The Partido Republicano Incondicional was in power at the time and Tío Venancio became one of its members. It proposed statehood as the solution for the island’s economic ills and it sympathized with American interests. Thanks to his valuable connections, Venancio was elected mayor of Guayamés. That same year he was invited to give the commencement address at the public high school.
He was a wonderful orator. He was known in Guayamés as Pico de Oro, the Golden Beak, who never read from notes but “spoke from the heart,” as the local newspapers put it. Siglinda looked up at him as he stood on the palm-decorated platform and was immediately smitten by his good looks. He had an imposing physique: he was six feet tall and his arms were as thick as a wrestler’s from lifting weights every day. He was wearing a brand-new linen suit, two-tone shoes with the tips so polished he could see his face mirrored in them, and a diamond as big as a chickpea on his little finger. Tío Venancio modulated his voice so it felt like a cool wave of foam breaking over one’s head. He was the kind of orator who compelled his audience to believe in everything he said, even if it didn’t make much sense when his listeners went back home and sat in their own living rooms, beyond the magnetic power of his voice.
The night of Siglinda’s graduation ceremony, Venancio noticed her unwavering gaze on him. She was a little overweight, but this only made her more appealing. He didn’t like slender women; he was a man of substance and liked to embrace what he owned. Once the ceremony was over, he approached Siglinda during the party in the school’s gymnasium and offered her a glass of punch. As she held it in her hand, he discreetly took a silver flask from his pocket and poured her a shot of rum. Prohibition was in full force, and if anyone had seen him, he would have been put in jail. But Siglinda was delighted, and she immediately drank up.
Abuelo Alvaro and Abuela Valeria didn’t attend the graduation ceremonies, and Miña was busy talking to her friends in the school’s kitchen, so Siglinda danced all night with Venancio. Before she said good-bye she invited him to visit her at Emajaguas. Venancio gladly accepted. Siglinda was enchanted. They had been dancing a rumba and it was very hot; when it was over she took out her fan and vigorously cooled herself.
“I love fans,” she told Venancio. “I made this one myself, with sandalwood and a little bit of lace.” Venancio looked at it closely. It was delicately embroidered, with a painted swan swimming peacefully on a lake.
“Do you know what Josephine de Beauharnais asked Napoleon Bonaparte when she met him at a ball in Paris?” Venancio asked Siglinda. Siglinda shook her head; she had a faint idea who Napoleon Bonaparte was but had never heard of Josephine de Beauharnais.
“‘What is the most effective weapon you’ve encountered in your military career, Monsieur?’ Josephine asked. ‘Your fan, madame,’ Napoleon said.” Siglinda giggled and Venancio kissed her hand. Then Siglinda said she had to go to the girls’ room to take a pee, gave Venancio her fan for safekeeping, and disappeared from sight.
Venancio waited for Tía Siglinda for an hour but she never came back. He told his chauffeur to bring his De Soto around and drove home feeling very depressed. He couldn’t sleep all night. He was torn between accepting her invitation to visit her at Emajaguas and his fear of repercussions. Siglinda was very young; he didn’t want to do anything that would harm his reputation as a promising politician. He decided he wouldn’t go. He put Siglinda’s fan under his pillow and fell into a troubled sleep.
The next afternoon he had to drive by Emajaguas on his way to make a speech to the Girl Scouts Association in the next town. As he drove past the heavy wooden gate, he couldn’t resist temptation and told the driver to stop because he wanted to return Miss Siglinda’s fan.
It was raining as it can rain only in Guayamés; water was pouring down the roof of the house like a cataract. Venancio’s chauffeur held a huge black umbrella over Venancio’s head as he got out of the car. Venancio picked up the bouquet of red roses wrapped in green wax paper he had brought along for the head of the Girl Scouts Association, walked up the wide granite stairs to the house, and rang the bell. Miña answered and, when she saw the mayor, opened the door. “Is Miss Siglinda in?” he asked. “Please tell her Don Venancio Marini has come to call.” And then he entered and folded his dripping umbrella in the hall.
