Some weeks after Dalia’s wedding, Vicente and his father rode to town, their horses loaded with sacks of coffee beans. While Raúl Vega haggled with the creditors, Vicente sold for a few dollars the aparejo he had made and exchanged his mother’s list of provisions at the general store for a letter, his name written in an elegant hand. He looked at the unfamiliar handwriting. He felt the weight of the envelope in his palm. Never before had he received a letter. He liked the way his name looked, Vicente Vega, black ink against the white paper. Who would write to him? It had to be the girl. He sniffed the envelope. Did it smell like strawberries? He looked about him to see if anyone had noticed that he had received something so special. The clerk looked at him with curiosity, men usually didn’t sniff envelopes; Vicente tucked the letter in his satchel.
“It must be a letter from my cousin in Paris on her honeymoon,” Vicente said, as if to defend the letter.
The clerk packed the provisions—a box of small cigars, candles, matches, soap, a tin of Danish butter, a can of aceite de oliva from España, two pounds of flour, one pound of sugar, five pounds of bacalao, a small box of embroidery thread—into the saddlebags; Paris meant nothing to him.
Vicente pretended interest in the arroz del país that filled wooden boxes and was sold by weight.
The clerk looked at the paper. “I forgot the rice.”
“Better pack it up,” Vicente said.
Vicente’s father arrived to settle his account.
“I got a letter.” Vicente flashed the envelope. “Remember that wedding in Ponce?”
“No time for foolishness,” Raúl Vega said. “Take the saddlebags out to the horses.”
Vicente didn’t have to worry that his father might mention the letter to Angelina; doing so would require more than their daily allotment of words.
The letter:
Dear Señor Vicente Vega,
As the older sister of Valentina Sánchez, my mother has asked me to write to you and impress upon you that even the merest hint of impropriety may ruin a señorita’s reputation and her family’s good name. I’m sure as an honorable man, you wouldn’t wish ill on my beloved sister.
Sincerely,
Señora Elena Sánchez de Rojas
Vicente paced el balcón like a caged animal. Angelina and Inés tried to ease his distress. Have more coffee, Vicente. Maybe you need to eat something. Or take a nap. Or visit your brother. Maybe you need to go to town and do the things young men must do. What is it, muchacho? Tell us, tell us.
“I’m going crazy,” Vicente said to his mother.
“Inés and I have noticed that you’ve been moody,” Angelina said.
“Moody?” Vicente laughed—if his mother only knew.
“Is it a woman?”
“I think I need a wife.”
“Banish that thought!”
“Mamá, I can’t stop thinking about a strawberry girl I met at my cousin’s wedding and—”
“A strawberry girl! How can a girl be a strawberry? Maybe you got too much sun—”
“No, Mamá, she’s not—forget the strawberry part—this muchacha at my cousin’s wedding—”
“There are women for problems like yours,” Angelina said. “Your father has never had any difficulty finding them.”
Vicente stared at his mother. What about Inés? She had once been his father’s querida. In a rash moment, he packed a clean shirt in his saddlebag and kissed his mother goodbye. He had to pry her fingers from his arms.
“Tell Papá that I’ve gone to Ponce,” he said.
“Vicente, think it over,” Angelina said. “Your father won’t like it.”
He left with Elena’s letter in his pocket.
•
Except for the few dollars he had saved from selling his aparejos, Vicente had little money of his own. Gloria had given him a large fiambrera, a lunch pail of three tins filled with rice and beans and stewed root vegetables like apio and yautía. He drank fresh water from the many streams along the way. At night, he tethered his horse behind a tree, hoping he had chosen a spot that would keep him safe from the bandits who prowled the country roads. He used his saddle as a pillow and protected himself from the mountain chill with a blanket his mother had given him when she saw that she couldn’t dissuade him from leaving. When he had made the trip for Dalia’s wedding only a few months before, Raúl Vega had ridden part of the way with him through the most treacherous parts of the road, warning him of the dangers and advising him where to turn off the road at night. This time he was making the journey without his father’s help; he reminded himself that he was a man, no longer a scared boy. Vicente huddled under the blanket and stared up at the sky without appreciating the moon or the brilliance of the stars, without hearing the night sounds like the hooting owls or the incessant clamoring of los coquís.
