CHAPTER ELEVEN
WAITING
It began the way such things always begin—with a glance that was more than it should be, with a phrase tinged with promises whispered in the ear. Naturally, Valentina was not experienced in such affairs, but she was young and pretty and all young and pretty girls enjoyed or tolerated such behavior from the males in their circle. When her father-in-law’s gaze lingered a moment too long, when he complimented the delicacy of her complexion, the fineness of her hands, the luster of her hair, she’d come down with a nervous stomach and Gloria would make her té de jengibre. The servant would hold the knob of ginger between her fingers and say, Valentina, feel this ginger, see how it’s firm, that’s how you can tell that it’s good, now watch how I use the tip of the knife to pare its skin, how will you learn to be a good wife if you don’t pay attention, muchacha, you won’t have me to make you ginger tea.
Now Valentina worried all the time that Vicente’s father might approach her in a way that would make it impossible to live in the same house with him. And then what would she and Vicente do, especially now that she suspected she was pregnant? Valentina would be in the kitchen with Gloria—Valentina, this is the proper way to iron your husband’s shirt, heat the iron on the hot coals, the shirt should be a little damp, if not, sprinkle it with water, next, sprinkle it with a few drops of starch, which should be at hand, I taught you to make starch the other day. You forgot? Did you write it down? See this plant? Looks like a lily? This is a yautía plant. The tubers are in the earth. I will show you how to dig it out. This stone molino is what you use to grind corn into flour to make sorullos, this is how you soak beans, this is how you boil the guayaba for pasta de guayaba, because Vicente has a sweet tooth, this is how you tell the difference between culantro and cilantro, they are cousin herbs or maybe brother and sister—and Gloria would snap her fingers in Valentina’s face. ¿Muchacha, dónde estabas? Your mind should be in this pot of beans.
One day, the woman’s stare unnerved Valentina.
“Oye muchacha, te doy un consejo.” Gloria carried a coconut and a cleaver over to the table. “Never be alone with Don Raúl.”
“But he’s Vicente’s father, mi suegro.”
With the tip of the cleaver, Gloria poked a hole in a soft part at one end of the coconut.
“Bring over that glass.”
Valentina set a glass on the table.
Gloria flipped the coconut upside down, filling the glass with coconut water.
“He tried his pocas vergüenzas with me long ago when I first came, but Doña Angelina threatened to cut off his thing when he was asleep and that was that.”
Valentina gasped.
“Pay attention.” Gloria balanced the coconut on her palm and gave it a couple of whacks with the cleaver.
“I couldn’t do that! I’m afraid of large knives.”
Gloria set the cleaver on the table and broke the coconut in two with her hands.
“You’ll learn.”
“What should I do about Don Raúl?”
Gloria picked up the cleaver. “If he tries anything, he’ll have to deal with me.”
“¡Gloria! ¡Eres loca!” Valentina laughed, and Gloria did, too.
CHAPTER TWELVE
DON RAÚL, MUJERIEGO
It had never happened to him before. Never. He’d never believed in it when others spoke of it or wrote about it in poems or décimas. For Raúl Vega it was a thing invented by silly poets or men who liked their liquor. Until Valentina, he’d never understood the passion of men who killed each other for falda—not when there were so many women. Still, he doubted that what he felt was love; it was more of a hunger. From the moment he saw Valentina naked, the washcloth in her hand, Raúl Vega determined that he would have her just like he would any other woman. That she was his son’s wife only made it a little bit more exciting and dangerous. But Raúl Vega didn’t waste time in introspection. He spent his days in coffee, his nights in the arms of women who weren’t his wife. For years, he’d taken the women and girls, mostly willingly, but not always, for his own pleasure; and if the woman or girl was also pleased, so much the better. He married out of family obligation, and because Angelina had done the same, he did not need to consider her feelings as long as he kept a roof over her and did not bring another woman into the house—as some men had been known to do. Raúl Vega fathered two sons and went about his business. His wife did not quarrel with him about this. When she brought Inés into their bedroom and moved him out, he didn’t even object.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SOME DAYS
Vicente usually worked for his father, and if he labored nearby, he returned for the midday meal. These were Valentina’s favorite days. She would hear his voice calling her name as he rode his horse up to the batey, and she would drop whatever she was doing—learning a mundillo stitch from Inés, rinsing a blouse, chopping garlic.
“Los amores.” Gloria would shake her head in mock disapproval.
Vicente would carry his wife into their bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him. Gloria and las damas heard the creaking of the bedsprings, their murmurs and laughter; the women paused to recall a time in their lives when they had succumbed to midday lovemaking, overpowered by a force stronger than reason.
One particular morning when she was alone at the table, a spoonful of sugar poised over her coffee cup, Raúl Vega sat next to her. She put down the spoon.
“I’m thinking of giving Vicente a few cuerdas of land so that he can build your casita,” he said.
“Don Raúl, how wonderful! Vicente will be so grateful.” Valentina looked into the hazel eyes so like her husband’s.
“What about you? Are you grateful?” His fingers grazed her wrist.
“Of course, Don Raúl.” She looked down at the cup; it was real porcelain. Angelina had told her that the china set had been a wedding present.
Gloria came into room. “Valentina, I need you in the kitchen.
Valentina picked up the cup and saucer and went to the kitchen with Gloria. They heard the door slam.
•
Raúl Vega began to send Vicente to the outer reaches of his farm so that he couldn’t return until he finished work. It happened on one occasion that Valentina had un antojo so strong for grapefruit that she had to satisfy her craving. Las damas had retired to their room to rest when Valentina went to the citrus grove carrying the fruit picker, a long pole with a net at the end. Valentina raised the picker up in the tree’s crown toward the golden globes. She moved the net back and forth until her arms and shoulders ached, but still she couldn’t grasp the grapefruit.
Raúl Vega came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist.
Valentina dropped the picker on the ground.
“I’ve dreamt of this.” Raúl Vega stuck his face in the soft spot between her neck and collarbone.
She pushed at his arms, trying to break his embrace.
“Valentina! Valentina!” Someone was calling her.
“¡Que diablo!” Raúl Vega released her and she sprang toward the voice.