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Celia rests in the interior patio of the plaza, where royal palms dwarf a marble statue of Christopher Columbus. She became governor of the island after her husband, Hernando de Soto, left to conquer Florida. But de Soto died on the banks of the Mississippi River without ever seeing his wife again.
Celia passes by the Hotel Inglaterra, drab and peeling from neglect. Celia imagines her dead husband staring up at the shuttered windows, carrying a late-model electric broom. He studies the ornate balconies like a burglar, gazes through the blue panes of stained glass until he spots her with the Spaniard, naked and sharing a cigarette. She imagines him swinging the broom round and round in a quickening circle, scattering pigeons and beggars, swinging so hard that the air breaks in a low whistle, swinging and swinging, then releasing the broom until it flies high above him, crashing through the window and shattering her past.
Workers pack the square, cheering his words that echo and collide in midair. Celia makes a decision. Now that Jorge is dead, she will volunteer for every project—vaccination campaigns, tutoring, the microbrigades. In the back of the plaza, flatbed trucks are accepting volunteers for the fields. A bottle of rum passes from mouth to mouth. Celia smooths her housedress then lifts the bottle. The liquor burns in her chest like a hot cloud. For the next two weeks, Celia consigns her body to the sugarcane.
From the trucks, the acres of cane are green and inviting. But deep in the fields the brownish stalks rise from the earth to more than twice her height, occluding her vision. There are rats everywhere, hollowing the sweetest stalks, and insects too numerous to swat. Celia learns to cut the cane straight across at the base, strip its leaves with her machete, then chop it in even pieces for the gatherers. Despite her age or because of it, Celia advances steadily through the fields, hardening her muscles with every step, every swing.
