Incomplete.
We stopped at a light blue house with a mahogany door and entered. In all likelihood, Aquilino was a bachelor; there was not a single feminine touch in his parlor. No flowers, no porcelain objects, no embroidered linen. Instead, stale landscapes hung on the walls and the life-size sculpture of a Great Dane stared back at me.
A door on the far side of the parlor opened and a girl with cinnamon curls entered, drying her hands on a lime apron. Her dress so loose it swallowed her.
“Lunch is served, patrón,” she said with a soft voice.
“Gracias, Mayra.”
The table in the dining room was much too large for just one person. My eyes set on the colorful dishes awaiting us. The girl called Mayra had prepared us fried sea bass, rice with calamari, and plantains—which they both called patacones.
In the last week, I’d skipped several meals—I couldn’t eat after the nightmare I went through on the Andes—but today, I was ravenous.
Aquilino gestured for me to sit down and he took the spot at the head of the table while Mayra served us. Although I was curious about Aquilino, I didn’t ask him anything. I feared that if I spoke too much, he would discover my secret. So, I said as little as possible, answering the maid with single syllables, nodding often, and shaking my head when appropriate. This seemed to suit Aquilino just fine. Like my husband, he said very little. I’d also gotten into the habit of coughing frequently to make my voice hoarse.
“Are you all right, Mr. Balboa?”
Great. The lawyer was going to think I’d contracted influenza as well.
“Yes.”
I returned my attention to my plate. It was odd but impersonating a man was giving me a freedom I’d never had before. As a woman and the owner of the only chocolate shop in my hometown, I’d always been a tireless hostess. It had always been my job to make my guests feel at ease, to be the peacemaker if there was a disagreement. I often anticipated everyone’s wishes （More wine? Another piece of chocolate?） and avoided uncomfortable silences. But today, I was free to enjoy my food without looking over my shoulder to make sure everyone’s plates were full.
“Just wait until you try Mayra’s dulce de higos,” he said. “She picks them from the backyard tree.”
Mayra set a bowl in front of me. My mouth watered at the sight of fig preserves swimming in syrup. A slice of white cheese rested on the saucer.
“What is this syrup?” I asked, savoring the spicy, cinnamon-tasting juice.
“Panela,” Mayra said.
If I could find a way to mix this with chocolate, I’d have a winner.
After devouring the dessert, Aquilino guided me toward the parlor, pointed at a stiff velvet couch, and sat across from me. He picked up the cigar box and offered me one. I hesitated. I’d always been curious about this mysterious male habit, but I wasn’t sure I could deliver a proper exhalation. Cristóbal sometimes produced immaculate, blue circles, a source of ultimate pride for him.
At my hesitation, Aquilino’s bushy eyebrows arched. Smoking was a sign of a true man, and I must pass the test. I glanced at the Great Dane by the entrance—even he seemed to be waiting for my reaction. I took a thick cigar between my fingers, mimicking Aquilino’s resolve as he tightened his lips around it, and lit it.
The first inhalation hit my chest like a flame. Aquilino gave me the sort of look one might reserve for a curious insect as I coughed incessantly and hit my chest with my hand a few times, attempting to free the inferno from my body.
“You don’t smoke, Mr. Balboa?”
“Only pipe,” I gasped. “In my country, the tobacco is more pure.” Whatever that meant. I’d heard men speak about the quality of tobacco and its purity, but to me, all of them stank in the same way.
Aquilino lit his own cigar. He had no problems inhaling or exhaling.
“I must ask you, sir,” he said, his voice carrying the same solemn tone of a priest. “What are your plans now that your wife, que en paz descanse, is no longer with us?”
I had to tread carefully. I couldn’t come across as a threat to anyone.
“I will probably return to Spain. I have no interest in either the country or the cacao business. To be quite honest, this was my wife’s dream—not mine.” The burn in my throat had given my voice a natural coarseness that I decided to use to my advantage. “I must ask you, Se?or Aquilino, are there any other heirs?”
“Just two. Don Armand had two daughters in Vinces: Angélica and Catalina de Lafont.”