“Pardon?” Jack stopped to listen.
“No viene hoy sino mañana.”
“Who’s coming? ¿Quién?”
“Jesús.”
The figure continued to sway back and forth and Jack walked slowly away. After a dozen strides, he heard the words “¡Cuidado, mi amigo!”
“¿Cuidado?” Jack called back. “‘Careful’ is my middle name, señor.” His mouth seemed suddenly dry.
5
THE ROAD TO MATANZAS
WITH THE COUNT’S map in hand, Jack watched from his perch next to the driver as the surefooted Andalusian horses negotiated the ruts on the lonely road. The ripe scent of Cuba hung in the air. A brief rain had turned to steam and thickened the atmosphere; the fragrance of a multitude of tropical fruits and flowers—jasmine, mango, papaya—mingled with the smell of rich, wet earth.
Jack’s parents jounced below him in the carriage, the sound of his father’s voice occasionally trailing through the closed roof. He marveled at his mother’s patience. She did not, he knew, share the depth of her uneasiness with her husband, but Jack had seen the dark rings under her eyes this morning. His father appeared oblivious to the fact she hadn’t slept; instead, he maintained his conviction that legal delays were not that uncommon and there was no need for concern.
Well, perhaps he’s right, Jack thought. Cuba was civilized, if not civil. Law was strictly maintained in the colony, at least for the privileged. Jack had the sense the authority might even be oppressive. If the count was up to any chicanery, the proper authorities would probably, as his father felt, set it straight. What was it his father loved to speak of in those New England town meetings? Rightful authority; aye, the blind justice of law, not privilege. Time would tell.
Jack decided to sit back and absorb the countryside. Talk of property and taxes and money held his attention just so long when there was raw life to be enjoyed. But these sights were driven from his mind by the sudden memory—nay, vision—of red hair, blowing over a face with laughing green eyes.
The driver, a grizzled man, caught the smile playing over Jack’s lips. “Si. ¿Es muy bonito, no?”
Startled the man could read his thoughts, Jack replied, “¿Que dijiste?”
The old man gestured toward the landscape, remarking on the low hills, the reds and greens. Low soft hills indeed—red hair over a full bodice of soft hills. God, he longed to melt under the gaze of those eyes. “Sí. Es muy, muy, muy, bonito.”
The old man chuckled. Jack realized the man could recognize the symptoms of a lad who had been “struck by lightning,” as they put it in the old country. Just then, he spotted a stone marker on the side of the road, the number 27 engraved on it in blue.
“Pare por favor, señor. ¿Es aquí, no?”
The man slowed the rig, “Aiee, es la finca.”
“What’s that, Jack? Why are we stopping?” Ethan’s voice from below.
“This map, it shows that marker as the northern boundary… I believe we’re here, Father. All the fields on the right for the next mile and a half should be mother’s estate.”
Ethan stepped from the carriage. “Our land.” He took in the rolling fields of black-tipped green. “Beautiful. Come, my dearest, and look at our future, shining before us.” He walked several steps ahead, hardly able to contain himself.
Jack felt a sudden chill pass through him. The cane! He hopped down from the seat and had his fears confirmed by the look on his mother’s face; she had moved back from the window. Her hand was over her mouth, her face white.
“Mother!”
“Jack,” she said evenly. “Get back on the carriage and tell the driver to turn around. I… I want to go back to town.”
“But Mother—”
She leaned forward and said in a hoarse voice, with an intensity he had never seen, “The cane is mature, Jack. I grew up around cane. It has been so for many years.” Pilar lay back as Ethan approached, but her eyes remained fixed on her son’s.
“Jack, we were lied to. I am frightened. For now we will tell your father only that I am ill and must return.”
Jack placed his hand on hers.
“Don’t worry, Mother, it will be all right, it—” He reached through the carriage window, squeezed her hand hard and turned. He couldn’t lie to her. He too was frightened. Frightened and something else. He felt rage building.
His family had been cheated again, perhaps over a period of many years. His mother had been led to believe that the cane fields had lain fallow and were just recently being nurtured toward a mature, harvestable crop. Somebody had been profiting from these fields for a long time. Somebody powerful, he thought. Worse, whoever had defrauded her would now see her as a threat. De Silva? But why would he have facilitated them seeing the finca? Jack’s head spun with confusion. The rich aromas that had captured him this morning suddenly seemed sour, overripe.
When Ethan returned to his wife, she explained to him her need to return to her room. Jack sat staring darkly at the fields. The driver said they would be able to turn around at the copse of trees ahead. Until then, the road was elevated, deep berms running along each side to catch water. Jack left his parents to climb topside, next to the driver. The man must have felt the dramatic change of mood in his young passenger, but he said nothing.
They had covered no more than a hundred yards when riders came into view ahead of them. Jack watched the driver slip his hand under the seat, making sure his pistola was available. It seemed a perfunctory precaution; although highwaymen could be a concern this far from Habana, they had been assured the guardia had suppressed banditry in the area.
As the distance between them narrowed, Jack saw the old man return the weapon to its holster and visibly relax. The men were now easily recognizable in their blue and red uniforms. Guardia civil. They drew up next to the carriage.
“Buenos días.” A mustachioed sergeant carried the crisp air of authority.
“Buenos días, Sargento. ¿Cómo está usted?”
The soldiers’ official manner made Jack uneasy; they seemed particularly aloof, less like protectors of the people and more like keepers. He heard his father open the carriage door.
“Buenos días, Sargento, is there a problem… uh ¿un problema?” Jack knew Ethan had exhausted his repertoire of Spanish, but he insisted in asserting himself as head of the household.
“No, no problema, señor. Sargento Matros at your service.” Then to the driver,“¿Quién es?”
“El caballero y la señora son norteamericanos.” The old driver began to explain that his passengers were the owners of the estate to the right of the road when Jack’s father once again interjected.
“We are the O’Reillys, Sergeant. My wife is the owner of all that you see to the east.”
The man was looking at a piece of paper in his hand. “Sí, Sí… bueno eh, su nombre… uh, yore name es O’Reilly, sí? Y los otros, uh, yore wife es name Pilar? And yore—”
Jack stiffened. His father continued in his proud, affable exchange with the man; he seemed not at all curious that a civil patrol leader would happen to know his wife’s Christian name.
“Yes, Sergeant, my wife, Pilar, and my son, Jack, recently of New England. We are delighted to see that you and your men are patrolling these roads. We’ve heard much of the… eh… bandidos.”
“Sí, bandidos.” The sergeant directed his words to Ethan but kept his eyes on Jack. If trouble came, he seemed to realize, Jack would be the source. Finally, he turned back to Ethan. “Bienvenidos, Señor y Señora O’Reilly, bienvenidos a Cuba.”
“Gracias,” Ethan said, smiling.
“Vámonos.” The sergeant waved his hand as if to lead his men on, but, without looking toward them, he signaled the soldiers who had moved behind Jack on the right side of the carriage.