From that day on, I counted the hours of the day till evening, anticipating that moment when I would lie again in bed with him. Our hunger for each other was insatiable. Because of my disappointing experiences with sex, I was afraid that if I gave myself to him without reservation, he would abandon me. Sensing that, Bolívar set out to conquer my body and soul. Whatever he touched, a country or a woman, he vanquished, and he would not rest until he succeeded. For the first time I understood religious fervor, how the mystics turned themselves over completely to God: in their surrender they found a deliverance that superseded all the aches of the body and the desires of the soul. By giving myself to him I found solace in my existence. All my life I had been tormented, wanting to escape the present, wherever I found myself, even when I helped in my small way to liberate Peru. Finally I could say I was happy where I was, even if it turned out to be only for a brief period.
Bolívar spent the days taking care of affairs of state, but the nights belonged to me. We would meet at his headquarters, and before we had finished our first drink, we would be tearing at each other’s clothes, so desperate to unite that sometimes we made love on a couch or on the floor.
By comparison to his life—he was almost fifteen years older than I—my own life seemed negligible, as if it had just barely begun. As the days passed, I told him everything that was worth knowing about me. In particular, he wanted to know what it had been like growing up in Catahuango. When the subject of my husband came up, I explained it was a marriage arranged by my father. “I see,” Bolívar said, and he never asked me another question about James Thorne.
I wanted Bolívar to re-create for me with a luxury of detail his military triumphs, his heroic campaigns crossing the llanos and the Andes, his defeat of General Morillo, the Spaniard sent by the monarchy to pacify Venezuela and Colombia, and who had committed unspeakable atrocities. I wanted to hear in the Liberator’s own words how he had crushed Morillo’s forces at Boyacá. My questions seemed to irritate him. “Battles are horrible things, Manuela. The taking of human life is nothing to boast about.” All my illusions about the splendor of conquest were crushed with that comment. Next I tried to make him talk about his marriage. He grew cold and silent, refusing to talk about his wife and her tragic death. Nor did I dare ask him about the countless women he was rumored to have had as lovers.
Yet he warmed to the many similarities in our stories of childhood. Both his parents died when he was a boy. First his father; a few years later his mother. All he remembered of her was that she played Mozart on a clavichord, and that the house was always filled with music. Like me, he, too, had been raised in the country, in the custody of unaffectionate relatives. The warmth and affection he received in childhood came from the slaves to whom he had been entrusted. His slave José Palacios had been with him as long as he could remember, just as Natán and Jonotás had been with me. He talked about his nanny, the slave Hipólita, as if she had been his true mother.
In one of these nightly conversations, he told me about his beloved tutor, Simón Rodríguez. “One day, a man came to the door of our house in Caracas. He had heard that my family was looking for someone to tutor me. I was seven years old. Many teachers had given up tutoring me because of my insolence and lack of discipline. Hipólita led me to the living room, where my mother and grandfather were in the company of a stranger. ‘Simón,’ my grandfather said, ‘meet Professor Simón Rodríguez, your new teacher.’ I had to stop myself from laughing. There stood a tall, sinewy man dressed in old clothes that were too big for him and wearing battered, dusty shoes. His black eyes, though, showed a ravening light new to me. Many years later, when I read Don Quixote, I realized that if Don Quixote had walked the earth, he would have looked like Professor Rodríguez.”
His head propped on pillows, lying beside me, Bolívar seemed completely relaxed telling me the story of someone who was precious to him.
He continued: “I was trying not to laugh at the ungainly appearance of this man, when I saw he was accompanied by a little dog. I tore free from Hipólita’s grip and ran to pet the dog. I was about to pick her up when Professor Rodríguez said, ‘Stand up, Lulu, and greet your new friend.’ To my utter delight, the dog stood on her hind legs and gave me her right paw. I shook her hand gingerly. Professor Rodríguez said, ‘Her name’s Lulu, and she’s a mammal, like you. Which means she grew in her mother’s belly, like you, and after she was born she was fed from her mother’s teats, like you.’ He’d given me my first lesson…can you believe it, Manuela? I had been told by everyone, including the many teachers who never lasted more than a few days, that I had been brought into the world by the stork. Nobody had bothered to tell me I was a mammal.” Bolívar broke into a free, joyous laughter.