With Taíno discretion, Miña tiptoed to Siglinda’s room and knocked lightly on her door. “There’s someone very important to see you in the living room,” she whispered. Then she went back to the hall where Venancio was waiting, opened the frosted-glass doors to the living room, and politely ushered him in. She told him Siglinda would be right there.
Venancio sat down cautiously in a rocking chair. He was still holding the roses when Miña came in with a vase and put them in it. Venancio didn’t dare get up from the rocking chair—he didn’t want to break anything. He was a big man, and the living room was crowded with potted palms, delicately carved love seats, and half a dozen little marble-topped tables on which sat Abuela Valeria’s biscuit porcelain baby dolls, all dressed in smocks and caps she had embroidered herself. Abuelo Alvaro walked into the living room by chance.
“Who let you in here?” Abuelo said coldly, without putting out his hand. Venancio got up from his chair. “Your maid, sir. I was just driving by and I thought I’d drop in to return your daughter’s fan. She left it behind at the high school graduation party last night.” Abuelo Alvaro stared at him. “Seventeen-year-old girls don’t get visits from politicians, at least not my daughters,” Abuelo Alvaro said. Venancio was an inch taller than Abuelo; both men were equally robust and they puffed out their chests like roosters, measuring themselves against each other. Siglinda entered the living room at that moment and drew near to introduce Venancio to her father, but Venancio cut her short.
“I’m Venancio Marini, sir, the mayor of Guayamés,” Venancio said.
“I know that,” Abuelo answered, “and I also know that it’s raining outside.” And he took the roses out of the vase and shoved them back into Venancio’s arms, dripping water all over the mayor’s suit. “I think you’d better leave,” he said.
Venancio pretended he wasn’t offended. He took the roses and placed them calmly over his right arm, pulled out his handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped the water from the front of his vest. Siglinda accompanied him to the door in tears. “Don’t you worry, my little swan,” Venancio told her, offering her a single rose. “One day you’ll be my Siglinda and rid yourself of the moth-eaten Rivas de Santillana name.” And head held high, he walked out into the downpour, leaving his umbrella behind.
Tía Siglinda was heartbroken; that night she woke Clarissa up with her sobs. Lifting the mosquito netting around her sister’s bed, Siglinda slipped under the sheets with her. “What should I do?” she asked. “Venancio wants me to elope with him, but I don’t want to upset Father.”
“Do you love Venancio?” Mother asked. “Yes,” Tía Siglinda answered, “and he loves me. But he scares me a little too. When I listen to him, I feel compelled to do what he wants. I can’t control myself.” Clarissa liked Venancio. He was a good mayor. He always had new projects: the dam at Río Corrientes, which had doubled Guayamés’s electric power; the orphanage on Calle Méndez Vigo; the quay at the end of the main street, which permitted all the merchandise that arrived by ship to be unloaded and carted easily to the warehouses in the center of town. “Don’t worry about it now,” Clarissa told her. “Love has a funny way of solving life’s problems.” And she took Tía Siglinda in her arms and stroked her sister’s hair until Siglinda fell asleep.
A week passed, during which Siglinda could think of nothing but Venancio. She dreamed about him every night and woke with the sheets wet with perspiration. Miña had secretly delivered several notes informing her that Venancio would be waiting for her every night outside Emajaguas’s walls. The following week Tía Siglinda finally made up her mind. She got out of bed at three in the morning, went to the pantry for a loaf of bread, opened the back door of the house, and esc
aped down the backstairs. She ran out into the garden in her nightgown, threw the geese some bread as she hurried by their shed, so they wouldn’t cackle at the commotion, climbed up a mango tree that grew next to the ten-foot-high fence, jumped down on the other side, and got into Venancio’s blue De Soto, which was waiting for her at the curb. By the time it pulled away, Venancio had drawn the gray velvet curtain over the partition behind the front seat and Siglinda lay naked in his powerful arms.
When Abuelo Alvaro discovered the next morning that Siglinda was gone he was furious. He notified the police that his daughter, a minor, was missing. A patrol was sent out to find the couple, but Abuela Valeria bristled when she heard about it.
“Do you think that’s wise, Alvaro?” she said, giving him one of her Boffil stares. “Venancio Marini is mayor of Guayamés. He’s a very powerful man.” Abuelo stared back at her with bloodshot eyes. “All politicians are corrupt. And this one’s as vain as a peacock. How can you even consider letting him take Siglinda away from us? She’s only seventeen,” he said.
