The old man consumed the rest of his chocolate quickly, then licked the rim of the bowl and laid it aside. Its spicy sweetness was good, true enough, one of the joys of the Spanish Americas, but now he wanted something stronger. Unobtrusively he rummaged through the pocket of his coat till he located his flask of pimento brandy. He extracted the cork with his teeth, then pensively drew twice on the bottle before rising to stare out over the stone balustrade.
Below them on the right lay Jamaica Bay, placid and empty, with the sandy cay called Cayo de Carena defining its farthest perimeter. The cay, he had always thought, was where the Passage Fort really should be. But their governor, don Francisco de Castilla, claimed there was no money to build a second one. All the same, spreading below him was the finest harbor in the New World—when Jamaica had no more than three thousand souls, maybe four, on the whole island. Did not even the giant galeones, on their way north from Cartegena, find it easy to put in here to trade? Their arrival was, in fact, always the event of the year, the time when Jamaica's hides and pig lard were readied for Havana, in exchange for fresh supplies of wine, olive oil, wheat flour, even cloth from home. Don Fernando, owner of the hato, always made certain his hides were cured and bundled for the galeones by late spring.
But don Fernando's leather business was of scant concern to Juan Jose. What use had he for white lace from Seville? He pulled again at the flask, its brandy sharp and pungent, and let his eyes wander to the green plain on his left, now washed in moonlight. That was the Jamaica he cared about, where everything he required could be grown right in the earth. Cotton for the women to spin, beef and cassava to eat, wine and cacao and cane-brandy for drinking, tobacco to soothe his soul. . . .
He suddenly remembered he had left his pipe in the leather knapsack, down below. But now he would wait a bit. Thinking of a pleasure made it even sweeter . . . Just as he knew young Hipolito was dreaming still of some country senorita. When a young man could not attend to what he was told for longer than a minute, it could only be first love.
As he stood musing, his glance fell on Caguaya, the Passage Fort, half a mile to the left, along the Rio Cobre river that flowed down from Villa de la Vega. The fort boasted ten great guns, and it was manned by militia day and night. If any strange ship entered the bay, Caguaya would be signaled from here at the vigia, using two large bells donated by the Church, and the fort's cannon would be readied as a precaution. He studied it for a time, pleased it was there. Its guns would kill any heretic luterano who came to steal.
The pipe. He glanced over at Hipolito, now making a show of watching the Point at Cayo de Carena, and briefly entertained sending him down for it. Then he decided the climb would be good for his legs, would help him keep his breath—which he needed for his Saturday night trysts with Margarita, don Fernando's head cook. Though, Mother of God, she had lungs enough for them both. He chuckled to himself and took a last pull on the fiery brandy before collecting the pewter bowls to start down the stairs. "My pipa. Don't fall asleep gazing at the moon while I'm below."
The young man blushed in the dark and busily studied the horizon. Juan Jose stood watching him for a moment, wondering if he had been that transparent thirty-some years past, then turned and began descending the steps, his boots ringing hard against the stone.
The knapsack was at the side wall, near the door, and as he bent over to begin searching for the clay stem of his pipe he caught the movement of a shadow along the stone lintel. Suddenly it stopped.
''Que pasa?" He froze and waited for an answer.
Silence. Now the shadow was motionless.