His doctor had recommended he leave Cuba and live in Switzerland. He hadn’t wanted to leave the country of his birth, a land where his Spaniard grandfather had worked alongside African slaves in the cane fields to earn enough money to buy a little farm—a farm that in less than one hundred years had become one of the most profitable sugarcane plantations in Artemisa.
“You’re quite young to want to embark on such an expansive venture, but if you learn nothing from your trip to Cuba, let me leave you with this. Never go to a country to negotiate a business deal without prior knowledge of that country or its people.”
Samuel stiffened as though he’d been struck across the face, but recovered quickly. “Point well taken,” he said softly.
“Are you familiar with Los Independientes de Color?”
There was a pulse beat of silence before Samuel said softly, “No, I’m not. But since you’ve mentioned color, then I assume it has something to do with Cuba’s blacks.”
“Yes. In 1909 the Morua law was passed banning political parties based on race or religion, and because of this ban secret societies of black Cubans, known as independistas, joined forces to fight this law. Although poorly organized, they managed to gather enough support to make history. In May of 1912 they revolted against the government and their uprising sent a wave of panic across the island.
“U.S. Marines landed in Daiquiri, under the terms of the Platt Amendment, to protect the lives and property of American citizens. Our President Gomez, who did not want outside intervention, ordered the Cuban army to crush the rebellion. The cavalry, armed with American-made machine guns, was ordered to hunt down a poorly armed political group who were not prepared for a war.
“More than six thousand of them were massacred as they retreated to Oriente Province. Los Independientes de Color were armed with old guns and machetes, and by June the leaders of the insurrection were dead and most of their followers killed or disbanded. The fear and resentment left by the episode have hindered black participation in Cuban politics. Those not wishing to share political power celebrated whites killing blacks with a banquet in Parque Central. Officials from your country came to the celebration because they were happy to resolve what they believed would’ve become a military and economic crisis.”
Samuel’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I just want to let you know what you may face if I decide to sell you my lands.”
“I don’t intend to live here permanently. What I’m prepared to do is pay the workers wages comparable to what they would earn in the States.”
Arturo’s raven-black eyebrows lifted and reminded Samuel of a Vincent van Gogh painting he’d seen where the painter used black hash marks for birds in flight.
“That sounds noble, but it is not a good idea.”
“Why is it not?”
“The word will get out that you’re paying much more than the other owners, and their workers would demand equal pay for equal work. Your good intentions will only serve to incite another rebellion.”
The sun had sunk lower behind the many trees, and the waning daylight cast long and short shadows over the house and surrounding property. Samuel sat motionless, watching Arturo like a predator watching his prey, waiting for a time to strike.
He’d underestimated the tiny man with the bulging eyes. There was no doubt he was used to negotiating business deals that would prove advantageous to him. Arturo Moreno did not want to lose, but neither did Samuel Cole. He’d come to Cuba on a mission to purchase a plantation, but was faced with a situation wherein his race and citizenship, not money, had become an issue.
He wasn’t as versed in Cuban history as he should’ve been, and had just learned of the resentment of the U.S.’s involvement in Cuba’s politics, military and economy.
And it was obvious he had two strikes against him: he was black and American.
“Would you not rebel against unfair labor practices and inequality?” Samuel’s voice was low and chastising. “Was that not the reason for the Spanish-American War?”
Blood suffused Arturo’s face as his spare mouth thinned into a slash across his face. He reached into a pocket of his jacket and removed his watch. “It’s time we go inside and dine. I will give you my decision before the end of the week.”
Not waiting for response from his guest, he pushed to his feet and headed toward the large two-story mansion.
Chapter 2
I’ve never cared what others thought of me. With me, it was always—just me.
—Ethel Waters
Jose Luis Diaz stopped pacing long enough to glare at the ramrod-straight slender figure perched on the edge of a tapestry-covered settee. “You have shamed not only yourself and me, but also our family’s name!”
Marguerite-Josefina Isabel Diaz’s expression did not change as she endured her father’s tirade. Why, she mused, did he equate shame and family honor with a mortal sin?
“How could you take your clothes off and pose for that cabrón whose sole intent is to bring disgrace upon my head because I refuse to let him court you?”
Marguerite inhaled and compressed her lips, attractive dimples showing in her flawless cheeks. “I did not take off my clothes, Papa. I wore a dressing gown when Antonio photographed me.”
Jose Luis placed a hand over his chest and felt the rapid beating of his heart. His daughter, the sole issue of his loins, was conspiring to kill him. She had blatantly disobeyed him when he told her to stay away from Antonio Santamaria.
“I send you to the universidad to get an education because you claim you want to be a modern Cuban woman, but if I’d known you wanted to be a…a puta…or one of those actresses who prance around half-naked, I could’ve saved my money.”
Pinpoints of red dotted Marguerite-Josefina’s cheeks as her large, dark eyes glittered wildly. She sprang to her feet. “I am not a puta! And don’t you dare call me that.”
“Bastante!” Jose Luis shouted. “You will not go back to the Universidad de La Habana, and you will not leave here until I find a suitable husband for you.”