A few days later, Vicente was on the doorstep of her parents’ yellow house, hat in one hand, her sister’s letter in the other. The girl who answered the door was a proper señorita, from the chaste collar of her white cotton dress to the hem of the long skirt that brushed her shoes.
“It’s you,” Valentina said.
She stood just inside the door. People walked by them on the street, and one greeted the girl.
“I wanted to see if you were real,” he said. “That night—”
“I didn’t think that I would see you again.” When she gave him a sidelong glance, he knew that he’d never be bored.
“Are your parents home? Your sister Elena?” He fumbled with his hat.
“My sister! What about her?”
He gave her Elena’s letter.
“That Elena, que entrometida, always in my business.” Valentina handed the letter back.
“I would never do anything to hurt you or your family,” he said.
They stood smiling at each other, right there outside her door.
“Can we sit out here en el balcón and talk?” Maybe he could hold her hand.
“Come back when my parents are home,” she said. “The neighbors are spies.”
He looked for the spies in the painted houses; he turned back at the click of the door. Sometimes in his nightmares, his horse would speak to him. Today he read the horse’s thoughts in its big brown eyes not dissimilar to the girl’s: Remember what your mother said? You work for your father, what do you have to offer a strawberry girl?
After Dalia’s wedding, with the exception of Juan Moscoso, who sent an offer via his mother to her mother, no one else offered Valentina a marriage proposal. So after months of boredom in her parents’ house, if el viejito Juan Moscoso had promised to take her to Paris immediately after the wedding, she might have joined her life with what was left of the old man’s. But Juan Moscoso’s mother was too old, too ill, too lonely, too something. Juan Moscoso had said what kind of son would he be if he abandoned his mother, old as she was? Besides, Valentina was young and strong and would be the perfect companion for la doña Moscoso. No, Valentina told her mother. No, she would not be companion to the old lady or wife to the son. Nunca.
Mamá reminded her daughter that it had taken many afternoons of visiting Juan Moscoso’s mother to secure his proposal for Valentina; a man didn’t reach the age of fifty, sixty years as a solterón without a certain nimbleness required to avoid the married state. When Valentina refused Juan Moscoso, it had put Mamá in a terrible lío with his mother. If Valentina expected men to come to their door begging to marry her, bueno, look around! The men were off to university in Europe or marrying rich girls or too poor to take a wife, according to her mother (or too old or too ugly, according to Valentina), and there was nothing she could do except say a few rosaries while she waited for her youngest daughter to accept what was written in the stars.
“I can’t read the stars,” Valentina said.
“Don’t be such a tontita, I didn’t raise you to be stupid,” Mamá said. “You’ll be a wife and mother, that’s what is written in the stars. What else is there for a girl in Puerto Rico?”
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“I don’t want to marry a viejito.”
“Juan Moscoso is here and now,” Mamá said. “Snap him up quick before you find yourself an old maid tolerated in the home of some relative.”
Valentina watched Vicente from the window. He looked like he was from el campo with his country clothes, not the sophisticated man from the wedding. But he was young. And the way he’d looked at her . . . She thought that he must be very strong, unlike Juan Moscoso. She’d thought about him now and then since Dalia’s wedding while she went about her chores and waited for something to happen. Maybe it was the way he looked up at the house, confused and uncertain like a boy, that caused her to feel a tiny pang of—love. No, not love, and not quite affection, but something close to understanding—he wanted her to love him. How long could she wait for someone like Rudolfo to take her to Europe? It was then, at that moment, at her window, that she decided she would consent to be his wife, if he asked her. Surely, as Dalia’s cousin, he would want to visit Paris. It was very likely that they could stay with Dalia in Paris for many months, maybe forever.
