She gripped my arm.
“I found something,” she said, “but I don’t know if it has anything to do with his disappearance.”
“What?”
She looked down the block before speaking. “Come.”
We walked a couple of blocks to her place, which had acquired a particular stench reminiscent of mud and moist grass. There seemed to be even more clutter than before, if such a thing were possible.
Soledad zigzagged toward a walnut chest of drawers. From the bottom one, she removed something—a black velvet pouch—and handed it to me. Inside a gold case was a pocket watch. The case, engraved with vines and flowers, was somewhat tarnished. I wound the watch and the hands started to move around a series of Roman numerals.
“Where did you find this?” I asked.
“Hidden under Franco’s mattress.”
“This looks expensive,” I said. “Like real gold.”
She nodded.
I turned it over. The brand was engraved on the back: Bolivar e Hijos, Guayaquil. 1911.
“How do you think your son got this?”
“I don’t know. I’d never seen it before yesterday.”
Could this have anything to do with that woman he was so in love with? Was this part of the payment for his services? Only a few people in this town had the kind of money to afford this watch.
“Do?a Soledad, was your son close to Catalina Lafont?”
“La Santa and my son? Oh, no, perhaps as children, but not lately. Since the accident, Catalina hadn’t come to see him once. The only times I see her in Vinces is for mass on Sundays and during the festivities. Why do you ask?”
“Did anybody else come to see him after the accident?”
“Just the workers from the plantation. Franco didn’t have many friends.”
“Any women ever come by?”
“Not that I saw.”
“Would you let me borrow this?” I asked. “I think I have an idea.”
She hesitated. Of course, she would doubt me, I was a stranger to her. I removed Cristóbal’s pocket watch, which was also valuable and newer, and handed it to her.
“I’ll leave you this in exchange. Please don’t think I’m trying to shortchange you. I believe this watch may help us figure out what happened to Franco.”
Soledad, whose hair had grown grayer and whose skin seemed more ashen in a matter of days, sat down.
“Take it,” she said. “You’re the only person in this rotten town who’s shown any interest in helping me anyway. If I weren’t so poor and weak, I would track my son down myself.”
CHAPTER 35
With the Fiestas de Vinces coming up, tracking the history of Franco’s watch wasn’t as easy as I’d originally thought it would be. I’d planned to go to Guayaquil with the excuse of visiting Aquilino. In reality, I would pay a visit to the watchmakers, Bolivar and Sons, but I had no luck finding transportation at this busy time of the year.
My sisters, who were warmer to me since I prepared them chocolate and fought the neighbor “to defend Angélica’s honor,” invited me to partake in the festivities. That evening, the two of them were to perform in a theater with other musicians and poets. Directly after, they were invited to an exclusive party for the landowners of the region, Los Gran Cacao, as Martin had called them. Angélica was mortified at the thought that Don Fernando del Río might attend. “If he has decency left, he won’t show his face in public. Not after the scandal he caused here.”
My sisters looked radiant tonight, particularly Angélica. She wore a navy tunic with a turquoise sash draped around her waistline, the garment Catalina had sewn for her. A blue velvet turban hugged Angélica’s skull. She was so fashionable!
Catalina, on the other hand, wore one of her customary black dresses, but this one was made out of the finest silk. Hard as she tried, she couldn’t hide her generous behind, which I later noticed became the focal point of many male glances across town. Her hair was pinned up and held together with a satin wrap fixed in a bow. She was a natural beauty and didn’t need all the enhancements that Angélica used. Some might even consider Catalina lovelier than her sister.
Laurent joined us after much grooming. He was impeccable, as usual, in a white suit and brand-new leather slippers which, he bragged, had been brought from the Real Paris especially for him. As he spoke, he smoothed the nearly imperceptible wrinkles in his pants.
I wore one of Cristóbal’s nicest outfits: a three-piece gray suit that would certainly stand out among the light linen suits men wore in the region. Angélica commented that I ought to visit the tailor so he could make me a new wardrobe that would be more weather-appropriate. I nodded agreeably, but no human power would send me to the tailor. I knew all about the heat—the summers in Sevilla could be dreadful, too. In fact, there were lighter fabrics in Cristóbal’s trunk, but how would I explain to Angélica that I required several layers of clothing to conceal my breasts?