Subject: The Epilogue
Author: Robin N (38.31.126.7)
Date: 01-23-2000 20:17
Epilogue
The new house at Campo real was built on the exact opposite side of
the valley from the first. It was very close to the ruins, on a hill
where from time to time, the sea breezes would come. It was a fresh
and light house, clean and happy, and small when compared to the old
palace whose marble ruins were vovered in tangled vines. It was
spacious because love and peace triumphed here… Love and peace in
the heart of the woman that waits on the balcony draped in
honeysuckle; the light in her blue eyes followed along the narrow
roads that marked the boundaries of their acreage… She waits
sweetly, without anxiety, without worrying… she waits, her fresh
lips burning for the kiss she can’t wait longer for, the delicate
hands crossed, readying for the caress. That woman smiles, that
woman loves, and its her love like the rays of the sun that
fertilize the land and illuminates the soals… Y the horse that she
feels drawing closer, the pounding of the hard hooves, lifts her
heart like the ringing of silver bells.
A man crosses the wide, fertile lands… He rides the most vigorous of
chargers found in american soil, the strong hand holds the rains,
restraining the horses gallop so that he can better enjoy the view.
He looks from one side to the other. This no longer is the Campo
Real, land of master and servant… This land, fertile and joyous,
where free men win their bread with their sweat. The humble workers
don’t lower their heads to him. They raise their hands to him in a
salute of affection and respect and he smiles as he passes… He
smiles, and his restless look rises up past the roads up to the
white house, up to the balcony covered in honeysuckle, where the
woman waits that he loves…
“Am I very late, Monica?
“For my impatience, you are always late. But in reality, not much.
I’m greedy of all the hours, of all of the minutes of your life… I
know that it’s not possible… I’m not trying to have a caged eagle…
Valle Chico and Campo Real are small enough for you. How could I
close you in the four walls of my house?”
“Close my in a circle even more restricting, my Monica; in the
circle of your arms… I wish this chain on my neck as I wish to see
you look at my eyes, your mouth on my mouth… Without your presence,
I haven’t the air, the sun, my own life… For you I feel the courage
in life to fight, triumph… work… For your inspiration, these lands
once again are fertile and the men who work them are fortunate.
Today I was in the port to contract for the services of one hundred
workers more.”
“Is that possible? Have those that left returned, those that left
Martinique?”
“No… almost none have returned, but it doesn’t matter. New men have
come from harder lands… Men of all races: blacks and brown, yellow
and white… new metal for the melting pot that is our country. If you
would have seen the joy it gave me to see how the houses are going
up in Fort de France… Soon we will have a cleean and joyous capital,
perhaps even more beautiful than Saint-Pierre…”
“Saint-Pierre… You are so pensive… Is there something else that you
wanted to tell me?”
“Yes… Today Renato left. He left us saying that he would leave
immediately, but that wasn’t so. He waited in an innon the
outskirts…”
“Renato… That God will grant him happiness!”
A man crossed silently past the luxurious cabin on the departing
ship. He’s tall, refined, and wears the clothes of a gentleman. His
hair is blond and straight, and in his blue eyes there is an intense
look of nostalgia. His hand, his long fingers seek in his pockets to
find something, some discolored papers, whose writing is almost
obscured by water. Papers in which you can still see the seal of the
Governor and the signature of the Pope… With a slow and smooth
gesture, he lit the paper with a match, holding it over the water.
He watched it burn for a moment and then let it fall into the
churning waters.
The boat crossed in front of the ruins of Saint-Pierre… It had drawn
aside the rocky promontory of the lighthouse and turned toward the
high seas, ready to sail. His foot on the edge of the railing,
Renato watched those lands that he was leaving. He raised his head,
his eyes seeking the cone of the volcano that now was serene, dead
or slumbering, it served as a symbol, or a threat. He thought of
Monica, and of Juan… His eyes clouded for a moment; but through
strength of will, he turned his back and entered the illuminated
salon, leaving behind him the lands that slowly disappeared.
Martinique… flowering land, land convulsed and churned in a cauldron
of fire… A volcano of loves and hates, of passions without
restraint, of punishments and cruelties… The land where four
passionate hearts collided: Monica, Aimee, Renato, Juan… Martinique…
island placed where the brilliant Caribbean sea seems most restless,
a golden clasp on the emerald collar of the Antilles… Exuberant and
rough, generous and wild, resting place of adventurers, a pirates’
refuge, favored daughter of the most ardent sun on the planet,
cradle of the great volcano like a burning heart and contained
beating within its core… Land ferocious and mysterious, abrupt and
enigmatic… Brave island, with the name of a woman: Martinique!”
The End