Gloria raised her tear-streaked face. “Hija, you know I can’t read.”
“Raúl will read my letters to you. Won’t you, Raúl?” Valentina called out to Raúl.
Raúl came over to the women, a package in his hand.
“Don’t worry, Gloria, I’ll read all of Valentina’s letters.” He handed Valentina the package. “I had Gloria pack up things that Inés made.”
Valentina pressed the package to her breast. “Raúl, thank you!”
Raúl took her hand; she let him hold it for a moment.
“Que te vaya bien, querida.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. With a little bow, he went into the house.
Vicente came and put his arm around Gloria’s shoulders. “I’ll miss you.”
Gloria cried some more.
“I wrote to Luisito. He’ll come to see you and el viejo.” Vicente kissed the old woman.
“Ay Vicente . . . Vicente . . .” Gloria pressed her face into his chest.
The children gave the old woman a final hug and ran back to the oxcart.
Raúl Vega came back carrying a machete.
“Raulito, come here,” he said.
Raulito had been helping load the oxcart; he obeyed, standing next to his brother.
“This is for you.” Raúl held out his machete.
Everyone looked at the machete that no one but Raúl Vega had ever used.
Raulito took it. “Gracias, Don Raúl.”
Raúl nodded.
The oxcart driver called out that it was time to leave. In a flurry of kisses and goodbyes, Raúl Vega embraced his grandchildren and then Vicente and, of course, Valentina. At the last moment, he shook Raulito’s hand.
Vicente sat next to the oxcart driver while Raulito sat with the children on top of their bundles. Valentina perched on her trunk, which Vicente said was too large to take on the ship; she turned back to look at the house that had been her home on and off for the ten years of her married life. She waved and waved to Gloria and Raúl, blowing kiss after kiss, sending pieces of her heart back to her old life. When the oxcart took a curve on the road and the house and its occupants were no longer visible, Vicente reached for her hand, giving it a quick squeeze.
The mist lifted on the horizon, revealing an orb of orange fire, its tentative rays spreading across the sky as blue as any sea. The road was still in terrible condition even more than a year after the hurricane, and Valentina felt every bump. She recalled that other journey, when she was a young bride holding onto her new husband, riding with him on his horse, when everything had been green and golden. When Evita died, she’d thought there could be nothing in the world that could hurt her so much. She still knew that to be true even now, but still . . .
The children wanted to see the big town of Ponce and the house where Valentina had been raised. And hadn’t she told them about a big red-and-black firehouse, and that Ponce had the prettiest plaza on the entire island? That Ponce is Ponce! When she didn’t answer the children’s questions, Vicente turned around to look at her and told the children to let their mother rest. When the oxcart climbed the steep slopes, the children screamed in terror and delight. Vicente pointed up the mountainsides and told them how before Hurricane San Ciriaco, people had built everywhere, some had even perched their bohíos at the very edges of the cliffs, the way some birds build their nests.
When they reached the town of Utuado, peddlers were just coming to market; the children waved to mounted police on their way to rout the homeless families sleeping en la plaza. They drove by the yellow stucco Parroquia San Miguel Arcángel. The children recalled the day they’d had a picnic. What day was that, Papi? Vicente didn’t say that was the day utuadaños went mad over the rumor that Spain had bombed New York and was winning the war with the Americans. Instead he said, Wasn’t that a fun picnic? We’ll stop for lunch and have another, would you like that, niños? Of course the children said yes.
The oxcart driver didn’t want to stop to see the view of Adjuntas from the mountain road, but Vicente spoke to him in a voice the children had never heard before, a voice that reminded everyone of Raúl Vega. They climbed down from the oxcart; Vicente lifted Valentina by the waist. Clouds wafted like waves in the sky above the mountain range; golden dry splotches scattered along the green valley below.
Vicente pointed over the valley. “There were groves of giant shade trees and every other kind of tree. Remember, Valentina? Flamboyanes and palmas and—”
“I’m cold,” Javier said.
