Jack and Paul, dressed for the evening in clean but threadbare attire, sat on the sweeping veranda of the Casa, more interested in the beauty of the Spanish and Creole ladies than the venerable history of the House of Trade. The ladies had a way of either ignoring you or looking through you with measured indifference, Jack felt. He waved and winked but drew only hostile stares from the women's chaperones. It mattered not; the dark-eyed beauties were unattainable dream creatures. Jack and Paul enjoyed just basking in their presence.
Jack was relaxed conversing in Spanishâeven in translating for Paul. He saw that his mother was watching a group of people at the end of the room. A large man stood with his arms spread, enfolding two men of smaller stature. As if sensing he was being spied upon, the figure raised his head and turned slowly. It was the count, who was difficult to miss, as he was an inordinately tall man and again dressed as if to attend a king. A pale cerulean blue waistcoat and tights, red leggings, and black shiny ankle-high boots. The overall effect seemed overpowering and in slightly bad taste; the blue being too young for this fifty-year-old and the leggings and the cravat overly dramatic. His eyes stayed hooded as he drifted back to conversation.
Jack's mother held tightly to her husband's arm as they nodded their way across the vast room. Upon seeing them approach, the count excused himself from the group and made his way toward the couple, who looked a bit lost and intimidated by their new elegant surroundings.
De Silva stopped them, exchanging pleasantries in English with Ethan.
Jack was put off by his superior manner and elegant clothing. He's similar to the elders of Hamden, he thought, seeming to think of himself as handsome with his slicked down mustache. But he smelled of cheap cologne and perspiration. Jack sensed he must keep close track of this man.
The count seemed distressed, unconsciously wringing his hands. He turned to Pilar and said, “Señora, may I speak briefly of our situation?” Without waiting for a reply, he plunged ahead. “I'm sorry to speak of this on so early an occasion. But I feel I must put things right.” Here he paused for help, his eyes flitting quickly around the room.
“I understand you received a letter from an old friend, about the progress of the cane fields.” The man was truly uncomfortable. “That is to say, of course, she is free to say what she wants, and to you especially so because of your childhood relationship. But what I am trying to say, Señoraâ”
“My God, man, it's all right. I'm sure my wife understands that people exaggerate,” Ethan interrupted. “I didn't mean to upset you when I mentioned Dolores's letter. Pilar was so happy to hear from her, and hopes to see her again very soon. That is all.” Ethan turned to his wife. “Would you like a cool drink, dear?”
“Yes, Ethan, and be so kind to get our host one also.” Pilar kept her eyes on the count. Jack watched as his father crossed the room toward the buffet.
“¿Que dijiste?” she asked in quiet Spanish.
“Dios mÃo, señora,” de Silva said. “Your friend has overstated the harvest of the cane. She has no knowledge of our business. It is my understanding that she congratulated you on the success of the farm . . .” The count paused. “Do you feel you have been lied to about the harvest?” He proceeded without waiting for a reply. “I assure you, it's just as stated in our many letters to you. There can be no profit from immature fields, and that is the situation at present.” The count turned away slightly.
Jack could not make out the rest of his words, but de Silva's
repeated glances around the room were so patently helpless that he almost felt sorry for the man. A silence deepened between the count and Pilar. He bowed his head and stepped away, gracefully pulling a small dagger from its scabbard on his belt. Jack's entire body tensed but Paul calmed him with a surreptitious pat on the shoulder. With a smile at Pilar, the count moved the blade slowly to catch the light and waited just a moment before striking his crystal glass. The sound drifted throughout the room.
“Señores y señoras, please, your attention.”
The crowd immediately stilled.
“As you know, this is a momentous evening. We are gathered to welcome our newest emigrants from the Estados Unidos de America. May I please present Señor y Señora Ethan and Pilar O'Reilly, and their son, Jackson.” The count strolled to the center of the ballroom with a sweeping gesture, engulfing Pilar and Ethan in his outspread arms. People applauded and shouted heartfelt greetings, and the small band started a march. Jack watched as the charismatic figure charmed the crowd. Yes, the count was definitely a man to be watched, he thought.
“Supper is now served!” the count proclaimed above the festivities. “Let us eat, drink, and think not of tomorrow, for the man who does has lost the moment!”
The crowd drifted toward the dining room and seemed delighted by the count, whose energy embodied the ambience of the party. The faint scent of flowers grew stronger as Jack entered the ornamented room. Each wall panel inlaid with a mirror stretched clear to the ceiling. A chandelier fully eight feet across holding several hundred candles danced their light off the mirrors. Each bay held a stand of flowers guarded by a black servant ready to attend to this gay crowd.
Jack and Paul were shown to their chairs across the table from Jack's parents. Sitting next to Pilar was an olive-complexioned, raven-haired young woman who immediately caught the eye of the young men. The count took his place at the head of the table, the beautiful woman to his right.
In his best sotto voce Spanish, Jack exclaimed, “¡Santa MarÃa! ¡Qué pinta trae la niña!” ending with a low laugh.
“In my limited knowledge of Spanish, I would say that you spoke of the God-like qualities of yonder fair maiden,” Paul said, sneaking a look at their victim across the table. “But I wonder if you know truly of what you speak?”
“No, I know not of what I speak, but I would like to,” Jack said with a grin.
“These are universal thoughts you are thinking, my young friend. But I was wondering if you were aware of the reference in your elegant quote to the highly regarded explorer and discoverer of our homeland, Christopher Columbus?”
“You speak of exploring in the New Land?” Jack asked. “This I could understand. You're aware of the roundness of the earth, of globes dancing in the heavens, of valleys of delight, yes. I can see what you meanâshe is a delightful bocadito.”
