Flight of the Swan (13 page)

No more ideal of perfect beauty; no more swan acting out the rite of death for the destitute to accept it more readily. Madame was sick with love. She was thirty-eight; her milk-white flesh was beginning to curdle on her bones. She should have been thinking of retiring and going back to Ivy House in London, where she promised me she’d found a school for young dancers. Instead, she’d fallen head-over-heels in love with a stuck-up Spanish grandee’s son. How could she preach the sanctity of art to her followers when she was fucking away happily with that Young Turk? I’ll stay awake all night if I have to, I told myself, in order to prevent it. How could she dare insist that her only purpose in life was to take the joy of ballet to the unfortunate of this world? Claim that “dancing is a form of prayer, a reaching out to God,” and that “nothing should come between the dancer and her sacred task”? She’s a hypocrite and a libertine, I murmured to myself as I sat down angrily on a large tree trunk by the road. Madame saw me hanging back. She came over, sat down next to me, and put her soft, white arms around my shoulders.

“What’s the matter, Masha, darling? Is that basket too heavy for you? Here, let me help you carry it.”

I only hated her more.

I
PICKED UP THE
wicker basket with the costumes and toe shoes and set off determinedly down the road, walking between Madame and Diamantino, although I could tell I wasn’t wanted there.

Why is it that in mature women lust is always offensive? An older man with a young girl is immoral, but there’s a celebration of life implied in the relationship—death and infirmity are vanquished. An older woman with a young man, however, is unforgivable. It means the triumph of death over life: the woman can’t conceive; the seed is lost, sown on sterile terrain. When an older woman falls in love with a handsome swain, it’s an insult to nature. She turns into a clown—her wrinkled, made-up face becomes a mask of death next to her lover’s blossoming countenance. And that’s exactly what will happen to Madame, I told myself.

The town of Arecibo—which Diamantino absurdly called a “city”—was small, it couldn’t have had more than fifty thousand inhabitants. The streets were mud; there were no pavements anywhere. And instead of the luxurious Studebakers, Peerless Eights, Franklins, Cadillacs, and Willis Overlands that teemed in the streets of San Juan, the well-to-do here went about on horses and tilburies, or in covered carriages of all sorts. The poor, of course, went barefoot.

When we walked in from the train station, a military band was playing and a large group of soldiers marched down the street, which opened onto a spacious, beautifully kept square. This was Arecibo’s Plaza Mayor, where the Spanish battalions had held their parades and military maneuvers in the past, and now the Americans did the same. Teatro Oliver very conspicuously faced the Plaza Mayor at one end, its back to the open sea. A whitewashed church stood at the other end of the square, with a three-tiered facade, a clock over the main door, and a strong, squat belfry with a red-brick dome which echoed the square design of the plaza.

A dozen handsome oak trees planted in front of the church spread their pink blossoms on the ground. An octagonal wrought-iron gazebo of Moorish design rose in the middle of the esplanade where the military band performed. A regiment of U.S. Army troops marched to the music, the same one we had seen in San Juan: battalions B and C this time. The army was recruiting Puerto Rican soldiers from all over the island, and they brought them together at the main towns like Arecibo. The next day they would board the train to San Juan and from there sail on to Panama on the
Buford
.

People streamed into the square from the side streets to listen to the band and watch the parade. A sea of women in white uniforms, with wide red crosses sewn to their starched caps, marched into the square to the same music as the soldiers. Some of them were matronly and had children in tow; the younger ones came from Arecibo’s Central High School, or so their banner read. Behind them were at least a hundred children, also dressed in white. They lined up around the kiosk singing “America the Beautiful” with thick Spanish accents. Another battalion, the Home Guard, brought up the rear of the parade. These young men were dressed in civilian white pants and shirts, with
jíbaro pabas
on their heads and machetes secured to their belts. Once they walked past, the spectators lining the street followed behind in a formless mass, swaying and dancing to the music. A powerfully built man with a red shock of hair falling over his forehead marched in front and waved to Diamantino as he went by.

“That’s Bienvenido Pérez; the son of Arnaldo Pérez, Don Pedro’s overseer,” Diamantino said. “Don Pedro is his
padrino
also—his godfather. Now that the troops are leaving, he’s the leader of the Home Guard. They’re supposed to defend the town from enemy attack after the soldiers leave.”

“With machetes?” Madame asked, raising her eyebrows.

“You’d be surprised what they can do with them. Cutting sugarcane is good military training. They can’t use guns, in any case. Puerto Ricans aren’t allowed gun permits.”

