CHAPTER THIRTY
LOS FLAMBOYANES
Valentina prayed it would never come to this—that she would be back in Raúl Vega’s house.
It was dreadful that Angelina had vanished in the hurricane. And Inés—Valentina had to put away the bolillos and the cushion for mundillo to keep from crying for Inés. One day, Lourdes had taken an antimacassar from la sala and pinned it to her hair, and Valentina burst into tears, scaring the poor child.
At first, she refused to believe Vicente when he said that their own house was uninhabitable, that it needed repairs that wouldn’t be possible for a while, not until las cosas se mejoren, and who knew when that would be.
“Mujer, you’re better off here.” Gloria slapped at a mosquito on her arm.
“But our house is empty.” Valentina swatted a mosquito on her thigh. “Our things are there.”
“¡Malditos mosquitos!” Gloria looked at the new red mark on her arm, only one of many.
Valentina rolled up her sleeve. “Look! They feed on me in my sleep even with the mosquito netting.”
“We’ll look for peppermint or some other plant for the mosquito bites,” Gloria said.
“You better wait until the weather gets better,” Vicente said.
“But Vicente, what about our things?”
“You should go get your things,” Gloria said.
“I’ll get them for you, Valentina,” Raulito said.
She smiled at him. “We’ll go together.”
They started off early in the morning on foot. Raúl’s horse had been found in a nearby pasture, but not Vicente’s. She didn’t recognize the route home. The once-lush vista was a barren yellow and brown. The red flamboyanes that had turned the road into a blaze of fire had disappeared.
Vicente took her hand. “Querida, you must prepare yourself.”
She cried out when she saw the palm tree sticking out of their house.
“I didn’t want to tell you—” Vicente put his arm around her.
Valentina shook her head. “A palm tree. There weren’t any palm trees near the house.”
Valentina picked her way around the palm tree and entered where once there had been a wall. She looked down at the table in disbelief; this was where she served her family their meals, where she and Vicente lingered over their coffee, where she had written her letters to Elena and Dalia. She had sat at this very table nursing her children.
Vicente came up behind her. “Querida, it was only a table. One day, I’ll build you another.”
Valentina couldn’t speak without bawling, so she didn’t. She walked around the tree to their bedroom to view the damage and decide what could be salvaged.
They took the linens off the beds and tied the sheets together like sacks. Javiercito filled them with the kitchen things like pots and pans, while Lourdes was instructed to take the pillows and mosquito netting. The men took apart the beds. Valentina went to her trunk and examined the contents. Everything was soaking wet—her wedding dress, her letters, and the stationery Elena had sent her. She took everything out and laid them on the floor to dry. What they couldn’t carry, they would return for tomorrow with Raúl’s horse.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
HAPPY 1900!
Vicente had picked up the newspapers in town after trying to appeal his taxes to the American at the government office. Was it his fault that the hurricane had taken all his coffee trees? How could he pay his taxes if he didn’t have coffee to sell? The American had told him through his translator to return with his land deed. Vicente wasn’t sure what would happen next, but he did know he still wouldn’t be able to pay his taxes.
It had become a habit for the adults to gather at the table at the end of the day and read the newspaper aloud by the light of the kerosene lamp. This time, Vicente read while Valentina lengthened the hem of Javier’s pants. Raúl smoked, Raulito whittled a tiny horse from a scrap of wood for Lourdes, and Gloria rested in a chair with her eyes closed.
Vicente read that President McKinley had signed a new law especially created for Puerto Rico, called the Foraker Act, that would allow for civil government.
“What’s the catch?” Raúl Vega took a drag on his cigarette. “No way the Americans are going to let the Puerto Ricans run our own island.”
“It could happen,” Valentina said.
Raúl smiled at her through the cigarette smoke.
Vicente read: “ ‘The governor and officials will be Americans and appointed by the president.’ ”
“What did I say, Valentina?” Raúl tapped the ashes into a glass.
The Congress of the United States had decided that the US Constitution gave them the right to levy taxes on Puerto Rico—taxes on food and land and what-have-you—taxes that would pay for the appointed administrators and schools and infrastructure.
Valentina had looked up from her sewing.
Vicente read: “ ‘The Foraker Act is named after its sponsor, Joseph Foraker, a Republican senator from Ohio. Senator Foraker reported that the committee decided against the proposal from US General Davis for free trade with Puerto Rico. “We are here to legislate for the whole United States, not only the island of Porto Rico,” Senator Foraker said.’ ”
Vicente smacked his hand against the newspaper.
“What’s that?” Raulito looked over Vicente’s shoulder and pointed to a black-and-white drawing in the newspaper.
They all got up to look at a cartoon reprinted from an American newspaper of Uncle Sam patting the head of a black child in diapers and a straw hat. “Puerto Rico” was written on the diaper. The child smiled up at Uncle Sam and waved an American flag. The caption read: “Don’t worry, boy, we’ll teach you!”
