House on the Lagoon

by Rosario Ferré

  A month after Margarita’s burial, Quintín suggested we go on a picnic to Lucumí Beach, and asked Petra to make the arrangements. Petra was seventy-six and hardly did any work at the house. But when Quintín asked her to do something, she threw herself into it, heart and soul.

  Quintín ordered the best wines and delicacies from Gourmet Imports. Petra cooked up a caldron of arroz con gandules, pickled a pig that would be roasted in plantain leaves at the beach over an open fire, and tied a dozen live crabs to a long pole that Brambon carried across his shoulders on a boat all the way to Lucumí Beach. Six crabs hung on each side, so he’d be able to keep his balance; they were to be stewed on the beach. Crab had always been Quintín’s favorite food—he had acquired the taste as a child, when Rebecca had exiled him to the cellar—and he hadn’t had any for a long while; all of a sudden he had a craving for them.

  We set out for Lucumí at eight in the morning in Quintín’s forty-foot Bertram yacht, the Buena Ventura, which he kept moored at the pier under the house. There were seven of us—Petra, Brambon, Eulodia, Carmelina, Manuel, Quintín, and myself. We motored through the maze of mangroves, skimming over Morass Lagoon and holding our breath to avoid the stench, and arrived at the beach after an hour-long trip. Manuel and I sat on a dune under an open parasol, almost wilted by the heat. It felt strange to visit that beach again after so many years. The last time I had been there with Buenaventura, I had discovered the Mendizabal Elementary School full of blue-eyed black children.

  The place was just as beautiful as ever: the same green light filtering through the nearby mangroves, the same aquamarine waves licking the sugar-white sand, the same surf rolling in the distance like snow. And sure enough, several black women soon ambled up through the bushes, their heads wrapped in gaily colored turbans, and began to give Petra and Eulodia a hand with the food. But it was strange: every time they crossed in front of Petra, they would do a little step, almost like an obeisance, as if performing a dance in her honor.

  The women went immediately to work: they put the wine bottles in buckets of ice, spread several tablecloths on the sand, and set out the food. They brought some tin cans from the bushes, made a fire with dry palm fronds, and started dropping the crabs one by one into the boiling water. I sat on the sand and watched them dejectedly. I felt so melancholy I could hardly look at the food. But Quintín was in a good mood. He joked with Petra and Eulodia, and asked the women of Lucumí to tell him stories about Buenaventura’s youth. When lunch was finally served, he ate almost half a dozen crabs and drank a whole bottle of wine.

  I lay down under a palm tree next to Manuel to take a nap, and Quintín went off by himself. Petra, Brambon, and Eulodia went with the Lucumí women into the bushes, and I assumed they would visit the nearby village. Carmelina stayed behind on the beach, sunning herself in a two-piece bathing suit made of a rough brown cloth. She had a beautiful body, and the coconut oil she had rubbed on herself made her skin gleam like dark mahogany. I could see why Quintín was always comparing her to a Nubian fertility goddess. She looked sad, though. All through lunch, she had been silent; she hadn’t taken part in the servants’ animated conversation. I knew she was thinking about Margarita, and I felt sorry for her.

  After a while Carmelina got up and went into the water; then she vanished into a thicket of mangroves. I closed my eyes and dozed off; I didn’t see or hear anything for more than an hour. When I saw Carmelina again, she looked her usual self. And it wasn’t until afterwards that I found out Quintín had followed her into the mangroves.

  We got back on the boat a little later and made the trip to Alamares Lagoon without mishap. But that night Carmelina disappeared from the house. She waited until everybody was asleep and slipped out in an old rowboat that was kept moored to the cellar pier. She took all her clothes with her, as well as our sterling-silver Gorham water pitcher. She didn’t say anything to anyone or leave any message. When Petra discovered that she had left, she sank to her knees on the floor, letting out a wail that shook the walls of the house. It was like watching a mountain crumble.

