Oscar Hijuelos - Twain & Stanley Enter Paradise

Funny what memories are: The steep grades of a provincial hillside, the colors of a blossom, the florid plumage of a bird — all such come back to one, even years later, in a dream of idealized perfection; but words, such as which can be recalled, shift about — some more vividly remembered than others, some completely lost. In this instance, concerning my friendship with Clemens, my approximation of what he said may not be entirely accurate to the word, but the sentiment of this and other moments, at their heart, remains true.

IT TURNED OUT that the “town” of Limonar was just another two-building stop in service of a large nearby sugar plantation. To our relief, within half an hour of our arrival, there appeared, on an English-saddled white stallion, a majestically dressed gentleman who dismounted and entered the station house. It was the plantation owner himself, Mr. Bertrand, as I remember, a Frenchman.

“So,” he said in impeccable English. “I take it that you are in need of assistance.”

“Indeed we are,” said Clemens.

Shortly we had made our introductions and explained our situation; as to our concerns, he was immediately helpful. He would rent us two horses the next day and would inquire after the location of Esperanza, apparently a mill of small import in those parts.

“Come to my plantation for the night,” he said. “You will be better refreshed then, in the morning.”

Later we made our way by carriage along a road of what seemed to be pulverized red brick, the color of the clay in that region, and entered into an orange grove, which was another quarter mile in length. Shortly we came out onto the grounds of the plantation proper. In the distance stood a group of white buildings. One was a barracks; the other a sugar mill, its furnace sending up great volumes of black, billowy smoke; a third was a warehouse; a fourth a stable for the oxen: Surrounding these buildings were endless acres of sugarcane — the stalks, some ten feet high, as densely packed as fields of corn — and hundreds of slaves, whether man, woman, or child, at work cutting cane or loading it onto oxen-driven carts. Other slaves, farther on, were busily feeding cane stalks into the mouth of a furnace.

Then, too, there was a separate enclave of some three buildings, at whose center stood a fine mansion, but not in the southern style, with porticoes and columns, but in the Spanish style — a massive house with Moorish flourishes. And as we were each given a small room, even these were of a luxurious nature such as I had never experienced before — a canopied bed, a writing desk, a closet; even an Italianate chamber-pot holder, its shelves of marble as well.

From my window I could see the fields, the slaves laboring into the night. A servant had come to escort me to a bathing room containing a toilet, its drainage abetted by a copper barrel whose spigot flowed with water into the convenience. We each took our turns in the bathing room, and by nine, cleaned up and refreshed, Clemens and I joined Mr. Bertrand and his wife for dinner.

THE MEAL WAS TYPICALLY CUBAN: fried plantains, rice cooked with eggs, sweet potatoes, boiled cassava, and dishes of fowl and vegetables, all drowned in oil and salt and garlic—“Just like breakfast in Havana,” Clemens had said. These dishes we consumed with a lordly quantity of Catalan wine, popular on the island, followed by goblets of French sherry.

“So what do you hear of the war?” Mr. Bertrand asked. “Are the rumors true?”

“Yes, sir,” Clemens said. “I’m afraid it seems likely. When we left Louisiana, a few weeks back, the city was all up for it: For someone like myself — I am a riverboat pilot — it means having to sit the whole thing out. See, much of the Mississippi River traffic has been turned on its head. Anyway, I’d almost forgotten about it ’til you mentioned it, but even in Havana — well, sir, that’s all the Southerners talk about there.”

“And would you fight? And for whom, Mr. Clemens?”

“I suppose if I had to, I would, on the Southern side; I am from Missouri.”

“And you, Mr. Stanley?”

“It’s my intention, sir, when I leave this island, to head back to Arkansas to join up with a regiment called the Dixie Grays.”

“And do you gentlemen believe it is worthwhile going to war over slaves? Even if they are freed, it will make for many difficulties: Here in Cuba, we are not allowed to buy slaves — we must import them from Africa, at great expense. And then there are laws that require us to free them after so many years: Some slave owners use that as an excuse to work the slaves even harder. And then, even if they are freed, they have no work, most of them — they do nothing but beg, or they become bandits and criminals. I am personally against the war for those very humane reasons.” Then: “Look at my slaves and you will see they are well provided for.”

Mrs. Bertrand had mainly listened in silence, but at this point in the conversation, she said: “I don’t understand it at all. We, of the South, are peaceable: I am mainly worried about our travels back to Georgia, which we undertake once a year.” Then: “Well, it seems stupid to start something up over the slave issue.”

“Then let us make a toast,” Mr. Bertrand said. “To peace, and that there will be no war.”

Afterward Clemens and I retired to this gentleman’s veranda to smoke some cigars. Despite the reputation of Cuban cigars— cohibas , the indigenous word for “tobacco”—which were said to be the finest in the world, Clemens preferred the two-cent cigars he had brought with him from the South, the burned-cord taste reminding him of home. Even at that hour — it was well past eleven — the great mill continued in operation, shadowy figures in the distance barely illuminated in the furnace’s glow; and we saw that a few slaves were still out in the fields, some of them singing Yoruban chants, which would ring out at all hours of the night.

THAT NEXT MORNING MR. BERTRAND had two horses saddled and ready for us. Through inquiries with various of his overseers, he had ascertained some notion as to where Esperanza was located.

“It is my understanding, gentlemen, that it is in the vicinity of a natural spring called San Miguel de los Baños, some twelve miles southeast of here. One of my men will bring you to a crossroad that will take you in that direction; but mind you, part of the route is through the selva —the jungle — and there you will not find any guardes civiles to keep the law. Not to frighten you, but it would be a good idea to bring some arms — have you any?”

“I have a revolver,” I told him.

“Good — if you are harassed by anyone, show the gun and you will be left alone.” Then, as we thanked him for his hospitality, we mounted our horses and, following our guide, left the plantation.

WHAT DAY IT WAS I cannot say — maybe a Tuesday or a Wednesday — but it was about four o’clock when, as we rode along on our horses, a local peasant pointed us to the dirt road leading to the Esperanza plantation. When we came upon the property, an orange grove — like the one at Bertrand’s, but on a smaller scale — first met the eye. Natural gardens were flourishing all around — ceiba, tamarind, and mango trees, mainly. Beyond were the cane field, the processing mill, barns, and a corral for oxen. Slaves were working in teams to harvest the sugar, their ebony backs glistening with moisture. We saw only one overseer among them, but he seemed to have neither a pistol nor a whip. And unlike the slaves we had seen at Bertrand’s plantation, these slaves seemed unafraid to speak to white men before being spoken to, for as we approached, within sight of the owner’s residence, which was a fine-looking house with a wide veranda, an old black female slave greeted us.