide like swans in a fair wind, and hold their own in rough seas, not like your coastal sloops or the old schooners they used in the siege of Pensacola. She is a worthy vessel, I can assure you, and comes equipped with four new cannons as well as a hold that has been remodeled for maximum capacity.”
The company nodded, giving murmurs of approval.
“I’m also pleased to inform you,” he went on, “that as of now we have a captain from Malaga who besides knowing the business has important contacts among the agents and stewards in the area, and is completely trustworthy—a quality that’s fast disappearing in this day and age. He is busy hiring officers and engineers: navigators, a chief mate, a ship’s surgeon, and so forth. In no time at all, the pennant will be raised and the boatswain will assemble a crew. In this line of business, as you know, they are usually a mixture of—”
“Bunch of riffraff,” muttered one of the company.
“—tough, experienced men, which is exactly what we need,” Novás retorted. “I wouldn’t want them to woo my daughters, but they are perfectly equipped for the task at hand.”
A sardonic half-smile appeared on some of the faces, while the Italian, Porcio, gave a chuckle. Larrea, for his part, listened with clenched jaw.
“Forty plucky fellows, in any case,” Novás went on, “each of whom will receive a monthly wage of eighty pesos and, as is the custom, an extra seven silver coins for each item that arrives in port undamaged. Also, to be on the safe side, I’ve urged the captain to make sure he hires a good cook: a well-fed crew is less inclined to mutiny.”
“Why not provide him with a few exquisite recipes from Le Grand?” quipped Porcio, attempting to raise a laugh.
No one obliged, least of all the restaurant owner. Ignoring him, Novás took the floor again.
“A cooper is making two hundred barrels for water, and the rest of the provisions will be purchased over the next few days: casks of molasses and liqueurs, tubs of lard, and sacks of potatoes, rice, and beans. The magazine will be well stocked with gunpowder, and a smithy is busy making what we need to . . .” He paused before clearing his throat. “To adequately secure the cargo, if you follow my meaning.”
Nearly all of them nodded for a third time.
“When do you expect the ship to be ready?” asked the restaurant owner.
“Three weeks at the most, we hope. And to avoid arousing suspicion, she will be authorized to sail for Puerto Rico, although afterward she will head for the other destination we have discussed. However, upon her return, instead of docking in Havana, the ship will proceed to a quiet inlet close to a sugar mill, where we have arranged for it to be received and its merchandise unloaded.”
“Not wishing to jump too far ahead, but may I ask how it will be unloaded?” This time it was one of the Spaniards who wanted more details.
“By all means: into canoes. We investors will travel overland by carriage and divide up the merchandise. Afterward, we will either scuttle or set fire to the vessel, or, if she is still seaworthy, refurbish and sell her.”
Too many precautions, reflected Mauro Larrea after listening intently. In Mexico far less care was taken over such clandestine operations. He supposed that such measures were required because of the far-reaching tentacles of mainland bureaucracy, which were more present in Cuba.
“As for the proceeds,” Novás continued, “let me remind you that the total sum of the merchandise will be divided into ten parts . . .”
Mauro Larrea’s brain was busy making calculations. His own money alone wouldn’t be enough. He needed more. A fair amount more.
“. . . of which, as the owner of the vessel, I propose to take three.”
Upon hearing Novás’s declaration, the company murmured their acceptance, while Larrea continued his conjectures. He did not have enough. But if Carola Gorostiza were to agree . . .
“How long will the expedition take from start to finish?” the colonel then asked.
“Three to four months, approximately.”
He felt his heart pounding: exactly the same as the refrigerated vessel. If Carola Gorostiza played along, he might succeed. It was risky, but he was trapped in the vise-like grip of Tadeo Carrús’s hateful demands. And, despite that, there was a slim chance.
“Of course, a lot depends on sailing conditions,” the vessel owner went on, even as Larrea forced himself to interrupt his reverie to listen. “Generally, each crossing takes no longer than fifty days, but the precise duration depends on whether loading takes place on dry land or from floating platforms off the coast. And on how much merchandise is available at the time: sometimes, if we are lucky we make an excellent purchase without even having to go ashore.”
“At what price?”
“That depends on the supply. In the past you could barter for a few barrels of rum, or bolts of colorful fabric, or a half dozen powder kegs; even a sack full of looking glasses and beads would buy you a substantial shipment. Not any more: the agents drive a hard bargain as middlemen, and there’s no way around them.”
“And how many . . . items do you estimate will reach the port in acceptable condition?” asked one of the officials in a thick Castilian accent.
“Assuming a ten percent loss during the voyage, about six hundred and fifty.”
Novás appeared to have an answer for everything: he was certainly no novice in the smuggling business.
“And the profit over here?” another asked.
“Approximately five hundred pesos apiece.”
