THE NEXT DAY, I spent hours selecting a mask until I found one that covered my face entirely; I tried on many costumes until I settled on one that covered my arms and neck and hid the shape of my body. That night as I was about to put on my mask as the finishing touch of my disguise, Jonotás knocked on the door of my dressing room. “This just came for you, Manuela. The woman who delivered it said it was extremely urgent, a matter of life and death.”
I took the envelope and opened it. “Señora Manuela,” it read, “I am a friend of the general who must remain anonymous. There is a plan to murder His Excellency tonight at the ball. Ten men will be coming at 11 o’clock with the express purpose of killing the Liberator. Please, señora, if you can send word to the general, do so without delay.” The note was signed: “Un amigo.”
My reflection in the mirror was ghostly white.
“For heaven’s sake, Manuela, what is it?” Jonotás asked.
I handed her the note to read. Since I had come to Bogotá I had received many warnings about plots to murder the Liberator, so this note was not unusual. Yet, something told me that unless I acted quickly, the general’s life was truly in grave danger.
What could I do, though? I had given Bolívar my word of honor that I would remain anonymous at the ball. “Bring me a pen and paper,” I said to Jonotás. “I must make sure he gets a message from me, without delay.”
As I finished writing the note, I heard the crowds outside the Coliseo calling the Liberator’s name. He had arrived at the ball. “I must go at once,” I said, putting on my mask. I left the house, using the servants’ entrance in the back, just in case spies were watching the front door.
Inside the Coliseo I had to push my way through the throngs of masked guests. I recognized many of them by their voices, but I spoke to no one to keep my identity concealed. The Liberator was seated on a velvet-covered dais built for the occasion. Prominent members of the government, many of them accompanied by their wives, surrounded him. I felt a pang of anger and regret that I could not be seated next to him, where I belonged. A line of soldiers cordoned off the dais. The protection around the general did not reassure me; it was possible that some of his guards were among the conspirators.
The clock at the top of the stairs struck ten o’clock. It was difficult to get close to the dais, and when I did, the soldiers ordered me to step back. The speeches began. General Urdaneta read an endless homily in commemoration of the Battle of Boyacá and its heroes. The clock was ticking and the conspirators were probably already in the vicinity of the Coliseo. When Urdaneta was finally finished, Bolívar rose to speak. He looked weary, uncomfortable. The usual resonant authority in his voice was missing. Did he have a premonition of the impending danger? His words had none of his usual eloquence; he tersely thanked those in attendance for coming together to celebrate such an important anniversary and then sat down again. Colombians love pomposity, and the Liberator’s lackluster speech was received with perfunctory applause.
The orchestra began to tune their instruments. The crowd started to clear a circle so that Bolívar could take the floor for the first dance. He walked over to Pepe París’s wife and she took his arm. It was a quarter to eleven. There was no way I could cut through all the people and hand him the note. There was not a minute to lose. I would rather lose Bolívar as my lover than see him murdered. As the general and Señora París made their way out onto the dance floor, and the first notes of a contradanza began to play, I removed my mask so the guards would let me through. As soon as I got close enough, I cried, “General, ten men are on their way to kill you! I implore you, sir, leave this room before they get here.”
A startled Bolívar looked uncomprehending. The orchestra stopped playing, and for a moment there was total silence. Without a word of thanks to me, Bolívar took Señora París by the hand and rushed toward the platform. Confusion broke out. Bolívar’s guards made a tight circle around him and led him out a back way. In the ballroom the celebrants stampeded toward the exit to the street. I put on my mask again and followed them. Natán and Jonotás were waiting for me outside. Word had spread in the crowd of an assassination plot and the people were already chanting “Death to the traitors!” “Long live Bolívar!”
Back home, I worried aloud to my girls that the General would never forgive me. I had broken my promise not to make my presence known at the ball. But—had I not saved his life?
“Stop your moaning, child,” Jonotás said. “Of course he’ll forgive you. The general’s no fool. He knows you couldn’t have saved his life and your behind at the same time.”
