“I could never do that!”
“Why not?”
They started walking again.
“Even my mother called him Don Raúl,” Raulito said.
Vicente shook his head. “I don’t like the way he treats you, I’m going to talk to him.”
Raulito tugged at his brother’s shirtsleeve. “Don’t! Estoy bien.”
“Did I ever tell you that when we were boys, Luisito and I called Papá ‘el General’?” Vicente chuckled.
“I saw you a few times with Luisito. I used to wish I was your brother so that I could live with you.” Raulito’s smile was shy; he was missing several teeth.
Vicente’s smile was wide, his teeth white and strong. “You are my brother. We’ll always be brothers.”
“But then I thought that I would have to leave Mamá and live in your father’s house.”
“Our father’s house.”
“Don Raúl’s house.”
“You’re hopeless, hermanito.” Vicente patted his brother on the back, laughing.
They heard the shouting as they reached Utuado. En la plaza, a crowd of men shouted accusations at a group of a dozen others, calling them traitors for selling out to their masters, loan sharks who cared only about filling their pockets, choosing American dollars over their country and countrymen.
They went up to a barefoot jíbaro. Raulito nodded a greeting. “¿Qué pasa?”
The man pointed. “The plantation owners and merchants don’t want those men here.”
“Who are they? Americans?” Raulito looked over at the men.
“Can’t be,” his brother said. “The plantation owners and the merchants love the Americans.”
“No son americanos, son puertorriqueños,” the jíbaro said. “They’re looking for men to cut cane in Hawaii.”
Raulito asked el jíbaro, “Where is Hawaii?”
He shrugged; Vicente shrugged also.
A fistfight broke out; some people placed bets. The police came; the brothers walked away with el jíbaro, not wanting to get mixed up in el revolú.
Raulito waited with his brother in a long line of men, many of them barefoot, for Vicente to vote. Afterward, Vicente bought a newspaper. They stopped at a stream on the way back up the mountain for a drink of water.
Vicente tossed the newspaper at Raulito. “Read what La Correspondencia has to say.”
Raulito read: “ ‘The Puerto Ricans who come into our mountains and pueblos to snatch up our hungry countrymen to work on the Hawaiian sugar plantations are a new pla—pla—’ ”
He pointed to the word; Vicente looked over his shoulder.
“ ‘Plague,’ ” he said.
“ ‘—plague on Puerto Rico.’ ” Raulito paused. “What’s ‘plague’?”
His brother took out his handkerchief and dipped it in the water. “It means another disease for puertorriqueños, like la tuberculosis.”
“You think that?” Raulito trailed his fingers in the stream, then touched the back of his neck, relishing the coolness.
“I don’t know.” Vicente wiped his face. “There’s no work in Puerto Rico. What is a man to do?”
Raulito held out the newspaper. “But what it says here? And those men in the plaza—”
Vicente waved away the newspaper. “Those plantation owners pay the Puerto Rican fifteen to twenty centavos a day, and the merchants rob him at their stores or with their interest rates. They’re a plague, too.”
“Keep reading?” A few sprinkles had dropped on the paper; Raulito blew on it to dry it.
“Read on.” Vicente stretched out on the ground, covering his face with his hat. “You read very well, Raulito. I’m proud of you.”
Raulito felt the prick of tears; his brother was proud of him. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and read on.
In the afternoon when the coquís began their chant, they started back home. Raulito liked the sound of the coquís. When he was a little boy, he tried hard to catch one of the tiny tree frogs. He never could.
“If you went to Hawaii, I would go with you.” Raulito glanced at his brother from under the brim of his hat.
“I wouldn’t go to Hawaii without you.” Vicente put his arm around his shoulders for a quick hug.
Raulito thought about the men in the plaza, not the plantation agents, but the other men, the barefoot ones in rags. There wasn’t any work for those men and they were forced to beg for food. He’d still be one of those men if not for his brother.
When they reached the batey, Vicente stopped and Raulito stopped, too.
“I wouldn’t say anything to anyone about Hawaii,” Vicente said. “There’s a lot to consider.”
“Valentina?”
“Yes, Valentina,” his brother said. “Everything.”
“Not a word,” Raulito said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
¡AL HAWAII! ¡AL HAWAII!
In town there was the battle of the handbills. Work in Hawaii! Honest Labor in Hawaii! Free Transportation for the Whole Family from One US Territory to Another US Territory! Free Housing and Medical Care in Hawaii! Schools for Your Children! ¡Compañeros, Don’t Abandon Your Madre Patria! Better Country Than Food! US Plans to Rid Puerto Rico of Its Citizens! Puerto Rico for the Americans!
Vicente tucked an advertisement into the band of his hat. He walked around with the leaflet for days and took it out to read often, although he had memorized every word. It seemed like the answer to all their problems. Decent pay for a day’s labor. A bonus paid every year. He would be able to save the bonus money since he wouldn’t have to pay for housing or medical care. They’d be back in Puerto Rico in two or three years. Four. By then there would be work to be had on the island. Maybe he could buy back his land from the American company that owned it. If he saved all he could, it might be possible. (Yes, it was a dream, but sometimes dreams come true, yes?) When they returned to Puerto Rico, he would plant coffee trees and take on other work, as he’d done before. One day again, he would harvest his coffee crop. The reality was that here, in Puerto Rico, when he swung his machete, he, Vicente Vega, former coffee farmer, former landowner, was a peón. Would it make any difference if he were a peón in Puerto Rico or in Hawaii? It would, according to the advertisement for workers for the Hawaiian sugarcane plantations.
•
Vicente showed her the handbill with EMIGRACIÓN PARA HAWAII in large block letters in the privacy of their bedroom when they were getting ready for bed.
Valentina smoothed out the creases in the paper.
“I think it’s the best opportunity for us right now,” Vicente said.
She finished reading it. “Why not go to San Juan? Elena and her husband would help us.”
“We don’t want to go to your sister like mendigos, Valentina.” They sat on the bed. “And what will I do in San Juan? I’m a farmer. I don’t work in a store like Elena’s husband.”
“But Vicente, we’ll have to leave Evita, and to think that I’ll never see my sister or my parents again—”