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.”
“You’re welcome to it.”
I refrained from turning toward my father’s desk as I crept to the door. Angélica waited for me by the threshold, her hand on the knob. As soon as I walked out, she shut the door.
CHAPTER 17
Today I was going to prove my manhood to Don Martin.
I’d run into him in the morning after breakfast while taking a walk by the plantation. He’d disposed of his usual jacket and tie and had his shirt rolled up all the way to his elbows and long rubber boots over his pants.
“Want to come fishing?” he said.
“Right now?” I asked.
“It’s what Sundays are for.”
“Not church?” I said.
“This is my church,” he said, pointing at the vegetation around us.
I couldn’t say I disagreed. I accepted his invitation, mostly out of a desire to find out from him who was the mysterious woman dating Franco. I had a feeling that Martin knew a lot more than he let on about the foreman’s son.
I wished I’d declined the offer to go fishing, though.
When Martin handed me a tin box and told me to collect worms for bait with my bare hands, I thought I would retch.
I’d always been squeamish but it was apparent that “other men” didn’t feel this way. Martin had no qualms about digging into the soil by our feet and pulling out those wiggling creatures.
I stood in the middle of the field, paralyzed. Perhaps this was what Cristóbal had meant when he said we were city people. He was right about that. First, it had been the stubborn mare, then the snake, today worms. What tomorrow?
“Well, what are you waiting for?” he said.
I wanted to tell him that I couldn’t touch a worm even if he paid me, but two things stopped me: my pride and the fear of being discovered.
I reached inside the mud and shut my eyes as I felt a squirmy worm between my thumb and index finger. I pulled it out, shivering and doing my best to ignore the nausea building up inside my throat. I dropped the thing immediately inside the tin box.
“You look like you’ve never touched a worm before,” Martin said.