“I envy you such a teacher,” I said.
“It was sheer chance that he came to our house. I doubt I would have become the person I am if I hadn’t met him.” He paused. “This must be boring for you.”
“General, nothing you say or do bores me. I meant what I said about envying you such a teacher. The Concepta nuns made learning a torture for me.”
“My poor Manuela. Luckily that wasn’t Professor Rodríguez’s method. After he had been a few days at the house he said to my mother and grandfather, ‘What this boy needs is to learn from the only book worth studying—the Book of Nature. I need permission from your graces to take Simoncito to your country home to start teaching him everything he needs to learn.’ They were glad to grant him permission, because until that point I had refused to learn anything from anyone.
“In the country, he woke me up at dawn to start the day doing gymnastics, which we did practically naked. The slaves were scandalized. Hipólita was convinced I had fallen into the hands of a madman. She grew to tolerate him when she saw that I had stopped throwing tantrums about every silly thing. Swimming in the lake, fencing, horseback riding, climbing mango and coconut trees, taking long, strenuous walks—that was, at first, the extent of my education. For an anatomy lesson, he took me to see the slaughtering of a cow. When the entrails were ripped out, Professor Rodríguez took the organs in his hands, still bleeding and warm, and he explained to me what they were and what function they had in the human body. To teach me astronomy, we slept under the stars and he’d point out the different constellations until I fell asleep.”
Remembering these events from the past, Bolívar’s smile was wistful, far away, lost in a happier time.
“As time passed, Professor Rodríguez began to pay more attention to my intellectual development. First of all, there was Jean-Jacques Rousseau. He had many great ideas, Professor Rodríguez told me during one of our walks, but the most important was that the day was at hand when government by the aristocracy would be replaced by government by the people. That meant, he explained, that one day soon people like Hipólita, not aristocratic people like my family, would run the world. He said, ‘Listen to me, Simoncito, and listen good. Here’s where the American man is different from the European one: on our continent, revolutions will be started by the aristocracy.’ Then he added the most astonishing thing, the words that marked me for the rest of my life.”
Bolívar bolted upright on the bed. “‘What that means is that the liberation of the slaves, the liberation of Venezuela, will be carried out by you. Yes, you!’ He put his hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m afraid that you are the chosen one. You’ve been put in this world to liberate Venezuela and to end Spanish tyranny in the New World. You will be the one to liberate our beloved motherland from the misgovernment of His Majesty the King of Spain. ’”
By the light of the candle, it was the first and only time I ever saw Bolívar’s eyes moisten. I was so moved by his emotion, I had to look away to hide my tears.
“I believed everything he told me,” Bolívar continued. “But as you can imagine, Manuela, this news, though thrilling, also frightened me. How would I—a mere boy—ever go about accomplishing such a mighty task? As if he had read my mind, the professor said, ‘Take care of
your body, and read Rousseau, and cultivate a good heart, and the rest will take care of itself. Remember, the only riches worth having are the ones of the mind and spirit. That’s the wealth that no one can take away from you. Everything else in this world is transitory—sic transit gloria mundi. ’”
Bolívar lay down again beside me. He remained still for a moment, then turned, took me in his arms, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.
That night, I felt as if he had given me the key to the secrets in his heart.
DURING THOSE MAGICAL NIGHTS in Quito, we often fell asleep in the middle of a long kiss. As dawn approached, I would get up and dress, and arrive back at my father’s house before light broke. I knew all of Quito was watching me, and I tried to maintain a modicum of propriety regarding this love affair.
It wasn’t long before I understood Bolívar would never entirely belong to me. He lived and breathed solely for the cause of independence from Spain. His true mistress was the battlefield. Bolívar probably saw me as no more than an oasis, a rest stop on the way to greater conquests. It was hard for me to accept that love was but a tiny portion of what he wanted. I had to ask myself if this was enough. Sometimes I lied and said yes, and sometimes I knew I would do anything, no matter how foolish, to keep him.
