This time I would be attired in a black sheath and train, making my entrance in the casino’s ballroom as Lady Ink, my costume embroidered with hundreds of shimmering onyx beads, symbolizing ink drops; and on my head I’d carry a cut-crystal urn, supposedly my inkwell. For weeks I had to go through the whole rigmarole of rehearsing the coronation, practicing the waltz, going for fittings. I took everything very seriously and didn’t find any of this ridiculous, since I was helping Father. But I was getting tired of being trotted out like a mannequin each summer and swore this would be the last time.
Since I was older now, I would no longer be escorted by Father. Instead I was assigned a king, Víctor Matienzo, a tall, gangly bachelor with a nose as large as De Gaulle’s but a brain considerably smaller. We went to several preball cocktail parties together and he bored me so badly I had a hard time suppressing my yawns. Years later I learned he didn’t like women at all.
My parents and I had just come into the casino’s ballroom the night of the coronation when the orchestra began to play “Lágrimas Negras”—“Ink Tears”—the song Victor and I were supposed to waltz to. Unfortunately, my headdress weighed at least ten pounds and was beginning to give me a headache, so I went to get some aspirin. When I walked back to where my parents were standing I overheard Mother say something that stopped me in my tracks: “We have to be careful now that you’re a candidate for governor again. As long as Elvira is with Víctor she’s all right, but unfortunately he won’t be her partner through the evening. The young men buzzing around her could be scoundrels. They’re probably more interested in our money and position than they are in her.”
I flushed with anger but controlled myself.
After Víctor and I danced the waltz, which marked the beginning of the ball, I excused myself and said I had to go to the ladies’ room to freshen up. Clarissa followed me. She was about to pinch me and take out her little lace handkerchief to tuck into my plunging neckline when I asked her angrily if she was covering up my breasts or the family’s sacks of gold.
Clarissa was furious. She lifted her hand to slap me, but I stopped her in midair. It was easy; I towered above her, and for a second I saw my own hatred shining back at me in her eyes. Then something terrible happened: Mother cringed and began to cry.
I walked out of the ladies’ room trembling. That was the last time Mother tried to hit me, and I was never afraid of her again.
I refused to attend any more parties or political gatherings that summer and decided to get a job. I worked as a volunteer at the Municipal Children’s Hospital in the mornings and as a proofreader at El Listín Noticioso, a small local newspaper, in the afternoons. Then I did some scouting around town and published several articles, one of them about the old cemetery of La Concordia, which was shamefully neglected because of the town’s fiscal crisis; I had seen dogs chewing human bones there. But since Father had recently acquired the newspaper—after the success of my coronation ball he realized the importance of the press in a political campaign—the editor believed he was doing me a favor and didn’t give me any encouragement or pay me for my work. I left the job, and the summer dragged on like a sack of stones until, thankfully, September came around again and I left for Saint Helen’s. There I could live and study all I wanted, and no one knew who Father was.
FIFTY-SEVEN
Rebellion at the Beau Rivage
IN THE SPRING OF my junior year I wrote a letter to Father asking him to let me attend the University of Geneva during the summer. Alvaro, who was at Princeton, had done the same thing the summer before, and he had spent three months studying French at the Sorbonne, living by himself in Paris. Saint Helen’s offered an exchange program in Geneva and I could take French courses for credit.
I wanted to go on studying and get a doctorate in English literature when I graduated from Saint Helen’s. Graduate students could live in boardinghouses; they didn’t have to stay in dorms, and there were no rules for parents to enforce. In the States, women were considered adults at twenty-one and could do more or less what they wanted—find a job and live by themselves, for example. Only in places like Iran, Saudi Arabia, and Puerto Rico were they treated like little girls until they were so old no one cared anymore.
Several girls I knew at Saint Helen’s were going to study in Geneva that summer also and would live in a boardinghouse near the university campus; we could keep one another company. Father agreed but suggested I accompany Mother and him on the first leg of a European trip they themselves had planned. First we would go to England and France, then to Switzerland, where he promised to drop me off in Geneva at the university at the beginning of July. I could stay there by myself for two months and at the end of August fly directly to New York after finishing my courses.