“Little mouthful, yesâI seeâbut, noâwhat I meant was that âSanta MarÃa' means Holy Mary. The âpinta' means the fine look of, and the âniña' I suppose means young girl?” He thought for a moment. “Or I suppose it could describe various objects on a person's body orâwell, never mind. I can see that you're smitten and in no mood for philosophizing.”
When Jack's attention was finally diverted from the beauty by his mother's melancholy face, he silently mouthed to her, “are you all right?”
Pilar nodded a hesitant yes.
The attendants cleared the appetizers from the table and served a steaming soup of conejo en salsa sabrosa. The party seemed to be progressing well, the guests savoring the splendid food. The rabbit soup was taken from the table and replaced with succulent roast pig. Portions were large, and the juice flowed over the sides of the delicate china plates.
The count again tapped against a wine glass to gain the attention of the guests. Rising, he proclaimed, “I would like to propose
a toast not only to our new friendsâand old ones alikeâbut also to the king, Habana, Cuba, and to the glorious Caribbean!”
There were choruses of “hear hears” and murmured “amens.” They all hoisted their glasses and drank, except Pilar, who brought her glass to her lips but, Jack noticed, didn't swallow.
“To the economy of this powerful country that has increased threefold in the last ten years!” the count shouted. The guests tipped their glasses once again and, emptying them, had them refilled. “And to our good fortune in acquiring foreign workers, without whom our abundant cane fields would lie fallow.” Again, an outbreak of agreement and lifted glasses.
Paul, upper lip quivering, fixed his gaze on the plate before him. Jack could see trouble brewing. Paul waited for the noise to abate, then turned to the count, speaking in a steady, cultured voice.
“Excuse me, sir. May I commend you for your eloquence and panache? However, I am baffled.”
The count sat, his attention drifting to Paul. “You don't look baffled, you look lost and unsure. Relax, young sir. Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we die.”
Paul put both hands on his glass of wine, “Ecclesiastes and Isaiah.”
The count took this in. “The Bible is many things, young sir. Poetry, prose, fables, truths, untruths, and more. One's perception of it is sometimes faulty.”
“Yes, sir, but hope springs eternal in the human breast.” Paul took a deep breath.
“Meaning?”
“That I am always optimistic about the human condition, sir.”
“Go on.”
“That when the English poet Alexander Pope wrote that passage, I am sure he meant many things. I mean, sir, that in the context of your toast I would hope that a learned man such as yourself would speak the truth.”
A muscle pulsed in the count's jaw as he smiled, revealing to Jack a concerted effort on the dandy's part to hold his anger in
check. Jack could see the count was unaccustomed at being spoken to so directlyâespecially by one so young.
He could also see that Paul was determined to engage this egotist in a debate. Jack was vaguely aware that Paul was in trouble, but smitten as he was by the Latin beauty across from him, gave only a desultory kick to Paul's shins when he felt he was being too brave.
“You speak of the truth as if it were your own special province.” The count, although still amused, seemed intent and much on guard. “I would say this to you, niño: you are too young to speak so frankly to me. But I am a man of patience and if you think I speak not the truth, I would only say I disapprove of what you think. But I would defend to the death your right to think it.”
The large party was slowly becoming aware of the contretemps starting toward the head of the table. Polite talk continued but people began ignoring their partners, intrigued by the match between the count and the upstart youngster.
“I don't understand, sir.” Paul, sitting a little taller, squeezed Jack's leg to get him to listen.
“A French writer whose name I have forgotten and is of little import,” the count smiled wickedly, “explained that he would defend to the death the people's right to think as they please. To be more specific, you may think as you please, young sir. And I would defend it.” The count gained some in volume and, looking around him, proceeded to put a cap on the conversation. He cupped his hands to his mouth as if to whisper, “but keep it to yourself.”
The crowd laughed and applauded gently, seeming to relax.
Pilar's untouched food was whisked away and replaced by fried plantain and dark rich coffee. Jack caught her staring dismally at her dessert.
When the dinner was finished, the men adjourned to the candlelit garden to smoke their cigars.
“I am surprised, sir.” Paul walked up to the count with Jack.
De Silva turned to confront this annoying youngster. “Is this a bee
I see before me? Is this a wasp continuing to buzz? Surprised? I would think one so versed in the ways of life would be beyond surprise.”
The men gathered in the garden, savoring the prospect of the upcoming exchange.
“No, sir, I'm always surprised when learned men misquote to serve their own purposes. For you to dismiss Voltaire as âof little import' is no mean surprise; but most shockingly, you incorrectly paraphrased one of the great men of letters. Voltaire wrote that he disagreed with what someone else had written. Not thought. But would defend his right to write it.”
Jack moved next to him, grinning benignly.
“Quite a difference, wouldn't you say?” Paul continued. The count nodded imperceptibly, not in agreement, but more as if making a decision about someone's fate. Pausing only briefly, Paul continued.
“If I've embarrassed you, sir, please forgive me. But getting back to my original question. I'm baffled at why you would use the term âforeign workers' toiling this land when in fact it is a euphemism for slavesâpure and simple.”
The count stood calmly, fingering a small pendant hanging around his neck. There was a stirring; most of the men looked as if they would like to thrash Paul and could have done so quite easily. One of the count's compadres moved swiftly in front of the young man.
“Your impudence, young man, is exceeded only by your tattered clothing,” the count said. “If you were just a bit older and larger, I'd cut an epitaph in your chest and send you home to your mamá.”
Paul seemed unperturbed, but Jack knew his friend was trapped. He could see Paul wanted to engage this man in a debate about which he felt deeply, but had succeeded only in making those around the count angry with him, to say nothing of the count himself. The fact that de Silva had misquoted a great author seemed of little consequence. Jack thought any further confrontation at this
point might endanger his family's relationship to the count. Maybe it was time to repair relations and call it an evening.