In the Name of Salome

by Julia Alvarez

  I am relieved to hear that Mlle. Chrittia is willing to take care of our little one. How convenient that she lives in the same pensión and has already been doing your cleaning. Your move to Mazarine was a wise decision, after all. (How quaint of her to to say: “For another franc, why not add Fran!”) I am sending her two silk handkerchiefs Mamá embroidered. We are too poor to send more, but we felt we must send the kind mademoiselle a gift of some sort.

  I also include the photograph Julio Pou took of our three grackles, and one of a lady you might not recognize with her tired face and weary look. But perchance, you will recall the little cross you gave her?

  Take good care of my treasure. Now I entrust his health and happiness to you.

  Your Salomé

  Miércoles, 24 julio 1889

  Dearest:

  Thank you for letting me know by cable about our son’s safe arrival in Paris. Please do not be too hard on him. Remember there are bound to be lapses. He is only six years old, and you have been gone two years, which is one third of his existence.

  You cannot believe everything the child says. The scar on his forehead is the result of his banging himself on a door during a temper tantrum. His brother Pibín did not push him. (Pibín has a wonderfully peaceable nature.) As for his fears of the Haitian cuco, I would never terrify my children into good behavior. Besides, I have never thought our bogeymen live anywhere but in our own country.

  In your last letter, you ask what I have been writing. Dearest, I lack the tranquillity of mind to be able to read, no less write. Nights are spent preparing tomorrow’s classes and burning azufre to disinfect the house. I see no improvement with my asthma, but the boys no longer suffer from as many colds as before.

  They flourish. You will not know them upon your return. I have surpassed my promise. Your Pibín knows his numbers to a thousand—and drives me quite to distraction reciting them—and Max is so cariñoso. In the midst of a game, he will drop everything and run to my side to give me an abrazo. At those times, I tell myself, he is being seized by his father’s spirit, and it is you, all the way over in France, desiring to hold me.

  Tell Fran, his Mimí has had a second litter of kittens! I wish Federico would supervise her a little better.

  Tu Salomé

  Jueves, 15 agosto 1889, eve of Restoration Day

  Pancho:

  Nothing for our family to celebrate tomorrow. Your brother Manuel has been deported and leaves in a few hours for St. Thomas. He will send this and the note for three hundred francs you requested. Federico has been thrown in la fortaleza for a “seditious article” he wrote against Lilís’s latest issue of paper money. He was given the chance to join his older brother, but you know Federico. “I will fight to the death!” he announced to Lilís, who instantly rescinded his offer of exile and threw him in jail.

  As for that scandalous article about you in El Eco de la Opinión, I confess I have heard similar remarks. But those who criticize you for accepting a government scholarship confuse our country with our tyrant. Our country has awarded you this opportunity so you can partake of the most advanced medical research being conducted in the world and return to benefit your countrymen. (How kind of Dieulafoy to mention you in a footnote in the sixth volume of his Pathologie.) And think of this, Pancho: were you home, you would no doubt be with your brother Federico in prison. What good would you be to any of us there?

  So, ignore the article, my love. Hold your head high. You have nothing to be ashamed of. The enclosed should give you encouragement, a poem in the old mode of mine you like so well, “¡Adelante!”

  Pibín and Max are at my side. Pibín reads to Max from a little newspaper for children, La Edad de Oro, published by Martí exiled in Nueva York. Betances in Brooklyn, Hostos in Chile, Penson on his way north. Our whole Caribbean is living elsewhere!

  We hear news of a first Pan American conference being convened in Washington, D.C., by President Harrison. (Federico had planned on going.) Mr. Harrison has been quoted as saying that the United States wants to be a friendly neighbor. Friendly indeed—they come and help themselves to what they need! One day there will be an American ruling us instead of the Spanish governor of earlier days, if we are not careful.

  Meanwhile, they are devouring their own continent. Did you hear that they have acquired four new states (each one larger than our little patria)? I can’t remember all their names—I’m sure Pibín would, but he is over at his Manina’s house.

  The boys are just now coming in and insist on greeting their father. They grab my pen out of my hands—

  Hola, Papancho. They are Montana, Washington, North Dakota, South Dakota.

  Hola Fran. Hola Mademoisette.

  Pibín and XXXXXX

  and your Salomé

  Domingo, 1 diciembre 1889

  Pancho:

  I have only moments to write down stray thoughts. Federico is still in prison, so all matters fall on me. After I complained so much about his supervision, now I confess, I miss him. I feel more alone than ever.

  Please do not torture me with your observations of men’s needs. You hold up your faithfulness as a sacrifice but expect mine as your due. Have you learned nothing from Hostos?

  You say I should save all my complaints until you get home when you will be able to listen to them with more equanimity. But don’t you see, Pancho? The minute you come home, I will forget what I have suffered, in the same way, after laboring for hours, I lost all memory of pain when I looked at the faces of our newborn sons.

  I will send the hundred francs, but obviously, I will have to borrow from Cosme Batlle’s firm, as no one we know has that kind of money.

  My instituto is fine. The one endeavor that gives me hope in these dark times.

  Your sons ask after you and their brother. I no longer know what to promise them.