Everything went as planned, and we arrived in Geneva from Paris after having spent the night on the train. We stayed at the Beau Rivage, a beautiful hotel on the shores of Lake Geneva with red geraniums on the windowsills and an elegant restaurant overlooking the water. A wide marble staircase led from the terrace to the suites on the first floor where we were staying. The lake’s famous geyser was clearly visible from my window. It fluttered in the wind like a huge ostrich feather, gracefully swaying this way and that over the silvery water. We were having lunch on the terrace two days later, under a Martini & Rossi umbrella, when I said to Father: “I’ve contacted my friends from Saint Helen’s and I have all the information for the French courses I need—they look fascinating. I can move to the student pension tomorrow; my bags are all packed.”
Father looked around, as if he hadn’t heard what I said.
“Look who’s sitting at the table next to ours,” he whispered to Clarissa, smiling conspiratorially. “It’s Grace Kelly, and that’s Prince Rainier sitting next to her.”
“You’re right!” Clarissa answered, a little too naïvely. “And I think I recognize the Shah of Iran a few tables down, with Farah Diba. How exclusive!”
I looked at Father over the coupe geleé à trois saveurs and slowly set my spoon down on the table. I didn’t even bother to look at Mother; I already knew what she thought. “You promised, Father. You gave me your word in the letter you wrote me at school,” I whispered, my voice full of apprehension.
Father sighed deeply and finally looked at me.
“This is a beautiful hotel, isn’t it? I’m sure you don’t have a view of the lake from your window at the pension. Your mother and I have decided to stay in Geneva for three weeks so you can be with us. You can still audit the French courses at the university. You don’t really need those credits, and in three weeks you can learn all you need.”
“I’m twenty years old, Father. I can take care of myself. I want to take those courses for credit and stay at the pension with my friends.”
Clarissa aimed one of her flamethrower looks in my direction. “Your father never changes. He’s always making promises he can’t keep. You’re not staying by yourself at the pension and that’s final. I never did such a thing, and you won’t either. It’s the duty of a well-brought-up young lady to sacrifice herself and obey her parents. You can’t throw your reputation to the wind.”
A cold breeze rose from the lake as I sat there stone-faced. I was pondering the many meanings of the word sacrifice. For Tía Celia it had meant celibacy and freedom; she had taken a vow of chastity but she had also lived a life full of adventure and had traveled all over the world, going where she was most needed. Mother had remained a hostage at Emajaguas until Father came along. Then she had willingly entered another prison, the house on Avenida Cañafístula. I was supposed to follow in her footsteps—except that my jailer might not be as kind as Father.
I got up from the table and slowly walked up the wide marble staircase that led to my room on the first floor. As I went up I opened my handbag and searched for my wallet, saw it was empty, and threw it over the banister. Then I took out the key to my room. I confirmed that I had no passport or plane ticket in my purse; Father had taken them both,
to keep them safe for me. So I threw my purse over the railing also, and it fell down the stairwell with a clatter and landed on the restaurant floor. When I got to the landing I walked down the hall to my room and took out my suitcase. I opened it wide and emptied its entire contents over the banister. My Saks Fifth Avenue shoes, my lace Blackton panties and bras, my Ceil Chapman dresses all landed on the heads of Grace Kelly, Prince Rainier, the Shah, Farah Diba, Mother and Father, and the rest of the exclusive guests of the Beau Rivage. When the suitcase was empty I threw it over the banister as well, but luckily for me it fell on one of the waiters and not on the head of Prince Rainier.
Then I slowly walked down the stairs and back to our table, where Father and Mother stood staring at me. As the alarmed guests whispered among themselves, I sat down and finished my ice cream. That night I swore I was not going to be like Clarissa; I would never sacrifice myself.
FIFTY-EIGHT
Clarissa’s Passing
Recuerde el alma dormida,
avive el seso y despierte
contemplando
cómo se pasa la vida
cómo se viene la muerte
tan callado.
