“You, too.” The policeman pointed to Vicente.
At the police station, they learned that a certain Claudio Mora Ruiz, the nephew of one of “los grandes” de Utuado, had been shot twice, once in the heart, and his body dumped on Caonillas Road. Vicente wanted to ask about the second shot but didn’t dare. Raúl Vega didn’t seem nervous, he was whistling.
The captain’s pen was poised over a notebook. “Señor Vega, witnesses say that you once had an argument with the deceased. Do you deny that?”
“We had words once.” Raúl Vega crossed his legs.
Vicente stared at his father, openmouthed.
“Why was that?” The captain leaned forward on his desk.
“I don’t recall exactly, but I think there was some question about a few acres of land.” Raúl Vega took some cigarettes out of his pocket. He passed them around. One of the policemen offered him a light.
“What was the argument about?” The police captain brought a cigarette to his lips.
“It was some time ago.”
“Try to remember.”
“Mora Ruiz claimed some of my land belonged to him.”
“Did it?”
Raúl Vega shook his head. “I filed a complaint in court.”
“And?” The police captain stared at him through the cigarette smoke.
“The court ruled against me,” Raúl said. “There were no hard feelings.”
“Where were you on January 20th?” The police captain leaned forward in his chair.
Raúl Vega considered his cigarette. “My son Vicente and I were together on the farm.”
The captain turned to Vicente. “Is that true?”
Vicente looked from his father to the captain. “Yes, it’s true.”
“How do you happen to recall that date specifically?”
“Afterward, Papá came to my house. My wife cooked dinner.” Vicente remembered that it had been a rare visit from his father. Valentina had made tembleque with coconut milk and cinnamon.
“She’s a good cook,” Raúl said.
“Señor Vicente, how well do you know Mora Ruiz?”
“I’ve never met him,” Vicente said.
“Why do you think he was killed?” Raúl Vega knocked the cigarette ashes into an empty cup on the captain’s desk.
“All I know is that there are bands of men meting out their own brand of justice in the middle of the night. Maybe we’ll let the American military handle this one.” The police captain stood up. “Buenos días, caballeros, I don’t think we need trouble you again.”
Father and son rode through the plaza like two strangers with the same destination. Yes, they had been together on January 20th, but still, it was all so strange. Vicente patted his pocket for the packet of annatto seeds. What had happened to it?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
VALENTINA READS THE CONSTITUTION
One day Vicente returned from town with Raulito, whom he had found standing around en la plaza with other men hoping for work or food. He’d insisted that his brother come home with him. Vicente also brought a week-old La Democracia dated July 4, 1899, in which the US Constitution had been printed in Spanish.
They drank coffee while Valentina read bits of an editorial aloud.
“Listen to this: ‘Read the Constitution because a people constituted on a basis so free and democratic cannot bring forth tyrants. That is the reason why we trust in the justice that will be given to us: the offspring of those who signed that Declaration of Independence can do nothing less than give liberty to our people.’ ”
“Haven’t the Americans been in Puerto Rico a year already?” Raulito dunked a piece of hard bread into his coffee.
Valentina looked up from the newspaper. “Yes, they have, Raulito.”
“Keep reading,” Vicente said.
Valentina turned a few pages. “It’s long.”
Vicente stirred his coffee with a spoon, though there was no sugar in it; they’d run out months ago.
“This is called the Preamble. ‘We the people . . .’ ”
While Valentina read, the children wandered outside, Raulito dozed off, and Vicente refilled her water glass twice.
“Beautiful words,” Valentina said when she finished.
“Beautiful lies,” Vicente said.
“I wonder if this newspaperman read the Constitution before he wrote his editorial,” Valentina said.
“He’s probably one of the American lambe ojos, there are plenty of them around.” Vicente took the newspaper from her to see who had written it. “Yup, just what I thought. Lambe ojo.”
San Juan
July 10, 1899*
Dear Valentina,
How are you and the family? Mala suerte, we’re not quite as well as we once were. Many of the American soldiers are being sent back home to the States, and that means less money for all the businesses. We’ve had to let one of our clerks go and I’m spending more time in the store. Papá has been very helpful; he’s the one who goes to the post office every morning to get the mail. Mamá is the same. Every little sound from the street frightens her.
Ernesto is up to date on the tariffs and we are worried about your family. What are your plans? Can Vicente’s father help until the Americans ease their regulations? I hate to think of you suffering. You can always sell the farm and come stay with us until Vicente finds some kind of work. Try to convince him. It would be lovely to be together again.
Love to everyone and especially you,
Elena
P.S. We can still manage to send you a few things and I am preparing a large package of food tins and cans that Papá will take to the post office.
* Letter returned to sender
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE HURRICANE
It was difficult to sleep in the terrible heat of the first days of August 1899. There was something unusual about the air that escaped Valentina’s notice but filled Vicente with a sense of foreboding. Up on the mountain, he smelled flowers native to the coast. Then the night came when Vicente observed reddish clouds in the east instead of the west.
“The stars have lost their brilliance,” he told his wife, pointing to the sky. “Look at that curious white band on the moon. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Vicente took Valentina and the children to his parents’ house before setting out again to get his brother. He brought in the bundles. His father was carrying a gallon of water under each arm.
“You prepared your house for the hurricane, Vicente?”
“Not yet.”
“What are you waiting for?” He went to the kitchen.
Angelina called from the kitchen, “Vicente, don’t stand there all day talking to Valentina.”
“I’d better go,” Vicente said.
“I don’t like to stay in your father’s house without you,” Valentina said.
“Why not, when my father likes you best?” Vicente teased her. “It’s safer here.”
“Really, Vicente, I think you’re exaggerating the danger.”
“I’ve never seen that peculiar moon.”