When Vicente presented himself that evening, the family gathered en la sala. Valentina sat next to her mother on the cane love seat. Mamá held her fan, ready to flick Valentina’s wrist if she opened her mouth. After a few minutes of small talk about the difference in weather between Ponce and Utuado, they sat without speaking. The family stared at the prospective bridegroom while Valentina peered at him beneath her eyelashes. Vicente examined every piece of furniture in the room, the comfortable cane table and chairs, the pictures on the wall of the Virgin Mary and of a male saint holding a skull, and the framed needlework of a Spanish coat of arms. He stifled a laugh. His father made fun of Puerto Ricans with a coat of arms, saying how could they all be descendants of Spanish royalty?
Vicente cleared his throat and declared his intentions. His gaze caught Valentina’s and she couldn’t help smiling.
Mamá tapped her fan on Valentina’s wrist.
Papá asked Vicente a few questions about his family then invited him to return the next evening.
At midday when the pharmacy closed for la siesta, Papá went to Dalia’s father, who was a wealthy Spanish merchant, to learn that it was true that Vicente’s father Raúl Vega owned coffee land. Everyone knew that Puerto Rican coffee was prized all around the world and commanded high prices. To Papá’s surprise, Dalia’s father didn’t recommend the marriage; Vicente was beholden to his father for some years, and even though Puerto Rican coffee was prized today, that could change tomorrow. Better to wait for a more desirable offer.
“I’m still going to marry him,” Valentina said.
“That’s what you think, señorita,” Mamá said.
“Mamá, I’ve only had two offers. This one and the old man’s.”
“And you refused the superior one,” Mamá said.
“Mamá, do you want your daughter to become a solterona como Tía Evangelina?”
“I—” Mamá pursed her lips.
“Valentina, don’t be so impulsive,” Elena said.
“You’re still young,” Papá said. “There’s no hurry.”
“Ponce is Ponce. With your farmer, you’ll be stuck out in the country with nothing to do. Except the cooking and cleaning,” Elena said.
“You never even learned to cook,” Mamá said.
“They must have servants,” Valentina said. “He’s related to Dalia’s family after all.”
“We won’t see you more than once a year,” Mamá said.
“The farmer’s life is a hard one, always at the mercy of the weather and the markets,” Papá said. “Think it over carefully.”
Valentina appealed to their sad faces. “He came all the way from the country for me. Isn’t that romantic?”
Elena took her sister by the shoulders and shook her a little. “Don’t let a few kisses persuade you. This isn’t a French novela.”
“¡Besos! For shame!” Mamá said.
“¡Basta!” Papá raised his hand. “Valentina, do you realize this young man’s family might not approve because he is so young? It could put you in a very bad situation.”
“I’m sure his family approves,” Valentina said. “Otherwise he wouldn’t be here.”
“He’s so young,” Mamá said. “He still works for his father.”
“Papá works for his brother-in-law,” Elena said.
“That’s different,” Mamá said.
“I like that he’s young,” Valentina said. “I can help him.”
“You!” Mamá said.
“You!” Elena said.
“I’ll be a good wife,” Valentina said.
“I don’t know—” Papá shook his head.
Valentina took her father’s hand. “Vicente will work hard for me. I know he will.”
“How do you know that? You know nothing about him,” Mamá said.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” Valentina said. “I promise that we will have a good life.”
“I hope so, Valentina.” Papá looked into his younger daughter’s eyes and saw something in them he’d never seen before, was it determination? “Bueno, if you’re sure this is what you want, I will give you my blessing.”
Valentina embraced him. “Thank you, Papá!”
“¡Teodoro!” Mamá grasped her husband’s arm.
“From now on, she’ll be her husband’s responsibility,” Papá said.
“Que Dios te bendiga.” She made the sign of the cross on her daughter’s forehead.