—JORGE MANRIQUE,
“Coplas a la muerte de su padre”
THAT NOVEMBER AURELIO RAN for governor against Fernando Martín a second time and was defeated once more. Martín’s popularity was overwhelming: he had dominated island politics for twenty-four years. Mother gave a sigh of relief. She didn’t mind Father’s obsession with politics as long as his chances of winning were nonexistent. I suspect Father himself was relieved. Running against Martín had become something of a futile effort, like trying to bring down an elephant with an air rifle. Nobody expected Father to win, but in the meantime they admired him for his heroic attempt.
Over Christmas vacation I met Ricardo Cáceres, a young man from a good family in San Juan. Ricardo was studying business administration at Cornell University, and he would soon be graduating. He planned to work with his father in the family’s insurance company. Father and Mother couldn’t find anything wrong with him.
Ricardo was serious and determined. He wasn’t a playboy or a candidate for some fledgling political post, like so many of the young men I had met during the past few summers in La Concordia and San Juan. Ricardo and I went out a few times during our short stay on the island, and after we returned to our respective colleges in the States, he came to Saint Helen’s to visit me several times. At the end of the semester he proposed to me. It was spring, just before graduation, and we were taking a stroll around the campus. The flower beds were full of tulips, but they hadn’t bloomed yet. A few days later all of them would open, and the campus would look as if hundreds of elves were clapping.
Ricardo had just given me his Cornell ring, and I put it on my finger.
“Will you marry me after we graduate?” he asked.
“Will we live in San Juan?”
“Of course. That’s where Father’s business is.”
“I’ll think about it,” I said, without looking at him.
Holding hands, we walked silently to a far corner of the campus, where a complicated hedge of boxwood was pruned to perfection. I took a deep breath. I wondered why I loved the smell of boxwood; I suppose it made me feel at home—trapped in a beautiful labyrinth. We kissed passionately behind some bushes. My life had no direction, but with Ricardo maybe I’d melt right off the surface of the earth.
Ricardo was very traditional: he wanted a wife with whom he could enjoy sex, a woman who would bear his children and take care of his house. He definitely was not the intellectual type. I agreed about the sex, but I wasn’t sure about the rest. I kept my thoughts to myself, however, and pretended to be exactly what Ricardo had in mind.
During that last Christmas vacation in Las Bougainvilleas I had told my parents: “When I graduate from Saint Helen’s College in June, I want to go on studying and get a doctorate in English literature. I’ve applied to Harvard and I think I have a good chance of being accepted.” It was late Sunday morning and we were sitting out on the terrace. We had just come back from Mass and were waiting for Tío Damián and Tía Agripina, who were joining us for lunch. The scarlet bougainvilleas were in full bloom and the wall around the garden was covered with an exuberant mantle. Father was feeding his nightingale some grapes and was standing next to the large aluminum cage with his back to me. He said nothing.
I thought it was about time a Vernet–Rivas de Santillana girl had her own career. Abuela Valeria had grown up illiterate because of Bartolomeo Boffil’s selfishness, and for that reason she had insisted on her daughters’ having a university education—an extraordinary thing at the time. But it seemed that their education was an end in itself; marriage was the only possible career for women. Even Clarissa, who had been such an enthusiast in her defense of women’s education when she was at the University of Puerto Rico, had given up in the end. And in Father’s family it was even worse. Tía Amparo had gone only as far as high school and Tía Celia had become a nun to pursue a career as social worker disguised as missionary.
More than twenty years had passed since Tía Celia’s rebellion, but things hadn’t changed at all. The idea of a single girl from a good family finding a job and living by herself in a place like New York or Boston and earning her own salary (without becoming a nun) was out of the question. My doctorate was the only way to postpone my return to La Concordia and escape my family’s influence.
