Whites Beneath Blacks
No matter how fervently Spain insisted it valued Cuba as much as its own mainland, the island was, in essence, still a colony.
The vast majority of Cuba’s Black population toiled like slaves under brutal conditions, and above them loomed an invisible but immense wall of race and birthplace.
At the very peak of this island’s hierarchy stood the pure-blooded whites dispatched from the mainland—the peninsulares.
Positions such as governor-general, high government offices, military commands, and bishoprics were reserved exclusively for Spaniards who had come from the Iberian Peninsula.
Beneath them languished the Creoles—whites born in Cuba—who could only gaze upward with envy.
No matter how much wealth they accumulated or how many sugar plantations they owned, they remained second-class citizens.
Want a government post? Then you had to travel all the way to Madrid, obtain a certificate of blood purity proving that “no Black or indigenous blood runs in my veins,” and present it.
Even after jumping through all those hoops, the best one could hope for was a provincial administrator or low-ranking officer’s position.
And at the very bottom of this pyramid, in the deepest pit of hell, were the Black people.
From four in the morning until ten at night, they were required to swing machetes under the blazing sun, cutting sugarcane. If they so much as straightened their backs for a moment, the overseer’s whip would crack across them. During harvest season they were forced to labor twenty hours straight in front of cauldrons of boiling sugar, unable even to sleep.
Just as in the American South, Black people here were not considered human.
They were talking livestock, disposable tools to be used up and thrown away.
That was why my first objective was to ignite public opinion in Cuba.
Of course, unlike in the South, I did not dispatch agents to agitate the Black population or directly incite rebellion. The situations were entirely different.
The South had been my home ground, where I could exert meticulous control. This place was foreign soil.
What I needed was something more sophisticated and shocking—a spectacle that could encompass not only Black people but Creoles as well.
That was the true purpose of this visit.
Whoooooo!
A massive steamship flying the Serget Cotton flag bellowed as it came to a halt at Havana harbor.
I descended the gangway accompanied by Jonathan, dressed in a suit of the finest fabric, Secretary-General Leo, and the rest of the secretariat staff.
On the dock, a splendid honor guard stood at attention under the personal command of Governor-General Domingo Dulce. Behind them swarmed curious Creoles of means and the Black slaves who had been carrying cargo, clustering like ants.
The fact that the governor-general himself had come out suggested that Spain’s blunders had indeed placed them under severe financial pressure. The optimal conditions had been set—better than I could have hoped.
“Oh! Chairman Serget! You must be exhausted after such a long journey!”
The governor-general approached with a broad smile, arms wide open.
I was about to politely remove my hat in greeting when—
“...Huh?”
The governor-general’s steps halted abruptly.
His gaze had locked onto Leo, who stood one respectful pace behind my shoulder.
Black skin.
Yet a perfectly tailored, highest-quality suit.
One hand holding a leather briefcase, the other a gold pocket watch, posture dignified. The governor-general’s pupils quaked as if struck by an earthquake.
He must have received reports beforehand that there was a Black executive, but reading it in writing and seeing the reality before his eyes were two entirely different matters.
This was no clumsy sight of a slave stealing his master’s clothes. Anyone could see the flowing refinement and intellect, the perfect bearing of a capitalist.
Moreover, several white staff members stood attentively beside him, treating Leo with the deference due a superior. The shock must have been overwhelming.
He must be experiencing some serious cognitive dissonance.
To the common sense of a nineteenth-century Spanish nobleman, this scene would have been nearly impossible for the brain to process.
Still, Governor Dulce was a seasoned soldier who had seen it all.
The way he forcibly lifted the corners of his mouth and tried to appear composed while offering me a handshake was, frankly, an admirable display of quick thinking.
“Haha… your entourage is certainly… quite diverse.”
“I select based on ability, so it turned out that way. This is Leo, my secretary-general and right-hand man.”
At my introduction, Leo offered a graceful yet precise bow.
Even the accent of his Spanish—which he had practiced for days on end—was flawless.
“It is an honor, Your Excellency…”
“Ah, um. Yes. A pleasure.”
The governor-general accepted the handshake but could not hide his discomfort.
In the end, he seemed to decide on a policy of avoiding Leo’s direction entirely. He kept his eyes fixed only on me as he awkwardly continued.
“Anyway, Chairman Serget, let me speak plainly. Regarding the scale of this contract—you said you would purchase five years’ worth of sugar in its entirety. Considering the current volatility of international prices and the recovery trend of Louisiana’s output, isn’t the risk too great? Are your financing plans solid?”
Did he think a young man could only throw money around and knew nothing of practical affairs? Or was he trying to seize the initiative from the start?
Perhaps both. I shrugged and stepped back.
“My secretary-general will provide the specific figures and data. Leo?”
At my signal, Leo stepped forward as if he had been waiting for it.
Without even opening his briefcase, he began reciting the numbers from memory.
“I fully understand Your Excellency’s concerns. However, the London exchange’s sugar futures index rose 4.2 percent last quarter, while Louisiana’s production facility recovery rate currently stands below 15 percent. Serget Cotton has already secured letters of credit from the New York and Boston banking consortiums. The gold bullion prepared for the first advance payment is 99.9 percent pure, and the weight is exact.”
