23. Lena
Don Bienvenido lives up to his fame in every way. He is completely endearing with his white, thinning hair that tufts in all directions, his reader glasses precariously placed on the end of his nose, and a polo shirt too tight for his midsection.
He rasps out, “ Profesora Martín, it feels kismet that you’re here. Did you know that this colonial village was also known as ‘the New Salamanca’?”
I smile at him and say, “Yes! I found that very curious when I read it, Don Bienvenido.”
“Bah. Call me Benny,” he kindly urges as he places some old volumes on the table.
I’ve learned not to fight it, so I nod and reply, “Then you must call me Magdalena or—or Lena.”
Yes, the nickname has grown on me—not that I have had a choice. I clear my throat and make a point of not looking at Rico—not an easy task in this small library room. I add, “We are so grateful for all your help, especially so soon after the storm.”
This morning, Rico and I grabbed something quick for breakfast at the same nearby cafe and walked over to the museum. The late eighteen-hundreds corner building houses four halls of lovingly curated, if not very modern, permanent exhibitions made up of informative visuals, glass case displays, religious carvings, coin collections—even a seventeen-hundreds Spanish canon.
Don Benny is the institution’s proud father and champion, including this colonial archive collection he will share with us. There is hope it will help.
Feeling good about our chances.
Oh, Rico. After we had that near miss with the one-bed situation, the awkwardness has been as thick as the local honey I tasted at the market.
Him standing in that doorway. Did he not want to leave? I didn’t want to seem as if I was loathe for him to go. But I was.
After a day of just the two of us, and regardless of that same-room panic, there is no escaping how he makes me feel. At ease, supported, challenged, safe.
Smiling like an idiot.
How could one ever get enough of that? Of him? How easily could one come to want—to need—to follow him anywhere?
As easily as one could be let down.
An entire night of tossing and turning in that four-poster bed was not enough to process what this is between us. I take a deep breath, bolster up my smile and do my best to focus on the research at hand.
Don Benny dismisses my thanks with a wave and says, “Oh, but Magdalena, your name means ‘high tower’ like this village! It had to move to higher ground to avoid coastal attacks. Sorry—besides history, I’m a bit of a name-meaning nerd too. But it’s—it’s like you were meant to be the one to find this nobleman’s son in the West.”
My gaze unavoidably flicks to where Rico stands by one of the glass display cases, looking down at the contents. His eyes flick up to meet mine. They crinkle with amusement at Don Benny’s enthusiasm, but there is something else there, too.
With a teasing smile, Rico walks over to the table where Don Benny stands at the head. He sits across from me as he comments, “That is really interesting. Sounds kismet to me.”
Don Benny beams at Rico and asks, “How about your name, my friend? Federico . Less common for your generation, no?”
Leaning his arms on the table, Rico shrugs. “When your parents are Nuyorican activists in the Bronx, everything has to prove your Puerto Ricanness. Myself and my sisters—we’re all named after distinguished Puerto Rican figures.”
“Federico Degetau?!” Don Benny guesses with a chuckle.
“Yep. Julia, named for Julia De Burgos. Mariana for Mariana Bracetti.”
“Oh, but that is wonderful!” Don Benny exclaims as I blurt out, “I did not know that!”
Don Benny continues, “Oh, but beyond preserving your heritage, I would say your name’s meaning suits you, my friend. It means ‘kind leader.’”
Rico laughs, and I join him with a scoff. Straightening his posture to one of an imposing monarch, hands on his hips as if surveying his subjects, he shakes his head in disappointment and tsks at me. “Didn’t I tell you I’m a natural leader?”
After a good laugh and mock-wiping my tears, I study him for a moment and admit, “It actually is very fitting—in fact, I will call you Federico from now on.”
He does not complain, and we grin at each other. His trimmed-beard and award-winning smile make him more distracting than ever.
As usual, time becomes a fluid concept when Rico’s intent gaze shines on me. I am not sure how much time passes before we both recall Don Benny’s presence.
Our new friend looks between us and shakes his head knowingly before opening up the first tome on the stack. He rubs his hands together as he says, “Let me show you what I found, my friends.”
The text in front of us is a small, faded leather-bound. I would say eighteenth century at the earliest—too late for Alonso’s timeline. My optimism dwindles a little.
But then Don Benny explains with reverence, “This is one of the jewels of our colonial archive. It is a transcribed copy of a diary written by a Jesuit missionary who lived and taught for a time here in San Germán de Auxerre.”
“For a time?” I ask, wanting so badly for the dates to match.
“Oh, but 1540 to 1541, of course.”
I hold in a gasp as Don Benny flips it open carefully. Rico’s eyes narrow with anticipation as he reads the missionary’s name on the cover page. “Paolo Di Spirito. It’s always so interesting to find how many Italian missionaries made it to the West.”
