Flight of the Swan (22 page)

We met almost the same day Juan joined the troupe. He had never seen a woman who was as big as a man before, and there was a down-to-earth frankness about me that appealed to him. I always say what I think; I have no hair on my tongue. People may not like me, but they know what they’re getting. Because of my awkwardness I was never given important roles onstage, but it never made me resentful. Like the proverbial goose girl, I went about solving everybody’s problems, distributing clean towels, bringing trays with food or pitchers with juice or cold water to the other dancers, putting salve on the girls’ bunions, or heating water for their aching feet. And I had one quality which surpassed all the others: my loyalty. I would have done anything for my mistress. Juan realized he needed someone like me by his side, someone who could be his faithful partner in business and in life.

After our performance at the Tapia, Juan heard about our impending trip to the interior of the island, and when Madame asked him if he would come (we would need our slippers repaired constantly, since we wouldn’t be able to buy new ones on the road) he decided to join us. It would give us the opportunity to get to know each other better, he said, and the adventure was enticing. He agreed to close his shoe-repair shop temporarily and join our troupe.

When we left for Arecibo, we were still just good friends. Then the ordeal of seeing Madame fall in love with Diamantino during our stay at Dos Ríos pushed me into despair. Madame made me take charge of the rehearsals of the
Bacchanale
because she wanted time to be by herself—or so she said. I had to go into town every day from Dos Ríos to supervise the dancers. I was merciless with them: jousting, disciplining, ordering them into obedience, supposedly so that they would grow professionally, but really because I had to take out my frustrations on someone. I was very successful; when it was time for the performance, the company was dancing better than ever—but I was miserable.

Then Diamantino and Madame disappeared during the opening night at the Teatro Oliver, and I almost went out of my mind. For a whole week I hardly slept or ate. Juan, fortunately, was still with us. When Don Pedro put me on the train and I returned to San Juan with the rest of the dancers, he accompanied us. I stayed at the Malatrassi with the girls, where the other members of the company were expecting us.

I decided to renew my visits to La Nueva Suela. Talking with Juan made me feel better, and I wanted to discuss with him what we should do now. The girls were restless and I was worried about them.

But when I came into the shop, Juan didn’t want to talk. He was sitting at his work stool in front of the lathe, and I remember he had a lady’s shoe on the block and was nailing down a new leather sole on it. He flashed a wide smile, put his arms around my waist, and made me sit on his lap. “I missed you like fresh meat misses salt, my duck,” he said. I laughed because I knew exactly what he meant. My adoptive father was poor and we didn’t have an icebox, either. Salt was a luxury, but it was the only way we could keep meat from spoiling when we managed to have some. “And I missed you more than the onion loves the skillet,” I answered.

Juan pulled me down and I felt a searing heat on the in-sides of my legs. Then he kissed me on the mouth, and my arms became two soft petals which curled about his neck of their own accord. Juan began to unbutton my blouse and soon had me naked on his lap. I straddled his body and everything became confused—the pain of pleasure and the pleasure of pain as he entered me. I was tumbling down a well which exited at the other end of the world, and never even looked back.

I didn’t love him, but I couldn’t live the rest of my life like dead coral, with brine washing in and out of my heart. To be the beloved, instead of the exhausted lover; to be the requited, instead of the forgiven—from then on, I lived in the shadow of my coming happiness, and looked forward to the day when I would no longer be alone.

My good luck didn’t last long, however. A few days later, I went back to the shoe-repair store and was surprised to discover there was nobody there. The store was locked and all the windows were shut; the sign above the door—a laced boot that reminded me of my grandmother in Ligovo, because she had a pair just like it—flapped forlornly in the wind. I sat on the sidewalk and waited for Juan all afternoon, but he didn’t come. I went back to the Malatrassi alone when it was almost dark. A week later, Juan was still missing.

“I
N SAN JUAN I’D
heard rumors about Los Tiznados being very active in the countryside, but I couldn’t be sure if they were true. However, when we arrived at Arecibo, the town was abuzz with news of the terrorists’ activities. Wherever we went, people were whispering about them. At first I didn’t pay much attention because I was too busy mending the dancers’ shoes. Madame had loaded me down with work and I had very little time to myself. Nonetheless, there were miles of sugar-white sand beaches near to the town where I took Masha for long walks as often as I could. I didn’t care about the ‘marvelous beauties of the landscape,’ as Masha kept saying. I kept scheming how to sweet-talk her into making love on the sand dunes, but I had no luck.