Tears filled Marguerite’s eyes and she blinked them back before they fell. She refused to let her father see her cry. She had no money of her own, so there was no way she could pursue her studies, but knew she’d never be a willing participant in an arranged marriage.
Her slender hands curled into tight fists. “This is not the nineteenth century where women have no rights. I will kill myself before I become chattel to some stinking old goat!”
“And the man who took pictures of you for all of Cuba to see isn’t a cabrón?” Photographs of Marguerite-Josefina Diaz in a number of provocative poses, her hair flowing down her back or over a revealing décolletage, were currently on display at a Havana gallery.
Jose Luis gave his daughter a steady look, then shook his head. “You do not understand.”
“What is there to understand? Antonio is an artist.” Her voice was lower, softer.
“He’s nothing more than a peasant who will take advantage of you and your innocence. He knows when I die you will stand to inherit everything. All you have to do is tell him that I’m leaving my money and the cigar factory to the Church and he will move on to seduce another woman.”
“He doesn’t need your money because he has a benefactor.”
The elderly man angled his head and lifted his eyebrows. “So I’ve heard.”
There was something in her father’s voice that caused a shiver to snake its way down Marguerite-Josefina’s spine. She shuddered noticeably despite the late-morning tropical heat.
“What do you mean?”
“Did he tell you who supplies him with paints, film and his expensive cameras? Who gives him money for his rent and his mojitos?”
Marguerite-Josefina’s right eyebrow froze a fraction. “It’s none of my business who supports him.”
“Sit down, querida,” Jose Luis ordered quietly. She complied and he took a matching chair several feet away. “Cristina Pere
z is Antonio Santamaria’s benefactor.”
The natural color drained from her tawny brown face, leaving it a sickly sallow shade. “She can’t be,” she said quickly.
“Why not, Chica?”
It had been years since Jose Luis had called her “little girl.” What he had to remind himself was that Marguerite-Josefina wasn’t a little girl, but a woman.
“Because…because…” Her voice trailed off. She could not continue; the words were lodged in her throat.
“Because of the rumors that she is also the mistress of Liberal presidente candidate General Gerardo Machado’s closest confidant?”
Marguerite-Josefina’s eyelids fluttered as she nodded. She’d heard the rumors, but refused to believe them. Antonio told Marguerite-Josefina that she was his muse, his inspiration for his artistic success, and the day she was ordered back home he’d confessed to being in love with her.
“I’m sorry, Chica.”
“How do you know this, Papa?” Pain radiated from the depths of her dark, velvety eyes.
“Someone close to Machado contacted me after he saw you with Santamaria.”
“You had someone spy on me?”
Jose Luis’s patrician features were deceptively composed. At sixty-four he was reprimanding his nineteen-year-old daughter for conduct unbecoming a woman of her station when he should’ve been spoiling and bouncing grandchildren on his knees.
“No, my child. However, I did entrust you to the protection of my sister, who should’ve chaperoned you more closely.”
“I’ve never done anything that would bring disgrace to you or Tia Gloria.”
Running his hand over a mane of silver-white hair brushed off a high forehead, Jose Luis averted his gaze. “This Santamaria fellow did not…he did not touch you?”
Vertical lines marred Marguerite-Josefina’s smooth forehead as her eyes narrowed. “I did not share his bed, Papa.” She heard the exhalation of breath across the space separating them. “Even though you claim I’ve dishonored the family’s name because I permitted myself to be photographed for all of Cuba to see, I would never defile my body by lying with a man who is not my husband.”
Jose Luis slumped against his chair’s cushioned softness, smiling. What he feared most was his daughter bearing a child without benefit of marriage. Bringing his hands to his mouth in a prayerful gesture, he studied the feminine face that was an exact replica of his long-deceased wife. To say Marguerite-Josefina was beautiful was an understatement. She was tall for a woman, five-seven, and had a dimpled smile that could melt the coldest heart. She wore her coal-black hair either in a single braid or in a chignon when many women were now affecting shorter hairstyles and hemlines.
“I suggest you take your siesta early because we’ve been invited to a farewell fiesta for Arturo and Hilda Moreno tonight.”
Marguerite-Josefina felt a measure of triumph. Usually her father’s tongue-lashing tirades went on for at least half an hour. This one was less than ten minutes. She peered closely at him, wondering whether he was feeling poorly. But nothing in his appearance and manner indicated he was anything but healthy.
“Are they really leaving Cuba to live in Switzerland?”
Jose Luis inclined his head. “Yes. They’re scheduled to leave in three weeks.”
She’d attempted to befriend the youngest Moreno daughter, but had found her as stimulating as a grain of uncooked rice. She’d even tried coaxing her to attend the universidad with her, but Elba was too timid to ask her father for his approval.
Rising to her feet, she leaned over and kissed her father’s cheek. “I’ll see you later.” Straightening, she turned and walked out of the sala, up the winding staircase and down the hallway to a bedroom overlooking a formal garden. Closing the door, she pressed her back against it, gritting her teeth in frustration. It had taken two years for her to convince her father that she should go to college, and two days after photographs of her were exhibited in a Havana art gallery she was ordered to return to Pinar del Rio.
