Neither Angélica nor I breathed a word about our encounter at the curandera’s house. During dinner, we avoided each other and barely spoke. Catalina didn’t say much either. She was such an introvert.
The same couldn’t be said for Laurent, who did all the talking. He mentioned a list of names that held little to no meaning to me: people he was planning to invite to an upcoming gathering; friends he’d run into at the café in Vinces; courtships and engagements he’d heard about. As usual, none of his chatter seemed to have any substance. He was fond of mixing languages. He might start a sentence in Spanish and then finish it in French. Angélica understood a lot but always answered in Spanish, whereas Catalina never said a word, either for lack of knowledge or lack of concern. I could understand Laurent, but I wasn’t a confident speaker. What a shame, after having a French father. In my defense, my father had left Spain when I was tiny so I didn’t have many opportunities to practice his native tongue. My knowledge of the language mainly came from books and from my correspondence with my father throughout the years.
My mother always said my father had had a talent for languages. Apparently, he’d learned Spanish during his travels to Spain, where his job as a merchant of jerez had taken him. My parents had met at the Feria de Sevilla after my mother became a widow and my father never wanted to go back to France after that. But after meeting my grandmother, his ambition took him farther away. Mamá accused her own mother of filling his head with ideas about chocolate and cacao beans and plantations across the ocean that she’d called the business of the future.
My mother never forgave her for that. Until the day she died, she blamed my grandmother for the loss of my father. Mamá said it hurt even more than losing her first husband to illness because there was no finality with my father, just waiting and longing.
As I glanced around the dining room, I asked where Martin was. Catalina informed me, in that angelic voice of hers, that he lived in a house between Vinces and the plantation, which he’d inherited from his father.
After finishing his meal, Laurent excused himself, saying he was due to play Corazones with the region’s ranchers. “It’s the only thing he likes about Vinces,” Angélica said. “Cards, celebrations, and bird-watching.”
Involuntarily, I glanced at Ramona, who was picking at the cacao beans on her plate.
Julia entered the room and asked Angélica if she could collect our plates. As usual, she only spoke to her. It was odd how Julia asked Angélica’s permission for Every Single Thing. I knew Angélica was the oldest, but it appeared as if she was purposely ignoring Catalina.
What a relief when both of my sisters excused themselves, claiming exhaustion, and left me alone in the dining room. After the table was empty and the maids busied themselves washing dishes, I ventured into the house’s lower level.
My mission? To find out connections, papers, signatures. Something to give me clarity about what had transpired after my father’s death.
There were a few rooms surrounding the central patio. I peeked through the windows. One was a sewing room with a machine, a cutting table, and piles of fabric on top. There was a music room with a pianoforte and a phonograph, and the last room was a study.
My father’s study?
I glanced over my shoulder and opened the door. The lantern in the hall cast light inside the room. I picked up an oil lamp from the desk and explored the space. There were two floor-to-ceiling bookshelves harboring what appeared to be an encyclopedia and several books in French.
On the cherrywood desk sat a wooden cigar box and a miniature sailboat. I opened the side drawers. There were several documents with my father’s signature, which appeared to be the same from the check. There was also an accounting ledger from last year. The bottom drawer, which was larger than the top two, was locked. I opened the center drawer to find the key, but aside from fountain pens and other office supplies, there was nothing of interest except for a leather-bound notebook. I pulled it out and sifted through the pages. It was a journal, it seemed, dated years ago.
I glanced at the door. How long did I have? Nervously, I flipped to the beginning of the notebook.
My father must have started this journal when he first acquired the plantation as he’d written observations about the vegetation found on the hacienda, the plants’ growth cycle during the seasons, a list of buyers, and other work-related information. As I turned the pages, I found charts, prices, and a variety of drawings of cacao pods and leaves. I was about to shut it when something caught my attention. Toward the end of the book, the writing was upside down. I shut the notebook and opened it from the back. Sure enough, he’d started another kind of journal from the back. On this one, there were long passages in French. I’d sat down to read when I heard a noise by the door.
I dropped the notebook inside the drawer as the door swung open.
“Don Cristóbal? What are you doing here?”
“Do?a Angélica, you scared me! I apologize for my impertinence. I was just looking for some reading material as I suffer from chronic insomnia. I should have asked you.”
She strolled into the room, looking at our father’s desk.
“Please, help yourself. My father had some novels there.” She pointed at the lower level of one of the bookshelves, which was nowhere near where I stood. “I have to tell you, though, my father was very particular about his things. He didn’t let me or anybody else touch them. He was organized to a fault and one of his last dying wishes was that his encyclopedia and his book collection remained intact. He would’ve been cross if he found you here.”
I headed for the bookshelf.
“Again, I apologize. This shall never happen again.” Now how could I manage to take the notebook with me with Angélica’s eyes scrutinizing my every move?
“Aha! The Count of Monte Cristo.” I slid the book from the shelf. “I’ve always wanted to read it.”