House on the Lagoon

by Rosario Ferré

  44

  Perla’s Funeral

  ESMERALDA AND ERNESTO FELL to pieces; they seemed to age drastically in a matter of weeks. There had been so much pain in our family: Abuelo Lorenzo, Ignacio, Father—all had suffered violent deaths. But this was different. Perla was only sixteen, she’d hardly lived at all. I went to the hospital and saw her before they took her to the morgue. Esmeralda had brushed her long dark hair and arranged it around her pearl-white face. There was no justification, no pardon for people who committed crimes like that.

  The ballistics experts couldn’t say for certain if the stray bullet had come from the slum crowd or from the National Guard. Esmeralda and Ernesto were so distraught they couldn’t care less who was at fault. But Quintín was sure Perla had been killed by a terrorist bullet, perhaps from the AK 47 itself. “You have no evidence,” I said quietly. “It could have been one of the gangs of drug traffickers that run wild in the slum.” But Quintín refused to listen.

  All the way to the cemetery, Quintín kept repeating that the Independentista terrorists had killed Perla. We were standing around the coffin as the priest read the responso, when Coral arrived. She wore a black leather miniskirt, with patent-leather boots hugging her thighs, her red hair worn Afro-style. She began to cry as they lowered her sister’s coffin into the earth, but she managed to get hold of herself to read a poem she had brought with her: “El llamado,” by Luis Palés Matos—the poet Rebecca’s artist friends had admired long ago. It was beautiful, about death being a call we must all obey in the end. But Quintín found it disrespectful, because Palés Matos was a well-known Independentista writer. “You shouldn’t be here,” he told Coral. “The AK 47 killed your sister, and you’re one of them. That makes you an accomplice in her murder.” Coral looked at him in horror and fled.

  But no one else thought Coral had anything to do with what had happened to her sister. Not all Independentistas were terrorists; there were plenty who were law-abiding and wanted to attain independence through peaceful means. Esmeralda and Ernesto, for example, both sympathized with political self-determination though they never admitted it publicly.

  The day after Perla’s funeral, Coral moved from her parents’ house without telling anyone where she was going. I was sure Coral had gone back to Manuel—wherever he was—and that he would take good care of her. He could comfort her better than anyone.

  The plebiscite took place on November 7, two days after Perla’s funeral, and as the results began to come in, Quintín grew more and more belligerent. The polls had shown that statehood had a small advantage over the other options, but at the last minute the voters had changed their minds. Commonwealth got forty-eight percent, Statehood forty-six percent, and Independence four percent. The combined votes of Commonwealthers and Independentistas made it impossible for Puerto Rico to ask for statehood.

  Quintín was stunned; he felt sure the island was on its way to independence. “Statehood lost because of fear,” he insisted. “The Independentistas’ terrorist campaign reaped excellent results—people were afraid to vote for statehood.” The island was poised on the brink of disaster, he said. If we persisted in “our collective madness,” one day Congress would tire of the whole thing and take away our American citizenship. When I heard him talk like that, I simply got up and walked out of the room.

  The night of the plebiscite, Governor Rodrigo Escalante went on television, his white mane ruffled like a fighting cock’s, blue shirt soaked in perspiration. He was standing on a platform at the New Progressive Party’s headquarters and below him a crowd of ten thousand people frantically waved American flags. He looked more than ever like a Latin American cacique as he thundered against his enemies and accused them of stealing the elections. “The result of the plebiscite is a declaration of war,” he said. “From now on, Statehooders will have to be more careful than ever.” They had been threatened and bullied by the Independentistas and their Commonwealth sympathizers, he said, but even so, Statehooders had respected the law. It would be different now. Statehooders were going to take measures they should have taken long ago. The party members gathered beneath the platform cheered wildly. Outside, you could hear automobiles ceaselessly honking their horns as they cruised up and down San Juan’s avenues with the Puerto Rican flag waving from their windows. They were the victors that night, Commonwealthers and Independentistas.

  A few days after the plebiscite, several caricatures were published in the nation’s newspapers. The Washington Post ran a drawing of a little mustachioed Latin lover in bed with a huge Statue of Liberty, and underneath them the caption: “Why get married when we can continue to live together?” Quintín took the caricature as an insult to the Puerto Rican people. We were living in adultery with the United States, and Commonwealthers were abetting our illicit status. He was furious.

