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The Taste of Sugar

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by The Taste of Sugar (retail) (epub)


  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  MARIPOSA

  The silence was what broke her—not hearing Evita calling out mariposa for the chair, mariposa for the table, mariposa for her brother, everything mariposa; it was the loss of the little girl just learning to say “Mamita, Mamita”; it was not hearing all the words Evita would never learn. The first days, Valentina kept to her bed. Gloria came to care for her while Angelina and Inés took Javiercito home with them. That first night, Vicente cried with her, promising that they would have other baby girls. Then came the days of shadow. Morning when the rooster crowed and the birds performed their concerts, she knew it was a new day, but what had happened to the day before? What had happened to the night?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  EL TIEMPO MALO

  Utuado

  October 14, 1893

  Dear Elena,

  I write with terrible news that our sweet baby girl Evita was drowned. A tu hermana le dio un ataque de nervios pero casi está bien. Las damas have helped us during Valentina’s nervous breakdown. Mamá takes care of Javiercito, and Gloria takes care of Valentina. You don’t need to worry. Please give your parents the sad news.

  Con cariño,

  Vicente

  San Juan

  November 1, 1893

  Dear Vicente,

  How we cried to learn about our little niece! We are so sorry for you and my sister. We’re terribly worried about Valentina. Does she need anything? Do you? Please let me know, con confianza. I will write my sister in a separate letter.

  Con cariño,

  your sister,

  Elena

  San Juan

  November 15, 1893

  Darling Sister,

  I don’t know how to begin this letter. Querida, I’m so sorry about your sweet Evita. I would do anything in the world to ease your pain. Ernesto and our parents send their love. The day we received Vicente’s letter, Mamá and I went to the Catedral de San Juan Bautista to give the priest money so that he could say misa for your baby girl. El padre told us that because Evita died so young and was without sin, she is now an angel in heaven. It gave Mamá comfort to know that Evita is a sweet angelita, as I hope it does you. Mamá also insisted that we make a novena for Evita, and we invited people we knew to our home for nine nights to pray the rosary. Yesterday was the ninth night and we said three rosarios, como es la costumbre. I know that this can be but little comfort to you.

  Darling Valentina, what can I send you, what can I say to help ease your pain? I can only imagine how you feel, being a mother of two myself. Querida hermana, if only I could hold you in my arms. Know that I—we—have you in our prayers, that you are never far from our thoughts, and are always in our hearts.

  I send you and your Vicente the love of your sister and your family.

  Siempre,

  Elena

  Although she didn’t want to, sometimes Valentina dreamt that she took an evening stroll down les Champs-Élysées or the Luxembourg Gardens on a lovely spring day, arm in arm with her old friend Dalia. Sometimes she sat in a café, a tiny cup of coffee or a glass of red wine on the table, and her companion, a mysterious well-dressed gentleman, whispered something in her ear that she could never hear but that caused her to frown or her eyes to fill with tears.

  San Juan

  January 30, 1894

  Querido Vicente,

  I hope all is well with you and Valentina and my nephew. I’m writing to ask that you tell me truthfully the condition of my sister. Mamá is considering traveling to Utuado to take care of her, but she is not as strong as she once was. I’ve heard the roads are rough and the journey perilous. I would make the trip myself except that I have two young children and the responsibility of the household, our parents, and my husband. Still, I will drop everything and come to Utuado if you think it necessary for the well-being of my sister.

  It seems almost sacrilegious to wish you Feliz Año Nuevo, but I do wish it, with all my heart. I hope that this coming year is filled with the blessings that you and darling Valentina so deserve, and that time will ease your pain and that of my sister.

  Con mucho cariño,

  your sister,

  Elena

  Utuado

  March 4, 1894

  Dear Elena,

  Valentina has recovered from the shock of our dear baby girl’s death, but sometimes she stares out the window for a very long time. If I ask what she is looking at, she only shrugs or doesn’t respond at all.

  My mother says that once we have a new baby, your sister will be so busy that she won’t have time to dwell on sad thoughts. I hope she’s right.

