The Taste of Sugar

by The Taste of Sugar (retail) (epub)

  Valentina sat down in one of the cane-backed chairs that Angelina had given them. Two-year-old Javiercito, sitting on his father’s shoulders, demanded to be set down. He ran to his mother and she took him on her knee.

  The lean-to shed housed el fogón on a narrow table that Vicente had built for it.

  Vicente opened two wooden shutters the size and width of the window. “You can let out the smoke from el fogón. Here is the palangana. You can wash dishes while you look out the window. When you’re done, you just tilt the basin with the dirty water out the window. Luisito and I put in the window specially.”

  He looked at her, waiting.

  Valentina, the baby on her lap, Javiercito clutching her shirt, stared out the window—an opening without glass or a screen. Cook on a fogón, throw the dirty dishwater out the window like a peona—she couldn’t believe she had come to this.

  “Querida, don’t you like it?” Her husband’s smile had faded.

  She roused herself. He’d tried to please her, to help make her chores easier.

  “Claro, que sí.”

  “I know it’s not like Mamá’s house—”

  “It’s not that, I’m just a little overwhelmed.”

  “Mamá said she would send Gloria to help you to get settled.” Vicente gave her a look she knew well. “Let’s put the children down for a nap and then we can go to bed, too.”

  “But what if Gloria comes and we’re—”

  “You don’t want to?” Vicente’s smile was hard to resist.

  Valentina opened her blouse to nurse her children. “I’ll hurry.”

  There was much that she liked about the house. It was on a particularly beautiful spot surrounded by flowers like orchids and dalias and margaritas. A variety of fruit trees perfumed the air with citrus like toronja or china. There were mango trees and a tree that grew her favorite lechosa—they grew so big she had to carry one with both hands. She fashioned a sling along her chest to carry Evita around the new property, and she enlisted Javiercito to help pick aguacates or delicate fresas that grew the size of his thumb. They popped red berries into their mouths right off the bushes, the sweet juice dripping down their chins. Valentina would sit under the shade of a tree, shrug off her blouse, and nurse a child at each breast. Sometimes she untied her ribbon and let her hair cover them like a curtain, but mostly, she didn’t bother.

  The hours between her husband’s departure and return were long and lonely. She yearned for company, for another woman’s kind voice, for a helping hand. Valentina had long ago realized that her mother and sister had been right. Here she was on a mountain where nothing exciting ever happened, where no one interesting ever came to visit or passed by except for barefoot jíbaros. She missed Inés and Gloria, who had become like mother and aunt to her. In her loneliest moments, she even missed Doña Angelina.

  It was a hard life, la campesina life—too many chores like filling the water containers, the preparation of food, the making of the fire, the cooking, the cleaning, the nursing of the baby and toddler, who wasn’t ready to wean himself. There were days when she didn’t have Vicente’s midday meal ready; it seemed as if she just set the pot on el fogón and there he was. She cried the first time that happened. He’d taken her in his arms, reassuring her that he wasn’t that hungry. There were days when he tried to make it easier for her and didn’t come home for lunch but went to his mother’s house instead. Valentina felt the sting of his absence, but she was also relieved. She had to draw on everything she had in her to prepare a simple meal, and some days that was all she could do.

  And so months passed for the young family in the little wood house with Valentina doing her best as a jíbara wife, putting to use what Gloria and Angelina had taught her and even recalling some of the lessons of economía from her mother. Not a single scrap of paper went to waste. For example, the brown papel de estraza that the country store used to wrap food and bacalao was washed, dried, folded, and put away to be used for writing lists, for covering a hole that had appeared in the outhouse roof, etc. They grew their own tubers like yautía and batata and also tomatoes and cucumbers. Corn and other vegetables came from Vicente’s parents. They raised chickens. They bought rice and bacalao at the country store with the money Vicente made from selling aparejos or mangos or bananas. When she cooked a chicken on the occasional Sunday—Vicente had to kill the bird, pluck the feathers, and chop it for her—she simmered the remains of the carcass with a diced potato, an onion, and a few cloves of garlic smashed with the back of the knife to make a broth that she fed to the children. One Sunday, while the children were napping, Valentina and Vicente sat at the kitchen table drinking café puro. Vicente was rhapsodizing about coffee. Although his trees were still young, he knew that they would one day bequeath berries as red as little Evita’s lips, and that when roasted, they would be the color of Valentina’s eyes. Remember he’d told her that Puerto Rican coffee was the only one good enough for the Vatican? One day the pope would drink their coffee! ¡El Papa!

