“Yes, let’s go,” I said now that Catalina had peeled her eyes off of me to greet an old woman who spoke to her with the same respect and adoration people reserve for priests and nuns.
La Santa.
I could see now, firsthand, how the town viewed her, how her loyal followers surrounded her.
Martin set his glass on a nearby table and, without another word, led the way toward the entrance, squeezing between arrogant guests and hectic waiters.
*
Though it was a warm night, it was a relief to be outside, away from the scrutiny of folks whose biggest preoccupation was their image and how they compared with others. I was both fascinated and repelled by this micro-society, this Paris in the tropics. I’d observed similar glances in my chocolate shop sometimes, but I never got involved. As the hostess, I had bigger concerns than what so-and-so was wearing or who was sitting with whom.
Martin said he needed a drink so the two of us walked to the cantina. Oddly enough, I’d grown more comfortable in this cheap bar filled with cheerful men and salacious women than surrounded by the wealthy.
“I didn’t realize there was so much money in this region,” I said, sitting in my usual spot and ordering my customary puro.
“Oh, yes,” Martin said, as if I’d opened up the most fascinating subject in the world. “Cacao completely changed the economy and politics of this country. It used to be that all the money and power was in Quito—with the traditional elite and the Church—but after the cacao boom a new oligarchy was born in Guayaquil and we finally have a say in national politics. The last few presidents have been liberal and have pushed for modernization and the separation of Church and State. Am I boring you?”
Martin leaned over the table, resting his arms on the flat surface while he watched me.
“Not at all,” I said.
He continued telling me about local politics and regionalism. He smiled often, but it was a guarded smile, one might even call it rehearsed. His voice was not as loud as it used to be nor was his laughter as boisterous. He was also careful with his language. Not a single curse word was voiced in my presence anymore.
It was driving me crazy.
I missed the old, unrestrained Martin, and I told him so. He sat back with an amused smile.
“All right, I’ll throw an hijo de puta here and there if it pleases you.”
I laughed.
“I was getting exhausted with having to watch everything I say or do anyway,” he said, and ordered two more puros.
When the prostitutes came, Martin told them we didn’t need their services tonight. I was grateful for being spared the sight of that woman sitting on Martin’s lap and kissing him. The two of them gave us a baffled look and hesitantly left. As they walked away, Carmela whispered something into her friend’s ear.
Martin and I talked for a long time. He wanted to know everything about my childhood in Spain, about the scarce memories of my father, about how my mother and I had survived all those years without a husband and a father. I told him my father used to send us money, plus my mother had a small inheritance from my grandfather, who’d been a merchant of fabrics. I also told Martin about my grandmother, María Purificación García, and how she’d invented a cacao roasting machine in 1847, which could also be used for coffee beans. He was extremely interested in this invention. He borrowed a fountain pen and ink from the barman and asked me to draw the contraption on a napkin.
“Where is it?” he said after I was done drawing and explaining how the roaster worked.
“I left it with my former assistant, La Cordobesa. It’s the only thing I have left in Spain.”
He said I should send for it “once this was all over.” That was the only time he mentioned my precarious situation.
After we’d finished an entire bottle of aguardiente, Martin wanted to know about my husband. I loosened my tie.
“My mother and Cristóbal’s mother were childhood friends. Ours was an arranged marriage.”
“Did you love him?”
“Of course I did, though I don’t think I was ever in love with him.” I nestled my drink, remembering. “I’d seen Cristóbal throughout the years, but was only properly introduced to him during a tea at his mother’s house after he had just graduated from the Universidad de Sevilla. I was only nineteen years old and he was the only person I’d ever known with a university title. I was impressed by his scholarly achievements, by his good looks, but I really didn’t have time to get to know him. From our sporadic encounters, I could tell he was a quiet and gentle man, and I liked that. I needed a stabilizing presence in those years when I was cross all the time and only wanted to find the next ship that would take me to see my father. But my mother would scream that I would only leave over her dead body, which is ironic because that’s exactly what happened,” I said, finishing my drink. “I’ve always thought that the reason she pushed my relationship with Cristóbal was to keep me in Spain.”