“Yes, and these journals are such historical treasure troves because they often include details and events outside of church archives we would never have.” He lays the volume open and points at an entry. “Paolo did not let us down.”
Heads leaning closer, we read from the entry when Rico exclaims, “Lena, look. This—this is dated two months after Alonso signed that agreement with De Girón.”
I nod in bewilderment as our eyes scroll down and catch a name we recognize. I gasp out, “ Francisco De Girón Gil . Alonso’s business partner.”
Don Benny grins with satisfaction. “That’s right. Di Spirito mentions a small expedition that arrived at the village seeking what vestiges of gold were to be found in the Guanajibo River.”
“Well, that confirms their venture’s purpose,” Rico says.
I read on, but there is a name very noticeably absent. “But . . . where’s Alonso? There’s only mention of De Girón working with a man named Diego Silva.”
Don Benny shakes his head with a small shrug. “ Lo lamento . I’m afraid this is all I have found that’s related to this.”
I glance at Rico as he scans the pages with a thoughtful frown. When he looks up at me, I let all my increasing hopelessness show. He tries for a reassuring smile, but after a moment, he voices the looming question, “What could have happened to Alonso De Guzmán from the East to the West?”
Don Benny sighs. “The answer is ‘a lot,’ my friend. Confrontations with indigenous Taínos were common. Being struck down by sickness. Maybe he even turned back.”
There is another question that begs to be asked, so I ask, “But where did this Diego Silva come from? He was not part of the business agreement that was witnessed in San Juan.”
“We will have to put our heads together for that one,” Don Benny says as he gently closes the book.
A moment passes before Rico’s shoe taps my own under the table, rousing me from a haze of uncertainty. My eyes go to his—a little worried, but mostly encouraging.
I take a deep breath and admit to myself how all my ambition and motivations have shifted these past few weeks. I no longer feel that tunnel-vision drive for career recognition. How could I possibly remain the same? Not after a storm literally blew away my priorities and showed me what a family feels like. Not after Rico and his persistent quest for meaningful roots.
But I do need to see this project completed—if only for my own answers.
I straighten in the chair and channel my laser-focused researcher as I say, “ Bueno , we have what genealogists most need to find a new trail: a name. Maybe there is something there.”
Don Benny nods. “I like how you think. And I love that tote. ‘I Research Dead People.’ So clever.”
I look over at a grinning Rico as he mouths, “Cute.”
“It serves its purpose.”
Don Benny is returning the volumes to their place on the shelves when Rico’s hand reaches across the table to hold mine. It’s a short, reassuring squeeze, but I am sure I will still think about the warmth, both in the gesture and in his eyes, for a long time. And won’t ever forget how I rediscovered that “no matter what, everything will be okay” feeling for myself, right there and then.
There is silence, and then there is the silence that descends when historians are on a deep dive. I am so glad Rico understands this.
It has been some time since I did one of these, and I am usually very much alone. Now it is both of us side by side, clicking away on our laptops while sporting absorbed frowns.
To be clear, I assume Rico is adorably frowning in concentration. I could confirm if I constantly glanced at him—which I haven’t. So this is purely a guess.
Don Benny let us use the library hall as an office so we could research the new information he found. He also sent us scans of local parish records that are not yet indexed and searchable. We could be scouring documents for hours.
I might be a little out of practice because nothing comes up on Diego Silva in the western district related to our Alonso De Guzmán.
What are the odds that one deadly mosquito bite on the way to San Germán ended his journey, and we will never know what happened? Wouldn’t De Girón at least have let the family know? Or wouldn’t the parish show record of his death even as a new arrival?
Breaking research-silence protocol, Rico leans back on his chair, arms behind his head, and blurts out, “Oh, you are going to love me .”
Extremely poor choice of words. Not funny at all.
I clear my throat and try as neutral a tone as I can manage. “I want to assume this means you have found something.”
“Depends on what you call ‘something.’”
I sigh and turn to him, placing my hands on my lap to show my full, wary attention.
He goes on. “Okay, so this question about where Diego Silva suddenly popped in from.”
“Yes . . .”
“It’s strange that he’s only named by one last name.”
“I thought so too.”
“Well, something told me we’d seen that name before.”
Have we? My frown returns as I shuffle through any recollection.
Rico continues, “So I pulled up Alonso’s family tree. And here it is on his mother’s maternal side.” He points up the chart to who would have been Alonso’s great-grandfather.
“Diego Silva Herrera,” I read aloud.
Rico tilts his head. “Yep. What are the odds that Alonso never made it to the West, but a man with his great-grandfather’s name does?”
I scramble, trying to make sense of where I think he is going with this. A moment passes, and I whisper, “Alonso changed his name?”