Caribbean (142 page)

When Thérèse asked: “How did you happen to take two doctorates? I saw it in the biographical material for one of your essays,” he avoided answering, for he felt she might disapprove of his and Muhammad’s antics to escape getting their degrees too soon. Then the conversation focused on topic one in any serious Caribbean discussion. Thérèse posed it this way: “What can our magnificent islands do to earn a living?”

She pointed out that Jamaica had lost its bauxite industry and its farmers no longer had a market in Europe for their bananas. He touched on a more pressing situation: “The one crop we can produce better than any other, sugar, we are no longer allowed to grow. It’s infuriating. The United States won’t buy it, thereby driving the islands into bankruptcy, and we’re right on her doorstep.”

These two bright people, among the best informed in the Caribbean that afternoon, could envisage no solution to this basic problem, and Thérèse suggested: “Tourism will be able to keep a limited population afloat. The surplus will have to emigrate to England or the United States,” and he said: “That won’t be allowed for long,” and they ended their discussion in a gray despair.

As night fell she invited him to join her for supper, and now Carnaval had a special significance, for their intense ventilation of problems had brought them closer together. She tried to avoid any fellow passengers from the
Galante
and was relieved when Carmody did not reappear. During one spell they became members of a noisy group of outrageously dressed blacks, and Thérèse allowed the men to swing her high in the air and kiss her when they put her down. At one
corner a group of students dressed like Spanish conquistadors grabbed her arms and ran off with her, and as Ranjit watched her flying through the crowd, her light Haitian face radiant, he thought: Who could have predicted that on this night I would be out on the town with the most beautiful woman in Carnaval? And when the students brought her back he was pleased when she gripped his hands as if she had come home.

It was Carnaval, a mix of ancient African rites, the pre-Easter mysteries of the Catholic church, and the stately processions of old England. It was fiery music and soft singing, the throb of the steel band and the whine of Bob Marley’s “Four Hundred Years,” the food, the dancing, the drunkenness, the priests garbed in black looking on benevolently and the crews from three cruise ships raising hell and kissing the compliant girls. Carnaval in Trinidad! One sailor shouted: “It makes Mardi Gras in New Orleans look like a Sunday-school picnic,” and Ranjit told him: “That goes for Calle Ocho in Miami, too.”

The
Galante
was scheduled to sail at eight in the morning, and as the whistle began to sound its warning Thérèse said: “I must go,” and then she betrayed the cry of her heart: “Dear God, I do not want to leave this island.”

Ranjit, awakened as he had not been since the murder of Molly Hudak, tried to prolong the parting. He was no longer slouching, no longer apologetic. Standing very erect, he listened as she told him at the gangway: “Oh, Ranjit, it’s been a magical two days. A seminar on the meaning of our sea,” and with a boldness that surprised him he added: “And of our lives.” Then the ship’s deep-throated whistle sounded for the last time, and they parted.

The Swedish Lines, in planning this unusual seminar cruise, had made provisions for a leisurely run to the west following Trinidad, in order for the teachers to provide intensive instruction prior to the featured stop at Cartagena, which was intended not only to be the final stop of the cruise but also the historical highlight. The plan was a good one, and during the first day at sea a lot of work was done in lectures and discussions. One of Thérèse’s students voiced the general opinion: “Whoever had the idea for this cruise came up with a winner.”

On the evening before the
Galante
arrived at the historic harbor
of Cartagena, Professor Ledesma gave the master lecture of the cruise. Using a set of evocative slides, he explained how his natal city had once been the queen of the Caribbean and how ships heavy with silver and gold had gathered in its spacious harbor preparing for the dangerous run to Havana and Sevilla. He spoke of the great men who had frequented this harbor in their ships of war: Drake, Morgan, Vernon, the fierce French pirates, Sir John Hawkins, maybe the best seaman of them all, and then he said: “But I want you especially to appreciate a tough little Spaniard who helped one of my ancestors defend Cartagena against a massive English armada.”

