9. Rico
Padre Ernesto is not as fun as Marcia. But, after discussing our credentials and him being unavoidably impressed with how Lena came all the way from Spain, he was very obliging and gave us access to the parish’s oldest ledgers.
Fortunately, burial entries were kept separate from baptism and wedding records, so there is less to look through. It’s a literal miracle these ledgers have survived. Preservation has been limited to wrapping paper and questionable climate control.
It’s just Lena and me in this darkened storage room that is the diocesan archive near the cathedral. My inner history nerd is dancing a jig as we’re able to take the volumes from the shelves and thumb through their timeworn pages.
Plus I get to wear the white gloves.
In today’s archiving community, gloves may be considered more harmful than helpful for preserving documents, but I’m glad that tendency has not caught up here. It feels so cool to crack open a huge ledger, catch the slight musty smell and run my hands up and down entry after entry of quill strokes. There’s something very grounding about holding an object that has endured for so long.
“Do you need a moment alone?” Lena asks without looking up from her ledger. I guess my rapture was not as concealed as I thought.
“Can’t a guy geek out in peace?”
“I think I heard a whimper.”
“Look, I work mostly with microfilm or digitized documents. We haven’t all worked at the Archivo Histórico Nacional and frolicked among the yellowed parchments.”
“I do think the oldest document we have there is from the ninth century.”
I scoff. “ I do think we’ve already established, ‘Oh, yes, so ancient—you’re so much better.’”
Her unaffected shrug as she reads from a ledger makes me continue, “We’re lucky to find anything even remotely near the year 1540 here.” I lightly caress the pages and their faded lines and loud-whisper, “There, there, you beauties. You’re perfectly old just the way you are.”
Something like a snort comes out of Lena. “These may not be the oldest I have seen, but an archival bag and an acid-free box never hurt.”
I’m glad we can jab and joke, since I was sure I’d made things awkward beyond repair earlier while we waited.
First, getting caught staring at her mouth. No amount of facepalms can cure that slip. She always looks subtle and neutral in her appearance. That pop of red? My jaw might drop again if I keep thinking about it. Which I haven’t. Not all the time.
Second, I decided to bare my soul over a statue? I might be overcompensating for this inexplicable urge to get her to open up. We’re only working on this project together, and she has a plane to catch. Why would I even open up myself?
I’ll take her pretentious comments and harmless teasing over a “So, is this as awkward as you get, or are you going for a personal record?”
And right now I’ll also take Lena watching me go full history-nerd mode rather than her wondering why I can’t dial back the vulnerability around her.
She made no further comment, thankfully, and left me to live my archivist best life for several hours as we read through all the burial lists for the mid fifteen-hundreds.
If Alonso died soon after his arrival, his burial was not recorded in this parish.
Lena sits in the passenger seat and stretches her neck. “Okay, Mr. Boots-on-the-Ground, where should we search next?”
“You really struggle with this teamwork thing, don’t you?”
With a short, dejected chuckle, she lets her head fall back against the seat’s headrest.
We’re driving back to her rental after shopping for some essentials. Lena has survived these first few days on whatever she could get from the walkable small markets in Old San Juan and needed some actual groceries. My offer to take her to the store was ever so begrudgingly accepted, so I waited outside and made some calls while she got what she needed.
She sighs and leans sideways in her seat to look at me. She also really leaned on her Audrey Hepburn look today. Very Roman Holiday. I tried hiding that VHS from Julia so many times.
Lena in her button-down, belted dress with her sleeves rolled and side-part ponytail? The accent may not be the only thing that won over Padre Ernesto for those ledgers.
Her hands start flying as she says, “I am not used to not knowing what is next . . . and needing help to figure it out. And I want to get it done and done now .”
“Well, I’m actually not used to rushing through it. I think one of my favorite parts of history or genealogy research is the lack of pressure and time crunch. I had enough of that on Wall Street.”
“Ay pues , it must be nice to take it easy when it’s just a hobby and not your whole life.” She takes a steadying breath. “Sorry. It’s just . . . a lot.” Her hand rubs at her temple.
I would bristle at her snapping if I couldn’t feel the weight she carries from here. And if I couldn’t remember how it felt to carry it. So I let her breathe it out for a few minutes and then say, “I definitely get the difference. But I had to learn the hard way that no career is worth the rush, the pressure, the crushing weight.”
Lena turns back toward her window and settles into the sound of the tires on the bumpy paved roads.
After a moment she asks, “You mentioned wanting to grow roots but—why did you leave it? Your career. New York.”
My first impulse is to spill my guts and let her do with them what she will.
But I’m able to hold back until the gut-spilling is more quid pro quo, so I limit my response. “Uh, just . . . ready for a change? Oh, and my abuela needed help with the tour business. Julia, my sister, was moving down here to do that, so I joined her.”
She narrows her eyes in disbelief as she searches mine. “Just like that?”
I shrug. “Still working on the roots part, but yeah, just like that. It’s been a year. Haven’t missed it.”
She studies me for a moment. “I imagine having family to catch you helps.”
My brows turn down. “You don’t have—”
A call on the car speaker comes in. It’s Abuela.
As soon as I pick up, she jumps in a little breathless. “Rico, mi amor .”
“Dime , Abuela, mi amor .”
“There’s a . . . situation.” This could mean so, so many things.
Lena mumbles under her breath, “Hope it’s not the chickens.”
I narrow my eyes at her as Abuela continues, “It’s the washer. I don’t know what’s going on. Water won’t stop leaking out. It’s all over the marquesina . Juli’s in a meeting, and Mari . . . means well.”
From archive sleuthing to appliance repair—keeping me humble. “Okay, well, I still have one stop to make. Can you shut off the water until I get there?”
A beat of silence and then her shaky reply. “Your abuelo would always take care of that . . .”
The image of my widowed grandmother standing in the open garage that houses her washing machine with water running down her driveway as another reminder that her husband is gone makes me grip the steering wheel.
Lena snaps her fingers to get my attention. Her eyes are wide as she gestures what I can only interpret to mean, “Just go help her.” I mouth back an, “Are you sure?” She nods and gestures an exasperated, “Yes, dummy. Hurry.”
I consider for a moment and then let Abuela know. “Okay, don’t worry. I’m on my way.”