She was angry with her father, but enraged with Antonio. Whenever she asked who supported him while he spent hours painting and photographing people, buildings and landscapes, his response was always, “I have a generous benefactor who allows me to concentrate on my art.”
“Estupida,” she whispered. How could she have become so vain to believe that she was the only woman in Antonio’s life? And there was no way she would be able to compete with Cristina Perez, purportedly one of the most beautiful women in Cuba.
There were rumors that Cristina had paid a bruja for a potion wherein no man could resist her. And if the gossip was true, then the man closest to Gerardo Machado, who was certain to become Cuba’s next president, had also fallen under her spell.
Well, Antonio would have to find another muse and she would have to formulate a plan that would make her father change his mind about allowing her to return to Havana and the universidad.
Her hands went to the buttons on her dress and she released them from their fastenings. Her movements were slow, deliberate as she slipped out of each article of clothing. She loved her father, but felt his attitude of how women were to behave belonged in the prior century with their rigid standards and stuffy, hypocritical morals.
Everything and everyone was changing—all except Jose Luis Diaz. Women were cutting their hair into boyish bobs, higher hemlines showed not only ankles but an expanse of leg, and some were wearing trousers and smoking cigarettes in public places.
M.J., as her classmates referred to her, wasn’t rebellious by nature. All she wanted was to determine her own future, but that would not happen as long as she lived in Cuba and under her father’s control.
You will not go back to the Universidad de la Habana, and you will not leave here until I find a suitable husband for you. Jose Luis’s words were branded not only in her brain but also on her soul.
“No, Papa,” she whispered. She would not permit him to select a husband for her from the sons or grandsons of his stuffy friends. If or when she married, the choice of a husband would be hers and hers alone.
“Senor Cole, it’s time to get up.” Samuel’s right arm flailed out and Hernan stepped back. “Senor, you’re going to be late for your meeting.”
Samuel felt as if he were swimming underwater as the roaring in his ears continued unabated. He’d gotten up earlier that morning and purged his stomach of food and drink until he had dry heaves, but the sound of his runaway heartbeat echoing inside his head had escalated.
He was drunk!
Hernan had introduced him to a popular drink—fuego liquido—made with 150-proof rum, pineapple juice, sugar, crushed ice and a splash of beer. The combination proved lethal, because he rarely drank. Before the enactment of Prohibition in 1919 he’d sampled bourbon and scotch, preferring the latter.
Samuel sat up slowly, blinking against the bright sunlight pouring into the room. Heat swelled in the space through the open shutters; it smothered him like a lead blanket. “What time is it?”
“Son las cinco y diez.”
“Speak English,” he slurred, cradling his head in both hands.
“It’s ten after five.”
“Please get me some coffee, Hernan. Lots of it, and make it strong.”
“Sí, senor.”
Samuel knew he had to sober up for Arturo Moreno’s dinner party. A printed invitation had been delivered to him at the hotel the morning following their meeting, and he knew before this night ended he’d know whether he would return to the States with or without his sugarcane plantation.
He sat on the edge of the mattress, head lowered, until Hernan returned carrying a chipped enamel coffeepot and a large cup. He reached for the cup with a shaky hand; the strong steaming brew burned his tongue but he managed to down two cups before he was able to get out of bed to shave, shower and dress for the Moreno social gathering.
Samuel was escorted into the garden at the rear of the Moreno mansion and was met with the scent of blooming flowers
, the sound of a small band softly playing a popular American love song with a Latin beat, and dozens of lighted tapers that lit up the night like stars. A warm breeze provided the perfect setting for entertaining alfresco. Arturo stood with a group of men, all in formal dress, and several sipping champagne from tulip-shaped crystal glasses.
A uniformed waiter, with skin the color of polished mahogany, balancing a silver tray with bubbly wine, approached Samuel and stared at him as if he were an apparition. It was the first time since he’d been in Senor Arturo’s employ that a black man had been invited to mingle with the Cuban aristocrats.
Bowing reverently, he hid a sly smile. “Vino, senor?”
Samuel understood that he was being asked whether he wanted champagne. “No, gracias,” he answered in his limited Spanish.
The waiter dropped his startled gaze. Senor Arturo’s guest was not Cuban, but an American.
“Do you have water…agua?”
“Sí, senor.” He caught the attention of a woman and asked her to bring the Americano un vaso de agua. She returned and handed the glass to Samuel.
He sipped the cold water and waited for Arturo to acknowledge him. He’d spent the past three days with Hernan, sightseeing and shopping. The items he’d purchased for his mother and sisters-in-law were shipped to Tallahassee. He hadn’t bought anything for himself except for half a dozen guayaberas—loose-fitting shirts with four pockets and pleated front panels. They were not only comfortable but also practical because they were worn not inside but outside the waistband.
Arturo excused himself and made his way over to Samuel Cole. Again he was impressed with the man’s appearance. The tailoring of his white dinner jacket was exceptional, and the color a resplendent contrast to his sun-browned face.
Best Kept Secrets Page 2