“After waiting for an anxious week to get the permits to the theater, the night when the company would perform the
Bacchanale
finally arrived. I was ordered by Madame to wait under the trapdoor with a straw rug to catch her as she fell. But someone made a mistake, and Diamantino fell through the trap also. Suddenly I found myself surrounded by masked men who elbowed me out of the way and took Madame and Diamantino prisoner. Then Los Tiznados forced me at gunpoint to go back to the theater and threatened that if I told on them, I would be dead. The whole thing was crazy, considering the island was occupied by military troops. But the rebels were mad to begin with. They were capable of assaulting a machine gun with a machete, so I did as I was told.

“I accompanied Masha and the rest of the girls back to San Juan on the train. I was glad to be there: they were so distressed, they probably would have lost their way and gotten off at the wrong station. Masha sobbed disconsolately the whole trip; it took all my patience to take her mind off her beloved Madame. I bought her freshly squeezed
guarapo
,
marrayo de coco
,
ajonjoli
,
pasta de batata
—all the humble delicacies of the country—which I knew Masha liked because she had a sweet tooth. But nothing worked—passionate tears still rolled down her cheeks like breakers. The girls slumped on their seats and didn’t even look out the windows at the landscape. All they did was bad-mouth Madame and plan how they were going to get off the island. Several of them had met rich gentlemen in San Juan who had offered to be their mentors, and they were seriously considering them. The company would break up, but nobody cared.

“When we got to the Malatrassi I sent for Lyubovna and talked to her in the lobby. ‘Please take care of Masha,’ I said. ‘She’s suffering, but I’m sure her malady is curable. Fortunately, the heart is the only human organ that regenerates itself.’

“The next day Masha came to visit me at my shop. I was tired of being put off and couldn’t wait any longer. I had made up my mind to take the Russian fortress by storm, and that same afternoon Masha, the unapproachable Russian amazon, fell into my arms.

“Things were going well with us, and Masha came to see me every day at the shop; we were happier than a pair of footsies in comfortable brogues. Then something unexpected happened. Masha had just left for the Malatrassi after our rendezvous one evening. It was pouring, and I had given her my leather apron to protect herself on the way. I was about to put out the light and get into bed when I heard a knock at the door. I opened it and cringed with fear: Molinari was standing there, dressed in buzzard black and with a gun in his hand.

“‘Madame has sent for you’ was his cryptic message. ‘You’re to go with me to the mountains.’ I nodded silently and tiptoed around my room picking up a few things. At the last minute I took a pair of toe shoes I had just finished lining and put them into my duffel bag. I didn’t say a word, afraid I’d whip up the storm even more.

“A pair of horses held by a masked man were waiting for us at the door. We got on them and set out immediately toward Arecibo, where we would turn left and begin our ascent of the mountains.

“Once we arrived at Otoao I was told I could go wherever I pleased, but that wasn’t very far because of the remoteness of the place—the settlement was nothing more than a handful of shacks nestled between jagged peaks. My horse was taken away from me, so even though I was told I could go where I wanted, I was still a prisoner. I walked about reconnoitering the place and saw several groups of men with machetes at the waist playing dice on the dirt floor; a foursome was playing dominoes on top of an empty crate. Huge boulders with strange inscriptions on them stood everywhere, so that the place had a mysterious look about it. They protruded from the ground like dolmens, with animal shapes and human faces carved on them that looked strangely alive as they stared out of the wet mist.

“I went looking for Madame and Diamantino, and as I didn’t find them, I asked one of the men who was sharpening his machete on a flint stone. He pointed out a hut at the edge of camp, and at that moment I saw Madame coming out the door. She looked haggard, with deep circles under her eyes, but she was smiling. Diamantino came out after her. They were far away from where I stood, but I could see them embrace. Then Diamantino got on his horse and he joined Bienvenido down the road. A river could be heard in the distance and I wandered over toward it. It ran between blue boulders and looked inviting; I took off my clothes and dove in behind a bend in the river, hidden by some tropical fern. The water was wonderful, cold and clear.