  Governor Escalante told his followers there would be a confrontation and they should prepare for a full-fledged conflict on the island. Quintín took his words literally. He set aside a room in the house and turned it into an arsenal of firearms. He went to Gourmet Imports at night and patrolled the warehouse aisles himself to make sure there hadn’t been any sabotage. At home he stood guard at the study’s Art Nouveau windows, staring out toward the lagoon with a gun in his hand. He’d be delighted if Manuel came to visit, he said: he’d get what was coming to him.

  Little by little, I became a different person. I had lost my old spunk and could stand up to Quintín less and less. He blamed me for everything. What had happened in our family was all my fault, he said, because I had taken Manuel and Willie to Esmeralda’s when they were children. If Manuel hadn’t met Coral, he wouldn’t have become an Independentista terrorist, the strike wouldn’t have taken place, and Willie wouldn’t have been hurt. I listened with bowed head. All my Corsican fighting spirit went up in smoke.

  After Petra died, Brambon, Eulodia, Georgina, and Victoria left us, and I could only get part-time help. The new women who came to work during the day were not dependable; I had to do half the work at the house myself, because Quintín was afraid they might damage his art. I wasn’t writing anymore and that also depressed me. Quintín, of course, didn’t notice. He wanted everything to be as perfect as when Petra was alive. I was so afraid of him I went around on tiptoe and never dared mention our sons.

  45

  A Whirlpool of Shadows

  WILLIE’S HEALTH TOOK A TURN for the worse after Perla’s death, and he was having epileptic fits again. I spent as much time as I could with him. He was on heavy doses of medication and had stopped going to the university or to work. It was dangerous for him to drive a car or even cross the street, and though I drove him to class, the university didn’t want to take responsibility for him.

  Our doctor said there was a good possibility that Willie would get worse. To a large extent, his illness was emotional; the best thing would be to send him away so he could forget Perla. If he stayed home, he had little chance of recovering. But Quintín was unmoved. He refused to let us travel anywhere. He saw Willie as an invalid—the best thing would be to institutionalize him, and there was an excellent hospital for epileptics in Boston.

  It was then that I resolved to leave Quintín. It had taken me twenty-seven years to find out that Abby had been right from the start: our marriage was a terrible mistake. He would put Willie in an institution over my dead body.

  I gathered up my courage and went to see Mauricio Boleslaus at his gallery in Old San Juan. I told him there was something urgent I needed to discuss with him. He ushered me into his private office, which opened onto a small inner patio with a stone fountain in the middle and a large yuca plant in the corner. Dark rings circled my eyes, but Mauricio didn’t ask any questions. He sat down in front of me, folded his hands in his lap, and smiled.

  It was as if a dam had burst. “You’re the only one who can help me,” I said, sobbing. “I’ve got to take Willie abroad with me. The doctors have said that’s the only way he’s going to get well, but Quintín refu
ses to give us any money for the trip. You sold us our art collection, so you know how much it’s worth today.”

  Mauricio told me not to worry, he would be only too glad to help. He promised he would be very discreet. He asked me if by any chance Quintín would be taking a trip soon. Fortunately, Quintín was planning to be away the following week. On Wednesday, he had to attend a wine convention in New York; he was interested in acquiring a new line of California wines for Gourmet Imports. He wouldn’t be back until Friday.

  Mauricio set the date for the following Thursday. All I had to do was leave the door to the cellar open that evening, and around three in the morning his helpers would come into the house and quietly remove those paintings I would indicate to him in advance. They would stow them in Quintín’s forty-foot Bertram. They would borrow the yacht just for one night, Mauricio promised, and have it back the next day, moored at one of San Juan’s public wharves. Quintín would have no trouble finding it there.

  The Bertram would navigate across Alamares Lagoon and Morass Lagoon, and somewhere near Lucumí Beach Mauricio’s yacht would be waiting, with Mauricio on board. He would supervise the unloading of the paintings and sail with them to Miami, where he would sell them at an excellent price. “You’ll soon have enough to take Willie around the world if you wish, my dear,” Mauricio told me reassuringly.