There was a general murmur of dissatisfaction. Accursed moneygrubbers, Larrea thought. How much did they think they would make? Needless to say, for him five hundred pesos was a not-insubstantial sum. Once more, his brain began to make rapid calculations until the shipowner’s voice pierced his thoughts.
“Of course, the profits could be greater. As you know, the price varies according to age, height, and overall fitness.”
Some of what Novás was saying puzzled him, but he preferred not to interrupt before he had finished.
“While others may fetch less, usually because the merchandise is damaged—although still intact, I hasten to add.”
This went without saying. Who would want a punch bowl with a handle missing, or a one-armed cherub?
“By which I mean alive. And those with child sometimes fetch double.”
The others nodded, and Larrea knitted his brow. What the devil?
So porcelain goods weren’t the real object of Novás’s business, or indeed the merchandise being transported in the hold of the briga
ntine from Baltimore. Now he understood, and it was all he could do to stop himself from crying out in terror: Holy Mother of God.
These men weren’t trading in figurines of shepherds and cherubs. The merchandise they were talking about was the bodies of living, breathing people. They were involved in the slave trade.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
He glanced nervously through the open gates as he waited for the banker Calafat to put in an appearance. So far, only a couple of clerks and three young slave girls armed with brooms and rags had entered the premises.
He had spent half the night awake and, to counter the effects of his insomnia, had drunk three coffees at La Dominica, a fashionable café on the corner of Calle O’Reilly and Mercaderes, a few blocks from the banker’s office.
He was just beginning to curse the aversion the moneyed classes in La Habana had to rising early, when a few minutes after half past nine he glimpsed the old man’s unmistakable visage.
“Señor Calafat?” he boomed as he crossed the street in three strides.
The banker seemed unruffled by his presence.
“It’s good to see you again, my friend. And if you’ve come to give me a favorable response to my proposal, I shall be a very happy man. This very afternoon the message bearing our names will be dispatched to Argentina, and . . .”
Larrea clenched his fists. This business was slipping away from him. The banker’s proposal was slipping through his fingers. Another might be opening. Perhaps. Or perhaps not.
“For the moment, I only came here to ask you a quick question,” he said evasively.
“At your service.”
“It’s quite straightforward and shouldn’t take long; I simply require some information about another matter. I expect it will come as no surprise to you that I’m weighing several options.”
They entered the office and sat down on either side of the large mahogany desk, in the cool shade provided by the half-closed shutters.
“Fire away. Whether or not you end up going into partnership with me, I am still managing your capital, and therefore entirely at your disposal.”
Larrea went straight to the point.
“What do you know about the slave trade?”
Calafat responded just as straightforwardly.
“That it’s a dirty business.”
The adjective hung in the air. Dirty. A dirty business, with all the attendant connotations.
“Please go on.”
“The slave trade is still legal under Spanish law as applied here in Cuba, although in theory it has been proscribed in accordance with the British, who were the first to abolish it. That is why English frigates police the Atlantic and Caribbean seas, to make sure their law is upheld.”
“And yet the practice continues in Cuba.”
“Less so than before, but, yes, I believe it still goes on. The trade’s glory days, if you’ll pardon the grotesque expression, were at the turn of the century. Although everyone knows that the Africa run still exists, and that thousands of poor wretches continue to be shipped to these shores.”
“They’re known as ebony shipments, aren’t they?”
“Ebony or coal.”
“What sort of people invest in this trade?”
“The sort with whom, if I am to judge from your questions, you are already acquainted. Anyone who can afford to fit out a vessel and bankroll a run. Merchants for the most part, or business owners of various kinds. Even the occasional opportunist willing to take a gamble. People acting alone or with others. All sorts.”
“What about the wealthy sugar, tobacco, and coffee planters? Don’t they take part in it, given how much they profit from slave labor?”
“Strange as this may sound, the sugar barons and the other planters are increasingly opposed to the slave trade. However, don’t be deceived: they are motivated not by compassion but by fear. As I already mentioned, this island has a huge African slave population, and the more they keep arriving by the shipload, the greater the risk of a revolt. Believe me, that is their biggest fear. And so they have adopted the position that best suits their own interest: they oppose the slave trade while refusing to countenance any talk of abolition.”
Larrea frowned as he took a few seconds to digest this information.
“Anyone can pursue this activity, Don Mauro. You or even I would have no difficulty setting ourselves up as slave traders if we so wished.”
“But we don’t.”
“Naturally, I haven’t the slightest intention of doing so. I cannot speak for you.”
With the objectivity of a man in his profession, but without a trace of melodrama or any fake compassion, the old banker added: “It can be a profitable business, certainly. But an unscrupulous, evil one.”