“Bienvenido grew up in Dos Ríos,” Diamantino added, “and he’s my best friend. When I was a child, whenever my parents came here on weekends to stay with the Batistinis, he’d play with me. He’s just come back from Río Piedras, where he’s studying to be an engineer, thanks to Don Pedro’s generosity.”

A tall, thin man wearing a white linen jacket began to give a speech in front of the orchestra—Arecibo’s mayor. He was explaining the purpose of the volunteer movement of the Red Cross: since Puerto Ricans were being recruited into the army, it was only natural that they should donate money to buy Liberty Bonds and provide food for the troops overseas. And if they couldn’t buy food, they could certainly grow it. The mayor was urging citizens to plant corn, tomatoes, sugarcane, and coffee in their backyards and to take the proceeds to the offices of the Red Cross every week. A cargo ship bound for Europe, the
Liberty Bell
, would dock near the town in a few months to take the food to the soldiers. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was almost as bad as Minsk, where I once saw the mayor take food from the starving peasants to feed the czar’s troops.

“We’ll win the war with food instead of with bullets!” the mayor cried, as if cheering on the home team. By which I suppose he meant that, since the
Arecibenos
couldn’t pay for ammunition, they could at least grow food for the soldiers. Children began to mill around the mayor, who was giving away hoes—they’d soon be taught how to use them at the agricultural camps to be set up on the outskirts of town on government land. Women were selling lemonade, cookies, and all sorts of sweets made of coconut and molasses in order to raise money for the army. When the mayor stopped talking, nobody clapped. A heavy silence fell on the crowd.

Suddenly one of the men from the Home Guard ran to where the mayor was standing, leaped over the banister, and landed on the platform. He wrenched the mayor’s megaphone away from him and began to scream: “The Red Cross, the Boy Scouts, the Liberty Bonds are all part of the same campaign. Who are we? Nobodies from nowhere. We have no citizenship, no political rights, no civil rights. The United States won’t give us independence, but they refuse to give us statehood because of prejudice!” At this point, the man was overwhelmed by the police, who clambered onto the dais and pinned him to the floor. The rest of the Home Guard, evidently restless, was surrounded by soldiers in navy blue uniforms and marched toward the train station. “The idiot!” Diamantino cried. “We’ll all have to pay for this!” The soldiers looked his way but no one dared move. We stood there flabbergasted.

The audience, however, didn’t seem surprised at what they’d seen. Molinari drew near and explained that
espontáneos
were a common sight in the local parades, but that Americans never shot people for this sort of thing. The man would be locked up for a few days and then let loose.

“Americans are much more careful than the Spaniards about their image,” Molinari said with an ironic little smile. “‘We are bringing democracy to the island,’ General Miles proclaimed grandly in 1898 when he landed here. But Spain never had qualms about turning rebels into martyrs.”

Molinari led us to a small square behind Arecibo’s cathedral, the Plaza del Corregidor, where public executions used to be held. “Many men died here after conspiring against Spain,” he said. We could see a series of trees planted equidistant from each other, with a seat at the base of each. “The condemned men were tied to the seats, eyes covered with black hoods, ropes lowered over their heads, and tourniquets rapidly tightened until their necks snapped. Thus they sat corrected.”

We stared at the gruesome sight. Molinari actually relished telling us such stories. “It’s amazing that people on the island haven’t rebelled,” Molinari added. “They’re just a bunch of cowards with no pride; no wonder the lamb is their national symbol.” When Diamantino heard this he went pale. Molinari looked at him with pursed lips. “I’m glad I’m not a Puerto Rican. I was born in Corsica,” he said. And he smiled, baring his rotten teeth.

Arecibeños
did everything differently: it was as if every house in Arecibo were trying to sail inland, toward the mountains, instead of away from them. In contrast to San Juan, the town had no walls around it. For centuries it had been the target of the pirate ships that plied the Caribbean by the dozen. While in the narrow cobblestone streets of San Juan you heard only the Castilian Spanish of the king’s ministers, in the dusty alleys of Arecibo you often heard French, Dutch, German, Italian, and Portuguese. In San Juan, people looked to Spain,
la madre patria
, for their material well-being and spiritual sustenance. But in Arecibo the whole world was
la madre patria
, and immigrants from all over Europe settled in its environs.

