“That’s it!” he said. “Our Pepa de Oro.”
I’d never seen what a cacao pod looked like before. It was hard to believe that the dark, rich chocolate I prepared every day came from this strange-looking fruit, this so-called golden seed, as Paco had called it. He smiled with pride. I was just now realizing how important cacao was for Ecuadorians. I couldn’t believe I was here—I’d dreamt about it for so long. If only my father had brought me instead of having to arrive under these bizarre circumstances.
Little else was said as we navigated from one river to the other. The heat had rendered us mute. It was so stifling that I wondered how wise it had been to dress like a man. I couldn’t exactly remove my jacket like Aquilino did. Or undo my shirt, as Paco had done a long time ago. The only thing I could do was dry the sweat building over my forehead and neck with a handkerchief displaying Cristóbal’s initials.
*
Nobody was waiting for us at the port. Aquilino suggested we walk to the plaza to see if we could find the administrator. I offered Paco a handful of coins to watch my luggage on the deck—I couldn’t possibly haul the trunk around town as if it were a purse.
I’d heard that the city of Vinces was called Little Paris, but I had no idea how accurate the term was. The architecture was reminiscent of any European city with Baroque buildings in pastel colors. It even had a small version of the Eiffel Tower and a palace in turquoise with intricate white molding surrounding windows and balconies. There were shops with French names all around us: Le Chic Parisien, Bazaar Verdú, and people who walked around in the latest fashions I’d only seen in Madrid. My father must have felt right at home here.
“There he is.” Aquilino pointed ahead.
I could barely see through the fog in Cristóbal’s spectacles, but I recognized a car approaching us. I removed my spectacles and wiped them with the corner of my vest.
A man in his late twenties descended.
“Don Martin!” Aquilino raised his right arm to him.
I hastily put my glasses back on before the man could see my face up close. I’d expected my father’s plantation administrator to be much older, but this man seemed to be my age or maybe a little bit older. He was not handsome, at least not in the traditional sense. One of his eyelids drooped a little and his skin looked rough and uneven, as though the constant exposure to the sun had created layers upon layers of tanning that were now competing for supremacy on his face. But there was such a bright shine in his falcon eyes, I could only interpret it as aplomb.
“Good afternoon,” the man named Martin said in a husky voice. “I apologize for the delay. I meant to meet you at the port.”
Aquilino wiped the back of his neck with a handkerchief.
“Mr. Balboa, this is Don Armand’s administrator, Martin Sabater.”
Martin searched for something—or most likely, someone—behind my head. I extended my hand.
“Don Martin, meet Don Cristóbal de Balboa, Do?a Purificación’s husband,” Aquilino said.
Martin squared his brick shoulders and shook my hand, looking me straight in the eye. No one had ever shaken my hand so hard or looked at me so intently. As a woman, I was used to a soft kiss or a gentle squeeze of the hand. Men certainly didn’t hold a woman’s gaze for long, unless they were close or openly flirting. I made a conscious effort to tighten my grasp with equal force. The palm of his hand was a rock against my skin—maybe that was what the hands of all countrymen felt like. In comparison, Cristóbal had had the hands of a pianist: long and slender fingers, and as soft as a pair of velvet gloves.
I could feel my cheeks burning, uncertain of my disguise, but I held his gaze. I wouldn’t be the first one to look away. Something told me that the approval of this man was paramount. But after a quick assessment of my face, Martin finally let go of my hand, seemingly uninterested.
“Did Do?a Purificación stay at the port?” he asked.
“No.” Aquilino gestured toward the automobile. “I will explain in the car.”
The three of us entered a vehicle similar to Aquilino’s, but this was a touring car with two rows of shiny leather seats rather than one. The seat offered some relief to my sore backside after the stiff canoe ride.
We stopped by the deck, where Martin and Paco loaded our luggage. On our way to the hacienda, Aquilino told Martin that Do?a Purificación had perished on the ship. I tried to read something in Martin’s solemn expression, but it was impossible. He turned toward me and offered his condolences without asking any details of my “wife’s” passing. I couldn’t decide if this was a sign of discretion or indifference.
I remained as inconspicuous as possible. I didn’t want either one of them to examine my features too closely or ask me any questions. Like a mute, I listened to their sporadic chatting, which competed with the loud engine. They mentioned people I didn’t know, but I supposed would meet soon. Most of the conversation, however, pertained to the weather pattern in the last couple of days and how well the crops were doing. Martin turned to me and explained that they’d already started collecting the pods. I barely nodded, as though I had no interest in the subject, but in reality, I was eager to learn everything there was to know about the business.
At the end of the road hung a handwritten sign over a sturdy fence. Martin stopped the vehicle to open the gate. I couldn’t help but notice his assertive gait—the man radiated confidence. I lowered my head to read the sign through the windshield. Stunned, I read the name twice.
LA PURI.
My father had named his hacienda after me.