Whites Beneath Blacks (2)

The Spanish Empire had once been the original realm upon which the sun never set, long before the British. Yet its former glory had vanished without a trace. Now it was little more than a decaying relic whose influence in the Americas faded with every passing sunset.

The only reason it could still be called a relic rather than a corpse was entirely thanks to Cuba. Nearly one-third of the world’s sugar production came from this single island. Cuba’s sugar exports approached fifty million dollars a year, funneling millions of pesos into Spain annually.

Looking at those figures alone, one might assume Spain still possessed a solid financial lifeline. In reality, Cuba was Spain’s last true stronghold. When Madrid waged war in the Dominican Republic and Peru, it had tried to borrow the shortfall from banks in London and Paris, only to be refused.

Were Britain and France deliberately checking Spain? Hardly. Coldly speaking, they did not even feel the need. Spain’s credit was simply too poor. The nation had sunk so low that London financiers would only extend loans if Cuba’s customs revenue itself was pledged as collateral.

Thus the governor could justify any action in the name of Cuba’s security. Governor Dulce had already abused his authority countless times under the convenient pretext of protecting stable revenue. And at this precise moment, he was convinced that God had not forsaken him—that the Almighty had, in fact, reserved for him the role of emperor over this island.

In the official residence’s reception room, thick with the smoke of the finest cigars, the sounds of negotiation reached his ears like a private orchestra.

“Hahaha! Chairman Serget’s eye for opportunity is truly superb. I guarantee our partnership will be remembered in the histories of both Spain and the United States for generations.”

In the governor’s mind, the scene of himself receiving a medal in Madrid was already unfolding in vivid color.

However—

Crash!

“Governor! Governor!”

The peaceful atmosphere at the table was brutally ripped apart by shouts from outside the window and the unmistakable sound of something shattering.

These fools know exactly how critical this meeting is, yet they dare cause a disturbance?

The governor’s brow furrowed deeply. At the same moment his pale-faced aide burst through the reception-room door.

“Your Excellency! A serious incident—in the rear garden…”

“What is the meaning of this? How dare you create such a disgrace before our honored guests!”

The aide glanced at me, then faltered, unable to speak. From that alone I could guess what had happened.

I set my glass down on the table with a sharp clack.

“…I’ll need to step outside for a moment.”

The governor, sensing disaster, hurried after me.

The scene in the rear garden was utter chaos. Jonathan was red-faced and pointing accusingly, while Colonel Mendoza sweated profusely as he gripped another man by the collar. At the center of it all stood Michael, calmly brushing dirt from his clothes as though nothing of consequence had occurred.

My gaze moved from Michael to the cane rolling across the ground, to the panting colonel, and finally to Carlos, who stood there looking utterly lost.

The governor instinctively studied my expression. He must have seen the cold, sunken chill in my eyes—the clear message that this situation was completely fucked.

Damn it. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠All this over one black servant?

Whether my thoughts showed or not, Leo spoke beside me, his face rigid as stone.

“Your Excellency, this is not mere assault. Michael is a key talent personally selected by the Chairman. To insult him is to insult Serget Cotton itself.”

“Th-that is…”

“Our company does not conduct business in any location where the safety of our employees cannot be guaranteed. Dozens of our staff will be moving through this port starting tomorrow. Can you assure us such barbaric incidents will not be repeated?”

It was not a plea for black human rights but a cold statement of business risk; there was no room for rebuttal.

I let out a deep sigh and shook my head.

“Your Excellency, regrettably this contract must be reconsidered—”

The instant that forbidden word struck the governor’s ears, his reason snapped.

All because of one black. Because that ignorant Creole had overstepped his bounds. Because his own position, the Spanish royal treasury, and even the promised medal were now in jeopardy?

The Peninsulares from the mainland had never regarded Creoles as true whites to begin with. How could they? Men raised beneath the scorching tropical sun, lazy by nature, their brains half-cooked and devoid of moral sense—how could such second-class citizens be called white?

The governor’s rage focused entirely on Carlos, the man who had shamed him in front of everyone and overturned the negotiation table.

“You… traitorous bastard!”

Thud!

“Ugh!”

Proving why he also held military command, the governor charged forward with surprising speed and drove his boot mercilessly into Carlos’s abdomen.

“You dare defy my orders and raise your hand against a distinguished guest? This is outright treason!”

“Y-Your Excellency! This is unjust! I only—”

“Silence! Remove this criminal at once!”

Panting, the governor made certain I could see his summary judgment.

“Effective immediately, all assets belonging to Carlos de Valdez are frozen! Confiscate every farm and every grain of sugar he owns and return them to the national treasury as repatriation funds!”

As the soldiers dragged the screaming Carlos away, the governor smoothed his expression completely and approached me.

“Chairman Serget, you witnessed it. I have properly punished that insolent fool. Please release your anger so we may continue discussing our great enterprise.”

When the man responsible for Spain’s financial lifeline lowered himself so completely, even I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠could not remain furious. I paused deliberately, then gave a slow nod.

“I understand Your Excellency’s intentions fully. However, words alone are difficult to trust. We require institutional safeguards.”

“Of course… what level did you have in mind?”

“Leo, draft an initial proposal both sides can accept.”

