Oscar Hijuelos - Twain & Stanley Enter Paradise

“And do you, as Captain Bailey told me, have two adopted daughters in St. Louis?”

“Years ago I became the sponsor of two girls who had come from one of the Catholic orphanages there. We paid for their schooling and board — it is something Mrs. Stanley always wanted to do. In the same way that I have been your benefactor, I have been theirs. As to whether they are adopted, no, they are not — no more than you are.”

I felt discomfited by those words.

“But do you still intend to adopt me?”

“I have told you that it was my intention to do so, but as you can well imagine, the question has slipped from my mind in recent times. Surely you know that these matters require certain legalities. Being that there is a war looming, and as such legalities require the assistance of attorneys, and as you are truly not of my blood and yet would inherit what funds and properties I have, it remains something that I must closely consider, for I do not believe it would be so easy a thing to do here in Cuba.”

“Then have I dreamed of your promise to adopt me?”

“You were not dreaming, but I think that perhaps in your fevers, you have exaggerated the urgency of the matter.”

“But did you not say that you would sign a proper letter attesting to my adoption? And have you not sworn, through your promises, to assist me in any way possible?”

“I did — and forgive me if this matter has been absent from my thoughts, as I forgive you for your manner with me now. No doubt you are tired from your travels and, if what you say about the recurring ague is true and you are somewhat strained at your seams from such an illness, I will overlook your hotheadedness, for I have always known you as a far more humble and reasonable person than the angry fellow standing before me. Obviously you are expecting much from me, by way of official adoption, but I must ask you to convince me that this is not the only reason for your coming here. Is it?”

“No, Father.”

“Why, then, do you not exercise some restraint in regard to the legalities of it all? For in the eyes of God, such a promise is a fact. Your sanctified name is Henry Stanley now. Is that not enough?”

I could not answer him. The truth is that I wanted the legal paper, but his words had humbled me, and I felt ashamed of my behavior. And then, just as I turned my head away in a downcast fashion, and could no longer look him in the eye, he softened.

“You will have your document, but I should let you know that I intend to be around for many years. Just the same, in the coming days I will make my letter regarding your adoption, since it is of such urgency to you; but do not mention it to me again, as I am weary of such things.” I was relieved to hear this.

OVER THE NEXT SEVERAL DAYS, despite our momentary misunderstanding, my father and I enjoyed a felicitous and tranquil existence, such as we had known before in New Orleans. Since he knew my love for books, what modest library he possessed he shared with me.

Reminded of Mr. Stanley’s literate side, I had noticed in him a tendency to spend several hours each afternoon, after lunch, sitting under the shade of a banyan tree, recording his thoughts in a ledger book — the type that, in days past, he had once used for jotting down, in pencil, the details of his business. But here, in Cuba, in the remoteness of his plantation, and with a dulcet orange-and-lemon-scented breeze blowing often, he would lose himself in some absorbing composition.

Clemens, I should say, had the same proclivity. A loner at heart, he, with notebook in hand, tended to wander off early in the morning to watch the slaves milk the cows, tend to the chicken coops, and harness the oxen for the fields. Once their harder labors had begun in the cane fields, he withdrew, feeling some shame at his leisure, and he would return to the main house to sit on the porch, smoke his black cigars, put his boots up on the railing, and take in the enormity of the enterprise. But toward dusk, he was drawn back to the slave barracks, especially when he heard drums or chants being sung. However he presented himself to the slaves, with his few rudimentary Spanish phrases, he won them over, especially the children, who would follow him around in packs. Playing among them, he had learned their spirituals and ways of telling stories, even the manner in which they would speak; in describing such things to me, he had such affection in his voice that I doubted he approved of slavery at all.

“What do you write of these Cuban slaves?” I asked him.

“Aside from having no idea what they say to me, beyond general welcomes and good-byes, I just look at their meager surroundings and try to understand the meanings of the objects they surround themselves with: a drum that barks what to them are meaningful phrases; a gourd that is scraped in a certain way as they sing incantations to their gods — Obatalá and Changó are two that have registered on my dim brain. No crucifixes anywhere. Above all, Henry, at a white man’s kindness, they smile — despite the fact they are slaves.” Then: “I suppose they saw that I am used to their kind, even if they speak a different language.”

For my part, while spending time with Mr. Stanley, I took every opportunity to offer him my services. He seemed to have taken on the role of bookkeeper for the estate, though from what I could observe, their “office” consisted of a single desk set out in the cool inner courtyard, on which were stacked several ledger books.

“If you would like me to go over your books, it would be a pleasure to do so,” I told him. But of this he felt no need: “Why should you, when you might well decide to leave this place for good?” Then: “In any case, there is not very much to do right now: As you can see, even though I am not what I once was, I don’t mind these little chores.”

It disappointed me that despite my friendliness toward my father and the outward signs of his paternity toward me, he seemed most content to be left alone.

Of the plantation itself I will now speak, for Clemens and I rode around it one morning with Mr. Davis and my father.

It was at least several square miles in size, I would judge, given its distance from the forest surrounding it on all sides. To run it, the partners had about one hundred or so working slaves — not counting the children, who seemed to be everywhere; one white overseer, a Cuban; and several old, experienced slaves also acted as bosses. Two dozen slaves worked in the fields, slashing away at the cane stalks. They moved in unison, in one direction, much like a line of infantry, harvesting yard by yard the seemingly endless forest of cane. Afterward, they gathered the stalks up and loaded them into the oxcarts, and these were pulled to the sugar mill, where the raw cane was laid out in big piles on a platform and fed lengthwise through the trough of a machine whose steam-driven rollers crushed them into a pulp, their juices dripping down into enormous vats. Their residue of leftover bark and fibers was then carried out to dry in a field and stored as fuel for the mill’s furnace. All during the process there was a constant grinding of machinery, the cries of the slaves giving one another instructions—“ Dale candela ”—and chanting and sometimes singing. The air in that place was so intensely sweet and thick, I imagined it would take a long time to get used to it.

“Our problem here,” said Mr. Davis that day, “is not the production itself. Aside from the machinery, the slaves comprise our greatest expense. But they are good and hard workers — we try not to use force against them. Isn’t that so, Mr. Stanley? In general, we have found that, while this is not a paradise for them, they have it better here than they would in many other plantations; certainly better than what I have seen in your American South.