  32

  The Love Child

  ROUGHLY NINE MONTHS AFTER the picnic at Lucumí Beach, we were having guests for dinner and I went down to the cellar to see about our stock of wine. Petra was in the servants’ common room with a beautiful mulatto baby on her lap. She was sitting in her old straw peacock throne, and as she rocked the baby, she said softly, “You got your skin from the Avilés side of the family and your eyes from the Mendizabals. But you have nothing to lose, because you won’t be long for this world. Everything’s ready for your last bath,” she went on. “I’ve boiled the bay leaves with rue and rosemary and poured them in the grotto’s blue basin. In a few minutes I’ll take you to Buenaventura’s spring, and your soul will follow the water’s route back to its origin, just like your grandfather’s did when his time came.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “What are you talking about, Petra?” I asked. But she was distraught and didn’t seem to notice me.

  I called Eulodia and Brambon. “What’s Petra saying?” I asked. “I can’t understand what she’s mumbling under her breath. And I’d very much like to know who brought this baby into the house.” Eulodia bent her head, not daring to look me in the eyes.

  “Carmelina arrived the night before last, Isabel,” she said sadly. “She was in labor. The baby was practically peeking out from between her legs when she was carried from the boat and brought to the cellar. A few minutes later she silently gave birth. Petra herself delivered the baby in her room, and we helped her as much as we could. It all had to be done so fast—she cut the umbilical cord with a heated kitchen knife and tied a knot in it with a plain wrapping cord. We had no time to come upstairs and tell you. And now Petra wants to drown the baby in the underground spring, so no one will know about it.”

  “And where is Carmelina?” I asked.

  “She left this morning,” Eulodia said. “She was so weak she could hardly walk, but she said she couldn’t stay here. She asked the boatman to take her to Las Minas, where she’ll stay with a cousin for a few days. She’s flying back to New York next week and wanted to leave the baby in Petra’s care. She said she didn’t want it—its skin is too light. She’s been living with some of Petra’s relatives in Spanish Harlem for the last nine months and returned to the island only a couple of weeks ago.”

  I took the baby from Petra’s arms and looked at it more closely. He was tiny and as delicate as a bird, with gray-green eyes that were barely open. His skin wasn’t light, but it wasn’t black, either; it was closer to buckwheat honey. Obviously he wasn’t more than twenty-four hours old. “If it’s Carmelina’s baby, we should send word to Alwilda to come and get him. We can’t keep him at the house, and Alwilda is his grandmother. Or maybe one of Petra’s relatives from Las Minas can take care of him,” I said.

  Petra got up from her chair and demanded I give the baby back to her. She had been ailing the past few months and at times her mind didn’t seem quite sound. I didn’t want to upset her. But I didn’t give her back the baby, he snuggled so peacefully in my arms.

  Petra called me to a corner of the room. “Carmelina told me a secret before she left,” she whispered. “She was raped the day of the picnic at Lucumí Beach, and that’s why she disappeared so mysteriously.”

  She was so flustered I could hardly make sense of what she was saying. Lately, Petra had been making up fantastic stories—once she swore she had seen a two-headed chick break out of an egg, the heads furiously pecking at each other; another time, she had hung half a dozen red handkerchiefs from the mangrove bushes, calling to Elegguá to ward off the evil spirit that had been moaning there all night. No one paid attention to her stories. But this baby was different. It was real, and I couldn’t get over my amazement that it was in the house. “Such a beautiful baby,” I said, caressing his velvety-brown cheeks. “He looks a lot like Carmelina, except for his eyes. But they’ll change from hazel-green to brown later, of course—that�
��s what usually happens with mulatto babies.”

  Petra began to weep bitterly. “Carmelina was too proud for her own good!” she said. “Otherwise, she wouldn’t have been so bold as to have this baby, but would have boiled rue leaves to get rid of it.” Seeing her so upset, I began to worry. Something must have happened at the picnic—maybe Carmelina had been raped, after all. “I’m going to find out what this is all about right now. You and I are going to have a talk with Quintín,” I said to Petra.

  I went up the stairs with the baby in my arms, and Petra followed behind. Quintín was in the study, reading the evening paper. We went in and closed the door behind us. He was sitting on the green leather couch, drinking a glass of red wine. “Meet Carmelina’s baby,” I said, laughing, as I showed him the child. “Do you know what Petra is saying? That you’re the baby’s father, because his eyes are the same color as yours!” I had meant it as a joke, but Quintín turned pale and dropped his glass.