  I went back to the house saddened but relieved, and during the next two days I made my preparations. I didn’t tell Willie anything at first; his health was so frail I didn’t want to distress him in any way. I hoped that when the moment came he would understand my reasons and would come with me.

  Quintín left early Wednesday morning. On Thursday afternoon I went down to the cellar with our suitcases to make sure everything was ready for the trip. I hadn’t been there since Petra’s death and was surprised to see what a mess it had become. Petra’s wicker chair lay upside down in a corner, and the mangroves were pushing their roots through the mud-packed floor of the common room. A stench of wet earth came from the dark rooms at the back, and there were crabs everywhere. They had begun to creep up the Art Nouveau iron beams supporting Pavel’s terrace. I wondered why there were so many, but then realized what had happened. The servants who used to trap them for food were now gone, and Mefistófeles was dead; there was no one to keep them in check. The crabs had multiplied, and their claws could be heard tapping on the ground, a spiny horde slowly on the move.

  The Boston Whaler was moored at one end of the pier under the beams of the terrace. I walked over to it with my bags, one of which held my clothes, the other one Willie’s, and hid them under a plastic tarpaulin at the prow of the boat. I checked the gasoline tank to see that it was full; I’d asked the new gardener to fill it up the day before, and gave him a big tip not to mention it to Quintín. I left the keys in the ignition switch of the Boston Whaler, and in Quintín’s Bertram.

  Mauricio had told me I could probably get half a million dollars for three of the paintings: the blind St. Lucia, the Carlo Crivelli Madonna, and The Fall of the Rebel Angels. I didn’t feel the least bit guilty about taking them with me; after all, I had paid for them in part. For years, when my properties in Ponce were still bringing in a good income, I had given Quintín the proceeds, and he bought many works of art with them.

  It was six when I went to Willie’s room; I wanted to bring him an early dinner. I found him sitting in bed, propped up with pillows, listening to music. I smiled and gave him a kiss on the forehead as I set the tray on his lap. “There’s something important I have to talk to you about,” I said, sitting down by his side. Willie turned down the volume of his record player—he was listening to Charlie Parker’s Cool Blues.

  “I’ve decided to go away for a while. I can’t stand not having any news from Manuel. I want to know how he is, but he won’t come near this place because of his father. Manuel is sure to get in touch with us when we’re living somewhere else. And I’d like you to leave with me, Willie.”

  Willie understood. He wanted to leave also, he said. There was nothing for him on the island anymore. He couldn’t paint, he couldn’t work with his father. But at least he could take care of me. It was just like Willie to think something like that. He could hardly take care of himself, but he wanted to take care of me. I hugged him and gave him a kiss on the forehead.

  “When would we go, Mother?” Willie asked.

  “Tonight, darling. Mauricio Boleslaus has offered to help us; he says he can sell some of our paintings for a very good price in the United States.” And I explained that Mauricio was coming that evening to remove the paintings.

  Willie looked at me in amazement. “Sell Father’s paintings? You can’t be serious. He’d be furious if you did that!”

  I spoke gently to him. “Those paintings belong to me as much as to him,” I said. “He bought them in part with my money, many years ago. I have a perfect right to sell them if I want to. And we need the money to get away.”

  I went out on the terrace and sat on one of the wrought-iron chairs, waiting for time to pass. I was downcast but at peace; I knew I was doing the right thing. I wasn’t angry with Quintín, only deeply disappointed.

  The only thing that made me nervous about the trip was Willie. He was already so frail, I was afraid the excitement might make him worse. As the sun went down, its last rays caught the Tiffany-glass panes, turning them red and gold. I got up from my chair and walked to the curve of the terrace, where it jutted out over the water. I could see the whole house behind me. It glimmered in the half-light and I looked at it with a curious detachment. Perhaps Buenaventura had been right all along, and there was a curse on Pavel’s houses. I was glad to be going.