Although I saw no evidence of other women pursuing him, I could not be sure I didn’t have rivals in other cities with claims on his affections. I had heard many stories about the women he had left behind as he moved on to the next military campaign, to liberate the next country, fight the next battle. My only hope was that he would come to see how I was different. I determined not to be one of those women he left behind. Wherever he went from now on, I’d follow him. I’d follow him until I captured his heart. Then it would not matter where he was or how long I would have to wait until he returned to me.
AS PREPARATIONS BEGAN for Bolívar’s journey to Guayaquil, I fully expected that he would ask me to go with him. After all, I was personally acquainted with General San Martín. One night after we made love, I broached the subject.
“Ask me anything, but not that, mi cielo.” He drew me close. “It wouldn’t look good. Besides, this expedition could turn out to be dangerous.”
“I don’t care about danger,” I said, pulling away. “I’d rather die than be separated from you.”
“Please, Manuela,” his tone betraying slight annoyance, “it will be hard for me to say good-bye to you. This will be a short separation. I’ll return to Quito very soon, I promise you.”
Once I was out of his sight, how long would it be before I became a pleasant memory? And what if he did return soon? Sooner or later he would march off again, and I would be left behind. I decided not to plead with him anymore. The only way to gain his respect was to behave with dignity.
He interrupted my brooding to say, “There is something you can do for me, Manuelita.” It was the first time he called me Manuelita, the first time any man had ever called me by my diminutive. It was because of him that later I became “Manuelita” to those who admired me and “la Sáenz” to those who hated me.
“You know I will do anything for you,” I gushed, forgetting my dignity. “Nothing would make me happier than to be of use to you, my general.”
“Then, stay here and be my eyes in Quito. If there’s anything you think I ought to know, write to me immediately. With you here, it will be like I am here, too. It will give me peace of mind in Guayaquil knowing you’re here looking out for our interests.”
The way he said “our interests” made me catch my breath. He considered us a couple. “I’ll do as you say, my general.”
“That’s my Manuelita. Come,” he coaxed me, getting out of bed and stepping on the cold wooden floor in his bare feet, “let’s dance.”
He started humming a waltz as we spinned naked around the room, our bodies illuminated by a single candle burning on the nightstand. Feeling his swelling press against me, I said, “Simón Bolívar, you listen to me, señor. Liberator or not, if I find out you’re making love to other women, I will get to Guayaquil before you know it and”—I squeezed his member—“I will cut this off, pickle it, and send it as a present to King Ferdinand.”
He laughed. “That’s how I want you to talk to me, Manuelita. I like a woman with a dirty mouth. Talk to me like that when we’re making love.”
I laughed, too, though beneath my mirth was fear of what was to come. Soon the volcanoes of the Andes, the freezing wastelands of the cordilleras, the tumultuous rivers of Ecuador, the Amazon jungle, the fate of millions of people and thousands of soldiers of Peru and of Gran Colombia would stand between us.
12
Bolívar left for Guayaquil. I felt vulnerable and restless. In Lima, I had Rosita with whom I could talk about politics and books, attend the bullfights and theater, and gossip shamelessly. But Quito hadn’t changed in the years I was away, it was still an extended convent, and its small-minded citizens measured all human conduct by the teachings of the Roman Catholic Church. The only excitement in town was provided by the rumbling volcanoes nearby, frequent tremors, and the chance these could turn into cataclysmic earthquakes.
Social invitations stopped arriving. To quiteños I was Bolívar’s abandoned mistress. They assumed that he had tossed me aside and already replaced me with the first woman he met on the road. To while away the hours of the day, I returned to embroidering on my balcony with Jonotás and Natán. The concentration required for embroidering always soothed my nerves. I certainly was not about to start attending mass every day, which was how most women of my class socialized. When I went out walking or riding with my girls, I could hear people snickering behind our backs. Often I saw them pointing at us, as if we were curiosities. If upon my return to Quito, as a heroine of Peruvian independence, quiteños had begun to forgive me my peccadilloes, now they were once more unfriendly toward me.
