25
Key West
June 1842
When the Huguenot prince, Henri of Navarre, ascended the French throne as Henri IV, he accepted the condition that he convert to Catholicism, shrugging as he declared: “Paris is worth a Mass.”
Pedro put no such conditions on me. But in return for the status he would be conferring on me as the wife of Key West’s wealthiest businessman, I was willing to switch back to my former faith. It was all in the interest of presenting ourselves as an integrated family. And since my belief in God was more pantheistic than Christian, it made no difference whatsoever to me. I could have gone to any church, or none.
Gran, who was a devout Anglican, was so disgruntled, she almost did not attend my wedding. But though Pedro would never have been Gran’s choice of a husband for me, she was pleased that I had ?nally “come to my senses” and would now be living in luxury, something that she could take pride in. I suspect that she was also happy to have her home to herself again, for although she loved my children, I knew they tired her. And she could not abide our Bourbon, who chased her cats and the neighborhood chickens, causing a noisy fracas of ?ying fur and feathers, which upset Gran’s peace.
Our June wedding was an elaborate affair. The ceremony took place in Pedro’s tropical garden and was performed by a priest from the cathedral in Havana, invited over to o?ciate. Our friends, boarders, and factory workers all attended. Martha was lovely as my bridesmaid; Dorothy was the matron of honor. Tom Farrell and Timothy joined in giving me away. When I looked into the adoring eyes of my groom, I could not help but wish it were Andrew by my side. And in my mind’s eye, I could see Ebony as our little ?ower girl.
Even Gran shed a tear during the service. I wore Dorothy’s wedding gown, which was a little short and tight. “Something borrowed,” she chirped happily. But by the time my sister and Gran’s servant Dinah tightened my corset—with no small effort—the gown suited me nicely, though I could hardly breathe.
Juanita had arranged for bowers of tropical ?owers to decorate a small gazebo in the garden. She and Pedro’s other servants made all the food, including a huge decorated fruitcake infused with Cuban rum and lavishly covered in mounds of white almond icing.
From the start, Pedro adored my children. Although not particularly devout, he enjoyed attending church services on Sunday. As the Catholic church was not yet built, we attended St. Paul’s, which somewhat paci?ed Gran.
In a ?ourish of diamonds, gold, and ru?ed shirts, Pedro would beam with pride as we walked down the aisle to one of the front pews with Timothy and Martha. He was delighted when visitors assumed they were his own children, since he had not produced any with either of his two previous wives.
My children were not unhappy with our marriage. They loved their new home and were relieved to get away from Gran. They viewed Pedro as a kindly grandfather, and he was, from the beginning, generous to a fault. He bought them sweets and toys, and listened intently as Timothy played his violin and as Martha practiced on the piano.
“You’ll spoil them,” I would say if I saw him slipping them pocket money for the penny-candy store, but he just shrugged. “Let me spoil them, querida. It’s the ?rst time I have ever had children around.”
I had discussed boarding school with him, and he had no quarrel with spending the money, only—as I did—with seeing them leave home.
So on the surface, our life together was an ideal one. But our intimate life together was not nearly as perfect. In fact, from my point of view, it quickly accelerated into a nightmare. After our chaste courtship, he was now champing at the bit like a frisky young stallion.
We were unable to consummate our marriage right away, because Pedro scheduled our honeymoon along with a business trip to Cuba in early June, right after our wedding and just before hurricane season. He was intent on taking me to Havana to show me off to his cousins and friends there. I dreaded the journey, as I knew it would make me seasick, and indeed almost from the moment I boarded the schooner bound for Havana, I found myself deathly ill. The seas of the Florida Straits were very rough that particular week, and as the vessel rolled back and forth with the heaving waves, my stomach seized up and I took to my cabin for the voyage, while Pedro spent most of his time on deck, chatting with the crew and passing out cigars. Mercifully, it was a short trip, just ninety miles.
I did not know what to expect of Havana—or “La Habana,” as the Cubans called it. Key Westers looked upon Cuba’s capital as an elegant, exotic place that was a pleasure to visit. Ladies with money would go there frequently to buy fashionable hats and gowns. And they would stock up on coffee, sweetmeats, molasses, rum, and sugar, Men were drawn there for its many bars and other, more risqué entertainment.
