Siempre,
Valentina
San Juan
August 16, 1900
Dear Valentina,
I’ve had a long talk with Ernesto and Papá and we’ve decided that you and Vicente and the children must come to us. You must persuade Vicente. Why don’t you make preparations to come to us after the hurricane season? Think of it! You could be with us by Christmas! I’m enclosing some stamped envelopes. Write soon!
Love,
Elena
* letter lost by United States Postal Service
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
EL SUEÑO
Early one morning in the hour between night and day, Vicente eased out of bed, careful not to wake Valentina. He put on his pants and shirt, then tiptoed out of the bedroom, carrying his shoes and closing the door gently. He passed Raulito asleep on a cot en la sala; his brother stirred but didn’t wake. Vicente left the house, pausing to put on his shoes. The mountain was still encased in fog. He buttoned his shirt against the chill. A múcaro garbled, other birds cawed and cooed good morning. Something touched his hair. The boy Vicente would have screamed, thinking it was a spirit, but the man Vicente thought a murciélago had flown too close. The clamor of the coquís comforted him. He walked the mountain he knew so well, listening to his footsteps, feeling the cool mist on his skin, breathing in the freshness that is the predawn air; he wiped something from his eye and walked on.
PROHIBIDA LA ENTRADA. PROPIEDAD PRIVADA. Vicente stared at the sign in front of what once had been his farm. In a flash of anger, he grabbed it with his hands, trying to pull it out of the ground. It had been well anchored, but he tugged and tugged until he succeeded in yanking it out. Then Vicente tossed it in the dirt. He walked on.
He sat on a tree stump. He heard a bird whistle, the tune mournful. Vicente looked at the land bereft of trees and saw it as it once had been: green and fertile with canopies of shade trees sheltering his coffee trees, plantain, guamá, and guava trees, the guavas trailing their white flowers. He didn’t know if there was a more beautiful sight than coffee trees in bloom, the berries brilliant as rubies in the dark green foliage, so pretty that perhaps the tediousness and difficulty of coffee picking was forgiven. Vicente watched the sun rise over the graveyard that had once been his farm, trying to etch the colors into his memory for the days to come when he would need to recall it. He promised himself that one day he would return and buy back the land and live on it with Valentina and their children and with Raulito and Raulito’s children.
Before the sun became too strong, Vicente asked Valentina to join him for a walk.
“A walk? What’s wrong?” Valentina was shucking ears of corn and slicing off kernels with a knife.
“A walk? What’s wrong?” Gloria looked up from the stone molino where she had been grinding corn into flour. The women were going to make la masa for sorullos.
“Can’t a man go on a walk with his wife? Don’t get excited,” Vicente said.
“We’re jíbaros,” Valentina said. “Townspeople walk for pleasure, while country folk walk because they don’t have horses.”
“You’re crazy if you think you’re leaving this kitchen without telling us what’s wrong,” Gloria said.
“Gloria, this is between a husband and a wife—” Vicente took the knife from Valentina’s hand.
Valentina wiped her hands on her apron. “Now I know something is wrong.”
“There are no secrets in this house,” Gloria said.
Valentina took off her apron. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell you later.”
They went outside.
“Wait, Vicente!” Valentina ran back into the house, returning a moment later with a parasol.
“Remember this? Mamá gave it to me when we were leaving Ponce. It survived the hurricane in my trunk.” She opened up the parasol, then took his arm. “A lady must have her parasol.”
They walked past his father’s shed, which the men had rebuilt. The countryside was beginning to recover from the hurricane and leaves were sprouting on the branches and flowers on the bushes or the base of trees. Vicente pointed out flores that looked like coral.
“Vicente, this isn’t a Sunday stroll through the plaza. What do you have to tell me?” She stopped walking. “You’re scaring me!”
“I wish I didn’t have to tell you.” He took her hand.
“After Evita and losing Angelina and Inés, nothing can be so terrible,” she said.
He was afraid of the disappointment he was sure to see in her eyes.
“We lost our farm,” he said.
“What are you talking about?” Valentina stared up at him.
Vicente took a folded newspaper page already a week old out of his pocket; she looked down at the section he’d circled.
She read aloud. “ ‘Utuado: Coffee farm, government auction. Fifteen cuerdas, family farm—’ ”
Valentina looked up from the newspaper. “I don’t understand—”
“We can’t pay the new American property and land tax,” Vicente said.
Valentina stared at the circled ad; a dozen words in the newspaper that would change their lives forever. “Couldn’t we have sold some of the land to pay it?”
“Not enough to pay off our debts and begin all over again,” he said. “Not at five dollars a cuerda. Before the hurricane, we would have gotten forty-five dollars.”
Utuado: Coffee farm, government auction. Fifteen cuerdas, family farm—
She’d thought they had experienced the worst that could befall them, but now this—the parasol slipped from her grasp.
He placed a steadying hand on her arm. “The American governor confiscated our farm.”
“The American governor confiscated our farm. The governor?” Valentina paused after each word. “Our farm?”
“Not just ours.” Vicente took the newspaper from her; he ran his finger down the list of ads. “Forty farms for auction. Forty!”
“Forty farms.” Valentina sat on the grass, head in her hands.
Vicente sat next to her. “That’s forty farms last week. Who knows what Governor Allen will do this week?”
“Can he do that?”
“It seems he can.” Vicente opened the parasol, holding it over her head. They looked out at la naturaleza blooming again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
BROTHERS
One November morning, the brothers walked down the mountain so that Vicente could vote in the local mayoral election. They hoped that there would be news about construction work.
“Raulito, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about calling our father ‘Papá,’ ” Vicente said.
Even after more than a year of living in his father’s house, when it was necessary for Raulito to speak to Raúl Vega, he called him “Don Raúl.” If he happened upon him alone in a room reading or looking through papers, Raulito greeted him as Don Raúl, bowing his head. Sometimes his father returned his nod.
“¡Papá!” Raulito stopped walking. “I couldn’t!”
Vicente stopped, too. “Don’t look so scared. At least call him ‘Raúl,’ the way Valentina does.”