At a dinner for his officers who were staying in Bogotá, straining for a note of levity, I said to the guests, “This fine dining room, my friends, was built by orders of our Vice-president Santander. Take a good look at it, note the elegant design of these beautiful windows and doors, because this dining room is the vice-president’s finest achievement. This dining room—and this dining room alone—will be remembered long after those ridiculous laws he’s obsessed with have been abolished as obsolete. Only this lovely room assures him a place in the history of Colombia.”
Some of the guests burst into laughter; others chuckled nervously. Bolívar frowned, but I hoped that my sarcasm secretly pleased him, that he was only pretending to disapprove of my lack of restraint.
We were no sooner alone at the end of the evening than he said: “Manuelita, it doesn’t become you to needlessly provoke the vice-president and his allies. You must be careful of the things you say, especially when you’ve had too much to drink.”
“Can’t you see the dirty dog wants you dead so he can become president? It’s better to expose him for the conniving traitor he is.”
“That may be true, Manuelita,” he conceded. “But if the vice-president hears about tonight—and in this city it is impossible to keep a secret—he may think I put you up to it. We must not give him any more ammunition to attack us.”
It was no secret that my temper often got the best of me, especially when I had had one too many drinks. Even so, I was not yet ready to promise to stop criticizing Santander. I knew that if he could be removed from office, many of Bolívar’s most pressing political problems would evaporate. The vice-president’s poisonous intrigues were what stirred the den of vipers that was Bogotá.
“My general, I just want him to know that any enemy of yours is also my enemy. If he dismisses me as a foolish woman, then he doesn’t know the first thing about me. He’s making a grave mistake.” As I said these words, I realized how absurd it was for me to be obsessed with a man I had never met. Santander was not welcome in La Quinta, and he and Bolívar met only in the presence of government officials. I had seen his likeness hanging on the walls of government buildings and drawings of him that appeared in the newspapers. His presence had become so vivid for me that sometimes I even dreamed of him. I was convinced that if I could meet him just once, he would lose most, if not all, of the power he had over me.
Bolívar put his arm around my shoulder. “Manuelita,” he said softly, caressing me to stop my shaking, “you say these things because you love me. But we must be careful. We have too many enemies. We don’t want my opponents accusing you of interfering in the affairs of Colombia. Remember that to them we are usurpers who are trying to control the destiny of their nation.” He paused. “I have an idea,” he said, his mood brightening. “I know what would cheer us both up. Why don’t you play your little piano for me? I would like that very much.”
Though I was far from an accomplished pianist—practicing bored me—my interpretations of Andean folk dances always put Bolívar in a good mood. Only at these times was I glad I had been sentenced to the Conceptas’ school, where girls learned to play the piano or the harp as preparation for married life.
I played my usual repertoire of pasillos, guabinas, and bambucos. After each tune, Bolívar clapped loudly. “Come here,” he said when I was finished, pulling me onto his lap. We kissed and sat there for a while, not talking, just feeling our warm bodies touching. I raised my head from his shoulder and said, “Señor, there’s something you can do for me if you want to make me happy.”
“Ask me anything, Manuelita. Go ahead.”
“I’m going to miss you so much, my love,” I said. “I don’t seem to be able to hold on to you for very long, do I?”
“It will be a short separation, I promise you.” He smiled reassuringly. “I should be back in a matter of weeks.”
“My general, please take me with you to Ocaña. I promise not to be a burden.”
“Palacios will take good care of me,” Bolívar said. “You know how strict he is with me.”
José Palacios would look after his needs—that was true. I would have to use another argument. “You need a woman in your bed at the end of the day to be your confidante and to keep you warm at night. How can I be sure some woman won’t throw herself at you?” I said. “I’d better not hear there’s another woman taking my place, because, I swear to you, I will ride to Ocaña and pluck out her eyeballs with my fingernails.”