  The wine spilled on the beige carpet and an ominous red stain spread at his feet. “I can’t believe you’re Buenaventura’s son!” Petra told Quintín angrily. “It was your duty to care for my great-granddaughter Carmelina, but you took advantage and raped her the day of the picnic on Lucumí Beach.” Quintín cringed, without admitting or denying anything. “Is what Petra says true?” I demanded.

  “Yes, Isabel,” he said softly. “The devil put Carmelina before me. She asked me to swim out to the mangroves and I couldn’t resist the temptation. It started out as a game, and it was over before I realized what I’d done. I know I have no right to ask you to forgive me, but I’ll do what I can to bring the child up as my son.” Appeased by what Quintín had said, Petra went silently back to the cellar with the child in her arms. I followed, slamming the study door behind me.

  “Carmelina will leave the island,” Petra assured me. “You have nothing to worry about. But I want you to know it wasn’t her fault. Carmelina has the god of fire smoldering in her cunt.”

  For days afterwards, I felt as if someone had died. My only consolation was that Abby would never know what had happened; she probably would have put a gun to Quintín’s head. Whenever I saw Quintín now, I felt myself stiffen and walked by as if there was nobody there. He was contrite to the point of being sheepish. At dinnertime he kept swearing he loved me and promised he would never be unfaithful again. After all, Abuelo Vicenzo had had his flings too, he said. And Abuela Gabriela hadn’t stopped loving him or left the house in Río Negro because of it. She had pardoned him. Couldn’t I do the same?

  Strangely enough, it wasn’t Quintín’s betrayal which hurt me the most, but what I had done to myself. Soon after Quintín said he didn’t want any more children, I went to my gynecologist and asked to be sterilized. Quintín signed the necessary documents and the following week I went into the hospital. The operation was simple; my tubes were tied and I was out in a day.

  Once I got home, I realized what I’d done and felt miserable. I was now barren because of Quintín. Rebecca was able to conceive Jacob when she was beyond all hope, but I wouldn’t have such luck. Yet God was now giving me a second chance—Carmelina’s baby, whom I could raise as my own son. That’s when I began to see things in a different light.

  That very afternoon I gave Quintín back the Mendizabals’ heavy gold signet ring, as well as my wedding band, and moved to the guest room. “‘Love is the only antidote to violence,’ you once said to me on the veranda at Aurora Street. And now, instead of love, there’s treachery. Three weeks have gone by and the baby’s eyes are still hazel green. I think that’s proof enough he’s your son.” And I added bitterly: “If I sue for divorce on the grounds of adultery, and it’s proven, the court will rule in my favor and I’ll take Manuel away from you. But if you adopt Carmelina’s child legally and give him your last name, I’m willing to stay on at the house.” Quintín agreed to my conditions; he knew I would make good my threat.

  We let out the rumor in Alamares that we wanted a second child, and since I hadn’t been able to get pregnant again, we’d decided to adopt a baby in the United States. Two weeks after Carmelina left the house, we made a trip to New York, taking the baby with us to have him examined at Children’s Hospital and make sure he was in good health. When we came back, we told everyone we had adopted him, even in front of Petra—and she went along with the story.

  Quintín was wary of Petra. Now that we had adopted her great-great-grandchild, he thought, anything was possible: she might demand that we buy her a home or expect us to help out Willie’s relatives in Las Minas, who kept coming to the house by the dozen every afternoon, asking to see “the beautiful new baby.” They brought him all sorts of extraordinary gifts: an ebony calabash full of whispering seeds, an ivory ring with rare feathers which whirled noiselessly from the top of his crib, a tortoiseshell comb which was supposed to prevent him from ever growing bald. I, for my part, preferred to face reality and made Petra swear she would never tell anyone the truth, especially Willie. Petra was dignity itself and promised she would say nothing.

  We had a christening party for our son at the house on the lagoon. He was baptized William Alexander Mendizabal Monfort by the bishop himself at San Juan’s Cathedral, and after the ceremony we invited all our friends to come and see him. Whatever Quintín intended, we ended up doing the right thing. It was a wonderful feeling.

