11. Rico
I don’t know which is more difficult: trying to concentrate on fixing a washing machine while Magdalena Martín was alone with the most important women in my life—women that could, and gladly would, say anything about me—or trying to concentrate on this next research step while Lena shows up in shorts and a waist-knotted button-down.
The August tropical heat must be getting to her and, since she would walk over to the Instituto de Cultura where we would meet this afternoon, she adjusted her dress code accordingly.
But it is not “according” with my work focus. Her long, shapely legs? Extremely “discordant” with my work focus.
And this is after all the effort it took to not look at her at Abuela’s yesterday. My mind could not settle on the fact that Lena sat at our family table, eating, listening, and laughing. It was both odd and yet as it should be—like a marble statue in a recyclables wind chime garden. She had her moments when she’d recall her armor and sit up straight but also fell into bouts of silence where her gaze seemed lost in faraway nostalgia. I caught all that with all the “not looking” I accomplished.
I shake away thoughts of yesterday as we enter the Instituto , which includes the Puerto Rico General Archives and National Library. The faded yellow building, its white borders and columns discolored, is close to the main entrance for the El Morro fortifications and, hence, on a main throughway for visitors.
One benefit of the could-have-been-a-lot-worse encounter with the Morales women yesterday was catching up my sisters on the project. It was Julia who reminded me the General Archive of the Instituto de Cultura would be worth a look. Also, that the National Library’s director had been a close friend of Mom’s.
After our first two failed research attempts, Lena, of course, was very on board with getting access to this resource as soon as possible. I reached out and, though the director wouldn’t be in today, she did arrange for the main archivist to meet with us.
My eyes go right back to Lena, so I add my tried-and-true evasion tactic: the historical fact dump.
“Did you know that, in 1898, after the Spanish-American War, when Puerto Rico was handed over from Spain to the U.S. as part of the terms of the Treaty of Paris, Spanish and Puerto Rican historic archives and documents were shipped to the US by the government? We didn’t have a lot of what’s here returned until almost eighty years later, during the seventies.”
Lena eyes me curiously. “I . . . did not know that. Must be a favorite fact among your tourists. Some good heritage appropriation outrage to get a tour going.”
I huff out an awkward “I know, right?” But must add, “The fact that this building used to be a welfare house for the insane—also a crowd-pleaser.”
Mercifully, since I can’t seem to stop the looking-at-her or the fact-dumping, we arrive at the information desk.
I ask for my contact person when a voice asks, “Rico Morales?”
Lena and I turn to see a young woman that walks over, extending her hand with a wide smile. “ Encantada. I’m Ada Jimenez, general archivist.”
I shake her hand, introduce Lena and say, “Thank you so much for meeting with us. Hopefully, we’re out of your hair soon.” I chuckle awkwardly, and Lena shoots me another puzzled look. I’ve got nothing. She’s been constantly throwing me off.
The main archivist literally giggles and gestures toward the hall. “No problem at all. Please, follow me to our Sala de Referencia .”
We cross through the impressive interior courtyard surrounded by two levels of rows and rows of archways. This building may have only been built in the mid-nineteenth century, but they went very Greco-Roman style with some Spanish colonial thrown in.
As we enter the reference room, I don’t know where to look first. It’s a long, narrow space, and yet both the tall, blue-shuttered windows encased in high arches and the opposite two-level wall of wooden cube shelves that extend all the way up point to the grand vaulted ceilings. Large glass top desks with two chairs each line up on the polished gray marble floor. We’re led to one station that already has several piles of aged books and documents.
The archivist explains, “Our director mentioned you’re looking for any documentation or evidence of this aristocrat that arrived around 1540. I brought out two of our donated special collections that include private ledgers, journals, and letters from around that time that are yet to be digitized.” She looks at me as she game-show-host waves over the collections, and I glance at Lena.
Lena grabs a chair and browses what’s on the table.
I’m the one who has to say, “Alright. Well, this looks very promising. Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” she replies with an even wider smile and hands clasped in front of her, calling to attention that her neckline is as plunging as her heels are shockingly high for the workplace.
I turn and start settling in the chair beside Lena when the woman puts a hand on my shoulder. She bends forward and into my personal space to say, “Don’t hesitate to let me know if you need anything.”
Lena clears her throat loudly and then tsks in complaint as I lean her way to get some distance and mumble out an, “Eh, gracias .”
The archivist clickity-clacks out of the room.
Now Lena decides to chime in. “Maybe if she had met you before, we would have the full Dominican collection or—or the tiller of the Santa Maria in front of us.”
Ah, so she noticed.
I let out a dramatic sigh. “I’m afraid one-sided flirting is a cross I have to bear.”
“Oh, by all means, let her know if you need anything. In fact, I think she needs something. Go check. I can manage.” She waves me off.
Interesting.
“I know you can, profesora .” I pull my chair closer to the desk and move a group of documents toward me to look through them.
It’s a much slower pace having to read through journals and letters than searching down ledger entry lists. With only the rustle of pages and the loud hum of the air conditioning, we work our way through the first collection. All very fascinating, but no mention of our missing Alonso.
The words start to blend together as I read through a daily log of who—according to the brief file description—had been a man of business for aristocrats. He served as an unofficial journalist, communicating back and forth with Spain.
By the look of his entries, a very committed and detailed diarist. The topics of these vary: the general conditions of the city-in-progress, the fortification construction, the threat of sickness and failure to colonize, but he also included whatever appointments or professional interactions he had each day.
I read another entry, and, as my brain connects the faded cursive words, I stand up, pushing my chair back, only to pull it back and sit. I force myself to yell-whisper, “Lena. Lena!”
“Still not my name,” she mutters without looking up from her own reading. My hand shoots out and drags her chair right next to mine. Finally, she looks at me and asks, “What? What is it?”
“This entry here. He mentions having witnessed a partnership agreement. Look at one of the partners named . . .”
I place the journal in front of her, and she scans it with wide eyes.
She reads the lines over and over and points at the entry. “Alonso . . . He—he is right there!”
Our shocked eyes meet. We’re so close since I pulled her over. Orange blossom. Pulse racing, I swallow.
Lena blinks slowly, turns back to the journal, and reads aloud. “. . . witnessed the new enterprise partnership of Senor Francisco De Girón Gil, soldier of fortune from Andalucía, and Don Alonso De Guzmán-Velasco of Sevilla recently arrived in San Juan Bautista. They will venture west to the San Germán jurisdiction. May God be with them . . .”
After a moment of collective stunned silence, I comment, “We know he sailed with a Spanish fleet from the port of Sevilla in spring, as was customary. The journey to San Juan took around two months, as his mother’s letter confirms, so . . . this business agreement took place one month after his arrival.”
Lena nods mechanically, her face blank. Why isn’t she turning cartwheels or something?
“‘San Germán jurisdiction’. . .” she mumbles.
“Yeah, the island was divided into two términos or main districts by the Spanish crown: Caparra, or Puerto Rico, in the east, and San Germán in the west.”
Lena sighs. She’s the opposite of cartwheeling as she says, “So—one month after he got off that boat, he left for the West . . . and could be . . . anywhere.” She slumps back in the chair. Does she look pale?
I offer, “ Oye , I’ll ask the registrar over there if he can get scans of these sent to us. Let’s head out for some fresh air.”
She barely nods as she runs her finger over the entry lines that show Alonso’s name.