I laughed, and we all relaxed. We stayed up all night, drinking aguardiente, singing and smoking, hoping to receive a word of reassurance from Bolívar, but none came. The following day, I was seized by a terrible anxiety. What if the note had been a hoax? How many times could I embarrass the Liberator in public and still remain in his good graces? My despair grew as the hours passed and not a word came from the palace. Time passed at an agonizing crawl until late in the afternoon, when Jonotás, who had gone out to see what people were saying, returned with the news that one of the conspirators had gotten drunk in a cantina after the attempt was foiled and began to brag about the plot to kill Bolívar. “The man’s in custody,” Jonotás said, “but he’s named none of his fellow conspirators yet.”
That night he named names. Bolívar ordered a public execution of the traitors the following day in the Plaza de San Carlos. I knew then I would be vindicated; that Bolívar would forgive me for not keeping my word.
Two days later, I was in the kitchen, discussing with the cook what to make for dinner when suddenly I heard a commotion in the house, boots marching across the patio. Before I had time to react, Bolívar entered the kitchen. “My general!” I cried, in a mix of confusion and happiness. I began to smooth my hair. Without saying a word, Bolívar took me in his arms and kissed me in front of the servants, kissed me as he had not kissed me since our days in Lima. He took me by the hand there and then and, without saying a word, led me to my bedroom upstairs where we made love for hours, until night fell and we passed out on my bed from exhaustion, just like we had done in the old days.
GENERAL CÓRDOBA AND the bolivarianos who disliked me had been dealt a setback in their plan to separate me from the general. Bolívar did not ask me to move into the palace with him after I saved his life, but I could now come and go in plain view of everyone, at all hours, and he began to receive friends and foreign dignitaries, with me acting as his hostess.
One night in late September I was at the palace, reading to Bolívar from Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations, a book that always consoled him. He had been in bed for a few days with a bad cold. As I finished reading a section where Aurelius talks about the “Ruler within you,” Bolívar sat up on the bed.
“Read that passage again, where he talks about always being ready.” He reminded me of a child at times like this, a boy asking his nanny to reread a passage from a book he could not get enough of.
I read: “In a word, anything that distracts you from fidelity to the Ruler within you means a loss of opportunity for some other task. See then that the flow of your thoughts is kept free from idle or random fancies, particularly those of an inquisitive or uncharitable nature. A man should habituate himself to such a way of thinking that if suddenly asked, ‘What is in your mind at this minute?’ he could respond frankly and without hesitation.”
“See?” he interrupted, pulling his blankets aside. “That’s why I must not worry so much about my enemies, about Santander’s intrigues. If I want to be a good ruler of Gran Colombia, all my thoughts must be about what I can do for the good of the nation. No wonder I’m not a good ruler. I let my mind be crowded by conspiracy and petty politics.”
“My general,” I said, “Marcus Aurelius is talking about an ideal. I doubt if he himself was able to achieve what he preaches.”
“That’s one great difference between the Romans and us, Manuelita. Marcus Aurelius’s teachers w
ere philosophers. For him these are not unattainable ideals. These are precepts he tried to live by.”
I was about to reply that the Romans had had their share of rotten rulers, when there was a knock on the door. An aide entered and said that a woman at the front door insisted she had to see me on an extremely urgent matter.
Bolívar frowned. “Never a moment’s peace. Tell the woman to come back tomorrow.”
“No, wait,” I said to the aide. This could be important. It was a mystery woman who brought a note to my house the night of the Coliseo ball, and that had saved his life. “You just stay in bed and I’ll continue reading when I get back,” I said to Bolívar. I got out of bed, put on my slippers, and wrapped a shawl around my shoulders.
She was a woman of the people, unknown to me, dressed humbly, her head covered by a black shawl. Two guards flanked her.
“Forgive me, Doña Manuela, for coming to you like this,” she said. “I asked for you, hoping you could lead me to see the general. I have an important message for him, and time is of the essence.” She stole a glance at the guards, who had already searched her for weapons.
