The Vineyard Page 13

  What if he suggested to Gorostiza’s sister that she put up half the money, become his partner?

  Are you out of your mind? Andrade would have yelled had he been there. You can’t take that risk, Mauro; don’t get involved in something you can’t afford. For the sake of your children, compadre, for their sakes I implore you to start off small, don’t hang yourself from the first tree you find.

  Stop urging caution, compadre, and listen, he silently rebuffed Andrade’s imaginary supplications. This might not be as crazy as it first appears. Something is troubling that Gorostiza woman; I could see it in her eyes last night. And yet she doesn’t appear desperate for the money. She simply wishes to conceal it from her husband, for reasons I prefer not to know. Doubtless she fears he will squander it or take it with him on his purported trip.

  But what if her brother Ernesto finds out? What if she confides in him? Andrade would have countered, to which Larrea also had an answer. She has nothing to gain from doing that. And if I’m mistaken, well, I’ll deal with him when the time comes: I believe he has more faith in me than in her. I can offer his sister a good return on her money without anyone in Havana finding out about it; I can keep it out of her husband’s clutches for good, invest it wisely. In short, I can look out for her interests in secret.

  As he mused on the arguments he would have used on his friend, Larrea continued listening to Calafat.

  “Look, Larrea, let me be frank with you. It won’t be long before this island of ours goes to the devil. Before that happens, I aim to start moving my business abroad. People here live under the happy illusion that we are, and always will be, champions of the New World until kingdom come, persuaded that our glorious sugarcane, tobacco, and coffee will supply us with riches for all eternity, amen. Only a handful of visionaries seem to understand what awaits the largest jewel in the Spanish crown. All her overseas colonies, with the exception of those in the Caribbean, have become independent; they are forging their own paths, and sooner rather than later we, too, will have to sever that umbilical cord. The question is how, and where will we go from there . . .”

  Inside Larrea’s head, mathematical calculations were still dancing. How much money do I have? How much do I owe? How much can I lay my hands on? Cuba’s future was of no concern to him at that instant. Even so, if only to appear polite, he feigned interest.

  “I see. I suppose the situation is comparable to Mexico before independence: the mother country demanding extortionate taxes, ruling with a rod of iron, subjecting everyone to laws that they dictate at their whim.”

  “Exactly. However, geographically, socially, and economically this island is far less complicated than Mexico. It’s really quite simple: we only have three possible options. And, to be honest, I’m not sure which of them is worst.”

  The investment, Don Julián. The refrigerated vessel: Stop digressing and talk to me about that, for God’s sake, However, Calafat clearly lacked the ability to read minds, and so, oblivious to the concerns of his new client, he continued his discourse on Cuba’s uncertain future.

  “The first, favored by the upper classes, is to maintain our ties with Spain ad infinitum while gaining greater self-rule and representation in the Spanish parliament. In fact, the wealthiest men on the island already spend a fortune buying influence in Madrid.”

  Once again, out of politeness, Larrea felt obliged to express an opinion.

  “But surely the rich would benefit most from independence; they’d no longer have to pay taxes or levies and would be able to trade more freely.”

  “No, my friend,” Calafat said firmly. “Independence would be the worst option for them, because it would mean the end of slavery. Not only would they lose their investments in the slave trade, but without the prodigious African manpower toiling from dawn to dusk on their plantations, their businesses would collapse within weeks. Do you see the irony? In a sense, by failing to pursue independence because of their slaves, they make slaves of themselves.”

  “Does no one want independence, then?”

  “Of course, but as one might want a utopia, a Platonic fantasy: an anti-slavery, liberal republic, secular if possible. A beautiful ideal espoused by patriotic dreamers in Masonic lodges, secret meetings, and clandestine publications. Alas, I fear we have neither the power nor the institutions to live freely. We would soon fall under the yoke of a fresh oppressor.”

  Larrea raised an eyebrow.

  “Why, the United States of America, my dear friend,” Calafat went on. “Cuba is their prime target outside the continent; they have had their sights trained on us for some time now. Presently, their plans are on hold due to their own civil war, but the moment they stop killing one another, united or not, they will turn their gaze on us once more. We are strategically placed off the coast of Florida and Louisiana; three-quarters of our sugar production travels north; over here they are admired and feel at home. In fact, several times they have offered to buy us from Spain. It vexes them immensely how many of the dollars they pay to sweeten their tea and biscuits end up in the coffers of the Bourbon kings in the form of taxes, if you follow me.”

  Those damned gringos again.

  “Perfectly, Señor Calafat. In other words, the dilemma for Cuba is whether to remain yoked to the avaricious mother country, or pass into the hands of those money-grabbers in the north.”

  “Unless the worst were to happen.”

  Calafat removed his slender gold-framed spectacles as if they were bothering him. He placed them carefully on the table, squinting at Larrea, then explained:

  “An uprising, my friend. A slave rebellion like the one in in Haiti at the turn of the century that led to their independence from France. That is the specter haunting the entire Caribbean: the fear that the Negroes will slaughter us.”

  Larrea nodded.

  “So, whichever way you look at it, we’re buggered,” said the Cuban, “if you’ll pardon the expression.”

