The town was bigger, but otherwise seemed unchanged. They were stared at crossing the central square, just as they had been nine years earlier, and probably by the same people. This time Barney stared back, looking for a beautiful African girl with blue eyes. He did not see her.
In the cool of the palace they were made to wait for a period long enough to impress them with the high status of the personage they wanted to see.
Then they were escorted upstairs by a man in a priest’s cassock who was either Father Ignacio or a replacement – Barney did not remember the original well enough.
However, he vividly remembered the obese Alfonso, father of Bella. And the young man in the mayor’s office was definitely not him.
‘Don Alfonso is dead,’ said the man in Alfonso’s chair. ‘Five years ago.’ Barney was not surprised: immigrants to the Caribbean were highly vulnerable to strange tropical illnesses. ‘I am the mayor now.’ Alfonso’s replacement was young but he, too, might be short-lived: he had the yellow-tinged skin that was a symptom of jaundice. ‘My name is Don Jordi. Who are you?’
Barney made the introductions, then they went through the ritual dance in which Don Jordi pretended not to want a bribe and Barney pretended not to offer him one. When they had agreed a price for a ‘temporary trading licence’, the priest brought a bottle and glasses.
Barney sipped and said: ‘Is this Bella’s rum?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Don Jordi. ‘Who’s Bella?’
That was a bad sign. ‘She used to make the best rum here.’ Barney hid his disappointment. ‘Perhaps she moved away?’
‘Very likely. Is this not to your taste?’
‘On the contrary. Here’s to friendship.’
On leaving, Barney and Jonathan crossed the square to the house that had been Bella’s home and distillery. They passed under the central arch into the rear yard. The business had expanded: there were now two stills dripping liquor into barrels.
A man with an air of authority came towards them. He was about thirty, and had dark African skin with straight hair, a combination that suggested he might be the son of a planter and a slave. He smiled in a friendly way. ‘Good day,’ he said. ‘I expect you’ve come to buy some of the best rum in the world.’ Barney thought apprehensively that this was exactly the kind of man Bella might have married.
‘We certainly have,’ he said. ‘And perhaps to sell you a pair of Spanish pistols.’
‘Come inside and taste the merchandise,’ he said. ‘I’m Pablo Trujillo, proprietor.’
Barney could not control his impatience. ‘What happened to Bella?’
‘I bought the business from her two years ago. I still use her recipes, though.’ He led them into the house and began to squeeze limes just as Bella had.
‘Where’s Bella now?’ Barney asked.
‘She lives in a house on Don Alfonso’s estate. He’s dead, and someone else owns the plantation, but Alfonso left her a house.’
Barney had a feeling Pablo was holding something back. ‘Is she married?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think so.’ Pablo got out glasses and a bottle.
Barney was embarrassed to be asking so much about Bella. He did not want people to think he was so soft-hearted as to cross the Atlantic for the sake of a girl. He refrained from further questions while they tasted the rum and agreed an absurdly low price for two barrels.
When they were about to leave, he swallowed his pride and said: ‘I might call on Bella. Is there someone in town who might lead me there?’
‘Right next door. Mauricio Martinez takes a mule loaded with supplies up to the plantation every few days.’
‘Thank you.’
The neighbouring building was a fragrant general store with barrels of rice and beans, herbs in bunches, cooking pots and nails and coloured ribbons. Mauricio agreed to close the shop right away and take Barney to the plantation. ‘Must go soon anyway,’ he said. ‘Flour and olive oil needed.’ He spoke in abbreviated sentences, as if to get the maximum said in the time available.
Barney sent Jonathan back to take care of theAlice.
Mauricio saddled a horse for Barney, but he walked, leading the pack mule. They followed a dusty track out of town and up into the hills. Barney was not inclined for conversation, but Mauricio had plenty to say, in his condensed style. Fortunately, he did not seem to care whether Barney replied, or even understood. That left Barney’s mind free to wander through his memories.
Soon they were alongside fields of sugar cane, the green stalks as high as Barney’s head. Africans moved along the rows, tending the crop. The men wore ragged shorts, the women had simple shift dresses, and the children went naked. They all had home-made straw hats. In one field they were digging holes and embedding new plants, sweating under the sun. Barney saw another group operating a huge wooden press, crushing the cane stalks until the juice ran down into a tank below. Then he passed a wooden building in which fire flickered and steam billowed, and Mauricio explained: ‘Boiling house.’
Barney said: ‘In this weather, I wonder how people can survive, working in a place like that.’