“¡Malditos cabrones americanos!” Raúl Vega said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
VALENTINA TO RAúL VEGA
I will never be your querida. ¿Entiendes? Never. There is no “we’ll see.” I hope that you will not force me to tell my husband, your son. Of course I don’t want to! Why would I want to cause him pain? I love him. Yes, I love him! It’s not up to you to say whether or not I love my husband. I don’t care if you don’t believe me! Listen to me, Raúl Vega, we’ve been able to behave like civilized people these last ten years, let’s continue to do so. That is the only way that I can live in your house. If you can’t promise to leave me alone, to respect my position as your son’s wife, then I have to do something about it. Like what? I could—convince Vicente that I can’t live here and make him take us to my sister’s in San Juan as soon as the roads are passable. You doubt that he’ll go? That won’t make him a beggar! For the last time, stay away from me, because a woman can only take so much!
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
THERE ARE ALWAYS ROOT VEGETABLES
The men were out en la finca when a woman came to beg for bread. Valentina invited her to rest en el balcón. Gloria was in the kitchen when Valentina entered to fix the woman a plate.
Gloria said, “Don’t you dare to give her our food.”
“Gloria, she’s starving.”
“We’ll be starving soon, too. You know we lost our crops and we don’t have money to buy food, not at the prices the robber merchants charge.”
“We still have root vegetables.” Valentina touched Gloria’s arm.
“You remind me of your mother-in-law,” Gloria said, “que descanse en paz.”
“Doña Angelina was always generous.”
“Bueno, just a piece of malanga and yaútia.” Gloria gave in. “You can’t keep giving to every beggar who comes to the door.”
Valentina kissed her cheek as she left the kitchen.
“I mean it!” Gloria called after her. “Next thing you know, all the beggars in the countryside will be here!”
Valentina handed the woman the plate of food.
“I haven’t eaten for three or four days.” The woman looked into the house. “Your mother? Is she very angry?”
“No te preocupes,” Valentina said.
&nb
sp; As the woman ate, she told Valentina how she had just returned from the town of Arecibo.
“Señora, have you ever been to Arecibo?” The woman gulped down a bite of vianda.
“No, I haven’t been anywhere since I came here from Ponce,” Valentina said.
“If you came from Ponce, then you know the carretera you have to travel,” she said.
“It was in another life,” Valentina said. “I barely remember.”
“I walked that carretera,” the woman said. “I walked all of that and more.”
“You walked that? Ay bendito, pobre mujer.” Valentina looked at the woman’s dirty feet that peeked out from under her skirt. Her toes looked like they had once been broken.
“I used to live in a bohío not too far from here.” She pointed up the hill. “We heard that there was food in Arecibo from the Americans.” The woman wiped her eyes.
“Tranquila.” Valentina touched the woman’s arm. “No te preocupes, you don’t have to tell me.”
“I want to.” The woman composed herself. “Arecibo is so very far. Some of the roads had disappeared with the hurricane. We were afraid that we would drop dead from hunger and exhaustion, or that we would fall off the cliffs.”
Valentina waited while the woman finished the last of the viandas. She wished she could offer more, but Gloria was still in the kitchen, most likely standing guard over the stove.
“Somehow we managed to get there. Sixty-five of us. Women with children and old people,” the woman said.
Valentina looked out at the horizon where once there had been a grove of glorious citrus trees that perfumed the air with lemon. Only a few stumps remained.
“The mayor said he couldn’t help us, that Arecibo had nothing to give—not for us pobrecitos from Utuado, not for anybody,” the woman said.
“What a tragedy,” Valentina said.
“We cried, especially the old people,” she said. “The children cried from hunger, but the old people—”
They stared out at the tree stumps.
“What did the mayor do?”
“He went to the Americans, to the army, but they told him they had nothing to give,” the woman said. “And then the mayor sent us back to Utuado in an oxcart.”
“An oxcart?”
“Sixty-five of us—women, children, old people—in an oxcart.” The woman stared down at her empty plate.
When Valentina went to the kitchen, she placed her share of viandas on the plate to give to the poor woman because, ay, Gloria, there were some things that un ser humano shouldn’t have to endure.
San Juan
June 1, 1900
Dear Valentina,
The newspapers are filled with stories about the poor jíbaros who are starving in the countryside, including in your Utuado! Valentina! Can this be true? I don’t mean to imply in any way that Vicente isn’t providing for you or his family, I only ask because you must come to us—all of you—Vicente and the children—if this is true. Write soon so as to reassure me!
Siempre,
Elena
P.S. The new American governor, a Mr. Allen, arrived with plenty of hoopla—the governor’s mansion was wrapped in flags—from our house we could hear the cannons and the military band, but we decided to stay home. I think it was raining.
Utuado
July 14, 1900*
Dearest Elena,
I realized that it’s been more than ten years since I last saw you and our parents. Ten years! I could cry but I don’t have the tears. Not anymore. It’s as if you and our parents live on another planet or in another country on the other side of the world. You might as well live in my beloved Paris. Elena, how it pains me to realize that we might never see each other again, that I will never be a true tía to your children, or you to mine. I fear never hearing your voice again, and that I will never be able to ask our mother for her blessing or to listen to Papá read tidbits from the newspapers. Ay bendito, to hear Papá read government statistics like he used to! How bored we were! I yearn for those dull moments of our childhood, which now seems so idyllic. (No te preocupes, it’s only momentary silliness on my part.)
