by Mills, Lisa
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Isabel leaned back and quietly expelled the breath she’d been holding, feeling as if she could breathe for the first time in an hour. The words had swept her into another time and place, full of danger and intrigue and life-or-death struggles the likes of which she had never experienced. The journal was more spectacular than she could have imagined, the entries full of raw emotions and the setting vivid with harsh realities and cruel fates.
She ran her finger along a line of script. This man, Rodrigo Velasquez, was her ancestor. She’d come to Caracas seeking information about the Venezuelan side of her heritage, who she was, where she’d come from. The answers lay before her, written in the careful handwriting of the man who’d begun it all, the story of how her people came to live in this part of the world. The entries offered her a poignant glimpse into his life … and his heart.
She looked at the clock with a woeful eye. Suddenly she wanted to translate all night, but her classes would start early the next morning and she had yet to tackle her homework assignments. Reluctantly, she returned the journal to its case and packed her bag. “Tomorrow, Rodrigo Velasquez, we will meet again.”
Two
I have to focus. Taking university-level classes in Spanish is hard enough without distractions. Isabel glanced at the clock and willed the last five minutes of class to pass quickly.
Since translating the first journal entry, she’d been able to think about little else. This was why she’d come to Venezuela, to learn about her heritage and maybe discover herself in the process. Who she was. Where she belonged.
The moment the professor dismissed them, she started the long trek to the library. Central University accommodated nearly 70,000 students on its expansive campus. As she hiked across the substantial grounds, she felt like a pack animal weighted down by all the books in her backpack. She ignored her aching shoulders and continued on, beckoned by the mysteries waiting to be uncovered in the journal.
In contrast to the tropical heat outside, the interior of the library felt cool and comfortable. Isabel shuffled into the elevator that would carry her to the floor bearing the reference books she needed. When the doors opened, the librarian on that level greeted her with a smile.
“Isabel, cómo estás?”
“Muy bien,” Isabel answered. “May I have my books?”
When Isabel had explained she would be using the reference books on a daily basis, the woman had graciously agreed to keep them near the reference desk for the duration of her project. Isabel retrieved the heavy tomes and hurried to a quiet corner of the room, unable to contain her curiosity. Now familiar with some of the older phrasing, she translated more quickly than she had the night before.
June 6th, 1505
I returned to the hut today, unsure if I would find her there. Nevertheless, I carried with me a blanket, rations of dried meat, and a small loaf of bread—items intended to make her more comfortable if she chose to remain in my care. I felt both surprise and relief to find her sitting in the center of the hut when I stepped into the doorway. My sudden presence startled her, and she moved warily toward the corner, eyeing me with fear.
I smiled and said hello, but my good humor did not alleviate her apprehension. Her dark, watchful eyes remained fixed on me, her body tensed as if preparing to flee at the first sign of danger. I knelt in the doorway, hoping to appear less threatening by lowering myself to her level. Moving slowly, I extended my arms, offering her the gifts I’d brought. She glanced at the package but refused to move toward me to accept it. Sighing, I set it on the floor and went to forage for more fruit in the surrounding trees. I could not be sure when I would return, and I wanted to ensure an ample food supply for her. Though I knew she could retrieve the fruit herself—perhaps with more skill than I—doing it for her gave me pleasure.
When I returned, she sat with the blanket in her lap, examining the meat and bread I’d brought. As my shadow fell across the doorway, she glanced up, her eyes focusing for a moment on the fruit I held in my hands. Her gaze rose to meet mine, and I saw the questions in her eyes. Why? Why was I doing all of this for her? Why had I not abused her as the other men surely had?
I offered her no answers. I could not put into words the forces that drove me to act as I did. Even if I could, she would not understand me, for only a few Indians have learned enough Spanish to communicate.
I set the fruit near the door and bade her farewell with a smile.