  Con cariño,

  your brother,

  Vicente

  •

  Valentina saw Evita as she slipped her hand from the lasso of ribbons. She saw her jump off the bed and land on her bare feet. Evita poked a finger into the ear of her sleeping brother. Her tiny fingers lifted one eyelid, then the other. When he turned on his side, she ran out of the room and out of the house. She ran into el batey, chasing the rooster and hens. Valentina saw the little girl dart behind the trees and bushes. Valentina followed the yellow dress down to the stream. She couldn’t go beyond that; she couldn’t see Evita facedown in the water, her dress floating about her.

  Utuado

  October 14, 1894

  My dearest Elena,

  Sometimes when I wake I hear the children in their room. Javiercito is singing to his sister and she is giggling, talking the nonsense talk of a two-year-old. I turn on my side, smiling, listening to them, but then I recall that Evita is gone, and I don’t hear them anymore.

  Don’t tell Vicente what I wrote you. As a mother yourself, you must understand how I feel. I am well, I promise. Very well. Your letters and packages have helped me so much this past long year. I have felt your love and presence, and it’s almost as if we were together again. How I long to see you and our parents. I know that one day, we will see each other and it will be as it used to be.

  I have news. We are expecting a baby in March. I hope that it will be another boy. I’m not sure if I can bear to have another daughter.

  Siempre,

  Valentina

  P.S. Kisses for everyone, especially our parents.

  Utuado

  March 14, 1895

  My dearest Elena,

  I write to tell you of the birth of your niece, whom we have named María de Lourdes. When Inés placed her in my arms, I tried so hard not to cry. Doña Angelina scolded me because tears sour mother’s milk and sicken the baby. I know that you and Mamá find my nursing repugnant (don’t deny it!) and believe that only a certain class of woman would do such a thing. We don’t have money to pay for a wet nurse, even for a peona who asks only for plátanos and rice. Vicente’s parents would pay for it, but they have been so good to us already. (If you send money like you did last time, I won’t use it to pay for a wet nurse, but for necessities. Be warned.) When I hold my baby to my breast, I am so overwhelmed with love that I pity every mother who gives her child to a wet nurse. Yes, even you. (Don’t be angry, darling Elena.)

  Oh, how I miss you. I had to be apart from you all these years to know how much I love you. Don’t worry so much about me. (Vicente said you wrote him again.) Vicente is always very tender with me.

  All my love to our dear parents, whom I love so much and never appreciated when I was at home. Please beg their forgiveness for me. I send my love to Ernesto and the children and especially to you, my dear sister.

  Siempre,

  Valentina

  San Juan

  January 7, 1896

  Dear Valentina,

  By the time you receive this letter, it will be a month old and las Navidades will be just a pleasant memory, but you should know how much we always miss you during the holidays! Remember how we loved to go to concerts en la Plaza Las Delicias? We met our girlfriends at the ceiba tree and circled la plaza to bat our eyelashes at the boys. What fun times we had! The holidays always mak
e me melancholy. It’s when I most wish that our children were growing up together. Why did you have to go and marry a farmer from the backwoods? Excuse me—mountain.

  Mamá and I dream that one day we will all be together for Christmas. We send you our love and best wishes para un Feliz Año Nuevo. Look for a package with a few French novelas (don’t ask me how hard it was to find them!) and gifts for the children. Kisses for my handsome brother-in-law.

  All my love,

  Elena

  P.S. Write soon and tell me how you are!

  Utuado

  November 11, 1896

  Dear Elena,

  I hope you and our parents and the family are well.

  You asked in your last letter what you might send me. Clothes for the children are always much appreciated, but if you could also send me a primer of mathematics and one for Spanish grammar so that I might teach Javiercito. Vicente was taught by a maestro ambulante, but no teacher has come this way seeking work. I’m sure that I can manage, especially if I have the proper books. You never saw me as a teacher, did you? You would be surprised at what your little sister has had to do since you last saw her. This new Valentina has vowed to devote herself to her family and to put away all childish dreams.