The governor scanned the document. It was a surprisingly reasonable proposal: it supplied him with funds while allowing him to assert authority through immediate jurisdiction. Far from exploiting the incident, the draft even showed consideration for preserving his dignity. The black man who had composed it might truly be a unique outlier.

Well, even among whites there were fools like these Creoles. It stood to reason that one or two clever individuals might emerge among the blacks as well.

“Excellent! This is sufficient to conclude the agreement here and now.”

The governor seized my hand with evident delight. It was irritating, but since we had provided the pretext, these conditions had to be accepted. No matter how one viewed it, those Creole wretches were a disgrace to the white race—far closer to inferior blacks than to those of us raised by the noble soil and winds of Castile.

The governor accepted every demand. Before long, news of the day’s events spread across Cuba like a plague.

Until we boarded the ship returning to the United States after sealing the agreement with the governor, we kept our expressions locked and our twitching lips firmly under control. But once the vessel cleared the harbor and turned toward home, the laughter we had been suppressing finally broke free.

“Kwahahaha! You all worked incredibly hard—Leo, Jonathan, Michael.”

When I raised my champagne glass high, color returned to the faces of the employees who had been forced to maintain suffocating decorum at the governor’s residence.

As the ship’s engines thrummed across the open sea, the tension we had held back all day released at once. The cabin rocked with the same energy as a victorious army celebrating its triumph.

“If I was able to be of service to the respected Chairman, there is nothing more I could desire,” Michael said. He had not yet brushed the dirt from his clothes; he wore the stains like medals of honor as he bowed his head calmly.

This fellow was more capable than I had realized. It wasn’t merely that he could speak the language—he could read the board and possessed the courage to strike at the right moment.

I gave Michael’s shoulder a satisfied pat.

“You will need to take charge of Cuba for ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the time being.”

“…Pardon?”

“Today’s protagonist was you, no matter what anyone says. From now on you will play a major role whenever we deal with people at the port. The justification for dispatching Spanish-speaking staff is rock-solid; even the governor will have no grounds to complain.”

Despite the extraordinary offer, Michael simply nodded without a flicker of agitation. Watching him, Leo carefully voiced the next logical move.

“Chairman, should we use this momentum to infiltrate agents into the plantations? We will need people ready to agitate while the atmosphere is ripe.”

“Not yet. Moving too quickly will only cause indigestion.”

“Then…”

“What we must do now is not infiltration but demonstration. The priority is to ensure every soul in Cuba knows exactly what happened today at the governor’s residence. We must spread the story as loudly and widely as possible.”

Even if left alone, the tale of the uprising at the governor’s mansion would spread like wildfire through Creole mouths. What would truly pour fuel on the flames was not a hundred agitating slogans but one clear, undeniable scene.

“Once operations begin, have our black employees move through that port with absolute authority. Let them wear the finest suits, interact with whites as equals—or rather, direct them with superior professionalism. That image alone will suffice.”

If the whipped slaves witnessed someone with the same skin color calmly smoking cigars alongside white managers and reviewing documents, the visual shock would ignite Cuba’s collective subconscious more powerfully than any revolutionary’s rhetoric.

“We will smuggle in weapons and agents only after the board has been completely shattered. When matters escalate into a full independence war, the contract we signed today will shine.”

When the present Cuba burns in the fires of conflict and a new nation rises from the ashes, Serget Cotton—holder of sugar priority rights—would sweep up every concession at bargain prices. The money we poured out now was not waste; it was a calculated investment in future monopoly.

A cold, bitter smile curved my lips as I watched Havana’s shoreline recede into the distance.

Honestly, I wondered what the Creoles—who had endured their lot by telling themselves at least we are better than the blacks—would feel when they heard today’s news. If I were in their place, I would not be able to endure it any longer.

Even after the uninvited American guests had departed, Havana’s night air remained as hot and humid as ever. Inside a Creole social club lit by glittering chandeliers, shards of shattered glasses littered the floor while red-faced landowners breathed heavily, filling the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠room with their rage.

“Carlos, that poor friend… they shipped him off under arrest tonight.”

“His property?”

“Confiscated down to the last grain of sugar. He was driven out penniless.”

Bang!

A fist slammed onto the table.

“Does this make any sense? No matter that he is governor—how dare he beat a white man like us in front of black slaves as if we were dogs?”

“To those from the mainland we are not true whites. We are merely machines that produce money.”

“Damn those mainland bastards… selling out their own kin to appease the Dixies and the blacks? Is this a country? Is this what you call a country!”

Curses born of humiliation and betrayal poured out without end.

Meanwhile, in the dilapidated quarters hidden among the sugarcane fields where no light reached, the eyes of the blacks who had gathered in secret burned with a strange, fierce longing.

“Is it true? The white colonel really apologized?”

“I saw it with my own eyes. That Creole overseer was crawling on the ground, begging for mercy.”

The sound of nervous swallowing echoed in the darkness. It was something they had never dared imagine. No matter how lowly, a Creole was still a person. That such a person would apologize to those treated like livestock felt like a dream stepping into reality.

“Those men in the black suits… they had the same skin color as us, didn’t they?”

“Serget Cotton, they said. They give out dollars there. Real money.”

“Then… if we go to Serget Cotton, will we be treated like human beings?”

Fear transformed into curiosity, and curiosity steadily kindled into burning desire. The Creoles in their way, the blacks in theirs—the flames of hatred against the old order were quietly, steadily growing larger.