“What on earth do you want to go on studying for?” Mother answered with a little laugh as she took a sip of her vermouth. “You don’t have to work, you don’t need the money! Don’t tell me you prefer New York’s grim weather to our sunny Decembers! Maybe if you wanted to study something practical like accounting, nursing, or even agronomy…But literature is different: you can read all the books you want in your father’s library. You’ve been away from home for eight years now, dear. It’s time you spent some time with us.”
She said it with affection; I realized Mother had missed me, and for a moment I was almost convinced that she wanted me by her side. But our disagreements had been going on for too long, and I was unable to feel sorry for her. I remembered a story I had read long ago called “The River’s Orphan.” In it a little girl’s mother drowns herself in a river. Every day the girl goes to the riverbank and stares into the water, hoping her mother will come back. The little girl sees only herself, but as time goes by she resembles her mother more and more. Finally she is sure her mother has returned because the image in the water looks just like her, and she reaches out her hand to help her mother back to shore. But the little girl loses her footing and falls into the river and drowns. I was terrified the same thing might happen to me. Mother needed help, but so did I.
When I saw there was no alternative but to come back home and live with my family, I accepted Ricardo Cáceres’s proposal of marriage. At least I would be warden of my prison and live in my own house. The wedding took place in August at the cathedral in La Concordia. We had a reception at the house on Avenida Cañafístula, but I didn’t feel like celebrating. I didn’t love Ricardo. He had no imagination or artistic sensibility. But he was my door to freedom from Mother’s hell.
A few weeks after we were married, Mother sent me four myrtle bushes she had planted herself in empty yellow-and-brown Café Yaucono cans. “Myrtle summons the spirits; when it blooms, ghosts like to gather around it, especially when the rain lets up at night. I brought some of these myrtle bushes with me from Emajaguas when I married your father, and I thought you’d like to plant them at your new home,” she had scribbled on the back of a used envelope. “Plant them near your open window or on your balcony. That way you’ll be able to smell them at night, and they’ll give your house a cozy, lived-in feeling.” I did as Mother suggested.
Clarissa liked Ricardo. They were both born under the sign of Capricorn, and they got along famously from the start. Ricardo had a strong character and Mother respected that; she felt I neede
d someone who would keep me in check. The only thing she didn’t like about Ricardo was his teeth, which were crooked and much too large for the narrow arch of his mouth. Rather than hurt Ricardo’s feelings by telling him he should do something about them, she wrote him an anonymous note in her beautiful Palmer script, suggesting that he see an orthodontist. Ricardo didn’t say anything to me about the note, but he saw a dentist a few weeks later. A month after he got the note, we went to La Concordia to spend the weekend. When we arrived, Ricardo kissed Mother on the cheek and then smiled widely, a shiny stainless-steel smile. Mother burst out laughing. She knew he knew who had written the note.
Mother enjoyed making fun of the American First Ladies with Ricardo. Behind Father’s back they compiled an album with photographs from the newspapers. Mother liked Mamie Eisenhower because she was thrifty and never hogged the limelight the way Jackie Kennedy did. She liked Mamie’s little straw hats with their white point d’esprit veils floating above her head, and whenever Mother traveled to the States she wore hats just like them. Lady Bird Johnson she disliked the most; she insisted she had no table manners. Whenever Lady Bird was photographed eating, she’d be caught with her mouth wide open, sometimes even sticking a fork into her mouth with a piece of steak at the end, which Mother found disgusting. Once she cut out a photograph of Lady Bird and taped it to the wall next to her bed, it made her laugh so much.
A year after Ricardo and I were married, I went on a cooking strike. “I’m tired of cooking Spanish food. It’s too complicated and it takes too much time. From now on,” I said to Ricardo one evening, “we’re going to eat more Italian and American food: things like spaghetti or broiled steak and mashed potatoes.” I would be in graduate school soon at the University of Puerto Rico, and that’s all I’d have time for. I’d already signed up for three courses. Ricardo didn’t answer but simply went on eating his bacalao al pil pil—codfish fried in parsley, one of the delicious recipes his mother had given me—and dipping his bread in the garlicky oil.
Eccentric Neighborhood Page 33