I asked the woman to follow me into a small drawing room. “All I ask, Doña Manuela,” she began once we were alone, “is that my name not be mentioned. Otherwise, I fear not so much for myself, because I am doing a patriot’s duty—but I have concern for my family.”
Realizing the importance of her mission, I asked her to wait for me in the room while I went to relay her message to the general.
Bolívar was in bed, already asleep. I tapped him on his shoulder and told him I had a woman with a message for him.
“I’m not feeling well enough to see anyone right now, Manuela,” he said. “Please find out what she has to say.”
I went back downstairs to explain, to excuse the general. “Then I have no choice but to tell you,” the woman said. “I know how much you love the general, and that you have already saved his life once.” She paused; in the light of the candles, I could see a tremor in her lips. “There are men plotting against the Liberator, Doña Manuela,” she whispered, even though we were alone in the room. “They are well armed. Their plan is to kill him.”
My heart sank. My hope had been that, at least for a brief time, we would not have to worry about another conspiracy. “Who are these men? Do you know them?”
“They are enemies of the general who want to see Gran Colombia dissolved. They meet at different places across the city, even in the House of the Treasury. There are many of them, señora.”
“Who is the leader of these men?” I asked, although I was already sure of what her answer would be.
“Vice-president Santander leads them. He doesn’t attend the meetings, but he’s kept informed of every step they take.” She paused, then added, “General Córdoba is also one of them.
He knows about the conspiracy. His friends pass on information to him, bit by bit.”
This accusation against one of the Liberator’s closest confidants would come as a terrible blow to the general. I told the woman to wait and ran back upstairs to deliver the news to Bolívar.
He was skeptical. “You must have misunderstood what the woman was saying, Manuelita. I have complete faith in Córdoba. He is a patriot who has proven his valor and loyalty many times. Call Fergusson up here,” he demanded.
When Andresito Fergusson appeared, the general said: “Interrogate the woman in our dining room. I need to ascertain whether Manuela has misunderstood her.” I think the general already knew what the answer would be, but it was just too painful for him to accept that a man he loved and trusted could be his enemy.
Andresito returned, repeating what I had said, and adding even more details.
The general said: “Tell the woman to go. It is a disgrace to blacken the name of a patriot as valiant as General Córdoba.”
I was angry with the general but said nothing. I could not believe he would rather put his life at risk than think ill of someone he considered a friend. Nonetheless, I understood why he did it. If he couldn’t trust his friends in a land where he was hated, whom could he trust?
A FEW NIGHTS later, I was at my house when Bolívar sent word that I should come to the palace immediately.
It had been raining all day, and the streets were wet and cloaked in darkness. The Liberator was taking a hot bath when I entered his suite. He seemed more preoccupied than usual, in no mood to talk. Whenever I found him in a state like this, I tried to keep quiet. I was planning to pick up my embroidering and sit there to keep him company, but he asked me to read to him while he bathed.
When he finished his bath, he went to bed and fell immediately into a deep sleep. He had taken no extra precautions other than keeping his sword and pistol in the room. There were no extra guards. Bolívar was content with the reassurances of Colonel Guerra, his chief of staff, who had assured him everything was under control.
While Bolívar snored, I lay in bed, fighting off sleep. The bells of the cathedral had just tolled midnight when the general’s dogs began to bark. I heard strange noises, a scuffle downstairs, although no firearms went off. I lit a candle and nudged Bolívar on the shoulder. “Sir, please wake up. Something’s wrong.” He leaped out of bed in his pajamas, picked up his sword and pistol, and marched toward the door. “I beg you, my general,” I said, “please don’t go out there.” I locked the door from the inside. “Put on some clothes,” I told him, seeing he was still in a daze. He dressed quickly. His eyes showed fear, weariness, almost resignation. He looked old and frail. I feared he was too tired to fight back and was considering surrendering. Footsteps were marching up the stairs. I had once heard him say to Pepe París that the window in his bedroom would come in handy if he ever had to escape in a hurry. I said, “If you want to live, the only way out is through the window.”