  Siempre,

  Valentina

  Utuado

  June 11, 1897

  Dear Elena,

  Vicente can’t stop worrying about coffee—every day, it’s the coffee prices this, the coffee harvest that—will it rain?—why won’t it rain?—why is it raining so much? Vicente does his best pero a cada santo una vela, always the creditors. To think that I once thought a farmer’s life one of leisure! What a foolish child I was! Pero no te preocupes. Next year, our harvest will be better, and the year after that will be even better. We’ll survive as long as Cuba, España, and other European countries continue to drink Puerto Rican coffee. In the meantime, I’ve learned la economía (Mamá would be proud!), and with your gifts of clothing, etc. (hint, hint), we are able to sobrevivir.

  Kisses to our parents, your family, and especially to you,

  All my love,

  Valentina

  San Juan

  October 7, 1897

  Dear Valentina,

  I hope you and the family are well? There is much excitement in the capital with the expectation that Spain will give Puerto Rico autonomy. We went to hear Don Luis Muñoz Rivera speak on how Puerto Ricans are capable of governing themselves. The newspapers are full of the coming war with the United States. Have you heard that en el campo, too? (We think that is why there are more beggars than ever in San Juan. You can’t walk out the door without a dozen people holding out their hands!) I’ve begun to take an interest in politics, particularly when it concerns women. Our parents and Ernesto aren’t too pleased! There are some damas here who are suffragettes. Have you heard of suffragettes? (They believe that we women should have the right to vote, etc.)

  Valentina, I’m going crazy with boredom! Ernesto has plenty of help in the store because you don’t have to pay clerks very much. I can’t be like our mother and live for the marketing and economizando. Must go now. I have been invited to a meeting of damas to discuss the woman’s place in the Puerto Rican home.

  As always much love,

  Elena

  P.S. I am sending you a parcel of canned goods and a bottle of Spanish olive oil. Mamá can’t believe how the prices of groceries have skyrocketed!

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  DROUGHT

  In 1898, Raulito failed to find work as a sharecropper. He didn’t know that his great-grandfather Juan Cortés had once been a sharecropper, too. At seventeen years old, Raulito had nothing to offer a landowner except the labor of a malnourished peón, and there were thousands of malnourished peones like him. Raulito wandered the countryside, oblivious to the fact that some of the land had once belonged to his family.

  All his life, no one would tell him about his ancestors—that his great-grandfather Juan Cortés had gone from landowner to agregado to jornalero forced to work for a plantation. Or that his grandfather Alegro Villanueva had been a freed slave with a gift for picking coffee; or that his grandfather had been shot in the back by the Guardia Civil on his way to the penitentiary for stealing a few apples for his hungry children. Raulito’s mother didn’t want to bring up the past. His brother Vicente could have told him that on their father’s side, their grandfather Luis Manuel Vega had bought the land cheap from the family of Juan Cortés, but eventually sold most of it to pay off debts. And because he read the newspapers and talked politics with his father and other men whenever he went to town, Vicente could have told Raulito how it was an especially bad time to be poor in Puerto Rico. Spain was preparing for war with the United States, and while it wanted to keep Cuba, the Philippines, and even Puerto Rico, their tiny island was not as important—it was an afterthought. Vicente could have told his brother about the newspaper editorials denouncing the terrible economic conditions on the island. Or that no group—political or professional—was able to solve the hunger crisis. If the island’s mayors or leading intellectuals had ideas, they didn’t know how to get money to implement them. He could have told Raulito that the Spanish crown had granted governing concessions to the Puerto Rican and Cuban criollo intellectuals who had agitated for years for autonomist rule, and so now Puerto Rico was on its own to manage its problems.