“That afternoon there was a showdown between Diamantino and Bienvenido after they got back from their reconnaissance mission. The two young men had been reining in their animosity, but they couldn’t control themselves any longer. They must have been arguing on the road about something, because as soon as they entered camp, they leapt off their horses and were at each other’s throats in seconds. ‘You’ve betrayed us miserably,’ Bienvenido spit at Diamantino. ‘You should have given us cover and you didn’t fire a shot. You’re still a Tiznado, whether you like it or not!’ (Later I learned there had been a skirmish at
Cerro del Prieto
, a mountain nearby, and Diamantino had hung back.) Diamantino’s answer was a punch in the gut. They kicked and twisted each other’s arms, tried to strangle each other and poke each other’s eyes out. The fight continued for what seemed like hours.

“Then, summoning the last of his strength, Diamantino yelled: ‘You’re just jealous! It’s not my fault you’re obsessed with Ronda. You’re crazy not to put her out of your mind.’

“When Bienvenido heard this he lowered his head, his neck muscles bulging, and he tackled Diamantino full force. It was like seeing someone trying to fight in the middle of a trough of molasses. They rolled over each other on the ground in slower and slower motion until they were so exhausted, they were unable to lift a finger. Finally they passed out, lying on top of each other like lovers. Los Tiznados picked them up and carried them to a nearby clearing.

“The next morning, when Bienvenido woke up, Molinari was sitting on the ground in front of him, looking more than ever like a buzzard. No one had noticed us when we joined the group; Los Tiznados had accepted us as if we were two of them. Molinari leaned against an empty crate and his black wool suit was spattered with mud, but he still managed to project an air of confidence and energy. In fact, now that I think of it, I don’t remember ever seeing Molinari look tired. There was something about him—perhaps his skin, which had a dark sheen to it, or his patent-leather hair, slick with brilliantine—that made him look indestructible.

“Molinari sat there flicking the flies away from his face with a malanga leaf as Bienvenido opened his eyes. ‘It’s about time you came to your senses, both literally and figuratively,’ Molinari said, handing the young man a flask of rum. Bienvenido’s head must have felt as big as a house; his whole body was probably sore, throbbing with pain, but he took the bottle and managed a swig. I crouched in the shadows, trying to pass unnoticed, next to the campfire’s embers.

“‘What time is it?’ the young man asked, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. His hair was disheveled and he had a crust of blood over his right eye. His upper lip had swollen and he dabbed rum on it with his handkerchief. He could hardly speak. A couple of Los Tiznados drew near and helped him get up from the ground. They had let him pass the night out in the open, lying on the ground, afraid that if they tried to help him to a bed before his fury was spent, he would lash out at them.

‘It’s nearly seven, by the way the sun’s rays are slanting into the trees,’ Molinari said.

“Bienvenido didn’t seem surprised to see Molinari. Maybe he expected him to give testimony of how two men had taken justice into their own hands to prove which one was better. He walked toward the campfire, looking for some bitter coffee to shock himself awake. Molinari reached out with his foot and nudged Diamantino in the ribs. He was lying on the ground also, and let out a groan without opening his eyes.

“‘Go to hell!’ Diamantino said to Molinari as he rolled away from him. After a few minutes, however, he slowly got to his feet holding on to a yagrumo tree. His head was reeling, but he managed to stumble off into the thickets to urinate.”

“‘WHAT ARE YOU WAITING
for?’ Molinari asked Bienvenido when he came back. ‘You’ve had your fun and haven’t gained anything by it. The best thing you can do now is cut off an ear or a finger of your precious Diamantino and send it to Don Pedro to ask for his ransom.’ But Bienvenido kept putting it off. ‘We’re waiting for help from Santo Domingo,’ he said.’ A shipment of arms should be here at any moment; with it, we can launch our coup. We can ask for ransom later.’

“When Bienvenido wouldn’t listen, Molinari stood up to face him. ‘Has it ever occurred to you why your middle initial is “B”? Or why your skin is white when your father, Arnaldo Pérez, is a mulatto? Everyone in Arecibo knows you’re Don Pedro Batistini’s son. That’s why Diamantino warned you about Ronda; there was no need for you to get so angry at him and provoke a fight.’