  Larrea did not flinch at this use of the word but was shocked by the banker’s blunt depiction of the various possibilities.

  “And in the meantime,” Calafat went on with a hint of mockery, “here in the Pearl of the Antilles we continue to cavort in our luxurious ballrooms dancing contradanzas night after night, jaded by indolence, our love of posturing, and our blindness. This is what life on this island is like: reckless, morally bereft. There is always some reason, some pretext or other. We are simply a colony of frivolous, irresponsible people who think only about the present: no one here cares about giving their children a proper education, there is no such thing as a small enterprise, nearly all our merchants are from abroad, fortunes are rarely handed down to second generations but are squandered at the gaming tables. We are a vibrant, sociable, generous people—passionate, even—but our own insouciance will be our undoing.”

  Fascinating, reflected Larrea. A concise, intelligent portrait of the island. And now, Señor Calafat, please be so good as to get to the point.

  His silent plea was finally answered.

  “That’s why I’m suggesting you become a partner in this venture. Because you are Mexican—or Spanish-Mexican, as you described yourself. But that’s all the same to me. What matters is that your money comes from Mexico, our independent sister nation, which is where you plan on returning.”

  “Forgive my ignorance, but I fail to see the connection.”

  “Because, my friend, if I give you a helping hand now by making you my business partner, I feel sure you will return the favor should I need to expand into other territories if and when the situation over here deteriorates.”

  “If you’ll permit the observation, the current situation in Mexico isn’t propitious for any large investments.”

  “I’m perfectly aware of that. However, things are bound to settle down. And Mexico still has a wealth of untapped resources. These are my reasons for wanting you to join our enterprise. A favor f
or a favor, as the saying goes.”

  Decades of civil strife, the state coffers gathering cobwebs, bitter tensions with the European powers—this was the true landscape he had left behind in his adopted country. But he didn’t press the point. If the banker wished to envisage a bright future, why should he open the man’s eyes to his own detriment.

  “How long before we see any profit from these shipments of refrigerated meat?” he broke in, steering the conversation back to a more practical course. “Forgive my candor, but I’ve no idea how long I will be staying in Cuba, and I need this information to help me decide.”

  “Three months, possibly three and a half, before we receive the first shipment, depending on the sea. Otherwise everything is in place: the equipment, the necessary licenses . . .”

  Three to three and a half months. Almost exactly the time he had left to pay the first installment on his debt. An image flashed into his mind of the miserly consumptive Tadeo Carrús praying to the Virgin of Guadalupe to let him live long enough to see Larrea’s downfall. Of Tadeo’s maimed son, Dimas, counting the number of balconies on his house in the dead of night. And of Nico, drifting around Europe, or possibly homeward bound.

  “And what sort of profits are we talking about, Don Julián?”

  “Approximately five times our original investment.”

  He was about to roar, Count me in, old man. This could prove to be his salvation, for the idea sounded promising and authentic, like Calafat himself. And the timing was perfect: he could take the money and return to Mexico. Numbers and dates danced about incessantly in his head even as he heard his agent’s voice booming at him from afar. Bribe a customs official for information about a shipment, or start dealing in contraband if you have to—we’ve done worse things in our time, cheating like devils to obtain the quicksilver for our mines. But don’t drag a woman you hardly know into this venture behind her husband’s back, you fool. For the love of God, don’t play with fire.

  “How soon do you need an answer?”

  “In forty-eight hours, I’m afraid. Two of my associates will be sailing for Buenos Aires then, and everything has to be decided before their departure.”

  Larrea rose to his feet, struggling to stifle the clamor of numbers and voices inside his head.

  “I’ll let you know as soon as possible.”

  Calafat extended his hand.

  “I shall be waiting, my dear friend.”

  Hush, Andrade, damn it! Larrea yelled at his conscience as he stepped out again into the heat, squinting from the harsh noonday light. He took a deep breath and could detect the trace of iodine from the sea. Shut up, brother, and let me think.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Mauro Larrea continued making calculations while being fitted for the two beige linen suits and four cotton shirts he had ordered. The Italian tailor, Porcio, to whom Calafat had sent him was as skilled with a needle as he was endlessly loquacious in discussing the island’s fashions. As he took precise arm, leg, and shoulder measurements, he elaborated in a singsong voice on the vast differences between the Cubans’ way of dressing, with their lighter fabrics, brighter colors, and looser fits, and that of the peninsular Spaniards, who, despite traveling back and forth to their last great colony, were wedded to their broad-lapelled frock coats and thick Castilian cloth.

  “And to top it off, sir, I would suggest a pair of Panama hats.”

  Over my dead body, Larrea muttered under his breath. He had no intention of trying to pass for an islander but rather to ward off as best he could that sweltering heat while his fate became clearer. However, for the sake of his own well-being, he relented somewhat, finally swapping his staid, narrow-brimmed European felted hat for a lighter, floppier version with a shallower crown and a brim wide enough to protect him from the midday sun.

