Free House on the Lagoon by Rosario Ferré

rope, and his legs were secured to a post that had been thrust deep into the ground, so that he couldn’t move. Everybody waited. The governor was served coffee and sweet cakes on a silver tray passed around by a Spanish orderly as he conversed with the mayor, the parish priest, and the Pellot family. The other hacendados and their wives strolled around, elegantly dressed, wearing hats and gloves, delighted to have the island’s most powerful magistrate in town. A local guitar trio played a zarabanda under the trees and everyone was in a festive mood. Nobody paid any attention to Bernabé, who watched the spectacle with flashing eyes. In his tribe a man’s execution was a solemn affair; no one would have dared to play music, eat sweet cakes, or make small talk. He was tense, but he wanted to die with dignity. He had refused to eat or drink in the last twenty-four hours, so as not to soil the clean clothes his wife had brought to prison for him.
    Strangely enough, no firing squad or drummer was in sight. The slaves murmured restlessly under the trees, kept in line by the militiamen, who were there to protect the governor. All of a sudden Bernabé saw Pietri, the town barber, carrying his black instrument case and flanked by two Spanish soldiers in uniform. An aide walked by his side, holding a red-hot iron rod. Bernabé realized what was going to happen and strained desperately at his bindings, moving his head up and down like a strapped bull. When the barber opened his bag and took out his scalpel, Bernabé let out such a howl that the governor dropped his coffee cup on his lap and the Spanish orderly overturned his silver tray. “Olorún, ka kó koi bé!” Bernabé cried, looking straight up into the sun as he prayed to his gods to be merciful. One of the soldiers hit him on the head with a club and he passed out. The barber then pried his mouth open with a wooden spoon and sliced his tongue off, cauterizing the wound with the red-hot iron. So said Petra’s mother.
    Buenaventura liked to visit his clients, the owners of the small grocery stores that were supplied merchandise by Mendizabal & Co., and during one of these trips he had a stupid accident. He had driven all the way to Guayama, on the southeastern tip of the island, and when he reached the outskirts he felt the need to relieve himself. It had been a long trip, almost three hours up the winding mountain roads, and he preferred to urinate behind some bushes rather than enter one of the establishments in town for that purpose. But as he stepped out of his car he twisted his right ankle.
    At first he didn’t pay any attention and strolled half a kilometer up the road to stretch his legs, but his foot began to swell, until it looked like an eggplant. He saw a stream cascading down the side of the hill to the left of the road, sat down on a large rock, and took off his shoe and sock. He was bathing his foot in the cool waters when Petra walked by. She knelt in front of him and, without a word, took some yaraná leaves from her pocket, wrapped his foot in them, and had him dip it in the stream again. Then she got up and went on down the road. A few minutes later Buenaventura could stand as if nothing had happened. He walked back to his Rolls-Royce, got in, and ordered the chauffeur to drive back to San Juan. The next day he sent the car to Guayama with orders to find the tall black medicine woman and bring her to him.
    Petra became Buenaventura’s personal servant. She took care of his clothes, polished his shoes, cooked him special dishes, and would have kissed the ground he walked on had he asked her to. She worshipped him like a god. Buenaventura came from a family of warriors like her grandfather, and if he had been born in Angola he would also have been a chieftain. Petra was very poor; the terrible punishment her grandfather had received had been a curse on his descendants. The Avilés family had the reputation of being a rebellious lot. Petra knew she