Bolívar threw his head back and laughed. “I wouldn’t want to expose anyone to your fingernails. I know what a formidable weapon they can be.” He never tired of alluding to the night in Lima when I scratched his face after finding him in bed with another woman. “Seriously,” he went on, “you needn’t worry about that, Manuelita. Those days are over. Just take a look at me. I am a sick old man,” he said, not without a measure of self-pity. “You’re the only woman in my life, my sweet. Since you arrived here I’ve been happier than I’ve been since I was a young man. No other woman can compare with you. I’d be a fool not to realize that.”
I prided myself in not being the kind of woman who resorted to tears to soften a man’s heart, but tonight I violated my own rule.
“I promise to hurry back,” he whispered, embracing me. “Really, Manuelita, why would I want to deprive myself of the joy of your company? If for some reason I’m delayed, I’ll send for you. You believe me when I say that, don’t you? You have my word of honor.”
“That’s what you said when you left me in Lima.” I pulled away from his embrace. “And then I was locked up as a criminal. I was lucky to have escaped with my life. I have valid reasons to be anxious about what may happen to me without your protection in this city. This time I’m not going to wait two years before I see you again. I’m as devoted to Gran Colombia as you are, but you don’t go to bed with Colombia at night. You go to bed with me.”
“I need your help here,” he snapped, “not in Ocaña. I need someone in Bogotá I can trust completely. If you want to be of help to me, right here in La Quinta is where I need you. Will you do that for me?”
Once more I had to accept that my services as an intelligence gatherer overrode any concerns he might have about my safety. It was selfish of me to keep insisting he take me with him, knowing that his enemies would use my presence at the convention to incite the people against him. I understood all this. Still, I was angry. I placed my hand on his cheek, brushed my lips against his. “I will do as you say,” I whispered. “I will not let you down. But remember, I will be in this unfriendly city counting the days and the nights until you’re back in our bed.”
“You know my greatest happiness is to hold you in my arms all through the night.” He paused. “There’s something else I want to ask you to do for me. I’m leaving behind Colonel Croftson and Pepe París to protect you. You know that if anything happened to you, it would be too much for me to bear. Manuelita, promise me you will not be reckless.”
His concern for me was touching. After I promised I would, he kissed my face, my neck, my hair, and roared as if he were a famished lion about to tear into my flesh.
EARLY ONE MORNING in March, two months after my arrival at La Quinta, the general and his regiment, in full regalia, left Bogotá.
Jonotás and Natán, María Luisa, the gardener, and the rest of the servants gathered with me outside the gates of La Quinta to bid him victory in Ocaña. A crowd of well-wishers in a festive mood, among them the families of the soldiers, their mothers and sisters and younger brothers, their sweethearts, and other supporters, cheered the general and his troops loudly and repeatedly.
I hid my apprehension and sadness behind a mask of optimism; I did not want Bolívar to go away worrying about me. He needed all his strength for Ocaña. I mingled with his officers and soldiers, wishing them good luck, giving last-minute instructions to José Palacios about medications and special foods for the general. As Bolívar rode off on Paloma Blanca, I joined the crowds chanting “T
o victory in Ocaña!” “Qué viva el Libertador!” “Qué viva la Gran Colombia!” I stood there waving good-bye, cheering and chanting slogans with his supporters, until Bolívar and his troops disappeared from view.
As I went back to the house, followed by my girls and the ministers of state who had remained in Bogotá, as the high gates closed behind me, I knew I could not afford to wallow in my feelings of helplessness. From this moment on, I would have to think about my safety.
22
The situation for me in Bogotá quickly turned ugly. The following morning after the Liberator had left for Ocaña, I was in the dining room, reading newspapers and having a cup of chocolate and almojábanas just out of the oven, when Jonotás came into the room, still carrying her market basket with the day’s provisions. She dropped the basket on the table, then pulled from her pocket a torn piece of paper. Without saying a word, she handed it to me and stood there, her eyes red with anger, waiting for me to read it. It looked like a small broadside torn from a wall. It could not be just another pasquinade slandering the general. It had to be worse to get Jonotás so angry.
The sheet was about me. I read:
Bogotanos!