“I’m cold, too,” Lourdes said.
“Wrap yourselves in the bedding.” Valentina linked her arm through her husband’s.
Raulito took the children back. Valentina and Vicente stood there for another minute looking out into the valley; in the distance they imagined the sea.
When they passed the trail to Lares, the oxcart driver said he was born there. He shook his head when Vicente asked him if his family had fought in el Grito de Lares.
“Why is it called ‘el grito,’ Papi? Why were the people from Lares shouting?” Lourdes tugged at her father’s sleeve.
“It’s not a pretty tale for little girls,” her father said.
“Tell her.” Valentina opened up her paper fan.
“Valentina—”
She fanned her face. “She’ll soon learn that life isn’t pretty even for little girls.”
Vicente glanced at his wife; there were lines furrowed between her eyes. He twisted in his seat to look at his daughter. “Most of the time grito means a shout, just like you said, Lulu. But in this case, grito means a declaration of independence.”
Javier said, “What’s that?”
“Don’t interrupt, Javiercito.” Valentina flicked her fan on his arm.
“Independence means to be free.” Vicente cleared his throat, a little nervous, but that was silly, he was talking to his own family.
“Just like the Americans now, when the Spanish were in Puerto Rico they had lots of laws that weren’t good for the Puerto Rican. Like a tax for everything, a tax to have a fiesta, a tax to sing a song, or if you bought a bed, you’d have to pay a tax on that bed, and not just when you bought it, but every single year that you owned that bed. The Spanish government was also very cruel and put a lot of people in jail. Puerto Ricans were unhappy and some people wanted to do something about it. They decided to fight against Spain so that they could be free. These brave people had what is called a revolution.”
Vicente glanced at Valentina; she was smiling.
“Puerto Rico had slavery, then, and black slaves joined the revolution,” he said.
“Black slaves like Tío Raulito?” Lourdes looked at her uncle.
“I’m not a slave,” Raulito said.
“Your uncle isn’t a slave,” Vicente said.
“For shame.” Valentina flicked her fan on her daughter’s arm.
Lourdes began to whimper.
“Stop that.” Her mother tapped her again with the fan.
Lourdes stopped.
Vicente continued. “One September in 1868, there were over a thousand men up there on a coffee plantation in Lares ready to fight the Spanish, but there was a little problem.”
Javier leaned forward. “What problem, Papi?”
This time, Valentina didn’t reprimand him. Everyone was listening, even the oxcart driver.
“They didn’t have hardly any guns, and the Spaniards had a whole army with lots of guns,” Vicente said.
No one spoke.
Vicente began to enjoy himself.
“The Puerto Ricans captured the town of Lares and proclaimed a new government, and then they went to San Sebastián, where the Spanish army was waiting for them, but they didn’t know that.”
“The Puerto Ricans didn’t become free?” Javier said.
“No, Javiercito,” his father said. “We Puerto Ricans aren’t free.”
“You know Puerto Rico is American now,” Lourdes said to her older brother.
Vicente looked
over the children’s heads. Valentina mouthed, Muy bien, Vicente.
•
They ate the food that Gloria and Valentina had packed and filled their tin cups with water from the streams along the way. When night came, the driver stopped under some trees in the town of Adjuntas and crawled under the cart to sleep. The family slept under the stars, and the children insisted that their Tío Raulito sleep near them while their parents laid out their bedding nearby. When Vicente whispered in Valentina’s ear, she turned her back, saying she was tired.
They passed the casilla de camineros where, over ten years ago, they had stopped on the way up to Utuado. Valentina recalled how once she’d thought herself too fine a lady, how haughty she’d been when la ama de casa had invited her to rest and offered her coffee. If only la señora could see her now.
Early on December 26, 1900, when they reached the city of Ponce, the driver wanted to take them straight to the harbor, where they were to meet the ship later that day.
“Señor, por favor, just a quick ride through town so that our children can see where their mother came from,” Valentina said.
The driver shook his head. “I was paid to take you to the harbor, and that’s where I’m going.”