June 7th, 1505
I worked long and hard today, and if I had adhered to my logical nature, I would not have made the arduous trek to the hut. Yet my feet had a will of their own, and I found I could not resist the urge to see her.
My arrival was met with less apprehension than before. She must have heard my approach, because as I neared the hut, she appeared in the doorway. Her expression did not hold fear as before, nor did she welcome me. Her steady, probing gaze suggested I was a curiosity to her, a puzzling specimen she struggled to understand.
Moving slowly, I drew near, stopping only a few feet away from her. When she did not startle or protest, I felt a sense of accomplishment, though I don’t know why it mattered so much. I offered her the gifts I’d brought: a small knife for cutting fruit or fish, and a basket, woven from the branches of the palms growing in abundance on the island. On a whim, I’d stopped to pick a few tropical flowers from the trees and vines along the path to her hut, so the basket spilled over with fragrant and colorful blossoms.
The gift seemed to please her, though I cannot say how I knew this. She does not smile or show emotion in the way of other women I’ve known. But I do not expect her to react to me as to an old friend. We are strangers, brought together by nightmarish circumstances.
Tired from the long day, I decided to rest a spell before I returned to the navy’s base. I walked to a fallen palm a few yards away and sat upon its trunk, enjoying the moment of respite at the end of a busy day. She watched me for several minutes before disappearing into the hut with her basket. I read the action as a dismissal, but soon she emerged and came to stand before me. I smiled and patted the log, inviting her to sit. Her gaze followed my hand then returned to my face. She made no move to join me.
Her silent refusal to take orders amused me, and I laughed. The sober look in her doe-like eyes softened, and the corners of her full lips turned up ever so slightly. Deciding the time had come for introductions, I placed my hand against my breast and pronounced my name with deliberation. “Rodrigo,” I told her. I repeated my name several times, but she did not acknowledge my attempt to communicate. She stared for a long moment then turned toward the hut. My disappointment at her rebuff quickly fled when she stopped at the doorway and offered me one word.
“Karwa,” she said, her graceful fingers brushing over her collarbone before she disappeared inside.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“… he rescued her from the Spaniards who’d enslaved her, and he hid her away. I don’t know how it ends yet, because I’ve only translated three entries, but already I think it’s the most romantic story I’ve ever heard. I hope they fall in love….”
Raúl sat across the table from Isabel, admiring the way enthusiasm enhanced her appearance. She looked lovely in the mellow lighting of the jazz club, her blue eyes sparkling with excitement. The candlelight danced over her chestnut hair, capturing the silky texture and firing her golden highlights. Realizing his thoughts had strayed from her words, he pulled his attention back to the conversation.
“So what do you think? Have you ever heard anything so intriguing, Raúl?”
“Your tale is captivating. I should like to see this journal. I am certain it has value as an artifact.”
“You aren’t suggesting I sell it, are you? It’s a piece of family history.”
“No, but you should be certain to carry adequate insurance on such a unique piece. A journal written by one of the first Europeans to see Venezuela would be of great value to a museum or historian.”
“You’re r
ight. I’ll ask Abuela if she carries a policy on it. If not, will you help me get it insured?”
“Of course, mi amor.” He reached across the table and took her hand in his. “I’ve missed you this week. You didn’t come to the café for lunch even once.”
“Were you there every day?”
“Sí.”
“If I had known you wanted to see me, I’d have come.”
“I always want to see you, Isabel. You are the most important part of my life.” He watched a blush spread across her creamy cheeks. She had no idea how beautiful or special she was, and he found her modesty appealing.
Smoothing a strand of hair behind her ear, she regained her voice. “I’m sorry if you felt neglected. You’re important to me, too, but school dominated my schedule this week. Aside from translating the journal, semester finals are just weeks away. I’ve been finishing up a few papers and studying for my tests.”
“During Christmas break you will set aside some time for me, no?”
“Of course. Abuela invited me to the hacienda for the holidays. Would you like to come?”