  All this and more Vicente could have told his brother Raulito. But even Vicente didn’t quite understand that in the early months of 1898 when the new autonomist government began under the leadership of the Honorable Luis Muñoz Rivera, Puerto Rico had no gold in its coffers. Spain still required its island subjects to use tax money to pay for necessities like horses, saddles, and uniforms for the Spanish soldiers who would defend Puerto Rico from the United States, “el Colosal Norte.” So there wasn’t money to hire laborers like Raulito to repair the neglected bridges and roads or to provide medical care to the sick or food for the starving. There was no money for Puerto Rico or Puerto Ricans.

  The drought began with the dawning of 1898. Merchants refused credit to farmers, and workdays were cut or workers fired “por economías.” They were told, “No hay trabajo.”

  Everywhere Raulito sought employment—the sugarcane plantations, the alcaldía, etc., he heard the dreaded phrase, “No hay trabajo.” At first, he thought it might have been because he was black, but then he heard it everywhere, and blancos heard it, too. It was the cry of the countryside, “No hay trabajo,” and in every single town on the island nation of Puerto Rico.

  As Raulito walked through the countryside, he met many people who from a distance he mistook for specters. In town, there were hundreds of these skeletal people, holding out their bony hands for a piece of bread.

  In February 1898, only a month after the new autonomist government of Luis Muñoz Rivera took office, fewer Spanish supply ships arrived in Puerto Rico, and when they did, they carried only a fourth of what was needed. Until the government worked out deals with other countries, there were limited supplies of everything. Unscrupulous merchants seized the opportunity and doubled the prices of their goods, cheating the poor—it was common knowledge that no store gave sixteen ounces for a pound. Milk and wine were doctored, causing harm to those who drank them. Merchants refused credit to the poor because they feared they wouldn’t be able to pay their debts. Everyone agreed it was a war against the Puerto Rican people, and surely the new government would take action against the Spanish merchants and the homegrown crooks. Small fines and even shaming the culprits by publishing their names in the newspapers did little to deter the practice, especially when some of the guilty were members of the town councils. Los hacendados reverted to the plantation feudalism of the past four centuries and paid their workers una miseria in paper or copper tickets redeemable at their stores for rotten meat and spoiled bacalao. Many of the desperate killed themselves or turned to alcohol or gambling; children were abandoned on the street and in the countryside.


  Los hambrientos emigrated to large towns like Ponce in search of food and work, hoping for help from politicians whom they had voted into office. Ponceños complained about “the invasion of the paupers” come to imperil the economy. The authorities discussed putting the beggars in jail. Everywhere on the island, people fainted on streets and pavements, there were stories of starving men collapsing on the doorsteps of the rich only to have the dogs set on them. Tiznados, bands of armed men with faces blackened with charcoal, terrorized the Spanish hacendados taking revenge on the landowners that had abused them. Throughout Puerto Rico, assaults and robberies became common. Cattle and oxen were stolen and mutilated, with the starving sometimes eating the meat raw.

  In the newspaper La Bruja, Vicente read that “hunger knocks on our doors and the only voice that answers is one of necessity,” while in El País, he read, “The only thing in abundance on the island is salt.”

  That February, Raulito joined the barefoot and hungry en la plaza, just like any mendigo. He was one of thousands who gathered in the town plazas and shouted prayers for rain at the cloudless sky. When a kind lady or gentleman tossed a handful of pennies on the ground to the child beggars, Raulito lamented that he couldn’t be among them scrambling on his hands and knees. The priest passed out bread some Fridays, and made the sign of the cross on the dirty foreheads of those who stopped to say gracias. But more often, la Guardia Civil chased the poor—Raulito and the children included—from the plaza, sending them back to their humble homes (those who had them), where there was nothing to eat. Raulito usually hid behind a building or a tree until the police left, and then he, like many others, returned to la plaza hoping that someone would show mercy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  RAIN

  Once-lush green leaves dangled from branches, yellowed like dry corn husks. There was little wind to ease the heavy heat that made a night’s sleep impossible. Vicente’s feet kicked up dust and it lodged in his throat and left a tickle. He knew this drought was different; he was afraid for his coffee trees and the shade trees like the plantain, whose fruit was necessary for the jíbaros’ daily meal. No shade trees, no coffee.

 

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