Diamantino took us to a modest, two-story house next to the church and knocked on the door. Beethoven’s
Emperor
Concerto came pouring out of the house and practically drowned out the John Philip Sousa march the military band was blasting at that moment. Diamantino wrote down something on a piece of paper and gave it to the girl who opened the door. “Give this to Doña Victoria Tellez, we’d like to say hello,” he said. Doña Victoria soon came to the door and opened it wide herself. “How wonderful to see you, Tino!” she said. And she ushered us in graciously.

She was a small woman with unruly snow-white hair that surrounded her head like a halo. She led us into an inner patio shaded by a lemon tree, with hibiscuses in bloom everywhere. We were all introduced. Then we sat in rocking chairs under the shady arcade, gratefully fanning ourselves and drinking cool lemonade.

Diamantino began to make rapid movements with his hands, as if he were playing an invisible instrument; I realized it was sign language. Doña Victoria was totally deaf. She got up, leaving me with my mouth open in midsentence, so amazed was I at her abilities, and walked over to the piano in the adjacent living room. She sat down on the bench and began to pound the keyboard. Beethoven’s
Emperor
silenced Sousa’s dutiful little march again. The old lady went on playing until the band finished, and then, as the last measures of the brass instruments reverberated from the walls, Doña Victoria lifted her hands from the keyboard and smiled smugly. There was complete silence in the room.

“She always plays that whenever the U.S. Army marches around the square,” the young servant girl who opened the door told us with a laugh. “She does it to drown out the Americans.” We laughed politely, but were left totally in the dark. I began to suspect there was a lot of resentment in Arecibo toward the army. But this wasn’t our country, and I didn’t see why we should get mixed up in someone else’s war.

The maid went on picking up the empty glasses and putting them on a tray as Diamantino spoke quickly with Doña Victoria. Then she carried the tray out to the kitchen, her sandals flip-flopping after her.

Exasperated, Madame went over to the window to look out. I could guess what she was thinking. She missed the Maryinsky and the Neva, London and her beautiful house at Golders Green. She had managed to escape from the Russian Revolution and had fallen from the frying pan into the fire. I stood at her back, my hands on her shoulders to try to calm her, but it was no use. I sighed, and wished with all my might that we were back in St. Petersburg.

W
E WERE LOOKING AROUND
for the hotel when Madame opened her handbag and dropped a coin into a Red Cross box. An automobile insistently honked its horn. She turned around and couldn’t believe her eyes: the yellow-and-black Pierce-Arrow that had picked her up at the wharf was right behind us. The top was down and an elderly gentleman with a white mane of hair in a double-breasted suit had his hands on the wheel. Diamantino stared incredulously. It was Don Pedro Batistini, and it was too late to slip away. Don Pedro was already waving at him, and Diamantino had no choice but to wave back.

“We’ll have to go and say hello,” he told Madame with a frown, and, taking her by the elbow, he propelled her through the crowd in the car’s direction. Don Pedro had come to pick up his wife, who was participating in the parade. Doña Basilisa heard him and hurried over. She saw Diamantino before the couple reached the car and threw herself into the young man’s arms.

“Tino, darling, where have you been! Six weeks without a word from you! I was so afraid something terrible had happened!”

Diamantino kissed the woman’s cheek and tried to calm her, turning around to introduce Madame. “Maite, I want you to meet a friend of mine. She’s here with a group of artists to perform at Teatro Oliver during the next few days.”

“To perform? How?” Doña Basilisa asked in wonder.

“Madame is a world-famous ballerina, Maite. And I’m playing the violin in her orchestra now. It’s a good job.”

Doña Basilisa couldn’t believe her ears. Diamantino had never held
any
kind of job, and playing the violin in an orchestra was not exactly the kind of employment the son of a well-to-do Puerto Rican family would be caught dead in, no matter what Don Pedro said. But Doña Basilisa was so glad to see him, she forgot all about it and kissed the young man on each cheek. Then she leaned toward Madame and embraced her too. “How lucky to have a beautiful lady like you as a friend!” she said as they walked together toward the car, with Doña Basilisa holding on to Madame’s arm. Don Pedro opened the car door and the couple insisted that Madame and Diamantino ride with them to the house in Dos Ríos, which was just out of town. The dancer got in the backseat with Doña Basilisa, and Diamantino sat in front with his godfather. Madame opened a frilled pink umbrella over her head and Don Pedro started up the car. They were about to drive off when I waved at them. I planted my basket in the middle of the street and they had to either run over me or stop. Diamantino reluctantly opened the car door and I elbowed my way into the backseat. He stashed my basket in the car’s trunk and we all drove away together.