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.
Vicente reassured Valentina that her root vegetables like batata and malanga were safe because they grew in the ground. He’d taught her how to plant them when they first moved to the little house. It had pained him to see his Valentina on her knees, hands in the dirt like any peona. He tried to cover his dismay by teasing her and calling her a jíbara. She’d looked at him in surprise, her hair tucked into a straw hat she’d tied under her chin with a faded yellow ribbon. Yes, she said, it’s true. I’m a jíbara.
That February, the rainwater cisterns had run dry. He went every day to the stream to get water for the household. Birds flew above the burnt crowns of the trees, squawking Rain, Rain.
Vicente rode to the family house; the horse trod with slow, labored steps on the cracked dirt road. He would have to sell the animal, something he should have done already. His anxiety kept him from sleeping, and he’d taken to roaming the mountain at night. Valentina worried that he would fall off a cliff and break his neck. She’d insisted that he ask his father for advice, surely Raúl must have survived droughts before.
The family farm was better situated, closer to the river. When Vicente passed it, he was shocked by the low water level.
Some things didn’t change with the drought—Angelina and Inés fussed over Vicente, as they always did. Gloria made Vicente a fresh cafecito. He felt guilty drinking coffee. At home they’d drunk the last of their own, but since Gloria had already brewed it, he might as well enjoy it. Sitting on el balcón with las damas, Vicente told them about Valentina and the children. They talked about the terrible drought, about the necessity for un tremendo aguacero that would bring salvation to the island.
They watched a beggar approach the house, each step a feat of will.
“Another hambriento,” Inés said. “Pobrecito, I know what it is to be hungry.”
“I hope that you were never that hungry.” Angelina smoked a small homemade cigar.
Inés was decorating the collar of a dress with mundillo. She looked up from her lace.
Angelina sent the mendigo round to the kitchen.
“La piña está agria,” Inés said. “Especially for los hambrientos.”
“Gloria has taken to hoarding what we have,” Angelina said. “That beggar will get something, but not enough to satisfy his hunger.”
“I’m thinking of selling my horse,” Vicente said, “but I don’t think I’ll get more than a few dollars for it, the way things are. He’s worth much more.”
“You need your horse! Everything will be more difficult if you sell it,” Angelina said.
Vicente got up to leave. “I can’t wait any longer for Papá.”
“Talk to your father before you do anything.”
“More hambrientos coming.” Inés pointed to the horizon. “Que tragedia.”
“We’ll give them something,” Angelina said.
Vicente kissed his mother’s cheek. “You’re a kind lady.”
Once a week, Vicente went to town to get the newspapers and to learn what people were saying about the impotence of the autonomist government, the taxes imposed by the Spanish, and the upcoming war with the Americans.
Vicente had just reached the plaza when he saw Raulito.
Several makeshift stoves, with kettles as big as cauldrons, had been set up en la plaza in an attempt to feed some of the hungry a daily meal of stew. It shamed Vicente that his brother was among those beggars—los lameollas, the potlickers.
Vicente ducked, hoping Raulito didn’t see him. He was ashamed that he’d given so little thought to his little brother these last few months. He would ask Valentina for something and take it to his brother.
The first raindrops began to fall at the end of April; people began to hope again and farmers began to plant crops. Newspapers like El País reported that hunger was still a greater enemy to the Puerto Rican people than war. Government flyers began to appear exhorting farmers to plant food crops so that in the future no one would be hungry, but the government couldn’t and the merchants wouldn’t lend the farmers money for seeds or laborers. Los frutos menores that Vicente and his father planted had suffered from lack of rain; it would be months before any could be harvested. En los campos, May through September was a time of little employment, until the coffee harvest began in October.
When news arrived in late April of the war in Cuba, the Honorable Luis Muñoz Marín begged the mayors of the municipalities to do what they could for los hambrientos. It wasn’t much. As food became more scarce, robberies and assaults by bands of tiznados became more frequent. Made up of laborers and the sons of small farmers, the tiznados avenged years of ill treatment by Spanish hacendados and merchants, surprising them in the middle of the night. They stole rice and sugar and coffee; sometimes they burned down their houses or stores, assaulted or murdered the men, and raped the women. As war with the Americans became more likely, tiznados began also to rob criollos, Puerto Ricans, like Vicente.