First he used drawings of the 1741 period to show the awesome weight of the English invading force, then said: “Now you must imagine the two Spaniards who opposed this mighty fleet and army. My ancestor, Governor Ledesma, must have looked a good deal like me, so we can forget him. But he was assisted by a man no one should ever forget, Marine General Blas de Lezo, old in service … and what a service! Fought in twenty-three major naval engagements, always in the midst of the shooting. In a running fight off Gibraltar he lost his left leg. Off Toulon he was blinded in his left eye, and in a major battle defending Barcelona he gave up his right arm!” As the professor listed these dismemberments he used his left arm like a meat cleaver, and he was so dramatic, he himself became this crippled old man fighting to defend his city.

“Did he win?” a student asked, and Ledesma said: “You won’t believe it, but with only a handful of men he held off the entire British armada. Kept the ships at anchor and wouldn’t allow the English soldiers inside his city. Like they boast in boxing: ‘They never laid a hand on him,’ but that’s not quite right. In the fighting he received two more major wounds, and our victory bells had scarcely stopped ringing when they resumed to toll his death.”

When the lecture ended, students gathered about him for further interrogation and the conversations lasted till well past midnight, but in the morning Ledesma was down for an early breakfast, since he was to supervise what everyone hoped would be a gala day. The government of Colombia, damaged by reports of uncontrolled cocaine traffic in its inland cities, had made an extra effort to provide the
Galante
passengers, especially the students, with a memorable experience in Cartagena: small boats were made available for tours of the incomparable harbor; military helicopters stood by to enable geographers or historians to see the area as a whole, and Ledesma himself
led walking tours of the ancient battlements upon which an earlier Ledesma had once accompanied Sir Francis Drake on midnight strolls.

Thérèse, who had no responsibilities this day, was among the first to take the helicopter ride, and the young naval officer serving as pilot invited her to occupy the seat beside him, from where she gained an incomparable appreciation of how this city had survived the many assaults made upon it. There below her was the glistening harbor with its two entrances, Boca Grande and Boca Chica, the former now marked by a roadway built upon the skeletons of the innumerable wrecks which had been sunk there in times past to prevent enemy ships from sneaking in. But what impressed her most was the view when the helicopter flew to the north, for then she saw that Cartagena really did sit upon an island, protected by swamp-ridden lands north and east, the Caribbean west and south, so that no enemy could easily assault it from any direction. It stood by itself, a walled city with a unique personality which had been neither destroyed nor altered by the floods of gold and silver that reached it from Porto Bello or by the heavy gunfire that came from British fleets. It was a free-standing city within a wall.

When the flight ended she wandered alone along the narrow streets of the old city, and as she threaded her way through what was little more than an alley, with the fronts of houses almost touching one another, she suddenly burst into the heart of a plaza so lovely that she exclaimed: “Oh, what a treasure!”

Two broad paths intersecting in the middle divided the plaza into four equal quarters, each with its own bubbling fountain, and in the center, where the paths met, rose a fine statue of Bolívar. The square was embraced on all sides by handsome buildings, each a different color, so that the effect was more of a fine painting than a work of architecture. Her first thought on finding herself at the heart of this walled-in excellence was: So formal compared to that great free square in Point-à-Pitre, this one so Spanish, that one so French, but each memorable.

Then at the shadowy end of the plaza she saw a majestic building that seemed to have been hiding like a master actor who wished to make an impressive entrance; tall and imposing like a church, its façade decorated with stately ornament and statuary, it breathed an air of mystery and power. When she crossed the plaza to inspect it, she found it to be the office from which officials of the Holy Inquisition
had policed the religious orthodoxy and private morals of the city through the long years from 1610 to 1811, and she shivered to think of what anguish this building had witnessed.