“……”
“Furthermore, we have established a special fund in case prices fall more than 10 percent, so there should be no threat whatsoever to the stability of the governor-general’s finances. Additionally…”
The words flowed like a clear stream. The briefing was so flawless that the interpreters stood frozen for a moment, mouths agape like goldfish.
The governor-general, receiving the translation, blinked with a dazed expression.
The shock spread naturally through the crowd like a plague.
“What… what was that? Did that Black man just answer him?”
“Wait, did you understand what he said? Even with the interpreter I couldn’t follow it.”
“How can a Black man speak with such professional knowledge…”
The watching Creoles buzzed, unable to contain their astonishment.
A Black man was conversing on equal terms with the Spanish governor-general—something they themselves could never achieve no matter how hard they tried.
Their eyes swirled with humiliation, shock, and a strange jealousy.
Behind them, the Black slaves who had been carrying cargo stopped dead in their tracks, standing as still as statues.
To their eyes, Leo must have looked less like a man and more like a descended angel.
They themselves were unaware of it, but the temperature of the griddle was already rising slowly.
I remained standing boldly beside the still-dazed governor-general and deliberately raised my voice just enough for everyone nearby to hear.
“Shall we continue our discussion inside? The weather is quite warm.”
“Ah, um? Y-yes, of course!”
The governor-general hurried forward in a fluster.
Just before entering the residence, I gave a subtle glance to Jonathan and the secretariat staff following behind.
Proceed as we discussed beforehand.
They gave tiny, almost imperceptible nods.
I turned my gaze away from the Creoles who were still staring at us in disbelief and crossed the threshold of the splendid residence with only Leo at my side.
Surprised that a Black man could wear obviously expensive clothes and speak fluently about complicated matters?
Just wait. The truly astonishing scene is only beginning now.
Michael, a secretariat employee who had accompanied Chairman Serget and Leo, had been given a critical mission.
He was known for his excellent command of Spanish and quick mind, yet even he could not help feeling nervous this time.
This was no ordinary task—it had been personally assigned by the Chairman himself and by Secretary-General Leo.
His heart raced not from fear of failure, but from excitement at being entrusted with such a glorious duty.
Nevertheless, he showed nothing on the surface and began the mission naturally.
First, he took a slow breath and walked toward the table where drinks and refreshments had been prepared.
Jonathan, the director, was already there lighting a cigar and chatting with the Serget Cotton staff.
Jonathan noticed Michael approaching from the corner of his eye and gave one of the staff a nearly invisible signal.
“Whoops!”
With an exaggerated cry, a servant carrying a tray tripped over the staff member’s foot and lost his balance.
In an instant, crystal glasses filled with red wine flew through the air and fell precisely onto Michael’s chest.
Crash!
“Oh no! I’m terribly sorry! I’ve committed a mortal offense!”
The servant dropped to his knees in panic.
The surrounding officials clicked their tongues at the sight of the expensive suit ruined by red wine, but Michael calmly took out a handkerchief and began wiping the stain.
“It’s quite all right. Clothes can be changed. Is anyone hurt?”
“Thank you. Thank you so much…”
The governor-general’s protocol officer, who had been watching the mess, rushed over.
“Oh dear, your esteemed guest’s clothing… We will prepare a change of clothes immediately. However, we don’t currently have a suit in your size…”
“It doesn’t matter. The weather is warm, so something comfortable will do. A shirt and trousers should be enough while I cool off a bit.”
Michael followed the protocol officer to the changing room.
When he reappeared moments later, the sophisticated New York businessman Michael was gone.
He now wore a loose, plain white shirt and worn cotton trousers—clean, but the sort one could see anywhere.
He had shed the armor of Serget Cotton and transformed into someone who could easily be mistaken for a Black Cuban laborer.
“Much cooler now that I’ve changed. Ah, but…”
Michael frowned slightly and rubbed his right shin.
“A shard must have nicked me when the glass broke. It stings a little. Would it be all right if I rested for a moment in the shaded garden over there to check it?”
“Shall I call a doctor?”
“No need. It’s not even bleeding, and I don’t want to cause a fuss. I’d prefer to be alone and quiet for a while.”
After all, they had their pride; they wouldn’t want to show excessive care toward a Black man.
As expected, the protocol officer nodded and withdrew.
Michael limped theatrically as he left the banquet hall and headed toward the work area behind the magnificent building.
“Ah… I should find somewhere with better sunlight.”
After walking a short distance, a world completely opposite to the banquet hall’s splendor unfolded before him.
Dozens of Black slaves sweated as they carried heavy loads, while white overseers shouted orders back and forth among them.
Michael deliberately sat down in the most visible shaded spot, pretending to massage his leg while observing his surroundings.
Fortunately, the prey appeared quickly.
“Hey! You there! Yes, you! What are you gawking at?”
A white man with a greasy mustache and a sturdy cane in his hand strode over.
