Our Lives Are the Rivers

by Jaime Manrique

  As Bolívar’s health improved, on sunny afternoons we bathed in the secluded pool surrounded by tall ferns. Jonotás and Natán poured into it hot water infused with lavender and medicinal herbs they had gathered in the mountains, or which they bought in the markets from the Indian doctors. Alone in the pool, with Jonotás and Natán waiting outside its walls at a discreet distance, ready to bring in anything the general or I desired, Bolívar caressed me, kissed my breasts, drawing into his mouth my erect nipples, holding my aroused body against his emaciated frame while I rubbed his back with loofah. As the general lathered me in my most intimate parts, the lover in him returned and I would take his hardness and ride it like a mermaid at sea.

  In my old age, during those sweltering Paita afternoons, during the long siestas when even the flies dozed, I would feel remnants of desire ripple through my aching bones and joints, and remember, after bathing in the pool, the walk to our bedroom, where a pot of hot creamy chocolate redolent of cinnamon and nutmeg awaited us. We drank the bracing brew and made love. Not the ardent lovemaking of our first years together, but a reposed kind of lovemaking that was a long, supple, intimate embrace, a kind of communion. Bolívar would explore my body without the hunger of unsatisfied desire; he would caress me, stroke me as if I were a delicate object whose every detail was known and cherished by him.

  Years later, when I had nothing to do in Paita but to remember, I would recall those first months, living with Bolívar in Bogotá in La Quinta, as the happiest days of my life.

  17

  Jonotás

  Over twenty years after my people and I were torn from our palenque, uprooted from our land—the saddest moment of my life—Natán and I were back in Nueva Granada, now known as Colombia. Though this was the country where we were born, I never thought of it as home. This was the country where my parents had been slaves, escaped, then were taken back into slavery. I could only hate such a land; arriving in its capital made me angry. Colombians were the people who had killed my parents. I could never forget that.

  We were in Bogotá because Manuela was following the Liberator. Of the men in Manuela’s life, I admired and respected only Simón Bolívar. He treated his slave, José Palacios, as if he were a member of his family. Palacios had been with the general since his childhood, just as we had taken care of Manuela. Natán and I never established any closeness with José Palacios, who dressed and behaved like a white man. I suspect he was jealous of Manuela’s closeness to his master. But the Liberator was kind to us. He knew of our loyalty to Manuela. I admired him because he wanted to abolish slavery. In his Constitución Boliviana he had called the ownership of people “the greatest violation of human dignity.” And he added that there could be no equality where slavery exists. Even an ignorant slave knew what that meant.

  WE HAD BARELY settled in La Quinta when Manuela received a note from James Henderson, British consul in Bogotá. He requested an audience. Calling me to her rooms, letter in hand, her eyes shining, she said, “Great Britain is the mightiest nation on earth, Jonotás. A diplomatic overture from him means that other foreign dignitaries will follow his example. This,” she added, relishing every word, “sends the message to the rest of the diplomatic corps that I am the First Lady of Colombia, not just another of Bolívar’s mistresses.” I was happy for her. Manuela deserved to be respected.

  For days she thought about nothing else except the preparations required to receive the consul. She wanted to make a good impression, to be a credit to the Liberator. English tea would be served, accompanied by scones, plum cake, and cucumber sandwiches. These were foods that she had offered to James Thorne’s English business associates when they visited their home in Lima.

  “I want you there all the time, during the interview. So be sure you wear your nicest clothes,” she said to me. I protested that this was never done.

  “It’s very important that you’re there, Jonotás,” she insisted, “I want him to understand that I’m not a woman bound by any conventions. What’s more, I want to make clear to him that La Quinta is my home and that I make the rules here.”

  Eucalyptus logs burned in the fireplace as they greeted each other. Mr. Henderson complimented Manuela on her fluent English, on her elegance, on the beauty of Ecuadorian women, on the exquisite taste of the room in which they sat and the loveliness of the orchids on display.