Since January of this year a foreign woman and her slaves, dressed as soldiers, have been parading the streets of Bogotá, displaying for all to see their degeneracy. Manuela Sáenz, an Ecuadorian subject, a scandalous woman of the most objectionable morals, who abandoned her husband in Lima to become General Simón Bolívar’s kept woman, has been living in La Quinta, where she holds court in the manner of the concubines of Louis XV. It is no secret that Bolívar is determined to become King of Colombia, perhaps even Emperor, and he has chosen this woman to be his Madame du Barry. Like du Barry, la Sáenz, an intriguer and schemer, no doubt hopes one day soon to dictate policies and appoint government officials. From the reports about the jewels she displays at the official receptions held in La Quinta, where she has the gall to act as First Lady of Colombia, she has already looted the treasury of the nation to bedeck herself in the manner of a King’s whore. What else could be expected from this woman of low birth and lower education? This woman and her slaves, who some say are hermaphrodites?
Madame du Barry was guillotined. In our honorable country we do not punish our criminals in this manner. But we can expect that when the tyrant is deposed we can hang la Sáenz by her bejeweled neck as punishment for her insolence, corruption, and degeneracy.
Death to Manuela Sáenz!
It did not surprise me that war had been declared on me as soon as Bolívar left the city—harassing me, after all, was a way of getting at him. What did surprise me was the degree of vitriol. And I had never been called a hermaphrodite. It was too bizarre.
I got up from the table slowly, shutting my eyes to make the room stop whirling. I crushed the piece of paper in my hand.
“How dare they compare me to Madame du Barry! I am not a social climber intent on robbing the people,” I said to Jonotás, who looked shaken, too.
“There are hundreds of these, Manuela, posted everywhere,” Jonotás said. The black of her eyes looked as if they could strike like lightning. “I removed this one from a wall with my own knife.”
“They were not men enough to do this while the general was here. If they think they can slander me in this manner, and that I won’t retaliate, they don’t know the first thing about me.”
“I am at your disposal, mi coronela,” Jonotás said, calling me by my military rank of colonel. I had not been called that for a long time—not since Peru.
“You are absolutely right, Jonotás. It’s time to stop behaving like a lady and start acting like a colonel. If those vultures want to declare war on us, then war it will be. First we must find out who printed this pasquín, and then we’ll deal with them.”
I suspected Santander was behind this action, though he was too shrewd and conniving to get his own hands dirty. As with all his despicable treachery, it would be impossible to trace his actions back to him. Yet I couldn’t let his henchmen ridicule me in this manner. Any attack on me was an attack on Bolívar. He could not defend himself while he was away; therefore, I had to show his enemies I could defend myself.
I needed protection, and who better to protect me than the regiments Bolívar had left in Bogotá? I would take my case directly to them. I knew that if I wanted their respect, I must not appear before them dressed as a lady of society. I must meet with them dressed as one of their own. If bogotanos thought I was a hermaphrodite, then I’d be one—and rub it in their faces.
Jonotás unpacked my wrinkled, musty colonel’s uniform to air and iron it. Just the sight of it brought back memories of when I had fought side by side with el Libertador on his campaigns across the Andes, coming to his rescue when he was in danger of defeat. When I went down that mountain, leading the troops and firing on the Spaniards who were decimating our forces, I did not care whether I lived or died as long as I killed a few of the king’s soldiers. Firing at them, I felt I was shooting down my father, my aunt, my grandmother, the Concepta nuns, Fausto D’Elhuyar, Quito’s society, and James Thorne—for buying me against my will. That moment, those few minutes before we fell on the Royalists, had been the most exhilarating time of my life, the time when I had felt authentic, that I was changing the world.
SHORTLY AFTER SUNRISE, escorted by a cadre of loyal troops, I set off on horseback for the garrison where Bolívar’s other troops were stationed. I wore my black three-cornered hat, red jacket, blue pants, and black patent-leather boots, complete with the gold spurs that I had had specially made in Lima. I armed myself with a pistol and, from Bolívar’s collection, chose one of his sabers. Across my breast, I affixed the velvet band on which hung the Order of the Sun.