  Your Salomé

  Domingo, 15 april 1890

  Pancho, dear:

  Our old friend Billini will be buried this afternoon in a state funeral. My girls all went home early, although of course, they are not allowed to march, only the boys. But I instructed them to line the sidewalks and wave a black handkerchief or swatch of black fabric. It cannot be that even our right to grief is denied us.

  After the early dismissal, I locked up downstairs. As we were lying down to siesta, we heard a knock on the door. Pibín ran to the balcony and reported that there were soldiers down below. My blood ran cold. I thought we would soon be joining Federico in the dungeon.

  Minutes later, the man himself was in my parlor! He is tall and agile, very dark as you know, with bright eyes that are quite splendid and a magnetism that cannot be denied.

  It seems Lilís had read the poem I wrote for Billini in Boletín Eclesiástico (enclosed) and was stopping by to tell me how moved he was by my elegy and how he planned to read it at the funeral. He then had the gall to stand in my parlor—with your own brother lying in his dungeon—and recite it.

  To keep his dreams from dying

  is all the monument he dreamed of having . . .

  Has poetry no power at all, as Hostos claims?

  As he turned to go, I brought up Federico’s name and that other sore point of the last few years, the sums the Ayuntamiento owes us.

  —You are a woman of few words, Doña Salomé, but you get right to the point, he observed.

  Right then and there, he promised the outstanding sums would be paid the next day. (He said nothing about Federico.) True to his word (for once), the following morning, the delivery was made: three hundred papeletas—his new paper money no one believes in. I am trying to convert them into mexicanos or francs at the first opportunity in order to send you some portion of the funds you need to purchase your medical equipment. (Why is it so costly for you to live in Paris this year, my love?)

  How is my son? Please do not think that any little thing about him is beneath my interest. Does he ask after us? Has his temper improved? Is he still getting on well with Mlle. Chrittia? Tell me what if anyth
ing I can send her when the Marchenas again sail for France. Their trips will now be even more frequent, as Don Eugenio has been named minister in Paris.

  Your Salomé

  Viernes, 10 mayo 1890

  Ay, Pancho:

  Tragedy has struck in Ciudad Nueva: the worst fire in history, according to our historian Don Emiliano. The capital was wrapped in dark fumes for several days. You can imagine how bad this has been for my asthma. But nothing compared to the losses others have suffered. I am worried about Federico—no word of him yet. Pibín—you know his compassionate nature—asked if there was anything we could do to help the victims. In fact, Trini and her mother are hosting a fund-raiser, and I’ve put in my little bit, “Mi obolo,” copy enclosed.

  Trini stops by at least once a month—when she hears the mail boat has come—to ask after you and Fran. I have told her that you want her to write you, but I don’t think Trini is much for writing letters or for writing of any kind. Remember that she went to the sisters Bobadilla where writing was discouraged. She always does say to include her fond regards.

  I include her fond regards.

  Salomé

  Martes, 8 julio 1890

  Dearest:

  I am beside myself thinking of your fatigue and illness. If Dieulafoy advises a three-month rest at Cabourg Beach, of course, I can wait. I can wait ages if it means your health will not be compromised. Perhaps, dearest, this rest will last less than three months if you take good care of yourself? How I hope so! We are past the third year mark and you still have two more levels to go. Of course, from time to time, I despair. But your health must not be sacrificed at any cost.

  I am glad to know you have convinced Mlle. Chrittia to accompany you and Fran to Cabourg. Otherwise, you will not be getting a rest, for well I know our Fran is certainly “gifted with a strong character,” as Mlle. Chrittia says. In your next, let me know her measurements as Mamá insists on making her a walking jacket. (Ask her if she already has one.) You know Mamá—she thanks everyone with her needle and thread.

  Your sons are well, asking after you.

  Federico’s situation is still the same.

  Your Salomé

  Miércoles, 3 septiembre 1890

  Querido Pancho:

  I have received no letters since you left Paris. You have become poco comunicativo. I dread that illness be the cause of your silence. You began the year with bronchitis, then pleurisy this summer. What am I to think? Por Dios: send me a cable to let me know you are doing all right. I have asked you for nothing in your three years of absence. I beg you to indulge me this once.

  Here, continuing sad news. Federico is still in prison. After Lilís’s show of helping out my instituto, his congreso refused to designate us as a public institution. So we can receive no further funds to supplement the pittance from el Ayuntamiento.

  Teachers and students have lost ánimo. Many absences.

  But your sons are thriving. You will not believe how tall and smart they both are. Pibín now wants to be called Pedro instead of his baby name, but I tell him he will always be my Pibín. Max has turned into a talker—yak, yak, yak, all day long. Half the words, I don’t understand, but he says he is practicing his French so he can talk to his father upon his return from Paris.

  Tu Salomé

  Martes, 18 noviembre 1890

  Francisco Henríquez y Carvajal:

  I have received the disillusionment of my life. After all my compromisos, this is how I am to be rewarded. And under the very nose of our son, with his own nursemaid!

  How do I know? The letter you wrote to Federico was delivered to me here. Nice condition you have put her in. Now I understand your delays. All that hard work in Paris.

