Venice, colorful linens from Ireland. Arístides Arrigoitia, Quintín’s grandfather, worked in La Traviata as a store clerk. He was twenty and had a difficult apprenticeship: the store’s owner had a habit of kicking him in the shins every time he found mouse nests in the goose-down pillows at the back of the shop. But the real reason he hit him was that he hated foreigners. He saw them as leeches who took income away from Puerto Ricans, and he employed them only because they worked for half the pay. Arístides was an affable young man and made the most of his unpleasant job. Elegant ladies who led an active social life in San Juan came to shop in La Traviata almost every day, looking for the laces and silks that their fashionable couturiers would make into beautiful gowns. Arístides knew their tastes by heart.
Don Esteban was a widower. He had decided to retire to the island for reasons of health, after making a fortune selling Italian shoes in Boston. He also owned a steamship company—the Taurus Line—which did a lot of business between San Juan, Boston, and New York, and he could easily go on supervising it from the island. Don Esteban had arrived in San Juan only a month before and had purchased a country house in the blue hills of Guaynabo, because he liked the cool temperatures there. The house had a sloping tile roof, wooden rafters, and a brick chimney—built to please the fancy of the previous owner, a rich islander who dreamed of owning a home in the snow-covered hills of Maine.
Don Esteban took his daughter to La Traviata so they could buy linens for their house.
“How may I help you, sir? We have some beautiful new merchandise just arrived from Europe,” Arístides said, smiling, as Don Esteban strolled in, silver cane in hand. He spoke perfect English, and Don Esteban was taken by surprise. At the time, almost no one in the city could speak English.
“What part of the States are you from, young man?” he asked pleasantly. Arístides’s blond hair and easygoing manner misled Don Esteban into thinking he was an American. “I was born right here, sir,” he said, politely pulling out a chair for Madeleine. “My parents immigrated from the Basque provinces just before my birth.”
Quintín used to talk to me about Don Arístides often, because he was very fond of him. In fact, there has always been a photograph of him in a silver frame on our library table. He never met his grandfather on the Mendizabal side of the family; Buenaventura talked to him about his ancestors from Extremadura, but they were always heroes, not flesh-and-blood people. Don Esteban, on the other hand, was a lovable old man, with pink cheeks and snow-white whiskers on either side of his face.
Arístides was tall and robust; Quintín said he looked like a peasant from the Pyrenees. Don Esteban immediately took a liking to him. He identified with people who came from humble backgrounds and had learned to make a go of it in a difficult situation.
“Il piacere e mio,” Don Esteban said in Italian, and asked Arístides where he had learned to speak English so well. “The American nuns from the School of the Annunciation were my teachers, sir,” he replied. “They taught us it would be our duty to speak English when we knocked on the doors of heaven, asking to be let in.” Don Esteban and Madeleine burst out laughing. They knew he was poking fun at a comment the governor had made recently in the local press. The governor had decreed that English be mandatory in all the island’s schools, and four thousand copies of Appleton’s First Reader in English had been handed out to schoolchildren. Both Don Esteban and Madeleine thought it was preposterous to make children take all their classes in a language they couldn’t speak. “Of course, this means we’ll be an educated people when we get to heaven, even if we don’t understand what God says,” Arístides added with a wink at Madeleine.
Arístides knew he had made a good
Don Esteban was a widower. He had decided to retire to the island for reasons of health, after making a fortune selling Italian shoes in Boston. He also owned a steamship company—the Taurus Line—which did a lot of business between San Juan, Boston, and New York, and he could easily go on supervising it from the island. Don Esteban had arrived in San Juan only a month before and had purchased a country house in the blue hills of Guaynabo, because he liked the cool temperatures there. The house had a sloping tile roof, wooden rafters, and a brick chimney—built to please the fancy of the previous owner, a rich islander who dreamed of owning a home in the snow-covered hills of Maine.
Don Esteban took his daughter to La Traviata so they could buy linens for their house.
“How may I help you, sir? We have some beautiful new merchandise just arrived from Europe,” Arístides said, smiling, as Don Esteban strolled in, silver cane in hand. He spoke perfect English, and Don Esteban was taken by surprise. At the time, almost no one in the city could speak English.
“What part of the States are you from, young man?” he asked pleasantly. Arístides’s blond hair and easygoing manner misled Don Esteban into thinking he was an American. “I was born right here, sir,” he said, politely pulling out a chair for Madeleine. “My parents immigrated from the Basque provinces just before my birth.”
Quintín used to talk to me about Don Arístides often, because he was very fond of him. In fact, there has always been a photograph of him in a silver frame on our library table. He never met his grandfather on the Mendizabal side of the family; Buenaventura talked to him about his ancestors from Extremadura, but they were always heroes, not flesh-and-blood people. Don Esteban, on the other hand, was a lovable old man, with pink cheeks and snow-white whiskers on either side of his face.
Arístides was tall and robust; Quintín said he looked like a peasant from the Pyrenees. Don Esteban immediately took a liking to him. He identified with people who came from humble backgrounds and had learned to make a go of it in a difficult situation.
“Il piacere e mio,” Don Esteban said in Italian, and asked Arístides where he had learned to speak English so well. “The American nuns from the School of the Annunciation were my teachers, sir,” he replied. “They taught us it would be our duty to speak English when we knocked on the doors of heaven, asking to be let in.” Don Esteban and Madeleine burst out laughing. They knew he was poking fun at a comment the governor had made recently in the local press. The governor had decreed that English be mandatory in all the island’s schools, and four thousand copies of Appleton’s First Reader in English had been handed out to schoolchildren. Both Don Esteban and Madeleine thought it was preposterous to make children take all their classes in a language they couldn’t speak. “Of course, this means we’ll be an educated people when we get to heaven, even if we don’t understand what God says,” Arístides added with a wink at Madeleine.
Arístides knew he had made a good
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