“I think you’re right,” he said.
I went to the window, opened it, and looked out. At that moment there were men running beneath it. They reached the front door of the palace and began to force it open. I embraced Bolívar, trying to control my agitation. The general said, “Don’t worry about me, Manuelita. I know where I can hide. It’s you I’m worried about.”
“I’m a woman,” I replied. “They won’t harm me.”
“If anything happened to you, I’d never forgive myself. Perhaps if I stay…”
“Please go,” I said, standing by the open window.
The general picked up his gun and saber, and then leaped from the balcony to the street. To give him time to escape, I grasped a sword, unlocked the door of the bedroom, and ran down the stairs, ready to strike anyone in my path.
A pack of armed men stopped me at gunpoint. “Señora, drop the saber or we’ll shoot,” one of the conspirators yelled. I dropped the saber. “Where’s Bolívar?” another one asked.
“He’s in the Hall of the Council,” I said, trying to buy time. Among the men I recognized the Frenchman Augustín Horment and Carujo, a Venezuelan officer. He was Córdoba’s teacher of French and English. The woman who had implicated Córdoba had been telling the truth. All the men were young, wearing their first mustaches, and I could smell liquor on their breath—as if they had had to drink to muster the courage to carry out their villainous plot.
They dragged me back upstairs and went into the general’s suite. One of them pointed to the open window and exclaimed, “He’s escaped.”
I said again, louder, “If you want to find the general, he’s in the Hall of the Council.”
Horment, who seemed to be the leader, asked, “Why’s the window open?”
“I opened it when I heard the noise downstairs.”
A conspirator approached the bed and placed his hand under the blankets. “She’s lying,” he said. “The bed is still warm. He was here not long ago. He must be nearby.”
The general’s life was in the balance. “I was reading in bed,” I said, trying to appear calm. “I was waiting for the general to return from the Council.”
; “Puta!” Carujo shouted and slapped me with such force it sent me reeling against the wall.
“Come with us and show us where the Hall of the Council is,” Horment said.
I did not know the layout of the new building. “I have never been there,” I said. “It’s in a new wing of the palace.”
“Come with us, perra,” a traitor said. I became so terrified I could not move. He hit me in the face with the butt of his gun on my jaw, then pointed the gun at me. The pain was excruciating. I tasted blood.
“Lopote, we don’t kill women,” Carujo said. “She’s not worth one of our bullets.”
I was pushed down the stairs, where I found Ibarra, wounded in the chest. I got on my knees and applied my shawl to his wound, trying to staunch the flow of blood. He asked in a whisper, “Have they killed the Liberator?”
“No, Ibarra,” I replied, “the Liberator lives.”
A man they called Zuláibar grabbed me, pinned me against the wall, and started firing more questions at me. My answers did not please them, so they started to drag me back to the bedroom. I pleaded with the men to take Ibarra with us, not to leave him dying on the stairs. Two men helped me carry him up the stairs and put him in the general’s bed. A few men were left guarding the door, and the rest ran off.
I sat on the bed, holding Ibarra’s hand, encouraging him to hold on. Hearing the sounds of cleated boots, I went to the window. The full moon wore a new, golden coat that night. Colonel Fergusson was running toward the entrance of the palace. Andresito spotted me at the window and stopped.
“Where’s the general?” he yelled.
I replied I didn’t know where he was, that he had escaped, that I couldn’t speak freely because of the guards. “I implore you, Andresito. Please go back,” I said. “If you come inside, they will kill you.”
“Coronela,” he shouted from the street, “if the bullets of the traitors kill me, I will die doing my duty.” He ran through the door and then I could not see him. Two shots rang out. I held my head in my hands and, for a moment, I felt as if two bullets had gone through my heart.
Our Lives Are the Rivers Page 21