  Petra was beside herself with pride. She took the baby out of his crib whenever she had the chance and paraded him up and down Ponce de León Avenue, pushing the baby carriage herself. She wouldn’t let anyone else wash and iron Willie’s clothes, and she hung a tiny azabache fist from the gold chain on his neck with the tiny gold cross we had put on it. “It’s only a good-luck charm,” she reassured Quintín when he asked her about it. “Elegguá’s Figa will protect him from the evil eye, and death will be powerless against him.” Quintín went to Mass and Holy Communion daily, so he took the charm off and gave it back to her. “The only eye Willie has to fear is God the Father’s, Petra,” he said solemnly. “He sees all our actions and that’s why, when we do something wrong, we must face the consequences.” But Petra fastened the azabache with a safety pin to the underside of Willie’s shirt, so Quintín didn’t see it.

  Manuel was Buenaventura’s grandchild and Petra cared for him very much; but in Willie she saw her own ancestors. There were no African descendants living in the neighborhood of Alamares; blacks were never seen in church, at the Roxy or the Metro, much less in the drawing rooms of the well-to-do. And this was a terrible thing for Petra to accept; she had always been proud of being an Avilés. So when she saw Willie in the Mendizabals’ bronze crib, and saw that Quintín and I didn’t mind it when her Avilés relatives came and brought the child magnificent presents, a sense of optimism began to well up in her.

  We put Willie’s crib in the room next to his brother’s, and at Quintín’s suggestion we bought him exactly the same furniture—an English dresser, an Italian lamp that looked like a red mushroom, navy-blue wall-to-wall carpeting, curtains with tiny sailboats on them—the best that was available. When the boys were old enough, Quintín bought them Schwinn bicycles for Christmas—one red and one blue—skates, electric trains. We dressed them both in seersucker suits from Best and Co. We sent them to the same private school in Alamares. Later they were both accepted at Boston University, but Willie chose instead to attend Pratt Institute in New York. Everything Manuel had, Willie had to have, too. That way, the possibility that one would feel favored over the other when they grew up would be avoided.

  None of our friends in San Juan would have dared do what we did, to adopt a mulatto child as our own and give him our last name. Whenever we walked into one of San Juan’s elegant restaurants with Willie, or if we spent the day with him at the Berwind Country Club, even when we went to the Casals Festival or to the opera at Bellas Artes, people would turn around and stare. We gave San Juan society more to talk about than all the love scandals of the past decade put together. But I didn’t care. Wa
s it Abby’s defiant spirit that had come to haunt me in middle age? Was it a whim to bring out into the open a thorn which had been buried deep in my heart since Esmeralda Márquez, my best friend, was spurned by the Mendizabals because she was part black? Was it seeing Willie so frail and vulnerable, with his green eyes shining in his beautiful nut-brown face? Whatever it was, I felt better than I had in years.

  When I saw that Quintín was going out of his way to be fair with his two sons, my heart went out to him. A year after Willie arrived at the house on the lagoon, we were reconciled. I moved back to our room, and we shared the same bed again.

  QUINTÍN

  IT WAS LATE AUGUST; summer was coming to an end. Quintín hadn’t been feeling well for some time. He complained of pains in his chest, and he went to a specialist for a thorough examination. The cardiologist did an electrocardiogram and told him his blood pressure was sky-high. He was suffering from angina pectoris; he had to take better care of himself. Drugs were prescribed which Quintín would have to take for the rest of his life. He had to exercise every day, couldn’t have salt, and had to avoid undue stress if he wanted to live. He knew he would have to give up reading Isabel’s manuscript, and he was crestfallen.

  He’d never thought he would die early. He was only in his fifties; he still hadn’t attained all his goals. He went to church more often, though he did not go to confession or Holy Communion. He believed it was important to be part of a spiritual congregation, even if he was a freethinker at heart. All religions were good, he felt, if they helped you overcome the trials you faced in this world. But he didn’t think Catholicism was better than any other religion. Religions were important because they helped you live in harmony with yourself, not because they might reinforce a belief in immortality. Quintín didn’t believe in the immortality of the soul, anyway, only in the positive energy of the universe. And this positive energy was what permitted scientists, historians, artists, to create their great works. But he had never been able to create anything, and he feared that when he died his memory would be erased from the face of the earth. This made him feel sad and dejected.