  Manuela apologized for General Bolívar not being able to receive the consul. “He’s buried in work concerning the upcoming Ocaña convention,” she said as she poured the tea and served Henderson a slice of plum cake. He made approving sounds when he tasted it. Then, after they chatted about Bogotá’s weather—which Mr. Henderson liked, as it reminded him of London—Manuela inquired after the consul’s family. Mr. Henderson made excuses for his wife, who was not feeling well enough to accompany him on this visit. But, he assured Manuela, she sent her warm regards. Then it was up to Manuela to wish the consul’s wife a speedy recovery. She concluded by extending an open invitation to her through him to visit La Quinta whenever she felt so inclined. When they seemed to have run out of pleasantries to exchange, Manuela offered him a cigar, which the consul declined. This did not prevent Manuela from lighting a cigar herself. After she savored the inebriating aroma, the two sat there in silence, staring at the burning eucalyptus logs.

  I was wondering about the true purpose of Mr. Henderson’s visit to La Quinta when he cleared his throat. He took another sip of tea before he spoke. “As you know, Mrs. Thorne,” he began, “as His Majesty’s representative in Colombia I also look after the affairs of British subjects when they seek my help.”

  When he called Manuela that—Mrs. Thorne—I realized why Henderson had come. Four years after she had left James Thorne, he had not forgotten about her. She was of course grateful to him for having rescued her when she was in jail in Lima. At times, she said nice things about him. Even I had begun to think of him better. After all, he had saved not only her life, but mine. But why would he not leave Manuela alone? Wasn’t it enough that he had a mistress and his own daughter?

  “I’ve never met your husband,” Mr. Henderson said, “but we have many friends in common back in England.” He stopped to sip his tea. “In any case, Mr. Thorne has written to me, authorizing me to arrange for your passage back to Lima.”

  Manuela placed her hands on the arms of her chair, straightened her back, threw back her shoulders, and pointed her chin at him. It was as if I could see inside Manuela’s head. Henderson was turning from the British consul, sipping tea before her marble fireplace, paying homage to her important position, into everything that had ever made her miserable. He had become the tyranny of Spain, her father, the despicable Aispurus, the stupidity of Quito society, the nuns she despised. Worst of all, Mr. Henderson had become the James Thorne to whom she had been sold by her father which, she often pointed out, “made me feel like less than a slave, because slaves do not sell their own children.”

  Manuela dunked her cigar in her cup of tea. She rose as the consul was helping himself to another portion of plum cake and said, “I think you’ve had enough cake for this visit, Mr. Henderson.” She snatched the plate from his hand, knocking over his teacup, spilling tea on his pants, and flinging, one by one, the pieces of English china in the fireplace. “Jonotás, I need you!” she cried. All the time, I had been standing by the door, frozen, barely breathing, amused but worried by her recklessness. “My pistol, please,” she said.

  I ran, fetched it from the cabinet, and handed her the weapon. She took it, pulled back the hammer, and pointed it at Henderson’s chest. “Sir,” Manuela said, pale with a rage that lit her eyes like fire, “you have exactly five seconds to leave this room.” I started counting along with her, “One, two…”

  Henderson stumbled to his feet, his face as white as frosting on a cake, bowed to her and, in his confusion, to me also before hurrying out of the room. We followed him. I asked the butler to get his things. On the terrace, the consul put on his hat and signaled for
his coach with his cane. He did not wait for the livery boy to open the door of the coach but opened it himself. As he clambered inside, Manuela fired in the direction of the garden. Shrieking wet birds flew in a dark cloud out of the trees. Henderson sank into the coach, as his startled horses stampeded toward the gates and disappeared down the street in the chilly rain.

  Manuela turned to face me and we fell into each other’s arms, shaking with laughter.