“She’s going on eighteen,” Valeria answered. “I was only sixteen when I married you. And Siglinda is stubborn. She won’t care if she causes a scandal, which is just what I want to avoid. Once the newspapers get wind of what happened, our daughter’s picture will be all over the front page and the mudslinging will be inevitable.” Abuelo sat down dejectedly in front of Abuela. “All right, Valeria, I’ll do as you wish,” he said. “I’ll notify the police to call off the search. But from now on, I forbid you to mention Siglinda’s name in Emajaguas again.”
Venancio bought Siglinda a beautiful house on Crisótbal Colón Avenue, the main boulevard of Guayamés, with a wrought-iron fence around it, a gingerbread mirador that looked toward the bay, and, in front, a trellis covered with roses. He wanted her to have servants, but Siglinda wouldn’t hear of it. It was hot in Guayamés, she said, there was no breeze blowing in from the sea as it did at Emajaguas, and she enjoyed walking around the house naked to cool off. When Venancio came home from work they made love everywhere, on the heavy oak dining room table, on the yellow silk living room sofa, on the Persian rug with the Garden of Paradise woven into it, sometimes even on the bed, with the beautiful linen sheets Siglinda had embroidered herself. But every time Venancio asked Siglinda to marry him, she said no.
“What do you want me to be your wife for? To please Father and Mother? To keep the society ladies and the parish priest from gossiping about us? They’ll gossip anyway. I’d rather remain your mistress.”
When Abuela Valeria heard what was going on, she asked Clarissa to talk to Siglinda. Clarissa went to visit her sister, and they sat in the living room. They made an odd couple: Clarissa was snuggled up in the Mexican serape Miña had given her one Christmas, with the colors of the rainbow wrapped around her, while Siglinda sat naked on the yellow silk Victorian sofa Venancio had bought for her.
“You can’t go on like this, Siglinda. You’re getting love and lust mixed up,” Clarissa told her. “Love comes from the soul and is pure. Lust comes from the body and can scorch you to hell.”
“That’s the difference between the two of us, sister,” Tía Siglinda said, shaking her head. “I love Venancio more than anyone in this world, but it’s impossible to separate body and soul. The body keeps the soul warm and the soul keeps the body cool, but if one of them dies, the other one will too. They’re sewn together with the same magic thread.”
“What thread?” Clarissa asked innocently.
“Pubic hair,” Siglinda answered, laughing heartily. “The day you understand that, Clarissa, you won’t feel so cold.”
Tía Siglinda loved to shock people. When her well-to-do neighbors came to visit, wanting to verify the rumors that were flying around town, Tía Siglinda hurriedly ran to her room to get dressed, then sat demurely in the parlor. At first the conversation would develop normally, but out of the blue Siglinda would stare at her neighbors and say: “Each time Venancio fucks me, a red rose blooms over our porch.” Coffee cups would start trembling, teaspoons would drop to the floor, but Siglinda paid no mind. “I know we should get married because I’m a Rivas de Santillana girl,” she’d continue, fanning herself and following her flustered neighbor to the door. “But I like to go to bed with Venancio knowing I’m his procurer. I procure him whatever he wants—a tie or a tit, a cup or a cunt, or an earful of honey he can lick at will.” And although few neighbors actually heard the last part of her speech, because by that time they were fleeing down Crisótbal Colón Avenue, Siglinda loved to whisper it to herself.
In 1920, a year after Abuelo Alvaro threw Venancio out of Emajaguas, Venancio sent him a magnificent present for Christmas—a case of Dom Pérignon champagne, Abuelo Alvaro’s favorite—with a card wishing him a happy holiday and a good harvest for the central Plata in the new year. And as Venancio was by that time a close friend of the American governor on the island and the central Plata could certainly benefit from the government’s financial incentives, Abuelo Alvaro and Abuela Valeria sent Siglinda and Venancio an invitation to join them for the Christmas feast at Emajaguas that year.
