Had I not, had I not.
I’d yelled at the captain when they stopped the search. I’d demanded they keep looking. I told him we were important people in Spain. Filthy rich. Plantation owners. We would pay him with gold, with land, if he found my Cristóbal. But when none of the yelling, the promises, or the threats worked, I begged. The man, his face tan, his mustache covering his upper lip, managed a sad smile and placed his hand on my shoulder.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. There’s nothing else we can do. Your husband is with Our Lord now.”
“How do you know?” I said, bitterly. His eyes widened a bit. I bet he’d never heard a blasphemy of this caliber coming from a Spanish woman before.
But instead of a look of reproach or a curt dismissal, he gently squeezed my shoulder and nodded.
The truth was I didn’t want to think about where Cristóbal might be right now. None of the possibilities sounded good. They were downright horrific. Decomposing at the bottom of the ocean. Eaten by sharks. Bloated. Purple. I shut my eyes. I’d rather think of him coming back to me, somehow reemerging from the water and climbing the ten, fifteen meters from the waterline to the deck.
How I longed to hear the tapping of his keys now, but his precious typewriter had fallen silent since Cristóbal’s disappearance, six torturous days ago. Had he thought about his novel in those last moments, about the fact that he would never finish it?
What I wouldn’t give to trip over his boots in the dark.
Yes, my mother had been right about men. You only appreciated their virtues after they were gone.
Straightening my back, I knocked on the captain’s door.
I’d never met a British person with a tan as deep as Captain Blake’s.
“Mrs. Lafont, please come in.”
By now, we’d become well acquainted with each other, but he still seemed reluctant to look me in the eye. He was the kind of man who was perfectly comfortable among other men, but terribly shy around women.
“How is the investigation going, Captain?”
“I’m glad you came, Mrs. Lafont, I wanted to talk to you about that. But please, have a seat.” He pointed at an ochre leather sofa in front of the desk. A distinctive scent of tobacco permeated the room.
I obeyed. “Did you find out who that man was?”
“I’m afraid not, ma’am.” He sat behind the cluttered desk; one side of his face partially covered by a globe. “We haven’t found a record of anybody that matches your description of that man. In fact”—his ears turned slightly red—“I’ve decided to close down the investigation and rule your husband’s death as an accident.”
“An accident? What do you mean?” I gripped the armrest. “I told you a man attacked me! Cristóbal was only trying to defend me!”
“And I believe you, ma’am, no need to raise your voice. But I’m afraid that with the lack of evidence I can’t do much. This investigation has already taken so much of my time and I have a ship to run and hundreds of passengers to tend to.”
“This is ridiculous. You’re going to lie, in writing, because it’s easier and more convenient for you?”
“I’m not lying. Unfortunately, there’s no evidence to prove me wrong.”
“Is there anyone else who can take over this investigation? The authorities in Ecuador?”
“No, ma’am, this is a British ship, with British jurisdiction, so the investigation should be handled by British authorities. If the . . . incident had happened after we arrived in Ecuador, then they could handle it.”
“Are you saying that I have to go all the way back to Europe to find my husband’s killer? That’s nonsense.”
“You’re welcome to file a claim with the British Consulate in Guayaquil and hire a barrister that may represent your interests in Britain.”
In Britain? How were they going to find Cristóbal’s murderer all the way there?
“I didn’t invent that man, Captain, he was real. He knew my first name.”
“Mrs. Lafont, I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear. I know you wanted justice for your husband, but my hands are tied. I regret I cannot be more helpful.”
I stood up, way too fast. Light-headed, I pressed my forehead with my hand.
“Are you all right? I can call Dr. Costa if you’d like.”
“No,” I said. “That won’t be necessary.”
I’d met Dr. Jaume Costa the night of the “accident.” He was a compatriot of mine, a Catalonian traveling to Colombia to help with the Spanish influenza, which had taken so many lives in the last two years. After they’d stopped the search, the doctor had given me a sedative, which helped me not to go insane knowing that Cristóbal was somewhere in that terrifying ocean.
The captain stood. “If you choose to return to Spain, ma’am, I can arrange for you to get on another ship as soon as we land in the port of Guayaquil.”
“No, thank you. I plan to continue my trip.”
“But—forgive me for insisting—as I understand it, you’ll be traveling to a small village on the coast of Ecuador. If I dare voice my opinion, I think a journey of that magnitude could be quite dangerous for a woman traveling alone.”
With all the commotion, I hadn’t given the rest of my trip much thought, though I’d dreaded the idea of working on a plantation without my husband’s help.
“The Americas are quite different from what you’re accustomed to, ma’am, especially the country. It’s not my intention to scare you, but I’ve heard stories of missionaries—men and women—who’ve been attacked in the jungle and on the coast. I won’t go into any details, but let’s just say that the women, especially, went through some harrowing experiences.”
My mouth went dry. After a moment, I found my voice.