Jonotás and Natán, dressed as soldiers, led the way, carrying the tricolor Colombian flag snapping in the wind as we galloped along the emerald grass carpeting the streets of Bogotá. Onlookers stopped to watch us go by, trying to figure out what this could be about.
I had timed my arrival at the garrison to coincide with the troops’ morning review. My friend, Colonel Croftson, whom Bolívar had left in charge of one of the two regiments in Bogotá, received me. I had sent word that I planned to address the troops, that I needed a show of support. I did not tell him the reason why; I knew Croftson would not deny me this request. Sharing a mutual allegiance to Bolívar and his ideals, we had forged a strong bond. I admired Croftson’s passionate temperament, the way his Irish blood boiled at the mention of the general’s enemies. On more than a few nights we had stayed up into the morning hours, playing billiards and downing glass after glass of whiskey as we discussed plans to crush the general’s enemies.
Mounted on his horse, and speaking in the heavily accented Spanish I found so amusing, Colonel Croftson addressed the regiment: “Soldiers, patriots, loyal members of General Bolívar’s battalion, I need not introduce to you Señora Manuela Sáenz. You well know the place of trust and affection she holds in the heart of el Libertador. Señora Sáenz has proven on many occasions her complete devotion to the ideals we share. With admirable valor she has fought with you on the battlefields of the Andes, where she proved herself to be one of you, and one of the people. Today she has come here to ask for your help. I want you to listen to what she has to say and to promise her your unconditional support, because in Bolívar’s absence, she is Bolívar!”
An expectant hush fell on the troops. Even the horses stopped snorting and stomping the ground. I knew I could not hesitate, that a favorable outcome depended on the authority with which I seized the moment. From my horse, I made my voice as loud as I could. “My fellow soldiers! I’ve come to you as your coronela, and your friend, to ask for your help. I stand in front of you to reiterate my promise to continue to fight beside General Bolívar for your freedom, the freedom of your families, and the greater freedom of Gran Colombia.
“My friends, it may have come to your attention that since el Libertador left for Ocaña to guarantee that the forces o
f moderation and reason prevail, Bolívar and I have come under violent attack from his enemies in Bogotá. Here is an opportunity for you to show your love for Bolívar. It is up to you to defend the general’s legacy while he is away, fighting for your rights. History will remember you as heroes if you make the right decision. I would willingly give my life for Bolívar, and I know you would as well. You must make certain that Bolívar’s shortsighted opponents do not undo what he has achieved for you. Hoping to weaken the general, his enemies are attempting to slander and harm me. I am here to ask for your protection and your loyalty.”
I drew my saber and hoisted it above my head. As the tip caught the platinum rays of the morning sun, I cut a hoop of light in the air. Shocked at my own audacity, I shouted, “I say to you, my brothers-in-arms, that our enemies can lop off the head of Manuela Sáenz, but they will never kill my ideals. Long live Bolívar! Long live Gran Colombia!”
At once, the entire garrison erupted in cries of: “Long live el Libertador! Long live la Coronela! Death to the traitors!”
The soldiers’ cheers echoed across the savanna. The next day, in broad daylight, Bolívar’s troops began to scrub down the walls and doors of the city, removing the pasquinades slandering the general and me. Then they whitewashed the walls. It was, in effect, a warning shot at Santander, though I knew it would not be enough to ward off a new attack.
BOLÍVAR’S LETTERS PROVIDED me with what little solace I knew in his absence. I slept well only when the day’s mail brought news of him. I wrote to reassure him I was doing fine. I did not tell him about the pasquinade or about my speech to the troops—although surely he had heard. I did not write about the moments when, walking in the garden alone, feeling sad, or lost in my thoughts, embroidering, I was overwhelmed with fear. Or about how my anger with him grew for leaving me behind in a city where I was despised. Above all, I could not write to him about my anger at myself for falling in love with a man who was married to an ideal, or about how I hated myself for behaving exactly like the sort of conventional little damsel I was always mocking.
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