Darling Elena, I must say that your letters and parcels have helped me keep some dark thoughts at bay, especially during the bad times like when we lost Evita. I can hear your worry. Sweet Elena, Vicente and I have each other and our children. Somehow sobreviviremos. Know that you are always in my heart. Dear, dear hermana, my love to you and yours and our parents.
Siempre,
Valentina
San Juan
August 16, 1900
Dear Valentina,
I’ve had a long talk with Ernesto and Papá and we’ve decided that you and Vicente and the children must come to us. You must persuade Vicente. Why don’t you make preparations to come to us after the hurricane season? Think of it! You could be with us by Christmas! I’m enclosing some stamped envelopes. Write soon!
Love,
Elena
* letter lost by United States Postal Service
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
EL SUEÑO
Early one morning in the hour between night and day, Vicente eased out of bed, careful not to wake Valentina. He put on his pants and shirt, then tiptoed out of the bedroom, carrying his shoes and closing the door gently. He passed Raulito asleep on a cot en la sala; his brother stirred but didn’t wake. Vicente left the house, pausing to put on his shoes. The mountain was still encased in fog. He buttoned his shirt against the chill. A múcaro garbled, other birds cawed and cooed good morning. Something touched his hair. The boy Vicente would have screamed, thinking it was a spirit, but the man Vicente thought a murciélago had flown too close. The clamor of the coquís comforted him. He walked the mountain he knew so well, listening to his footsteps, feeling the cool mist on his skin, breathing in the freshness that is the predawn air; he wiped something from his eye and walked on.
PROHIBIDA LA ENTRADA. PROPIEDAD PRIVADA. Vicente stared at the sign in front of what once had been his farm. In a flash of anger, he grabbed it with his hands, trying to pull it out of the ground. It had been well anchored, but he tugged and tugged until he succeeded in yanking it out. Then Vicente tossed it in the dirt. He walked on.
He sat on a tree stump. He heard a bird whistle, the tune mournful. Vicente looked at the land bereft of trees and saw it as it once had been: green and fertile with canopies of shade trees sheltering his coffee trees, plantain, guamá, and guava trees, the guavas trailing their white flowers. He didn’t know if there was a more beautiful sight than coffee trees in bloom, the berries brilliant as rubies in the dark green foliage, so pretty that perhaps the tediousness and difficulty of coffee picking was forgiven. Vicente watched the sun rise over the graveyard that had once been his farm, trying to etch the colors into his memory for the days to come when he would need to recall it. He promised himself that one day he would return and buy back the land and live on it with Valentina and their children and with Raulito and Raulito’s children.
Before the sun became too strong, Vicente asked Valentina to join him for a walk.
“A walk? What’s wrong?” Valentina was shucking ears of corn and slicing off kernels with a knife.
“A walk? What’s wrong?” Gloria looked up from the stone molino where she had been grinding corn into flour. The women were going to make la masa for sorullos.
“Can’t a man go on a walk with his wife? Don’t get excited,” Vicente said.
“We’re jíbaros,” Valentina said. “Townspeople walk for pleasure, while country folk walk because they don’t have horses.”
“You’re crazy if you think you’re leaving this kitchen without telling us what’s wrong,” Gloria said.
“Gloria, this is between a husband and a wife—” Vicente took the knife from Valentina’s hand.
Valentina wiped her hands on her apron. “Now I know something is wrong.”
“There are no secrets in this house,” Gloria said.
Valentina took off her apro
n. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell you later.”
They went outside.
“Wait, Vicente!” Valentina ran back into the house, returning a moment later with a parasol.
“Remember this? Mamá gave it to me when we were leaving Ponce. It survived the hurricane in my trunk.” She opened up the parasol, then took his arm. “A lady must have her parasol.”
They walked past his father’s shed, which the men had rebuilt. The countryside was beginning to recover from the hurricane and leaves were sprouting on the branches and flowers on the bushes or the base of trees. Vicente pointed out flores that looked like coral.
“Vicente, this isn’t a Sunday stroll through the plaza. What do you have to tell me?” She stopped walking. “You’re scaring me!”
“I wish I didn’t have to tell you.” He took her hand.
“After Evita and losing Angelina and Inés, nothing can be so terrible,” she said.
He was afraid of the disappointment he was sure to see in her eyes.
“We lost our farm,” he said.
“What are you talking about?” Valentina stared up at him.
Vicente took a folded newspaper page already a week old out of his pocket; she looked down at the section he’d circled.
She read aloud. “ ‘Utuado: Coffee farm, government auction. Fifteen cuerdas, family farm—’ ”
Valentina looked up from the newspaper. “I don’t understand—”
“We can’t pay the new American property and land tax,” Vicente said.
Valentina stared at the circled ad; a dozen words in the newspaper that would change their lives forever. “Couldn’t we have sold some of the land to pay it?”
“Not enough to pay off our debts and begin all over again,” he said. “Not at five dollars a cuerda. Before the hurricane, we would have gotten forty-five dollars.”
Utuado: Coffee farm, government auction. Fifteen cuerdas, family farm—
The Taste of Sugar Page 17