The face he made brought a smile to her lips. “Doña Montez does not approve of me, Isabel.”
“I know, but she doesn’t know you like I do. Maybe if the two of you spent some time together….” Her voice trailed off.
“But not over the holidays. I don’t want your celebrations overshadowed by tension because of my presence. Besides, I must visit my mother. I am all the family she has.”
“How is she?”
The emptiness that pervaded his family interactions echoed hollowly in his chest. “The same. Bitter. Angry. I don’t expect to enjoy myself, but I must go.”
“Why shouldn’t you enjoy yourself?”
“I will have to listen to her endless tirades about my father. She despises him for never leaving his wife, despite his many promises through the years. Her life as his mistress seemed exciting in the beginning, but in the end, she regrets her decision. I believe she regrets having given birth to me, as well, but she would not say so. I pay her rent and give her spending money.”
A worry line formed between Isabel’s eyebrows. “I can’t imagine any mother feeling that way.”
“She does, I assure you. She has told me again and again that I look and act just like him.”
“That’s not a crime.”
“To my mother it is.”
Isabel fidgeted with the silverware on the table, and Raúl realized he’d upset the mood with talk of his mother’s problems. Isabel had descended from people who valued family and honor. When she spoke of her parents, he sensed the love and commitment between them. She could not comprehend life in the run-down, crime-infested barrios, or a woman like his mother who would devote herself to a man who didn’t really love her. She did not know the shame of a father’s rejection or the difficulties Raúl had faced to rise to his current position of respect and prestige. But I didn’t need family and support. I made something of myself without them. As if she could hear his thoughts, Isabel met his gaze, compassion and pity in her eyes.
He did not want her pity and quickly changed the subject. “I apologize. We’ve strayed from our earlier conversation. May I have the honor of your company over Christmas break?”
The tense line of her shoulders eased. “I intend to stay at the hacienda for a few days. After I return, I’m all yours.”
Raúl raised his eyebrows, a smile teasing his lips. “All yours? Is this another of the delightful sayings from your English language?”
She gave him a playful grin. “Hmmm, let’s see. It’s English and it’s a saying, but I couldn’t vouch for the delightful part. I think that’s a matter of personal preference.”
He leaned closer to her, breathing in the scent of her and admiring the smooth texture of her skin. “If you were all mine, my personal preference would be to never let you go, mi amor. You captured my heart the moment I first saw you. Have you given any more thought to staying here in Caracas after graduation next summer? Perhaps I am selfish, but I want to keep you close to me always.”
She gazed at him, her face alight with tenderness. “Have I told you how wonderful you are?”
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
June 10th, 1505
My inability to visit Karwa these last few days has distressed me. Feverish with desire to prepare a shipment of pearls for Spain, the admiral insisted we work extra hours. The Spanish royal court grows impatient to receive a return on their investment, and admirals have lost their commissions and their heads for lesser offences. Working from dawn to dusk for a week straight, we filled the cargo holds of two sturdy ships with pearls and prepared them to sail. The ships left harbor at dawn, and in celebration of our accomplishments, we were allowed a day of rest.
I rose early and journeyed to the hut to see Karwa. I feared she might have interpreted my long absence as abandonment, but when I arrived she stood before the hut. Relieved to see her, I greeted her with enthusiasm, speaking in a rush of language she did not understand. When she cocked her head to study me, I felt foolish for my outburst. I dropped the supplies I carried and knelt to sort through them, lowering my head so she could not see my embarrassment.
To my surprise, she came to kneel before me and softly spoke my name. Unaccustomed to speaking my language, her tongue confused the vowels and changed the inflections of the Spanish pronunciation, yet I thought it the most beautiful word ever spoken. Her soft voice swept over me like a caress. When I looked up and met her gaze, her smile grew and so did the boundaries of my heart.