  “In a Parisian café, a woman will drink our coffee with a handsome Frenchman,” Valentina said.

  “I’ll be able to pay the merchants because of lovely ladies like you drinking coffee with Frenchmen.” Vicente reached for her hand.

  “When, Vicente?” She curled her fingers around his.

  “It’ll be at least four years before we have our first harvest.”

  “That long?”

  “Querida, this isn’t news to you.”

  “The children will be old enough to be left with your mother for a few months while we go to Paris and drink our own coffee in a Parisian café!”

  He laughed.

  She let go of his hand. “I’d like to have enough money to eat chicken more than once a week and bread once in a while.”

  “We’re doing all right.”

  Valentina refilled his empty cup with coffee from the enamel coffeepot. “I would like to buy myself a new dress even if I’ve nowhere to wear it.”

  “You know we don’t have money.” Vicente picked up his coffee cup.

  “Maybe if we grow other crops to sell? Maybe pineapple? And other fruits and vegetables,” Valentina said. “I can help you once the children are a little older.”

  “Fruit and vegetables would rot on the journey to market.” Vicente looked at his wife over the rim of the cup. “You remember how long it took to get here from Ponce?”

  “It was a lifetime ago.” She drank her coffee. “We should grow rice and corn and things like that for our family and to sell.” Valentina set her cup down. “You could get Raulito to help you.”

  “Raulito and Eusemia have to eat, too.”

  “Give Raulito part of the crop.” Valentina pushed away her empty cup.

  Vicente shook his head. “It wouldn’t work.”

  “What about if we exported mangos? We have so many mangos from our trees. When I lived in Ponce, I’d never tasted a mango as luscious and juicy as we have here.”

  Vicente finished his coffee. “Remember that the journey down the mountain to market is a costly and dangerous one. Even if the mangos didn’t spoil along the way, we would never make up the transportation costs.”

  “But you export coffee.”

  He reached for her hand but she went to the window. “I can mortgage the land to plant because the merchants want to buy coffee, it doesn’t rot like fruit, and the export system is already in place.”

  He wished that Valentina could be satisfied taking care of the home and children. His mother would never have dreamt of interfering with his father’s business and he wouldn’t have stood for it. Vicente didn’t think that a man should be so harsh as to forbid his wife to offer her opinion—unless it was absolutely necessary.

  “I’ll be an old lady by the time I see Paris.” Valentina stared out the window.

  “Paris isn’t for the wife of a coffee farmer with a bit of land and lots of debts.” Vicente left with one last look at his wife. Why did all the women in his family sta
re out the window?

  San Juan

  May 30, 1892

  Dear Valentina,

  How are you? My handsome brother-in-law? ¿Los niños? Everyone is fine here in San Juan. We had a little excitement just the other day. We went to the Plaza de Armas to see the unveiling of the statute of Cristóbal Colón. Hundreds of people dressed in white took part in the special procession to honor the great Christopher Columbus. The orchestra played—

  [Valentina skipped to the end of the five-page letter.]

  And that’s just a few of many wonderful things to see and do in San Juan. Our parents send their love.

  Kisses and a great big hug,

  Elena

  P.S. I will send a package soon with lovely things (only slightly used) for the children. If only we were the same size, I’d send you some of my old dresses! (Ernesto says that I’ve gotten a little stout! He is the one who is stout! But maybe I will send you a dress or two—I’m sure you can remake it to fit you!)