Cuba was the jewel of Spain’s colonial possessions. As the biggest island in the Caribbean, it had for centuries been the portal that ships bearing rich treasures plundered from South America sailed through on their return to Spain.
A large port city, Havana reminded me a lot of New Orleans. From a distance, El Morro loomed into view, its ominous brooding tower and prison fortress guarding the harbor. As our vessel approached the dock, I was shocked to see a slave ship unloading its miserable cargo directly across from us. I could hear cries of despair as the slaves were pushed onto the dock. Some of them were so ill, they could barely walk, and the ship’s crew members were brutally whipping them. Even from where I stood, I could see blood glistening on fresh lash marks across their backs.
I gasped, thinking of Andrew, remembering the feel of the scars across his back. It was just such a ship, I re?ected, with the same destination, that brought him to Wreckers’ Cay. Pedro noticed me cringe, but when he asked if anything was wrong, I said I was still queasy from the boat.
I averted my eyes, but the cries continued to reach my ears. I remained silent throughout most of the drive along El Malecón, the shore road that bordered the seawall. Pedro, invigorated by his return to Havana, enthusiastically pointed out various monuments and scenes to me, explaining their historical background.
At that time, the city had a population of about 180,000. Pedro told me that over the years, at least 400,000 Negro slaves had been brought in from Africa to work the cane ?elds. The country also had many Chinese indentured servants, who were just slaves with a different name. That meant the slaves here no doubt outnumbered the Spanish elite—a situation I was familiar with from my time in Louisiana.
Havana had, like many medieval European cities, been contained by a wall in the sixteenth century. As the city grew around it, the wall came to de?ne Vieja Habana, its older section, a beautiful area with broad plazas fed by arteries of charming cobbled streets.
“They built walls to keep the pirates and other undesirables out,” explained Pedro. “But Havana has continued to grow well beyond the gates.”
“Do they still worry about pirates?”
“Pirates wouldn’t dare come into Havana! They know they would end up in El Morro and nobody would ever see them again.” With that, he grinned and drew a ?nger across his throat.
With its wide paved boulevards, Havana had European grace and style. Vieja Habana was an especially rich architectural kaleidoscope of Spanish Colonial structures. “It’s very beautiful,” I remarked, looking around.
“Yes, it’s nice. A lot like the cities in Spain.”
The underlying power of the Church became evident as we traveled through the city, and I noted many priests and nuns in the streets near the Italian baroque cathedral on the Plaza de Armas—a reminder of the New Orleans I’d known as a child.
The carriage came to a stop at an elegant villa just outside the gates of the old walled city. “Who owns this lovely home?” I asked Pedro as we alighted from the carriage.
“I do.”
I should not have been surprised, for it was a smaller version of the mansion he had built in Key West.
“Tomorrow, you will see my estate on the tobacco plantation in Vuelta Abajo,” he said. “And my cigar factory.”
I had always thought of Pedro as an émigré from Cuba who had come to settle in the United States, but during this carriage ride, I came to see him in a different light: He was really a Spaniard, who had gone to Cuba to capitalize on the rich pro?ts of colonialism, and then to Key West to expand those pro?ts.
Pedro led me into a large bedroom furnished with Spanish antiques and summoned a servant to draw water for bathing. Then he went down to the cookhouse to order us lunch and talk with his housekeeper. It was a hot, sultry afternoon, and a cool bath in the spacious copper tub was exactly what I needed.
Now on dry land, I was gradually feeling human again. I still experienced the strange sensation that the room was listing, and I was haunted by the terrible scene on the slave ship at the dock. But at least I was becoming used to my surroundings.
Pedro was feeling expansive and relaxed after our lunch of gazpacho and red snapper, followed by fresh mango. I had eaten carefully, but he relished his food, washing it down with French wine from his cellar.
“So, querida, what do you think?” he asked.
“This is all quite overwhelming,” I said. “I had no idea that you maintained a home here, or that you had an estate in the country.”
“Yes, my tobacco plantation.”
“Do you have slaves working for you at the tobacco farm?”
He raised his hand in protest. “No, querida, I do not. When I came to Cuba from Spain, there were many little farms in the country where peasants—we call them ‘guajiros’—grew tobacco. They were barely making a living, growing it and rolling the cigars themselves, usually a family operation. Then they would sell them in Havana. What I did was to hire them for my ?elds and at the factory. We sell some cigars locally in Cuba, but mostly they are sent all over the world from here. The guajiros make a good living; I make a lot of money, and everybody is happy.”