Where the devil are you when I need you, Andrade? Where are your reproaches? Here I am, walking barefoot on the brink of something as sinister as a newly sharpened knife, and not a peep out of you. Have you nothing to say to me, brother? No criticisms, no recriminations? His conscience was still trying to summon his agent even as Calafat accompanied him to the door.
“You alone can decide where you wish to invest your money, my friend. Just bear in mind that my offer still stands.”
Calafat glanced up at the clock that hung on one of the walls.
“For a few more hours only,” he added. “As I mentioned before, two of our partners are sailing tonight for the Río de la Plata; after that it will be physically impossible to change the terms of the enterprise.”
Mauro Larrea fingered the scar on his hand again.
“A simple signature would suffice,” Calafat said finally. “Your money is already safe with me; for you to join us, all I need is your name on a piece of paper.”
A single idea hammered inside Larrea’s head as he left the banker’s office: he had no choice but to convince Carola Gorostiza. Convince her that this investment was worthwhile, that they could both make a handsome profit without having to go anywhere near the abominable slave trade.
As he contemplated how best to contact her, he wandered down the sidewalk, accompanied by Santos Huesos, almost oblivious to where he was headed. And yet he already seemed to observe his surroundings through different eyes.
Approaching Plaza de Armas, they walked past dozens of black women with their tiny Creole charges, cuddling them, suckling them, cooing over them. Down on the quayside they saw a mass of dark bodies wearing only breeches; sweat-covered muscles moving back and forth between cargo and boats, to the rhythm of a booming chant. In the crisscross of shopping streets, beneath the bright awnings that filtered the sun, they watched young mulatto girls swaying voluptuously as they flirted with the many men of differing colors, who threw compliments at them as they passed.
Beneath the arches of La Plaza Vieja, in El Mercado del Cristo and La Cortina de Valdés, outside cafés and churches, at all hours of the day and night, they saw Africans everywhere: indeed, Larrea had been told they accounted for nearly half the population now. Women selling tripe were leaning against the house fronts, exchanging banter and bawdy jokes. Trap drivers shouted amid the clamor of hooves, brandishing their whips, proudly vying with one another in the smartness of their attire and the liveliness of their steeds. Cart pushers clad in rolled-up trousers and palm hats, and bare-chested street vendors—from knife-sharpeners through to peanut sellers—hawked their wares in the same melodious tones. And behind the walls and gates of the wealthy and middle-class residences, Larrea intuited the presence of numerous domestic slaves: twenty, thirty, forty, as many as sixty or seventy souls, he had been told. Well nourished and well dressed, with few chores and plenty of room to languish on rush mats during the hottest part of the day, chatting or dozing, combing each other’s hair as they laughed and joked, or idling as they waited for their master. My mulatica or my negrilla were common terms of affection used by their owners. Some would ev
en show a degree of respect, with an occasional Señor Domingo or Señora Matilde.
They don’t appear to have such a hard life, Mauro muttered to himself in an effort to make these innocuous scenes sweeten the cruel business in which he had been invited to take part. The miners in Mexico had a far worse job, despite not being owned by their employers and receiving a daily wage, he reflected. These were the thoughts occupying Larrea’s mind when, in the middle of Calle Teniente Rey, he saw him emerge.
At that precise instant, Gustavo Zayas, dressed in a fine beige linen suit, appeared from what Larrea assumed was the entrance to his house, cane tucked beneath his arm as he donned his hat. Under the brim, his face wore the usual tense, solemn expression, his jaw clenched; Larrea had never seen the man smile.
Fortunately, the everyday crowds in the streets of La Habana prevented Zayas from noticing his presence on the pavement opposite his house. Not wishing to take any chances, Larrea grabbed Santos Huesos by the arm and ducked into the entrance to a pharmacy, where they stood side by side.
“Is that where Don Ernesto’s sister lives?”
He didn’t need his servant to confirm the information.
Turning his head discreetly, Larrea followed with his eyes the tall, distinguished figure of Gustavo Zayas making his way through the multitude before disappearing around the corner. He waited a few moments until he reckoned Zayas had gone far enough not to return for some item he might have left behind.
“Come along, lad. We’re going in.”
They crossed the street and walked through the open gates into the courtyard. Once inside, they asked a skinny young mulatta girl shaking a rug where her mistress was.
“Are you out of your mind?” Carola Gorostiza yelled, no sooner than the door closed behind him.
Far from inviting him upstairs to the family living quarters, she dragged him into what appeared to be a storage room on the first floor containing some sacks of coffee and pieces of junk. Her black tresses hung loose halfway down her back, and she wore a bright blue chiffon dressing gown tied casually at the waist. She had no jewelry or makeup on, and without these superfluous adornments she looked several years younger. Doubtless she had just arisen from bed; when he had asked the mulatta girl to call her mistress, she had told him Carola Gorostiza was having breakfast.