As the cart rode toward the harbor, Valentina stood up. “Señor, I won’t get on that boat! Not a single member of my family will get on that boat!”
“Señora, sit down!” The driver turned to look at her.
“You can explain it to the people who paid you why we aren’t on that boat—”
“Valentina, sit down, you’ll hurt yourself.” Vicente reached for her.
“Señora, I told you to—”
“Hombre, are you going to take us through town or are we going to jump off this wagon?” Valentina tossed a bundle over the side of the wagon.
“¡Señora! Yes, yes, I’ll take you!” The driver stopped the cart.
Valentina thanked the driver and sent Javiercito to pick up the bundle.
She couldn’t help feeling disappointed as they drove through town. Everywhere the damage from Hurricane San Ciriaco was still visible, even en la Plaza Las Delicias.
“See over there, niños? See, Raulito? That’s the Catedral Nuestra Señora de la Guadalupe and that red-and-black building is the fire station, el Parque de Bombas. It was built for an exhibition in 1882, our parents took Elena and me see it. An exhibition is like a big fiesta with music and dancing and lots of food and new things to see. It was right here en la plaza. We wore our best dresses and Papá bought us dulces. I always asked for chocolates from Mayagüez. I ate too much and got a terrible stomachache! El Teatro La Perla is that building. Isn’t it beautiful? ¡Ponce es Ponce! Our parents went to concerts there and also a play, once they took us to—look! La Gran Ceiba de Ponce! Raulito, have you ever seen a ceiba tree that huge? It’s hundreds of years old! Driver, por favor, if you turn here, here, yes, gracias, a little ways more, there, that’s Dalia’s mansion, and where I met you, Vicente, do you remember, and if you drive just down this street a ways, you’ll find la Iglesia de la Santísima Trinidad, where we got married, and in another few blocks, you’ll see my house, my parents’ house, there . . . there it is, ay bendito, what happened to it?”
Her parents’ yellow house and those on either side were abandoned, partially destroyed by the hurricane. What had happened to their neighbors? To the people who had bought her parents’ house? The oxen plodded along down the streets and through the crowds of people, some well dressed, many others ragged and seeking shade under trees. San Ciriaco had struck a great blow to the beautiful city of Ponce, and it had yet to regain its luster. Valentina kept her gloveless hands hidden in the folds of her dress. She thought she recognized somebody. She turned away.
•
When the oxcart driver dropped them off at the Ponce harbor, there were hundreds of Puerto Ricans waiting for the ship: four hundred people—men, women, and children—many of them barefoot and in rags; some of the children wore only hats. Friends and relatives had come to see people off. There was laughing and singing and guitar playing and güiro scraping and maracas shaking. Somebody played an accordion. Vicente and Raulito carried Valentina’s trunk. Valentina unwrapped the package Raúl had given her. She found the mantilla Inés had made for Angelina but that she rarely wore, declaring it too fine for el campo. She fingered the beautiful lace on the edges of the shawl and thought of Inés.
Somebody passed Vicente a jug of ron caña; he took a swig.
Valentina put on the shawl and held out her hand for the jug; he hesitated.
“It’ll burn your throat, Valentina,” he said.
“I don’t care,” she said.
He gave it to her.
She wiped the opening with her sleeve, then took a long swallow of fire. She had a coughing fit, her eyes flooded with tears. La gente laughed at the pretty dama.
“What did I tell you?” Vicente patted her back.
She took another swallow, this time only a little one just to prove something to her husband, though she didn’t know what. She hardly coughed.
“¡Brava!” The ron caña man took back the jug.
“It’s like a party.” Vicente put his arm around her.
Well-dressed people had also come to see the Puerto Ricans going to Hawaii, and Valentina hoped that she wouldn’t see anyone who knew her. She knew it shouldn’t matter to her, but it did. A group of men who someone said were plantation owners came to try to persuade them to stay, assuring them that sugar refineries would be built very soon by the Americans and then there would be plenty of work, if they wanted to work.