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE VISIT

  Valentina was glad that it was only a twenty-minute walk from Vicente’s parents’ home. Sometimes Gloria took pity on her and came to help with the children or the cleaning, or Inés visited and worked on her mundillo while Valentina went about her many chores. La doña never came, but Valentina would have welcomed her.

  One day, Raúl Vega came to visit just as Valentina was putting the children down for a nap.

  “You’re getting to be un gran macho.” Raúl picked up Javiercito and swung him up in the air.

  “Don Raúl, I didn’t expect you.” Valentina carried Evita on her hip.

  “Don Raúl,” Javiercito said.

  “Mariposa,” Evita said.

  “You must say ‘abuelo,’ ” Valentina said to her son.

  She frowned at her father-in-law. “Vicente isn’t here, he didn’t come home for lunch.”

  “He couldn’t. He’s working on the furthest part of the finca.”

  Raúl Vega flipped the little boy upside down, then right side up.

  “Abuelo.” Javiercito giggled.

  “Mariposa.” Evita held out her hands.

  Laughing, Raúl set the boy down and held his arms out to Evita. She giggled as he tossed her in the air.

  Valentina stared at her father-in-law, openmouthed.

  “Mariposa, mariposa,” the little girl said.

  “Where is the mariposa?” Raúl Vega pretended to look for it.

  “She’s crazy about butterflies,” Javiercito said.

  “Is that so, preciosa?” Raúl held the giggling girl up in the air.

  Valentina couldn’t help smiling. Could this man be the same Don Raúl?

  Raúl held Evita in one arm and picked up Javiercito with the other. It reminded her of Vicente’s way with his children. “Don Raúl, you’re getting them too excited. It’s time for their naps.”

  “Niños, your mother said it’s time for sleep.” Raúl bounced the children in his arms. “Shall I fly you to your beds?”

  “Fly! Fly!”

  “¡Mariposa! ¡Mariposa!”

  He followed Valentina to the children’s room and set Javiercito down in his cot. Valentina took Evita and tucked her inside her little hammock that the country people called a coy.

  “Mariposa, mariposa.” Evita reached up her tiny hands.

  “Is that all you say?” Raúl peered inside the coy.

  “She can say ‘Mamita,’ ” Javiercito said.

  “Calladito, no more talking.” She looped colorful ribbons around the ankles of each of her children—yellow for Evita, green for Javiercito—and knotted the ribbons to the iron railing of Javier’s cot. It was a country custom that Valentina had once found quite barbaric, but with children so close in age, and no servants, she had discovered its usefulness.

  Valentina motioned to Raúl Vega to follow her out of the room. Javiercito always fell asleep as soon as he closed his eyes, but two-year-old Evita fought sleep like any child who had just learned to walk. Evita was her laughing girl, eager to touch and explore everything around her. Valentina liked to watch her daughter in her lemon dress chase butterflies, flitting between the trees.

  Valentina closed the door to the children’s room. “Why did you come when you knew Vicente wasn’t home?”

  “Can’t I visit my grandchildren?”

  “You never did before.”

  “There’s always a first time.”

  He was standing so close to her, she walked around him to the kitchen.

  The table stood between them.

  “I like the way you look at the table.” Raúl passed his hand over the tabletop. “Two beautiful things.”

  “It is beautiful, I thank you for it.” Valentina put on her apron.

  “May I sit?”

  “You may.”

  Raúl sat in the chair. “Won’t you offer your father-in-law a cafecito?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Valentina’s hand shook as she filled the enamel coffeepot with water. She added ground coffee from Raúl’s own trees to the strainer basket. She went to the lean-to, carrying the coffeepot to el fogón; she flicked a match and lit the kindling before setting the coffeepot on top of the stones.

  “You’re really a jíbara now.” Raúl leaned back in the chair.

  Valentina busied herself with the preparation of sofrito. Vicente had made her a wood cutting board; she minced cilantro and recao and added them to the pilón. Aji pepper.