I nodded, happy to know that I had not married a slave owner. “But … it sounds to me like you are competing with yourself by having set up a factory in Key West.”
He laughed. “Yes, querida, I am. For now. I like to ‘hedge my bets,’ as you Americans say.”
When he talked about business, Pedro became animated and focused. But ?nally, he broached the inevitable. “Now,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye, “you are about to learn more about me. No more talk of business. This is our wedding trip!” Leaning toward me, he took my hand and brought it to his lips. “Come, querida, it is time for our siesta.”
It was that siesta that introduced me to Pedro’s version of intimacy. And its account is quickly told. First, he removed all my clothing while administering wet kisses to my lips and face, murmuring terms of endearment in Spanish. Then he led me to the bed and hurriedly stripped off his own clothes. Pedro’s idea of lovemaking was to cup my breasts with both hands, rotate them a few times, and then ram his body unceremoniously into mine. The heat of the day caused him to sweat profusely as he puffed, groaned, and panted, urgently taking his pleasure. Mercifully, it was all over in just a few minutes.
“That was fantastic,” he roared delightedly as he rolled over, spent from the exertion. “Wasn’t that wonderful? You enjoyed it, too, eh, querida?”
“Fantastic,” I agreed. “Just … fantastic.”
“You were wonderful,” he said, planting a gentle kiss on my cheek. “I’m so lucky. We’re going to have a good life together.”
His praise surprised me, since I had done virtually nothing except lie there. In fairness to Pedro, I tried to suppress memories of how different it had been with Andrew. Yet these thoughts continued to surface. I could still feel how Andrew had once touched me, gently probing the sensitive corners of my body with astonishing accuracy—places no one had reached before. Unlike Pedro and his offensive fumbling, Andrew had fondled and kissed my breasts until I grew aroused. He had come to know my body’s every fold and crevice, and explored each with certitude, as if he could read my mind; afterward, we would lie in delighted silence, hands joined, listening to each other’s breathing until sleep overtook us. These were the thoughts that wound through my mind as I lay there beside my new husband, watching him fall quickly asleep, snoring.
When Pedro awoke, refreshed from his nap an hour or so later, he pounced on me again. To my consternation, he was again ready to perform that evening. And so it went, day after day.
At thirty-one, I believed, erroneously, that men in their ?fties had left off thinking about such things. But Pedro and I quickly settled into a routine that was more like two or three times a day. While I had married Pedro for his companionship and protection, money had been a strong motivator. But obviously, I had vastly miscalculated just how often I would be required to earn it. I had not yet asked him how his two previous wives died. But my guess was that they had probably expired from fatigue.
In Havana, we found ourselves caught up in a ?urry of social gatherings, received by many of Pedro’s cousins and friends. Pedro also had acquaintances in the Cuban government, and we were invited to a formal reception at the Governor’s Palace. There, I was presented to Governor Jerónimo Valdés, former viceroy of Navarre. He was governing Cuba in the name of Queen Isabella II of Spain, who had succeeded to the throne as a three-year-old child, and her regent mother, Maria Christina. The governor—who, as it turned out, was a good friend of Pedro—was a patrician-looking man of military bearing, with bushy arched eyebrows, thin lips, and a penetrating gaze under his hooded eyelids. His cheeks were hollow and his hair was remarkably thick and dark for a man of his age—which, I guessed, was about sixty.
“Congratulations, Don Pedro,” he said after he kissed my hand and exchanged a few pleasantries. “You have found yourself a very charming woman. And I am very impressed to hear an American woman speak such proper Spanish.”
“You ?atter me, Your Excellency,” I murmured.
“And what do you think of Cuba so far?” he inquired.
“It’s magni?cent! So very beautiful, and so big. I am used to living in a small village.”
“It is very beautiful, muy hermosa,” he agreed, smiling proudly. “We have tried hard to create in La Habana a city to rival the most elegant in Spain.”
He was about to move on to another group of people, when I thoughtlessly added, “The only thing I ?nd disturbing is the number of slaves I see here.”
Pedro stirred nervously, shooting me a quick look.
