The tall man fired his rifle and Quintín came to his senses. He let go of Willie and got up from the floor. But Willie lay there motionless. The tall man knelt beside me. “He’ll come around,” he said in an even voice. “Here, let me help you.” And he picked Willie up and told one of his men to gather up the papers. The man put the manuscript back in the box and handed it to me. Then they ushered us rapidly toward the door.
We ran down the stairs. The tall man carried Willie, unconscious. But Quintín wasn’t with us. “Where’s Quintín?” I asked, stopping. “He’s not going with you. He’s staying behind,” the man said. I felt a void in my stomach. The tall man stopped in front of me. We were alone on the stairs, the smoke rising around us. “Then I’m not going, either,” I said. And I sat down defiantly on the landing. “Either you let the three of us go or we all die.”
The other men were in the pantry, stuffing silverware into plastic bags as fast as they could, just two steps ahead of the fire. I began to shake so hard I couldn’t stop. I had seen the heavy gold ring on his finger. It was Manuel.
“He’s your father,” I said. “You’ll live with the guilt for the rest of your life.” He turned around and faced me silently, still holding Willie. But seconds later, when one of his men came in, he ordered him to release Quintín.
The men pushed Quintín brutally down the stairs. Then we headed for the cellar. Quintín hardly looked at Manuel, as if he hadn’t recognized him. When we got to the pier we bent down to avoid the terrace’s iron beams, and got on the boat. I went first, and Quintín came after me. Manuel handed Willie to him, and we laid him down on the deck, up by the bow. I pulled the blue tarpaulin from under the prow, where the suitcases were hidden, and put it under Willie’s head as a cushion. Then I put the box with the manuscript next to him and stood at the controls, Quintín sitting in front of me. A second later I turned the key in the ignition, and we moved slowly out from under the terrace.
We couldn’t have been more than fifteen yards from shore, headed toward Alamares Lagoon, when Quintín noticed our two suitcases under the prow’s wooden seat. “So you didn’t know where your manuscript was?” he asked softly, contempt in his voice. I looked up from the controls to face him in the light emanating from the house. “And you didn’t know who those people were. Where were you going with these? Could it be you were running away, once the AK 47 had finished their job?”
“It’s true. I’m leaving you, Quintín,” I said. “But I wasn’t in league with anyone. I didn’t know Willie had the novel. And I have no idea who those people are.”
Quintín was on his feet. “You’re lying,” he said softly. “You’re part of the conspiracy. Don’t tell me you didn’t recognize Manuel!”
I didn’t have time to react before Quintín began slapping me back and forth, striking me on the head. I crouched helpless at the bottom of the boat, trying to protect myself with my bare arms. Then I saw my life unreel before me like a film: Quintín rising from our rattan sofa at Aurora Street, taking off his belt and whipping the sixteen-year-old boy for singing me a love song; Ignacio shooting himself and Petra standing all alone by his grave; Margarita coming out of the operating room, pale as an alabaster statue; Carmelina and Quintín making love among the mangroves; Quintín unleashing his dogs so they would attack his own sons and making me sign a will to disinherit them; Perla in her coffin, her dark hair flowing around her like a shroud. And I told myself nothing, nothing in the world could justify such violence.
Slowly I got up from where I had fallen on my knees. Somehow I managed to hold on to the steering wheel with one hand and the gearshift with the other. I swung the boat around and pushed down full-throttle. The boat lurched forward as we raced back under the terrace. Quintín was facing me, about to strike me again. He never saw the iron beam approaching. It hit the back of his head, and he fell forward into the mangroves. I cut the engine, slowed the boat, and looked on with an almost surreal awareness. Quintín lay motionless off the starboard side, floating facedown in the water, half lying on the mangrove roots. Then I saw the crabs moving slowly toward him.
I left him there and quietly pushed out toward the lagoon. When I looked back at the shore, I could see the flames shooting out of the Art Nouveau windows. And there was Manuel standing guard on the golden terrace, machine gun at his hip, watching the house on the lagoon burn to the ground.
About the Author
Rosario Ferré was born in Puerto Rico, where her father served as governor. She holds a doctorate in Spanish from the University of Maryland. She is best known for her novels and short stories. Her literary career began with the publication of the controversial literary journal Zona. Carga y Descarga in 1972, and her first short story collection, The Youngest Doll, was published in 1976. She has been a faculty member at the University of Puerto Rico, Rutgers University, and Johns Hopkins University. In 1992, Ferré was awarded the Liberatur Prix award at the Frankfurt Book Fair for the German translation of her novel Sweet Diamond Dust. She was a finalist for the National Book Award for her novel The House on the Lagoon in 1995. She was awarded an honorary doctorate from Brown University and received a Guggenheim Fellowship in creative arts. She was also the recipient of the prestigious Medal for Literature of the Institute of Puerto Rican Culture in 2009. Rosario Ferré lives in Puerto Rico with her family.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1995 by Rosario Ferré
Cover design by Mauricio Diaz
978-1-4804-8174-9
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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House on the Lagoon Page 38