Though I wrote to Bolívar daily, no reply came. I consoled myself by thinking that he had more important things to do than write to me. The future of Peru was at stake. But with each day of silence, my uncertainty grew. Was there another woman lying with him at night? I knew he hadn’t forgotten me completely, because an officer stopped by each day to bring news of his march on Guayaquil. This visit provided some solace.
One afternoon I was on the balcony embroidering, Jonotás at my side, chattering the gossip of the city she had picked up shopping in the market, when I pricked my finger. “Damn it,” I blurted, flinging the embroidering hoop to the floor. I placed the finger in my mouth as tears streamed down my face.
“Let me see,” Jonotás said. She grabbed my wrist and gently pulled the finger away from my lips. She inspected the finger. “You’re not bleeding, Manuela. Why are you crying?”
I looked away, ashamed of my outburst. Jonotás got up, picked up the embroidery hoop, and tossed it in the sewing basket.
“Manuela, you got to stop this,” she chided me. “You can’t waste your life waiting to hear from the Liberator. Have you forgotten you came to Quito to get your money? When are you going to do that?”
I had not forgotten my dream of selling the hacienda and moving to Europe, away from Thorne, away from Ecuador, away from everything that had stifled my growth all my life. Bolívar had distracted me from thinking about anything else.
“You’re not going to feel better sitting there embroidering and eating sweets all day long. You’ll get so plump that when the general sees you again he won’t recognize you. You need to get out of town for a day or two, Manuela. A long ride in the open air will do you some good.”
My aunt had not responded to the notes I had sent her. She was trying to stop me from asking for what was rightfully mine. “Tell them to saddle three horses tomorrow morning,” I said. I had not finished saying these words when I started to feel better; it was the first time since Bolívar left that I had a thought that was not about him.
ALL MY LIFE, Catahuango had loomed large, the repository of so many dreams. As a child, my relatives often be
gan sentences with, “As the heiress of Catahuango,” or “When you inherit Catahuango.” Once I was old enough to understand what this meant, Catahuango, my legacy, began to symbolize my freedom. The hacienda had been in my mother’s family for two hundred years. All its land lay within the confines of the Avenue of the Volcanoes, in the heart of the Andes. It was land that held magical powers for the Indians who had lived there before the Spaniards arrived and enslaved them. It was a place shrouded in ghosts and danger because of its proximity to active volcanoes. It was also one of the most valuable pieces of cultivated land in Ecuador, rich in grains, fruit, and livestock.
My plan to sell the hacienda and move to France or England with Natán and Jonotás would allow me to meet great men, travel in societies where I did not feel imprisoned. Even though I had read novels and history and had learned English, I felt insecure in the company of educated men. How I wanted to hear the great minds of our time discuss the works of Voltaire, the ideas of Rousseau, and the philosophers of the Enlightenment; how I wished to learn French, to see the great ruins of antiquity, to speak with Baron Alexander von Humboldt about his travels in South America; to participate in the salons of dazzling Parisian women. How wonderful it would be to see the plays of Racine and Molière on the Parisian stage, to attend the opera in Italy, to listen to concerts by the masters of the fortepiano, the clavichord, the cello, the violin. If I had been born Manuel instead of Manuela, all these things would have been a part of my education. The only way I would ever make these dreams come to fruition was with my own money.
Cunning would be required to get Aunt Ignacia to surrender control of Catahuango. I knew open confrontation with her would get me nowhere. I had written her a letter from Lima offering Ignacia a generous financial settlement to renounce her legal claim as my mother’s executor. It went unanswered. So I had arrived in Quito prepared—but only as a last resort—to do battle with that tedious old crone. Like all the women in the Aispuru family, she was hard-headed and formidable when cornered. After living in Catahuango for over a quarter of a century, Ignacia thought of the hacienda as her exclusive property. To sell the land and the animals, as I proposed, meant she would no longer have a home.
Our Lives Are the Rivers Page 10