“Are you serious? What did you want me to do with my inheritance? Give it away? Forgive me for looking out for our well-being. Forgive me for wanting to get us out of that tiny apartment and move to a splendid plantation in one of the top exporting countries in the world!”
“Oh, don’t even start with that. I know all about that plantation. You’ve talked about nothing else since we received that damned letter! You’re just like your father, crazed with ambition.”
“You never even knew my father. I barely remember him!”
“It’s what your mother said.”
I didn’t want to hear about my mother either. This trip had made me miss her even more—I thought about her every day.
“Look, Puri,” Cristóbal said, softening his voice. “I don’t want to argue with you. Not here. I promise I will be more available later, but now, be a good girl and let me get back to my novel.”
He kissed my forehead, as though I were a four-year-old with a temper tantrum.
I took a step back. “Don’t touch me!”
I’d spent an hour fixing my chestnut hair just right, reapplying my face powder—my poudre de riz—and choosing a lavender sequin dress that exposed my entire back. And this was what I got from my husband? A fraternal kiss? If he didn’t look at me now that I was twenty-eight years old, what would happen when I turned thirty?
“Let’s talk about this later,” Cristóbal muttered as more people turned to look. “When you’re calmer.”
“No. Let’s talk about it now.”
Cristóbal let out an exasperated sigh. “You’re being unreasonable, Puri.”
Unreasonable? I couldn’t even formulate a response. I would’ve probably insulted him if I did. I turned around and dashed out of the foyer, away from this man who had the power to infuriate me like no one else.
I climbed the ladder that led to the deck and darted forward without looking back. I didn’t want Cristóbal to see my tears. I took in quick breaths, cool air clashing against my cheeks and a crescent moon over my head. I gripped the taffrail at the end of the ship.
Unreasonable, he’d said.
The black waters smashed against the hull—the sea could be so intimidating. My breathing slowed as my eyes focused on the hypnotic waves.
I supposed I was being a little obstinate. Normally, I wasn’t this demanding with Cristóbal. In Sevilla, I had many friends to keep me entertained. I didn’t need his constant attention. But I had no one else here. I’d been lonely for a week already and I was nervous about what awaited us in Ecuador. I needed his reassurance that everything would be all right. Had I made a mistake by giving away everything we had to chase after a dream—my father’s dream?
If only Cristóbal and I weren’t so different. Whereas he could live the rest of his days in a blissful immersion of his books, I couldn’t sit still for more than five minutes. In the beginning of our marriage, I couldn’t stand the long afternoons cross-stitching or mending socks while listening to the ticking of the clock marking the slow hours until dinnertime. The walls in our apartment suffocated me. Chocolate had been my salvation. From a young age, my grandmother—whom I’d been named after—had taught me all there was to know about chocolate. From how to transform the hard cacao beans into a silky, smooth liquid to learning what ingredients to mix in order to create a variety of textures and flavors that could be both pleasurable and addictive.
It had been my idea to transform the old bookstore, which had belonged to Cristóbal’s father and grandfather, into a chocolate house. It was the most fashionable thing, it would bring some cachet to the neighborhood, I told him. And people would pay for my chocolate drinks and truffles. After all, chocolaterías were the fad in France—and my people wanted so much the prestige and status of the French.
Eventually, Cristóbal had acquiesced. But with time, he’d become less indulgent.
A warm breeze caressed the back of my neck.
Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe.
I brought my hands to my throat, where there was an unbearable pressure, and felt a coil of rope. I didn’t even have enough air to cry out.
“Shhh, María,” a man whispered into my ear, “it’s going to be over soon.”
Who was this? How did he know my first name? My flailing hands touched two fists holding on to the rope. The man’s hands were big and callused. Much larger than Cristóbal’s.
Cristóbal, help me!
No sound came out. I turned my head to one side. The man with the burn scars. The pain in my neck was excruciating. I couldn’t get enough air.
“Hey! What’s going on over there?”
I could’ve sworn it was Cristóbal’s voice. But maybe I was imagining things, wishing them.
My assailant’s weight shifted. I stuck my thumbs between the rope and my windpipe. The pressure released a bit, but not enough.
Someone was coming.
I raked the man’s shin with the heel of my shoe. The rope slowly released and I could finally take in some air. The rope fell to the ground. I gasped and coughed, catching a glimpse of the two men fighting behind me.
I spotted my husband’s brown suit. His spectacles were on the tip of his nose, about to come off. Cristóbal had his arm wrapped around the man’s neck, but my attacker squirmed until the two of them fell into a heap on the ground.
As much as I wanted to help Cristóbal, I couldn’t stop coughing.
The man with the burn came to his feet first and drew a knife from his boot. Cristóbal stood, arching his body forward. I’d never seen Cristóbal like this, I never thought he had it in him to fight anybody. He was the kind of person who didn’t think it was his place to decide over the life or death of an insect, much less another human being.
The man plunged the knife forward and sliced through Cristóbal’s jacket. Cristóbal brought a hand to the wound in his arm, blood squeezing through his fingers. With a furious yell, Cristóbal lunged toward my assailant and tackled him to the ground. The knife flew out of the man’s hand, but I couldn’t see where it landed.
With my neck stinging, I went on a mad search for the knife, but the only thing I found was my husband’s spectacles. A raspy sound finally managed to emerge from my throat.