•
They boarded the ship, carrying everything they owned; for most that wasn’t much, and some had nothing. One man balanced a chair on his shoulders; others clutched their guitars and instruments. The accordion player didn’t board. Several women shouted from the shore the names of their husbands, saying that they were trying to evade their familial obligations by going to Hawaii. Those men were found on board and sent back to shore. A couple of the Puerto Ricans carried roosters tucked under their arms. When the Hawaiian plantation agents tried to take them away, the men refused to get on the ship without the birds. The roosters boarded, too.
Vicente and Raulito carried Valentina’s trunk between them, and the children went on ahead holding the bundles, and Valentina the bedding.
One of the agents pointed to Raulito. “You there! Where do you think you’re going?”
“Hawaii,” Raulito said.
The agent blocked their way; the brothers set the trunk down.
“They don’t want black men in Hawaii,” the agent said. “No negros.”
The brothers exchanged a glance.
“My brother doesn’t go, I don’t go.” Vicente signaled to Raulito to pick up the trunk.
The agent stepped aside.
The plantation agents searched the ship before it left the harbor and removed all the black men they could find, but not Raulito. Only three hundred and eighty-four Puerto Ricans, including children, set sail on the steamship.
Some of the Puerto Ricans were in good spirits and full of pity for those poor unfortunates not going on the great adventure.
“Adiós, Puerto Rico, sentimos por los que se quedan . . .” They waved from the deck of the Arkadia steamship and called out to those left behind, “Goodbye, Puerto Rico, we’re sorry for those who stay.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
HARDSHIP
The wail pierced the din of steerage. That hideous sound! If only someone would make it stop!
Vicente Vega cradled Javier in his arms. When he woke, he would need nourishment. Fruits and vegetables. Rice and beans. Raw eggs. There had to be hens aboard the ship. The American passengers must surely eat eggs. He would beg the steward for an egg or two for the boy. If only he had something to trade . . . no importa. Somehow he would get that egg!
It was stifling hot in the ship’s hull. Sweat dripped down Vicente’s neck into his already damp shir
t. Vicente kissed his son’s forehead. The poor boy had ceased to tremble, but his skin was cold. Maybe he should call out to Valentina to bring a mantilla to cover him. Javier, age ten and gangly; who from the moment he could walk, had trailed behind him every day. Whom Vicente had raised with the love a father should have for his son. Javiercito, who, as a toddler, would reach up for Vicente to lift him onto his horse; Javiercito, whose tiny fingers grasped at the horse’s mane as Vicente urged the animal into a gallop; Javiercito, whose laughter would anoint Vicente like an afternoon shower.
When Javier became well, he would be like the other boys again. He would do the mischievous things the other boys did, which he had once done. He would escape from steerage to go above deck and breathe in the fresh ocean air. He would run away from the stewards to explore the ship and spy on the Americans. That very day, the other boys had returned from their adventure to describe the endless platters of food served to the above-deck passengers: chicken and fish and meat. Was it beef? It might have been beef. The boys had never seen beef, so they weren’t positive, but yes, it might well have been beef. They had seen tureens of soup so big that they had to be carried by two men. Bread in baskets waist high. Cakes! Brown cakes, white cakes, even pink cakes! Also, every kind of fruit, like mangos and oranges that they used to have aplenty in Puerto Rico before the hurricane. Vegetables like they used to have, too! The Puerto Ricans in steerage, who ate tasteless soup or stew ladled out of what looked like slop buckets, whose supper was rice or potatoes with bread and something brown that they guessed might be meat (it was surely not beef), yelled at the boys to shut up! The boys’ parents rewarded their lies with cocotazos, the customary hard raps on their heads.
Javiercito weighed so little; Vicente had carried heavier sacks of coffee. Vicente vowed that when they reached the new country—this Hawaii—if he had to cut cane every day of the week, every week of the year, every hour of the day, he would provide a good life for his family. They would have food and housing and medical care.
The Taste of Sugar Page 19