  The next morning, while we were helping to dress her, Manuela said that the general, after hearing about the incident, remarked, “I don’t think it means war between England and Colombia, Manuelita. But, my love, you have to try to be a little more diplomatic.” Then he’d burst into roaring laughter. “It’s been years since I’ve seen him laugh like that,” she said.

  18

  James was not ready to concede defeat. He sent a threatening letter, a raging document reminding me that I was bound to him by law and, as his wife, had sworn always to obey him.

  I was grateful to James for coming to my aid in Lima. And he was indeed my husband—but, oh, how I hated that word. Did that give him the right to be my master, to rule over my soul? I accepted only one man as my husband, and it was hell not being near him. In order to achieve a final break with James, I had once and for all to burn every bridge that led back to him.

  For days I wrote and rewrote a letter that would make it unequivocally clear to James that he had lost me forever. I would start the letter, then tear it to pieces because it did not reflect my true thoughts, did not say what I wanted it to say.

  My letter must be of such finality that he would never want to hear from me again.

  One drizzly afternoon I sat by the fire in the library, poured myself a glass of port, lit a cigar, and decided I must finish it.

  My dear and distinguished friend:

  No more, sir, for God’s sake! No! Why do you make me write to you, breaking my resolution never to do so again? What do you accomplish but put me in the painful position of saying no to you a thousand times?

  Sir, you are excellent, inimitable. I will never deny your qualities. But, my friend, to have left you for General Bolívar is no reflection on your fine qualities.

  Do you think that I, after being the favorite of the general for seven years, the one who owns his heart, would prefer to be the wife of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, or even of the Holy Trinity?

  I know very well that nothing can bind me to him under the auspices of what you call Honor. Do you think I am any less honorable because he is my lover and not my husband? I do not care in the least for social conventions. They were created merely so that we could find new ways to torture each other.

  Let me be, my dear Englishman.

  I have an idea: in heaven we will marry again; but no more on this earth. What do you think of this proposal? In the celestial realm we will live an angelic life, exclusively spiritual. Everything will be done in the English style in heaven, where a perfectly monotonous life is reserved for the people of your nation (when it comes to love, at least, because who is more talented in commerce and the affairs of the sea?) You English seem to experience love without pleasure, conversation without charm; you walk slowly; you greet each other with reverence; you rise and sit down gingerly; you joke without laughter. These are divine qualities, but I, miserable mortal being that I am, make so much fun of myself, of you, and of all other English formalities, that I would have a difficult time in heaven. It would be as hard for me to live in heaven as in England, or in Constantinople, because although you are not tyrants with your women, you are more jealous than a Portuguese man. I want no part of that.

  Enough of my humor. Seriously, without smiling, with all the seriousness, truth, and purity of an Englishwoman, I tell you I shall never come back to you. You are Anglican, I am atheist, and that is an insurmountable religious barrier. That I love someone else is an even greater barrier.

  See how grave and serious I can be when I need to be?

  Always your friend,

  Manuela

  That letter put an end to all contact with James for quite a while. But years later, when I was old and indigent in Paita, and when now and then the past vividly resurfaced in the guise of hearing from those who had played major roles in it, I heard again from James. Ten years or so after I settled in Paita, a couple of weeks before Christmas, a letter arrived from Lima. I immediately recognized James’s handwriting and opened the pale-cream envelope without a second thought. As I unfolded the letter, a piece of paper fell into my lap. It was a cheque for 200 pesos, in my name. James’s note was brief:

  Dear Manuela,

  A business acquaintance passing through Paita brought me the news that you have taken up residence there. I was glad to hear that you are in good health. Please accept, as a token of esteem from an old friend who wishes you well, this small Christmas present.