The dinner was a total success. Abuela Valeria and Venancio got along wonderfully, and Venancio couldn’t stop talking about the marvelous inventions the Americans had brought to the island: the telegraph, the telephone, the electric generator, the electric stove. That was the reason he was for statehood, Venancio told Abuelo Alvaro: because he believed in the modern age. And since the Partido Republicano Incondicional was now protecting the sugar industry, it would be wise if Abuelo joined it and made a generous contribution.
Abuelo Alvaro thanked Venancio profusely and followed his advice. The next year, Tío Venancio was elected president of the Partido Republicano Incondicional. It was a position even more powerful than that of mayor. He met with the governor’s cabinet in San Juan and named the party’s candidates to the Senate and the House of Representatives. That Easter, Siglinda and Venancio had been married in the cathedral during High Mass. The entire town turned out for the wedding feast at Emajaguas.
SIXTEEN
Okeechobee
IN SEPTEMBER 1919 CLARISSA traveled to San Juan and entered the University of Puerto Rico in Río Piedras. Before she left Emajaguas, she told Abuela gravely: “I want to go to the university to study, Mother, not to find a husband. When I grow up I want to be as free as the wind; I don’t want a man hovering around me like a drone. And anyway, there’s no nicer place to live than our own house.” Abuela Valeria laughed, convinced that one day Clarissa would change her mind.
Clarissa installed herself at the Pensionado Católico. The food was bland but healthy; the beds were iron cots separated by sheets that hung from rods attached to the ceiling. The Pensionado was a large, four-storied building, with a long, balustered balcony, facing the campus. The grounds were planted with yellow trumpet vines, pink oleander, and red bougainvillea. A long avenue of royal palms led to an elegant Spanish Revival clock tower, whose pink ceramic pinnacles and green gargoyles ran with water every time it rained.
Dido and Artemisa followed in Clarissa’s footsteps and arrived at the Pensionado two years later. Soon they were flitting around the social scene like a flock of swans, invited to all the parties and making new beaus at every opportunity. Clarissa didn’t always go with her sisters. She spent a lot of time studying in the library, bundled up in Miña’s Mexican serape.
The clock on the university’s tower chimed its carillon every hour on the hour and gave Clarissa the feeling of being in a sacred place as she walked from one classroom to the next, her arms loaded with books. She had excellent professors, among them several American scientists and a famous mathematician. It made her heart beat faster, as she crossed the campus under the royal palm trees, to think that she was now part of an intellectual elite, that milling around her were the future doctors, judges, engineers, economists, and historians who would determine the fate of the island.
Clarissa majored in agronomy because sh
e wanted to learn the most modern methods of sugar production. She thought her advice to her father might be helpful in managing the mill. They would be able to discuss the seeding, weeding, and harvesting of the central Plata’s sugarcane in light of the latest technological developments. Clarissa also took classes in history and sociology and grew keenly aware of the importance of preserving one’s natural resources, be it land or one’s own mind and body.
At the Sacred Heart in Guayamés the nuns had taught Clarissa that God wanted women to be mothers above all and that Saint Paul had said they must obey their husbands. Valeria had agreed with the nuns, as long as her daughters were educated in the process. She got stinging mad every time she remembered how her own father had sentenced her to illiteracy. But although education was an advantage, even educated women from the upper classes usually couldn’t find work. That’s why Valeria always insisted marriage was the only career open to them.
Clarissa couldn’t have agreed less. Education was necessary because it gave women the possibility of economic independence. You only had to drive down the road and meet a peasant woman, her belly swollen with child, a wailing baby in her arms, and a third one in rags trailing behind to understand that women were easily exploited by their husbands. Once they got old or had too many mouths to feed, the men simply took off for New York. But if a woman was educated enough to be able to survive on her own, she needn’t let a man lay a hand on her unless he took responsibility for the consequences.
Women didn’t even have the right to vote. Only men could vote on the island, which meant that women, from a legal point of view, were on the same level as prisoners, beggars, and the mentally retarded. Clarissa was indignant when she first learned this. The fight for women’s suffrage was spreading in San Juan, so Clarissa became an activist in the movement. She joined several suffragette organizations, including the Liga Social Sufragista and the Liga de la Mujer del Siglo XX.
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