  “You probably never even knew what a fogón was until Vicente brought you to el campo.”

  Two cloves. Valentina smashed the knife’s blade against the garlic.

  “If it bothers you so much, you could buy me a stove like the one Gloria has.”

  “That could be arranged,” he said.

  She didn’t look up. She minced the onion using the wrist-and-hand movement Gloria had taught her.

  Raúl took a handkerchief out of his pocket and held it to his nose. The fragrance of fresh herbs and coffee filled the silence between them.

  “There isn’t any milk.” She added the onions to the pilón.

  “Not even for the children?”

  She didn’t answer but went to get the coffeepot and then she prepared his coffee, adding two teaspoons of precious sugar. She served the coffee. She thought, as she always did, that Vicente would look like his father in another twenty years, with a little silver at the temples.

  “I don’t think Vicente would like you visiting me when he’s not home.” Valentina pounded the pestle in the pilón. “And what if someone saw you and started talking bochinche?”

  “I like the way that sounds,” Raúl said, sipping his coffee.

  “What? People spreading gossip?” She paused, the pestle in her hand.

  “Me visiting you.”

  She looked into his eyes, so much like her husband’s. “Don Raúl, you’ve been very kind to us, but please drink your coffee and then go. You don’t want to regret anything.”

  “I don’t think I would regret it.”

  “Don’t.”

  The pestle still in her hand, she went to the window and stared at her favorite flamboyán tree. It had recently blossomed with flowers so deep a red that the tree appeared to have burst into flames. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Orchids grew in wild and glorious profusion where she dumped the dirty dishwater. The birds sang and the rooster crowed en el batey as it stalked the hens. When she heard the chair scrape on the wood floor again, she turned around, the pestle raised.

  “Are you going to beat me to death?” Raúl Vega stood by his chair.

  She felt herself blush. He hadn’t moved any closer. He respected her position as his son’s wife. Finally.

  “Come, we’re family.” Raúl Vega held out his hand.

  She was ashamed that her hand trembled; he gripped it for too long. She breathed in the scent of his tobacco, the smell of his horse; she felt his heat, the physical power of a laboring man.

  If on
ly she trusted him.

  “I’ll just finish the coffee.” He sat back down in the chair, his legs sprawled as if he were in his own house.

  They heard Javier call out, and she turned toward her son’s voice, sighing with relief.

  Valentina left the kitchen and went to the children’s room.

  “Is Don Raúl here?” Javier was standing up in bed.

  “You mean your abuelo.”

  “Is Abuelo here?”

  “Yes, but not for long.” Valentina untied the ribbon from Javier’s ankle. “Is your sister awake, too?”

  “Evita’s gone,” the little boy said.

  “Gone?” She peered into the empty coy, then flipped it upside down, as if the girl had done a magic trick. Valentina picked up her son and ran to the kitchen.

  “Evita is gone!”

  “What do you mean, ‘gone’?” Raúl Vega took the boy from her.

  “Gone! She’s not in her bed!”

  “Tranquila, Valentina.” Raúl put a steadying hand on her arm. “Have you checked the other rooms?”

  She dashed to the other rooms, calling out the child’s name. She looked under her bed and inside the large trunk that Elena had sent with her things and where she now kept the family’s clothes. She checked the small balcón in the front of the house. No little girl.

  Raúl and Javier had followed her outside. “No te pongas histérica, Valentina. We will find her. Maybe some neighbor took her as a joke.”

  “A joke! Kidnapping a child is a joke?”

  “It’s not kidnapping, only a practical joke. It’s an old country custom for neighbors to take a little child like Evita—”

  Valentina grabbed her father-in-law’s shirt. “Find my baby!”

  Raúl Vega told them to stay in the house while he searched for the child, but Valentina ran out with her son in her arms. They—even Javiercito, who thought it a game—called out “Evita” again and again.

  Much later, Raúl Vega returned to the house carrying the little girl, the yellow ribbon dangling from her wrist. He’d found Evita facedown in the stream.