  Ever yours,

  James

  I may have maligned James repeatedly over the years, but once again he had come to my rescue at a crucial moment: we were months behind in our rent and close to being evicted. Jonotás badly needed new shoes. I wore old, moth-eaten dresses. James’s thoughtfulness helped to relieve the sadness that overtook me each December, the month of Bolívar’s death. James would continue to send me a cheque for the same amount every Christmas until he died. At long last I began to think of him not as an unwanted husband who had bought me from my father, but as a considerate old friend. Our correspondence, however, remained reticent, more on his part than mine. I didn’t ask about his personal life, and he offered no information about it. My hope was that James, who was by then over sixty years of age, had found a woman who cared for him.

  19

  The political atmosphere at La Quinta was febrile. Almost daily, news reached us of an uprising brewing somewhere in Gran Colombia; of conspiracies to overthrow the government; of the malicious lies spread about the Liberator and his intentions to become king. More troubling, we heard constant rumors of plots to assassinate him. The latter were taken so seriously that he ventured out on the streets only if he was accompanied by a personally picked regiment. I persuaded Bolívar to double the number of guards outside and inside La Quinta.

  I had hardly left the grounds of La Quinta since my arrival in Bogotá. But as no threats had been received against my own life, to distract myself from the political intrigues, I decided to explore the savanna on horseback. In Bogotá I had a fine stable of horses to chose from. Bolívar suggested that soldiers accompany me on my jaunts. Feeling in no immediate danger, I declined his offer. As a precaution, Jonotás and Natán dressed in uniform. I wore patent leather boots, black velvet pants, a ruana over my blouse, and a Panama hat. We carried pistols and swords, just in case.

  On those infrequent rainless afternoons when the air was warmed by stirring currents that flew up from the tropics, we rode to the open fields on the outskirts of the city. Sometimes we rode far north on the plateau until we came within sight of snow-peaked volcanoes. In these uninhabited areas of the countryside, we competed in our own horse races, the way we had done as girls in Catahuango. At other times, we stopped for a drink of water at the settlements, where the Indians lived in circular huts made of mud and bamboo, unchanged in their ways for hundreds of years, living as they did before the arrival of the Spaniards. I grew enamored of the endless verdure of the savanna, astonished by its variety of delicate and rare orchids, which I wore in my hair at the evening tertulias.

  On our daily excursions, I noticed the commotion we caused among the men of the city when they saw the three of us on horseback, wearing men’s trousers and carrying arms. Bogotá’s women drew their shutters closed, or turned their backs to us. Only the boldest of the prostitutes, those who dared to come out during the day to solicit customers, seemed unshocked. I had learned to spot them by the fact that they went barefoot, their toes adorned with rings and baubles, ankles festooned with bangles, their feet immaculately clean. Unlike the rest of Bogotá’s wo
men, they did not hide their hair under absurd hats. When I caught their gaze, I saw none of the contempt I was met with everywhere else in this city. Sometimes I threw coins at them. Had I not been born the daughter of a rich woman, I could have been one of those women.

  The city itself seemed to me a larger, more sepulchral Quito. The architecture of Colombia’s capital had none of the Andalusian gaiety of the buildings in Lima. Unlike the friendly limeños, bogotanos spoke in hushed tones, dressed in somber colors, and walked with the tiny steps of frozen people born far from the sea. Quito, which was higher in altitude than Bogotá, was closer to the sun, so its people had a warmer disposition. Bogotá, with its large population of unemployed and wounded soldiers, was poorer than Lima, its citizens dirtier, smellier, its flea- and rat-infested streets crowded with beggars, cripples, and criminals, its side alleys reeking of urine and excrement. Its citizens proudly wore their unhappiness on their faces. One breathed this poisonous atmosphere in the streets.

  The nights in Bogotá were spectral and morbidly silent. As soon as it was dark, bogotanos got on their knees to say the Angelus, and locked themselves in their homes to have supper and go to bed. Only in an emergency would anyone venture out, and then always accompanied by a servant leading the way with a lantern. The only places that remained open at night were the dusky cantinas where the Indians drank themselves into a chicha numbness. Prostitutes roamed the streets, finding anonymity in the darkness.