“No. I’m fine.”
“Don Armand liked English saddles. He said it was the only saddle a gentleman should use. He used to say Western was for the lower class.”
From his tone, I perceived some resentment toward my father. But to me, knowing that my father made the same choice was reassuring. By God, I would learn to ride as well as this man!
I attempted to balance my body on the mare’s back, but my initial courage diminished as the creature started to move. ?Madre mía! The ground looked too far down and I didn’t want to fall again. I couldn’t bear the humiliation a second time. I clung to her mane with both hands and pressed my thighs against her sides.
When I looked up, Martin was staring at me.
Gone was his mocking demeanor. He’d turned dead serious. There was something odd about the way he was looking at me.
“What?” I said.
It took him a moment to answer. With his eyes still set on me, he said, “Use the reins to guide her. Right one when you want to turn right, left when you want to go left.”
I told myself to calm down. He was probably just surprised that a man didn’t know how to ride a horse.
“I know,” I said. “I’ve ridden before. I’m just out of practice and this horse doesn’t know me.” I straightened my back and pulled on the right rein. Surprisingly, Pacha turned right, following Martin’s horse.
As the mare continued down a dirt trail flanked by trees with enormous leaves, I could feel every muscle on the horse’s back under my thighs. I tightened my grip on the reins, trying to concentrate on the view instead of my transportation.
After a long silence, Martin finally spoke.
“You’re lucky to have come at this time of the year.” He geared his horse away from the trail into a maze of overgrown vegetation. “We’ve just started collecting the pods so you’ll see the entire process.”
The horses’ hooves crumpled the gray, dry leaves padding the ground. Hummingbirds chirped from the towering branches and a rooster crowed nearby. As we advanced into the heart of the plantation, the gurgle of a stream became louder. A mild scent of bananas filled the air.
“We plant banana trees to help with the growth of the cacao trees,” Martin said, pointing at a shrub with leaves of a deeper green. “They provide shade from direct sunlight and also protect them from excessive winds. So do these cedars.”
I raised my gaze toward the abundant branches and leaves of a few overgrown trees shielding the area like giant umbrellas.
Around me, yellow, orange, and green pods hung from V-shaped branches, like ornaments on a Christmas tree. They resembled papayas in shape and color, but smaller and with a rougher texture, as though the fruit had encountered a bad case of acne.
I had the feeling that I’d entered an enchanted forest. Cristóbal would’ve loved it. I couldn’t help but wonder what it would’ve been like to live here with him, to raise our children surrounded by cedars and guava trees and, of course, cacao pods.
The children we would never have.
Even though I’d never been here before, this place felt like home, like I’d finally found the place where I belonged. If I ever contemplated the idea of selling my portion of the estate and leaving, I was deluding myself.
Hidden between leaves and branches, I discerned arms, hands, and knives cutting down pods. As we reached the peasants, they removed their hats and murmured greetings to Martin. There were about a dozen men in the area, all wearing stained white shirts and large straw hats.
A few steps away, a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a round, protruding stomach held a pod with one hand and a machete with the other. With swift, precise motions, he sliced the pod in half. The interior of the pod reminded me of brains and the smell made me think of fermented juice. A white, mucus-like membrane covered a string of cacao beans. He handed it to a man with a lengthy beard and longish hair who was kneeling by a metal bucket. With all that hair, he looked like someone who’d been stuck on an island for months. The man removed as much of the membrane as he could and dumped the beans inside the bucket. Once it was full, he carried it along a trail.
“Where is he taking them?” I asked.
“To the warehouse, for fermentation. We’ll go there next.”
I tried to follow Martin on the path, but apparently, Pacha had other plans. She darted through the woods, dodging tree trunks and branches, and picked up speed as the reins slipped from my hands.
I grasped her mane, kicking her sides to stop her, but she was immune to every attempt to dominate her. A branch hit my face and knocked Cristóbal’s spectacles to the ground. I brought a hand to my beard to protect it.
“Pacha! Stop!” My voice came out high and screechy—good thing Martin wasn’t around.
I got hold of the reins with one hand, still pressing on her sides. In the distance, I heard the hooves of another horse.
Martin!
Would he realize I was a woman without the glasses? And when was this damned horse going to stop? I could already taste the blood from a cut on my lower lip.
As we reached a stream, Pacha slowed her pace. She seemed to have forgotten that I was on her back as she approached the edge of the stream and ducked her head until it disappeared from view. Jesús, María y José, she was drinking, but all I wanted was to get down.
I managed to jump. The ground was moist and my shoes filled with mud. Rubbing my sore thighs, I retraced the steps Pacha had taken, trying to locate my glasses.