  Having accomplished this task, he devoted himself to reflection and observation. He continued to analyze Calafat’s offer as he scrutinized his surroundings, paying particular attention to any stores he came across to see what was being sold and bought in Havana, how transactions took place, where the money was, where he might find the refuge of an affordable business. He had already learned that copper mining wasn’t an option, since large American companies had bought up the few unproductive mines that still existed after the Spanish crown had relaxed the regulations thirty years earlier. He had also discovered that Cuba’s principal source of trade was sugar. The white gold, as it was known, moved millions: vast sugarcane plantations, hundreds of mills, and more than 90 percent of production continually leaving Cuba’s ports for overseas consumption, only to return in the form of vast revenues in dollars, pounds sterling, and duros. The output of coffee plantations and abundant tobacco plantations came a close second. The result was the creation of an extremely wealthy upper class of Creoles who, although they complained bitterly about the excessive taxes exacted by Spain, never seriously entertained thoughts of independence. And the necessary driving force generating this torrent of wealth was the tens of thousands of slaves toiling from dawn until dusk.

  Larrea’s wanderings took him past the old city’s wall through the Montserrate gate to the more modern, spacious part of the city. Following the shade cast by the trees in the Parque Central, and the rumbling of his stomach, he arrived at the entrance to a café called El Louvre, where marble-topped tables and cane chairs had been set out for lunch. He sat down at a table vacated by three uniformed officers and signaled to the waiter that he would start off with the same drink that he had just set down before a foreign couple at a nearby table, something refreshing to help combat the oppressive heat.

  “One mamey juice in no time at all, Señor,” said the young mulatto.

  In the meantime Larrea kept thinking, thinking, thinking.

  “Will you be ordering any food, Señor?” asked the waiter, seeing him drain his glass in two gulps.

  Why not? he thought.

  As he sipped his drink while waiting for his spicy chicken stew to arrive, accompanied by two glasses of claret, he continued to ruminate. About Calafat’s proposal. About Carola Gorostiza. About how alien to him all these agricultural businesses such as sugarcane, tobacco, and coffee were, not to mention the added vexation they entailed in having to wait for the natural cycle of the harvest.

  As the city began sinking into its afternoon torpor, he remained racked by doubts and decided to return to the guesthouse.

  “Just a moment, Señor Larrea,” the proprietress called out when she heard him reach the shady upstairs balcony.

  His fellow guests were dozing contentedly in hammocks or rocking chairs, shielded from the sun by white cotton drapes. He had dined with them the night he arrived: a Catalan salesman of stationery products, a burly American who polished off a pitcher of Portuguese red wine all by himself, a wealthy businessman from Santiago de Cuba who was passing through the capital, and a plump Dutch lady whom no one could understand and whose reasons for being on the island were a mystery to all.

  Doña Caridad intercepted him before he could reach his room. A mature, rather buxom woman with black hair peppered with gray, dressed in white from head to foot like most females in Havana, with the air of a woman accustomed to carrying herself with self-assurance, despite her noticeable limp. Larrea had been told she had been the lover of a surgeon-general in the Spanish army. Upon his death, in lieu of a widow’s pension, she had inherited this house, much to the annoyance of his legitimate family in Madrid.

  “This arrived for you before lunch,” she said, handing him a sealed envelope. The front bore his name; the back was blank.

  “A coachman handed it to one of my mulattas. That’s all I can tell you.”

  Feigning indifference, he slipped the letter into his pocket.

  “Will you be taking coffee with the other guests, Don Mauro?”

  He made up some feeble excuse, eager to read the letter.

  No sooner h
ad he entered his room than his intuitions were confirmed. Carola Gorostiza had written to him again, enclosing a ticket to the Teatro Tacón for a play that very evening: La hija de las flores o Todos están locos by Gertrudis Gómez de Avellaneda. I hope you like romantic drama, she wrote. Enjoy the performance. I will come and find you in due course.

  In fact, he neither liked nor disliked romantic drama, and wasn’t even curious to see the Teatro Tacón. Generally hailed as magnificent, it was named after a former captain general in the Spanish army, a veteran of the Battle of Ayacucho whose memory survived in the Antilles three decades after he was deposed.

  “Are you attending another ball at El Cerro, Señor Larrea?”

  The question rang out behind him a few hours later, after nightfall, when the first candles had been lit on the balcony, and the scent of freshly watered plants filled the courtyard. How on earth does this good lady know all about my comings and goings? he thought as he swung around. But before he had a chance to reply to Doña Caridad, she herself, after casting a slow, approving eye over him, furnished a response.

  “In Havana, my dear Don Mauro, everyone knows everyone else’s business. Especially where an elegant gentleman of substance such as yourself is concerned.”

  He was freshly bathed and dressed once again in his frock coat. His hair was still damp and his skin smelled of soap. Mind your own business, Señora, and leave me in peace, he wanted to tell the proprietress, but it would have jarred with his appearance, and besides, he sensed that she might make a good ally should he ever need one.

  “Alas, this elegant gentleman of substance, as you refer to him, regrets to inform you that he isn’t going to a ball tonight.”

  “Where, then, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “To the Teatro Tacón.”

  She took a few steps forward, dragging her leg unself-consciously.