Valdés frowned. But he said pleasantly, “Ah, the slaves. Yes. They are an important part of our economy. Of course, slaves should be no novelty to you, since you are from the Deep South of the United States. It is my understanding, in fact, that there are slaves throughout your country.”
I took this as the rebuke it was meant to be. “Yes,” I admitted. “The concept troubles me there, as well.”
Far from letting the matter drop, Governor Valdés seemed to be enjoying my discomfort, and he added, “It is also my understanding that in some of your southern states, there are even farms where slaves are bred to create more slaves.”
I felt myself blushing. I began to realize how stupid and discourteous I had been to criticize a country where I was a guest. I should have backed down, but something—perhaps my thoughts of Ebony and Andrew—kept me from doing so. “I have heard nothing about breeding farms, Your Excellency,” I replied. “But I personally do not favor the practice of slavery in any country, and do not ?nd it humane in any of its forms.”
His eyes ?ashed angrily, but he remained cordial. “An interesting viewpoint, my dear, but not very practical. This beautiful city you admire was built with slave labor, as were many of the cities throughout the Americas, including those in the Caribbean and in the United States. We need African slaves, our ?ne, strong bozales, for the sugar ?elds. No one else could do that kind of work in the heat. They are used to it. They even have resistance to the fever. As for breeding … well, we believe in just letting nature take its course.” He ?ashed me a brittle smile and bowed his head courteously. “Now, if you will excuse me …” And with that, he moved on.
Pedro cleared his throat. “Querida,” he said softly. “I know the scene you saw at the dock—those slaves being pushed and whipped—disgusted you. But … it’s just business. And—ah, here is my cousin Juan,” he said, happy to change the subject. “Come, I’ll introduce you.”
I had heard much about Juan Salas. When I ?rst arrived in Key West, Martin had explained to me how Salas had sold the island a few years earlier to Alabama businessman John Simonton when the two men met in a grog shop in Havana.
Juan was a good-looking man, somewhat younger and taller than Pedro, but there was a family resemblance. Juan kissed my hand courteously. Throughout our conversation, a cloud of heavy smoke from his cigar encircled him, so that he was visible only through a bluish veil.
“So you live in Key West,” he said. “I used to wonder how anyone could ever live in that mosquito-infested swamp.”
Though I had at one time been critical of Key West myself, I found myself once again feeling like I was on the defensive that evening. “Still,” he said thoughtfully, ?icking a gray rope of ash, “I may have made a mistake selling the island so quickly.”
“Why? Do you think you sold it for too little?”
“In retrospect, yes. Perhaps. I wanted to be rid of it because the Americans had acquired the Florida Territory.” He shrugged. “But ah … an island, it can never grow. In the end, a property like that can only become more valuable. A jewel in the middle of the sea.” He stabbed the air with his cigar for emphasis and smiled. “You would do well to remember that, Se?ora Emily.”
I nodded politely—but some years later, I would indeed remember these words of wisdom.
Contrary to what I’d hoped, our activity in the bedroom did not abate when we returned home. Back in Key West, Pedro wanted me every night. And sometimes, he came home for a midday siesta! Because I could not repel his advances outright, I began to make plans to be away from the house during the day, running errands, visiting friends, and having lunch with my grandmother or Dorothy. When I was home, I could sometimes distract him, innocently raising questions about the business, since I knew he would quickly shift his focus to the factory. This started as simply a tactic to withstand his advances, but I began to learn a lot about how he ran his cigar business. And I must confess that I found the idea of administering a manufacturing company fascinating. His factory was a source of employment for many, and as such, it was an important business in Key West.
Pedro’s open admiration of my body was unwavering, and he continually showered me with gifts. When we arrived in Key West after our honeymoon in Cuba, a shiny new cabriolet and a ?ne young mare stood waiting for me next to his landau in the courtyard. He never passed an auction at O’Hara’s or Browne’s warehouses without bringing me home pretty clothes or objets d’art. And hardly a week passed when he would not surprise me with a new piece of jewelry, which he always gave me before leading me to bed.
I gradually learned to mask my distaste for the physical side of our marriage. After all, I told myself, I had a good life. I had gone from being the poorest woman in Key West to being the richest—or at least married to the richest man.
Was I a mujer buen notada? Perhaps. But the gossips could talk all they wanted. I was the wife of Pedro Salas, and in Key West, that meant something.