  You have broken my heart. Stay as long as you like, but send me my son, or I will come and fetch him myself. I swear, you do not know what I am capable of.

  I do not care to ever hear from you again.

  (MUTILADA)

  Viernes, 5 junio 1891

  Doctor Francisco Henríquez y Carvajal

  60 rue de Mazarine

  Awaiting return Olinda line departing Havre 12th June. Congratulations medical degree. Federico freed. Sons healthy and happy.

  I have kept my promise.

  Salomé

  SIX

  Faith in the Future

  Minneapolis, Minnesota, 1918

  CAMILA CANNOT BE SURE who it is, but someone is following her around the campus of the University of Minnesota.

  It is not so much an actual sighting as it is a feeling, a feeling she tries to dismiss as part of the tension in a country at war. Vigilante groups are sprouting everywhere. Mostly they are after the Germans, but all foreigners are suspect. Pedro, who is particularly dark, and Camila, with her heavy accent, have been questioned twice already by the local branch of the Boy Spies of America.

  In her purse is a copy of the letter certifying that Camila is earning a master’s degree and teaching introductory Spanish courses; that Pedro is a doctoral candidate with a full teaching load; that the two aforementioned have pledged to defend the Constitution of the United States, if need be. (“And who will defend ours?” Pedro muttered in front of the dean, Camila coughing to drown out his mutterings.) These documents have reduced the number of incidents, but even so, they are obvious foreigners, and that is reason enough to be stopped and asked to explain themselves.

  Of course, she has other reasons to feel spied upon. It all began quite innocently, lying back together on the bed—where else in Marion’s small boarding-house room were they to sit?—reading out loud, first Marion reading a paragraph, and then Camila the next. “So you can practice your English.” Her student had become her teacher. That is how it started.

  It is early June, the walks are crowded with students hurrying to and from classes or sitting back in benches enjoying the warm weather after the long and bitter winter. For a moment the examinations starting in two weeks are forgotten, the war going on in Europe, the doughboys off in the trenches of France. The young students bask in the sun like creatures regaining consciousness after a long hibernation.

  She herself cannot help but feel hopeful about what lies ahead. There is the invitation from Marion to spend the summer with her family in LaMoure and the offer from her chairman, Olmsted, for next year. All of this, of course, hinges on her standing her ground with her family. It is one of the worrisome things on her mind right now: how to inform Papancho that she will not be coming back to Santiago de Cuba at the end of the school year as planned.

  Of course, the person to start with is her brother Pedro, who is at home now in their small apartment, recuperating from an operation on his sinuses. Pedro himself is leaving Minnesota. Maybe Mexico, or if the war is over, Spain, where his best friend Alfonso Reyes is now living. He cannot bear another winter, he says to his colleagues. But privately, he has admitted to Camila that the difficulties he has encountered because of his color and accent have soured him toward the place. And every day the patriotism grows fiercer, tinged with cruelty. “We better get out of here while we can,” he has joked bitterly. Of course, he assumes, Camila will come along.

  She has not yet found an opportune time to tell him of her new plans. Between his bouts of pain and her own hectic schedule trying to finish her thesis, prepare for her qualifying exams, teach her own and cover her brother’s classes, she has let several weeks go by. Yesterday, Olmsted reminded her that he will be needing her decision about the fall job by the end of exams.

  Now, as she heads toward Pedro’s classes—to collect workbooks—she knows that today will not be a good day to talk either. At the bottom of her bag is a copy of the Minneapolis Journal that he has not seen. She should probably keep it from him, weak as he still is, but they must respond to the accusation or their silence will be taken as agreement. They are, after all, not just two anonymous foreign instructors from an insignificant country working toward advanced degrees, but also, as Marion likes to brag, the son and daughter of the president of
a country a stone’s throw away from Florida.

  “He actually doesn’t have a country right now,” Camila has reminded Marion. President Pancho has been ousted by the Marines and is waiting in exile in Santiago de Cuba for the war to be over. Then he plans to go to Washington and point out to President Wilson the injustice of the occupation. How he is going to do this, Camila does not know, but by then she will be far away, and Pancho’s campaigns and enthusiasms won’t be her responsibility. Still, she worries—about his health: he has already had one stroke; about her querulous old aunts; and most especially, she worries about her three half brothers, running wild without any supervision.

  Just thinking about their deplorable state can start up those old voices in her head. She should go back. She cannot abandon them as well. In fact, when Pedro had written home with the news that he had obtained a teaching assistantship for her to earn a master’s degree at the university where he was earning his doctorate, she first decided that she could not go. Strangely enough, it was Pancho who encouraged her. She would have a fancy American degree and be able to return in less than a year and help the family in its straitened circumstances. Her improved English would also be of immense help later when negotiating with President Wilson.

  Up until the last moment at the dock at Santiago de Cuba, Camila had kept changing her mind. Even now, on certain lonesome afternoons, especially when Marion is not around, she will hear those voices in her head, calling her back with phrases that come straight out of her mother’s poems: Duty is the highest virtue. The best lives involve surrender. Whoever gives himself to others lives among the doves.