Elena looked straight into her sister’s eyes. “I wish you all the luck in the world, Valentina. You’ll need it.”
•
It all happened so quickly—a whirlwind wedding because the young bridegroom had to attend to his coffee plantation, and his mother was on her deathbed—or so Valentina’s mother would say to anyone who asked. All that was necessary was to pay for the priest’s services and for the wedding license at the ayuntamiento. Elena helped with the wedding dinner, very small, only their close relatives—again, the mother on her deathbed—and she promised to send on Valentina’s things to the bridegroom’s home up the mountain in Utuado. And then there was the wedding night. No fancy house for la luna de miel, as Valentina’s friend Dalia had enjoyed. Instead, los novios retired to the bride’s childhood bedroom. Vicente stood in the doorway peering inside at the bed covered with the white bedspread, at the frilly touches in the girlish room. He was twenty-one years old and he’d never been with a woman before. His father had often laughed at his lack of romantic encounters; perhaps it was because his father had so many that Vicente had never been interested in fleeting dalliances.
“Aren’t you coming in?” His bride, wearing the gown she’d worn for Dalia’s wedding, stood by the bed.
He stepped into the room and closed the door.
“¿Vicente?”
He straightened his collar with a trembling hand.
“Don’t be scared.” Valentina took his hand.
“I’m not scared.”
“I am,” she said. “Un poquito.”
“So am I,” he said. “A little.”
She laughed. Vicente laughed because she was laughing, this strawberry girl who was now his wife.
He helped her undress, unbuttoning the buttons and untying ribbons, taking care that his farmer’s hands did not snag on the delicate gossamer of her gown. He took out the pins from her hair. She helped him with his shirt and pants.
“Bésame.” She inclined her face.
He kissed her.
They fumbled that first time they made love; he squeezed too hard here, her elbow poked his eye. Afterward, they lay on their stomachs without touching, cocooned in the bed sheathed in mosquito netting.
“It wasn’t anything like in books.” Valentina brushed her hair from her face.
“You read about this in books?” He twirled a lock of her hair around his finger.
“You didn’t?”
“I dreamed about it.”
“You did?” Vicente propped himself up on his elbow, taking a closer look at his bride.
“Don’t be so surprised!” She laughed at him.
“¿Y qué? It was better in the books?” La vergüenza if she said yes.
“¿La verdad?” She propped herself up on her elbow, taking a closer look at her new husband.
He took a few seconds to answer. Did he really want to know? He was discovering how much he cared about her, and it scared him a little.
“The truth. Even if it stings,” he said.
“Yes, better for the woman,” she said.
He looked in her dark eyes; he wanted to spend his life looking into them. “Show me, I want to learn.”
Valentina took his hand. “Touch me like this.”
He did.
Later, she asked, “When did you decide you would come for me?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? That’s not very romantic.”
How could he explain what he didn’t understand? That he hadn’t known he needed her until he got Elena’s letter?
“We’re husband and wife now; that doesn’t matter.” He leaned against the headboard.
She lifted the mosquito netting and got up from the bed. She poured water into a glass from the pitcher on the dresser. After she drank it, she refilled the glass and brought it to him.
“Why did you wait so long to come for me?”
“I had little to offer you except for my strong arms.” He drank the water.
“I like your strong arms.” She touched them.
“You smelled like strawberries.” He set the glass on the bed table.
She grinned. “Mamá dusted my breasts with strawberry-scented powder.”
He bent to kiss them.
They listened to the roosters crowing morning.
“So this is the room you grew up in?” Vicente’s whisper tickled her ear.
“Elena and I shared it until she married,” Valentina said. “What will our home be like?”
“Querida, we’ll have to live at my parents’ for now, sleep in the room I once shared with my brother Luisito until he married.” He hoped that she wouldn’t be too disappointed, because the similarity ended with the mosquito netting over the bed.
The Taste of Sugar Page 5