“I don’t want to criticize my new father-in-law, but that doesn’t sound like the kind of thing that should be read to girls,” Vicente said.
“Papá said that the Guardia Civil still favor palillos,” Valentina said. “Did anything happen to your family?”
“No, but some neighbors weren’t so lucky.”
“Papá knew a man in Ponce whom la Guardia Civil took to jail in Juana Díaz, and then they put him on a boat to San Juan, where he was jailed in El Morro,” Valentina said.
“What happened to him?”
“Probably nothing good.”
“Nobody was safe, not even the women,” Vicente said. “La Guardia Civil came for you at midnight on a rumor.”
When the newlyweds reached the town of Utuado, as a special favor to her husband, Valentina rode sidesaddle. She was glad to see all the people on the streets and the yellow stucco church and the large houses of gente pudiente that surrounded the flagstone plaza. Perhaps they could return on that very next Sunday, attend Mass, and afterward promenade around la plaza, stopping to speak to friends and buying a little dulce or limonada the way they had in Ponce. The foot trail to Utuado led through a narrow mountain valley, and there they crossed a stream and stopped to fill the canteen.
The air was perfumed with the fragrance of ferns and flowers, many of which Valentina had never before seen. She felt like she was in the Garden of Eden.
“Look! Another waterfall!”
“It’s dangerous to be on the road when it gets dark,” Vicente said.
“You don’t want to play Adam and Eve?” Valentina took off her traveling dress and ran to the waterfall.
Much later than Vicente had planned, they went over a footbridge—an engineering feat that made Valentina clutch her husband’s waist with her eyes closed. Now and then on the mountain, they overtook barefoot boys with stacks of leña for the cooking fire balanced on their heads, and young barefoot girls bent sideways from the large tins tucked under their arms filled with fresh spring water. Vicente bought Valentina a banana from a jíbaro with a tree branch over his shoulders, balancing rhizomes of bananas. The bag of coins from Valentina’s father was almost empty.
Bohíos perched like birds on the side of the mountain; a strong storm would send them flying over the valley.
“These bohíos are different from the ones in Ponce.” Valentina pointed to las chozas típicas clustered on the mountain. “They’re like triangles with sloping roofs. That one has a giant palm leaf for a door.”
“A little further down we’ll see more huts and la tienda de raya, where the workers buy food and clothing.”
“A store? Would we shop there?”
“It’s not your kind of store, Valentina,” her husband said. “It’s owned by a big coffee hacendado who pays his workers with metal tokens called piches that they can only use at the store.”
“You’re angry.” Valentina touched his arm.
“Because it’s robbery. Everything at the store is overpriced and often spoiled. The laborer is forced to take food on credit. It keeps him in debt to the hacendado forever,” Vicente said. “The stores in town sell at better prices, but the workers can’t use their piches there.”
“That’s terrible! Why is it allowed?” Valentina imagined her mother’s anger if she couldn’t shop where she wanted.
“That’s the way it’s always been for los pobres,” Vicente said. “Peones are lucky if they eat once a day.”
“There were many poor people in Ponce,” Valentina said. “Muchos hambrientos.”
“There are many poor people everywhere in Puerto Rico,” Vicente said. “My mother said it’s always been like that.”
They rode on.
The house with the shingled roof rose from the ground amid a great profusion of trees and flowers. Wood shutters were closed against the afternoon sun. A woman who wasn’t Vicente’s mother welcomed them at the door. Valentina could see that the woman had never been pretty.
“Gloria has known me since I was born, isn’t that so?” Vicente smiled at the servant still in his embrace. “I want you to teach my wife to cook all my favorite foods.”
“I’ve never cooked in my life.” Valentina looked about for Vicente’s mother. She hoped that after a few pleasantries, she could take a bath and a long nap.
Vicente and Gloria stared at her, mouths agape.
“You can’t cook?” her husband and the servant asked in unison.
“My mother cooked, or the servant,” Valentina said.
“You won’t have a cook when we live in our own house,” Vicente said. “Gloria can teach you.”
“We’ll start today,” Gloria said.
“Not today,” Valentina said.
“It was a long journey.” Vicente smiled at Gloria. “And she’s not used to riding a horse.”
“You don’t cook, you don’t ride horses.” Gloria inspected Valentina the way she looked over the chickens before choosing one for pollo fricasé. “I hope you have strong hips to bear Vicente’s children.”
Valentina looked down at her dusty shoes.
“I hope she’s stronger than she looks,” Gloria said. “It’s hard work to be a farmer’s wife.”
“Don’t scare her, Gloria! She might run away!” Vicente pinched Gloria’s cheek.
“She’ll have to run because she doesn’t ride horses,” Gloria said.
When Vicente laughed, Valentina looked out the open door at the road. Would her parents be too ashamed to take her back?
“Where is Mamá? Le quiero presentar a mi mujer.” Vicente put his arm around his wife.
“La doña is in her room. She is expecting you.”
Vicente took Valentina’s hand.
“Only you,” Gloria said.
“Not me?” Valentina held tight.
“Wait for me en la sala.” Vicente kissed her hand. “I’ll explain all about you.”
Vicente disappeared with Gloria. Valentina couldn’t help but feel that her husband’s family was mal educada; she doubted very much she would have been abandoned in the house of Juan Moscoso. What kind of woman didn’t welcome her son’s new wife? It must be true what the townspeople said about mountain folk’s lack of good manners.
Valentina wandered about the room and picked up a cigar box. She rearranged a trio of porcelain figurines of Spanish dancers. She sat in a cane-backed rocking chair. She longed to fling open the shutters, let in sun and air, but it would only make the room warmer. The furniture was of good quality, although the wood needed polishing and some of the cushions in the wicker chairs could stand to be mended. Her mother wouldn’t have permitted such disregard for her possessions; she’d taught her daughters to sew and care for their things.
In her parents’ house, la sala was where they had often gathered on evenings when they didn’t sit en el balcón to watch passersby or exchange a word or two with the neighbors. Sometimes they tossed coins to the black women with baskets of sweets like dulce de coco, who called out “Dulce” as they passed the houses, or to the vendedor ambulante who sold agua de coco from a homemade wheelbarrow piled high with coconuts. They admired the peddler’s skill with the machete when he cracked the coconut with one swift chop. Mamá loved agua de coco so much that she often splurged on the fresh coconut water. On the evenings when the sisters strolled to la plaza to meet friends, Mamá had accompanied them. On festival days or during the public concerts, they had gawked at the very rich holding court in their elaborate carriages parked along la plaza.