It was Carlos de Valdez, a Creole who owned a large sugarcane plantation near Havana.
He immediately began poking Michael’s shoulder with the tip of his cane.
“Distinguished guests have arrived and everyone is working their bones off, yet here you are slacking? Which plantation do you belong to, you bastard?”
Michael slowly raised his head and stared directly at Carlos.
There was no trace of the fearful eyes or cowed posture typical of a slave.
“Who are you to start jabbing someone with a cane upon first meeting?”
The Spanish was not only fluent but as refined as any aristocrat’s—equal to Carlos’s own.
Carlos’s eyes widened.
“What? Did this Black bastard just talk back to me?”
“It wasn’t talking back; it was a question. And I was taught that jabbing people with a cane is not polite.”
It had been a long time since he had received such insulting treatment; it almost felt refreshing.
Michael stood up and brushed the dust from his clothes.
At that bold attitude, Carlos’s face turned beet red.
To him, a Black person was nothing more than a talking beast.
It was only natural that his reason would fail when that beast dared to use its master’s language to lecture him.
“You crazy bastard! What kind of education did your owner give you!”
Thwack!
The cane Carlos swung cut through the air.
Though he could see the trajectory clearly, Michael deliberately did not dodge.
Instead, he glared at him with sharp eyes and raised his voice.
“Apologize.”
“...What?”
“I am here in my capacity as an employee of the Serget Cotton secretariat. Your vulgar, racist words and actions insult not only me personally but also Chairman James Serget, who employs me. Apologize immediately and with proper courtesy.”
A hush fell over the surroundings.
The eyes of the slaves carrying cargo were frozen in terror and astonishment. Other Creoles who had been passing by stopped in their tracks and began to murmur.
“...What the hell? He’s not just some Black slave?”
“Did he wander in by mistake?”
“Are you kidding? Since when do Black people count as guests?”
As onlookers gathered in an instant, Carlos clicked his tongue.
With so many eyes on him, his pride as a white man would not allow him to back down now.
Besides, this cotton-picker who had merely changed his clothes was daring to demand an apology from a white man?
Carlos felt not the slightest awareness that he had done anything wrong.
“Ha! Hahaha! The world has truly gone mad! Serget? You think working for that Dixie merchant makes you something special? No matter what, you’re still just a Black!”
But before Carlos could grip his cane again, a thunderous roar came from the direction of the banquet hall.
“Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing!”
Jonathan, the white director of Serget Cotton who had harvested the corn of countless racists, came running with ferocious momentum. Behind him, Colonel Mendoza, a high-ranking official of the governor-general’s office, followed with a face drained of color.
“D-Director Jonathan! Please… calm your anger and speak with me…”
“How can I possibly calm down? He’s using violence against the Chairman’s most cherished employees!”
Jonathan stepped in front of Michael and glared at Carlos as if he would devour him.
“Do you realize what will happen when the Chairman hears about this? The Chairman personally selected and brought the most capable and valued staff for this contract. And you’re treating us this way?”
“N-no, what are you talking about? He’s just an insolent Black…”
“I will go to the residence immediately and report this insult to the Chairman. He has always said he has no need to do business with those who do not show us respect.”
Negotiations collapsing.
The moment he heard the one phrase that must never be spoken, Colonel Mendoza’s eyes flipped with panic.
He was a peninsular dispatched from mainland Spain.
Was a ten-million-peso contract tied to the governor-general’s safety about to vanish because of one colonial-born fool?
This could not happen. It must not happen.
“Colonel… I’m innocent—!”
“Shut up, you idiot!”
Colonel Mendoza grabbed Carlos by the collar and unleashed a torrent of curses.
“Do you even know who these people are? How dare you act like this! Know your place!”
“C-Colonel? Why are you taking the Black’s side? I am Spanish…”
“How much tax does a worm like you even pay to Spain! These people are distinguished guests invited by His Excellency the Governor-General! Apologize right now! Right noooow!”
“...Excuse me?”
Carlos’s face was now colored less by resentment than by a sense of betrayal.
A fellow white man—and a high official from the mainland at that—was forcing him to apologize to a Black man.
And in front of countless watching slaves.
“Can’t you hear me? Do you want your entire plantation seized and yourself thrown out onto the street? Shall I arrange that for you right now?”
At Mendoza’s sincere threat, Carlos trembled as he looked up at Michael.
He bit his lip in humiliation, but there was no resisting the weight of power.
“I… I’m sorry. I… made a mistake.”
“I can’t hear you. And please use more courteous language.”
Carlos clenched his fist so tightly that it drew blood. Finally, before the Black man who stood with arms crossed, coldly looking down at him, he lowered his head.
“I am sorry… I have been rude. Please forgive me this once.”
In that instant, the atmosphere around them changed.
The faces of the other Creoles watching turned ashen. The mouths of the Black slaves carrying cargo hung open and refused to close.
No matter their colonial birth, Creoles were still white.
Yet a mainland official was siding with a Black man and pressuring a white man to apologize.
This was the power of capital.
Even the Black slaves who had been holding their breath while watching from afar could not believe the reality unfolding before their eyes.