But when she entered its forbidding doorway she learned that it was now a museum, and from its well-arranged and labeled displays she learned that in Cartagena the Inquisition had not run wild, for in the course of its long dictatorship, it had given death sentences to only five, which in those years would have been miraculously humane in an English or American county, and it burned alive only two of them, both renegade clerics.

Relieved to learn this, she was nevertheless saddened to read a detailed account of the first great auto-da-fé held in 1611 at which, during a vast celebration held in the plaza she had just left, nineteen men and women received notice of their punishments. With ominous frequency came the dreaded phrase “
a los remos de galera por vida sin sueldo
”—to the oars of a galley for life without pay. Often there was an order that the accused’s distinctive prison garb, his
sambenito
, be labeled with his name and displayed in perpetuity in the local cathedral so that all might be reminded of that family’s disgrace.

The nationality of the victims and the harsh nature of their sentences bespoke the religious hatreds which scarred all Spanish colonies: “Juan Mercader, a French peddler who was heard ridiculing a Papal Bull calling for a crusade; Marco Pacio, an Italian who claimed that breaking the sixth commandment is not a sin; Juan Albert, a German who also made fun of a Papal Bull.” In Cartagena they had been suspicious of anyone who wasn’t Spanish.

The crimes of native-born sinners were indicative of what the church had feared: for not believing in purgatory, for having entered a sixteen-year pact with a devil named Buciraco, for having told fortunes with beans, for conjuring evil spirits, and for raising the dead from their graves.

To read these mournful records made Thérèse wonder if there had ever been a chance for the elysium of which Senator Lanzerac had dreamed, “a Caribbean with one nation, one language, one religion.” Would not resolute souls, she asked herself, have emerged to cry: “I’ll tolerate this domination no longer!” with riots and revolutions resulting? So after a while we’d be right where we are today: many nations, many rules.

When she arrived back on the
Galante
she went directly to her cabin, propped on her knees the writing portfolio provided there and
started a long-overdue letter to Dennis Krey in Concord. Actually, she started two, but her mind was so agitated by this day’s experiences that she could not concentrate. Crumpling the would-be letters, she went on deck to seek out Professor Ledesma, and when she found him she said: “Could we take a walk before dinner? Weighty decisions.”

“I’ve been waiting for an invitation like this since we boarded,” and they were soon walking along the ramparts and down narrow alleyways toward the center of town, where she guided him to the central plaza which had impressed her so favorably. There, sitting on benches facing the majestic Inquisition building, Ledesma spoke of the imperishable values that nurture a society and keep it vital, and he told her that Spanishness was one of the world’s permanent systems, like Islam and Christianity and Judaism, but when Thérèse asked: “Then why is Spanish culture in the Americas unable to produce stable civil governments?” he parried: “Stability is overrated. Vitality, movement, the enjoyment of each day, that’s what really counts.”

Unwilling to allow what she considered a misguided judgment to pass, Thérèse cried: “Professor Ledesma! This week gunmen from the Medellín cocaine cartel murdered two more judges in that city and three political leaders in Bogotá. Is that what you call the flowering of Spanish culture?”

Ledesma mumbled: “One of the judges was my cousin. I admit that these are terrible times, but isn’t your America having its own problems?”

Eager to give this crucial discussion some substantial footing, she took from her handbag a small book that dealt philosophically with these matters: “Since this was written by an outstanding French scholar who was predisposed to neither the Spanish nor the English cause, we can expect impartiality.” Translating from the French, she read:

Closing the book with precise movements, as if she were conducting one of her seminars, she asked Ledesma: “Now, what do you and I, as good Catholics, say to that?” and he replied with considerable vigor: “English-style order in government is not the world’s greatest boon,” and he continued in words that the first Ledesma in Cartagena might have used: “To see your family prosper, all members of it. To know a religion which gives you solace. To feel your spirit free to soar. To burst with poetic idealism, those are the abiding virtues.” He paused, stared at Thérèse, and asked: “Do people in Gary, Indiana, have it as good as we do here in Cartagena?”