We spent the day together, fishing, gathering fruit, weaving palm leaves into mats, and repairing the hut. Sometimes we worked in amiable silence, while other moments prompted a sharing of language. I learned several words in her tongue, and she learned some in mine. Soon we will be able to talk and share our thoughts. I find myself eager for that day to arrive.
Late in the evening as the sun hovered over the ocean, I dug a pit and built a fire inside. With Karwa’s help, I wrapped the fish we’d caught in banana leaves and laid them on the glowing coals. We covered the pit with sand and allowed the fish to cook. Karwa brought out cups made from the halved shells of coconuts and poured me some water from her canteen. We scraped the soft fleshy pulp from a coconut and laid our feast of fish and fruit out on banana leaf plates. Though crude in its simplicity, I do not remember a meal more delightful.
By the time we finished, the sky had grown dark, and I felt reluctant to trek back to my camp. I watched Karwa disappear into the hut to settle in for the night. Though she had accepted my presence all day, I did not think she would feel comfortable letting me bed down in her hut. I had to bank the fire in order to avoid attracting attention, but without it, the snakes, scorpions, and wildlife inhabiting the area made it dangerous to sleep out in the open.
I decided to make my bed just outside the doorway of the hut, leaning my back against the frame for support. Just as I settled into a comfortable position and closed my eyes, Karwa poked her head out the door and tugged at my sleeve. By the light of the moon, I could see the confusion in her face. She found my choice of a resting place unreasonable. Waving her hands, she beckoned me inside and pointed to a corner of the hut.
I followed her instructions and lay on a mat of woven palm leaves. She returned to her place on the other side, curled beneath her blanket, and soon her breathing took on the peaceful rhythms of sleep. I lay awake, staring at the roof of the hut and listening to her breathe. The magical sounds of the night beyond the crude walls of our shelter seemed to intensify the unfamiliar feelings inside me. The song of the cicadas accompanied the whisper of waves, lapping at the shore nearby. The leaves of the palms fluttered in the gentle ocean breeze. The night grew cool, and I wrapped my arms tight around myself for warmth as I drifted off to sleep.
When I awoke some hours later, the cold no longer afflicted me. I moved my arm and felt the blanket covering me. Curious, I turned my head and found her lying at my side, her head resting
on her arm, her face angelic in repose. My heart swelled as I considered her concern for my comfort and her willingness to share her blanket. It would seem I have passed her scrutiny and earned her trust.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Isabel flipped through the pages of the dictionary to no avail. She tried another reference book, and still another, not finding the answers she needed. Pushing the books away, she rubbed her tired eyes. Why can’t I find definitions for these words?
She stared at the list of indecipherable words and wondered if she’d missed some important clue. The translating had gone well for nearly two weeks, but suddenly she’d come to a standstill. Maybe a fresh pair of eyes will help.
Isabel rose and carried her list to the reference librarian who’d been aiding her quest to translate the journal.
“Adelina, will you look at this list and tell me if you recognize any of these words?” Isabel placed the paper on the desk in front of her friend.
Adelina adjusted her glasses and bent to study Isabel’s neat handwriting. After several minutes she looked up with a puzzled frown. “These are not Spanish.”
“Are you sure?”
“They do not follow the Spanish patterns of spelling and pronunciation. I would guess they are from an Indian language.”
“Of course!” Isabel hands flew up, and she gestured emphatically as she spoke. “Why didn’t I think of this sooner? He spent all his free time with Karwa, so it would not be unusual for him to learn and use words from her language. Thank you, Adelina! You’re a genius.”
Smiling, the woman handed the list back to Isabel.
“One more thing.” Isabel folded the paper and put it in her pocket. “I’m going to need some reference books on old Indian languages.”
Adelina’s smile faded, and she shook her head. “I would love to help you, but I do not think I can. Hundreds of tribes inhabited Venezuela before the Spaniards arrived, and they all spoke their own language or dialect. None of them used a formal written language, Isabel. You should know that from your studies.”
