Laurent pinned Martin’s arms back so he wouldn’t hit Del Río.
“Get out of here!” she told the neighbor. “I don’t want you on my property ever again!”
Martin jerked his arm free from Laurent’s grip.
Heaving, Del Río stood up straight and assessed every one of us for a moment. “?Malnacidos! ” He stormed out and continued swearing under his breath.
Martin came toward me, hands resting on his hips.
“Are you all right?”
I nodded, rubbing the side of my face.
“Come on.” He offered me his arm and pulled me up.
Angélica and Laurent gaped at me. I didn’t blame them. I didn’t know what had come over me, either. Only that the fight on the ship—the fight where Cristóbal had lost his life—propelled me to act like I should’ve done that fateful night. Why did it bother me so much to see that man choking Martin?
I followed Martin through the patio toward the back of the hacienda. I still couldn’t believe that idiot had punched me. Then again, he didn’t know I was a woman.
But Martin did.
“Where are we going?” I said.
“To my house. I have dressings and an iodine ointment for your bruise.” His voice softened as we drifted away from the hacienda. “You shouldn’t have attacked him.”
“He was choking you,” I said.
“I know how to defend myself.”
“Really?” I stopped and gave him my meanest look. That was how he thanked my efforts?
“I’m sorry. I’m just not used to anybody defending me.” He attempted a smile. “But thank you.”
*
As we entered Martin’s house, Mayra rushed to the entrance to kiss my hand.
“Don Cristóbal! What a pleasure to see you here! Thanks to you my baby will now have a roof over his head.”
“No, please. There’s no need for this,” I said, recovering my hand. “It’s Don Martin you have to thank.”
Martin inserted both hands inside his pockets.
With brimming eyes, Mayra promised the best bolón de verde I would ever taste. I glanced at her stomach. My nephew lived in there.
“It hasn’t been all roses in here,” Martin said as she rushed back to the kitchen. “Bachita hasn’t taken the new arrival so well. She says she can manage all the work herself and complains that Mayra doesn’t know how to do the simplest tasks.” As he talked, he pointed at the stairs. “Come on.”
I froze. Now that Martin knew I was a woman, he must surely understand that it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to go to his bedroom. My expression must have given my doubts away because he gave me a slight push on the back.
“Come on, you’re not going to act prim and skittish with me now, are you? I keep my bandages and ointments upstairs, that’s all.”
Hesitantly, I followed. He was right. After all the time we’d spent alone together, I couldn’t suddenly be bothered by the rules of decorum. I’d broken them a long time ago.
Peering at every detail of his house—from the ceramic vases to the portraits of severe men and women along the walls—I followed Martin up the stairs. I had an insatiable curiosity about him. I wanted to know how he lived, what he did when he wasn’t working, what his parents, his family, had been like.
We entered the first room in the hall.
“Have a seat.” He pointed at a den next to a set of windows overlooking the forest.
“What a view,” I said, admiring the turquoise sky, the lush vegetation. And then, a little farther down, a fragment of the river where I’d swum naked. Madre mía, he’d probably watched me from here.
“This used to be my parents’ room,” he said. “My mother always sat by this window, cross-stitching, and usually fell asleep while I played with my marbles by her feet. She had such a lulling presence.”
He approached a chest of drawers and removed a leather case. Inside were bandages and a round tin box with ointment.
“How old were you when she passed away?”
“Ten,” he said. “I remember she had this tic, this small twitch in her nose, especially when she was nervous, and she always dabbed some kind of rose-infused oil on her neck and wrists. Whenever I smell roses, I think of her.”
Poor Martin. At least I’d had my mother until I was a grown woman. I couldn’t imagine losing her at such a young age.
He crouched in front of me and without a warning, removed my spectacles.
“Such beautiful eyes you have,” he said in a soft voice. I was so surprised by his actions and words that I remained static in my seat without uttering a word.
He pointed at my fake facial hair. “May I?”
I nodded and he gently pulled the beard and mustache off.
“It’s a little irritated,” he said, staring at my chin. “And your cheek is already swollen. You’re going to get a bad bruise from that punch.”
The last thing I cared about at the moment was getting a bruise. I was mesmerized by his gentle touch, by having his attention. I’d never imagined him to be so kind. At the same time, I thought about my husband and how disloyal I was being by sharing this intimate moment with another man.
Martin opened the tin, filling the area with a sharp menthol scent, and with the tip of his finger rubbed the waxy texture into my face. I breathed in the peppermint and alcohol from his fingers and flinched.
“Sorry,” he said, rubbing softer. “You’re going to have to wait for this to dry before you put your beard back on.”
This was surreal. To think that Martin, the plantation administrator, who should have more allegiance to the family than to a stranger, like myself, was helping me out. Why was he doing this? I was somewhat dazed by his proximity, by his smell, by his body leaning over me, that I couldn’t think straight.
Nervously, I ran my tongue over my dry lips. He stared at my mouth for a few seconds.
“I have to say,” he said, holding my gaze, “you are much prettier as a woman than as a man.”
I tried to suppress a smile but didn’t succeed.
“Why are you helping me?” I asked.
“Because I like you.”