  Later that evening, when I had turned on the lights in the hallway before going to bed, I heard a key rattling in our front door. I stood at the head of the stairs, holding my breath. All of a sudden the door opened and there was Quintín. “The wine convention was over early,” he said, removing his key. “I went to the airport to see if I could get a flight today, and there was an empty seat on American’s five o’clock flight.” He picked up his carryon and walked slowly up the stairs.

  I pretended nothing was the matter. We walked together to our room at the end of the hallway and I asked him if he wanted anything from the kitchen—a glass of milk or some poundcake. But he said he’d had dinner on the plane and was tired; he just wanted to go to bed. I helped him hang his clothes in the closet and went into the bathroom. I had to pretend I was going to bed, too, so I put on a nightgown. When I came out of the bathroom, Quintín was under the covers; he had turned off the lights and was asleep.

  I lay there in the dark for what seemed like an eternity, scarcely daring to breathe. Quintín’s snores soon began to reverberate over the air-conditioner’s even hum. I knew Mauricio’s people would be able to enter the house undetected, and I hoped they’d remove the paintings without a sound. I looked at my Rolex and saw it was only twelve o’clock. In a little while I would get up quietly from the bed to see if they had arrived.

  I must have dozed off. The next thing I knew Willie was standing by the side of the bed, dressed. He put his finger to his lips in warning, and signaled for me to follow him. I looked at my watch and saw that it was half past three. I got up very slowly and walked barefoot after him to the door. Fortunately, the room had thick carpeting, and our footsteps went unnoticed. Once outside the door, I stopped to put on my shoes and bathrobe. “There’s a strange orange glow in the sky,” Willie whispered, and when I went to the window at the end of the hall, I saw that a brushfire had started near the walls of the house, on the side looking out toward Ponce de León Avenue.

  We ran toward the back of the building, to where the dining and living rooms faced the lagoon. Quintín’s paintings had been removed—but not just the three I had indicated to Mauricio; all of them. Quintín’s sculptures and his valuable collection of Art Nouveau vases had also disappeared. Open containers littered the floor; wrapping paper and packing material were s
trewn all about. There was a noise in the kitchen and Willie was about to investigate when all of a sudden the fire alarm went off. Quintín came running toward us, his .42 caliber gun in hand. He was struggling to put on his pants and he was barefoot. “Fire! Call the Fire Department!” he shouted, his face white with fear.

  Suddenly a long line of men came noiselessly up the stairs. There must have been at least a dozen, carrying automatic weapons. They were dressed in black pants and sweatshirts, with black hoods masking their faces. I stared in amazement. Only their eyelids moved, and I remember thinking how funny they looked, like clams caught in a sock. Quintín held the gun in his hand, but one of the men, a tall, brawny one, grabbed it from him and pushed us toward the study. Once we were inside, he locked the door.

  We tried to force the door, but it was no use. We banged and screamed and nobody answered. Quintín kept asking, “Who are they? Who gave them the key to my armory?” as if we knew who the intruders were. I ran to the telephone and tried to make a call, but the line had been cut. Willie raced to the window and looked out toward the lagoon. There was no fire on that side yet, but we couldn’t jump out; it was too high. We could smell the smoke coming from the far end of the hall, seeping under the door.

  I have only a blurred recollection of what happened next. It could have been five minutes, it could have been an age. We were certain we’d be burned alive, when the door of the study was flung open and the same man reappeared, the butt of his automatic rifle resting on his hip. Two other men came in behind him, and pointed their guns at us. “You and you,” the man said stiffly, signaling to Willie and me. “Come this way. You can escape through the cellar.” I started to walk toward him but Willie ran in the opposite direction, to the hall that led to the bedrooms. He came back a few seconds later, a square cardboard box under his arm. “It’s Elegguá’s sacred toys,” he said, holding on to it as he went toward the stairs. But Quintín got in front of him. “Why are you in such a hurry to take Elegguá’s toys with you?” he asked. “They’ve taken everything else; you might as well let them have Elegguá’s toys also. They should make good kindling!” And he grabbed the box with both hands. But Willie wouldn’t let go. Suddenly he erupted at Quintín, and pushed him hard against the chest. Quintín slapped him in the face with the back of his hand, and Willie’s glasses fell to his feet and shattered. Father and son rolled on the floor, and just then the pages of my novel spilled out from the box.