Just thinking about Cristóbal brought an enormous lump to my throat. How could I ever move forward when everything reminded me of him?
I lowered my head to hide my tears.
I missed his company, his eagerness to please me, his sympathetic ear （when he was listening）。 Strange how self-sufficient men were. It was both an advantage and a disadvantage. In my case, a clear disadvantage as both of these men had looked at me as though I was less of a person when I struggled to keep my balance aboard and carry my luggage into the canoe at the same time.
Aquilino rested the side of his hand on his forehead and looked at the flock of seagulls passing by. He was sitting across from me, his legs crossed awkwardly and his long, skinny arm busily swatting mosquitoes every few minutes.
The young man taking us to Vinces couldn’t have been older than seventeen. He said his name was Paco as he pushed my trunk to the back of the canoe. I supposed I should have been grateful for his help even though I sensed it had more to do with his own comfort than mine. He wore a white shirt soaked with sweat. I wondered why he even bothered wearing it as the fabric had become nearly transparent. As he rowed vigorously, two wet circles—as round and as dark as two pans—grew under his armpits. The skin on his face was hepatitis pale and his short, curly hair covered his head like moss.
“We’ll go up the river,” Aquilino said, pointing north. “That’s where all the cacao plantations are. We call our cacao Arriba because of its location in relation to this river.”
My father had mentioned this fact to my mother in the letters he’d sent when he first arrived. But that was when she still read his letters. After a few years, she stopped opening them and simply buried them inside a wicker basket until they turned yellow. I only read them after she passed away, though I’d been dying to open them all along.
“Our cacao is one of the best in the world,” the lawyer said matter-of-factly.
“Yes, I’ve heard.” It was becoming easier to speak in a lower tone. My voice had never been as high as other women’s. My assistant at the chocolate shop, La Cordobesa, would never have been able to pull this off since she was so fond of screeching.
Paco didn’t look at me once, which told me my disguise had fooled him. This fact was confirmed when he scratched his crotch enthusiastically.
From what the two of them explained, we were to navigate from river to river until we reached the Río Vinces. The Guayas River was the longest, they said. Brown and vast, it was surrounded by abundant vegetation. I thought of the yellow plains and olive trees in my native Andalucía. How different these two landscapes were. Here, the trees along the river stretched out from the earth as if yawning. They carried luscious leaves that spread indiscriminately.
“Once we reach Vinces,” Aquilino said, “we’ll meet Don Armand’s administrator. He’ll take us to the plantation.”
Paco pointed at a tree filled with yellow oval-sized fruits hanging around its thick trunk.
“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.