Our Lives Are the Rivers

by Jaime Manrique

  Our Lives Are the Rivers

  A Novel

  Jaime Manrique

  FOR JOSEFINA FOLGOSO,

  IN MEMORIAM

  My Splendors are Menagerie—

  But their Competeless Show

  Will entertain the Centuries

  When I, am long ago,

  An Island in dishonored Grass—

  Whom none but Beetles know.

  EMILY DICKINSON

  Contents

  Epigraph

  Book One

  The Spaniard’s Daughter

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Book Two

  An Adulterous Woman

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Book Three

  Bolívar’s Liberator

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Book Four

  The Years by the Sea

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Praise

  Other Books by Jaime Manrique

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  AFTER THE EMPIRE

  IN THE FIRST TWO HUNDRED YEARS following Christopher Columbus’s arrival in the New World, the Spanish Empire spread so widely over the confines of the earth that it was said the sun never set on it. But by the 1820s, after a series of corrupt monarchs, Spain had lost most of its Latin American territories and had entered a period of chaos and irreversible decline.

  Under the leadership of Venezuelan-born General Simón Bolívar, known as the Liberator, five South American nations—Colombia (which back then was known as Nueva Granada and included present-day Panama), Venezuela, Peru, Ecuador, and Bolivia—had achieved their independence after decades of bloody warfare. Bolívar had a dream of uniting these five countries to create one great and powerful nation named Gran Colombia.

  book ONE

  The Spaniard’s Daughter

  1

  QUITO, ECUADOR

  1822

  I was born a rich bastard and died a poor one. That is the short story of my life. What it felt like to be Manuela Sáenz, the love child of my parents, Simón Sáenz de Vergara y Yedra and Joaquina Aispuru, is a longer story. But the story I want to tell you, the story of my love for the Liberator, Simón Bolívar, began long before I met him. It began when I was a young girl in the school of the Concepta nuns in Quito, where my mother’s family kept me imprisoned until I eloped with the first man who said he loved me.

  I was born a rich bastard and died a poor one. That is the short story of my life. What it felt like to be Manuela Sáenz, the love child of my parents, Simón Sáenz de Vergara y Yedra and Joaquina Aispuru, is a longer story. But the story I want to tell you, the story of my love for the Liberator, Simón Bolívar, began long before I met him. It began when I was a young girl in the school of the Concepta nuns in Quito, where my mother’s family kept me imprisoned until I eloped with the first man who said he loved me. I could find about Bolívar in the few newspapers that arrived at the school library, and I drank every word of the tales about him that were so much a topic of the conversations of the adults. To me Bolívar was the noblest man alive. Although he had been born into the richest family in Venezuela, he had given up his fortune to free South America. In my eyes, sacrifice made him even more heroic. His wife died just after they married, when they were still newlyweds. It was said he grieved for her so much that he lost his will to live. Bolívar’s savior came in the form of revolution.

  He had been exiled from South America to Jamaica after his first defeat by the Spanish army. He soon returned in triumph. His proclamations had the power to move people with the mighty force and truth of his words. He was a poet, a warrior, a great lover. Wherever he went, women threw themselves at him. And who could blame them? I was convinced he was the man South America had been waiting for, the man who would lead the continent to independence. The moment I first heard of the Liberator’s intrepid feats, I pledged my life to his cause.

  By the time I was old enough to understand that we criollos could not attend the best schools, or enter the most prestigious professions, or export and import goods from countries other than Spain—in other words, that we would never have the same rights in the eyes of the law as the Spaniards—and would just plain never be treated as equals and with dignity, simply because we were born on the American continent—I began to dream of the day when we would be free of Spanish rule. Thus each one of Bolívar’s victories—victories that freed more and more South American territory from Spain—made me delirious with joy. When I learned his army had suffered a defeat, I felt as if the loss were inflicted on my own flesh—I would take to bed for days, screaming from the pain of my headaches. If members of my family dared criticize the Liberator in my presence, I would explode with anger. “You ungrateful race,” I said at dinner one night to my aunt and grandmother, tears pouring from my eyes. “Bolívar has given his all to set us free, and all you can do is mock him. If the future of our nation lies in the hands of the likes of you, then we’re doomed.” As far as I was concerned, the man was perfect, and one could either love him and believe, or be his enemy and live without meaning. My friends and family quickly learned to be cautious whenever Bolívar’s name was mentioned in my presence.

  It was not until I was a married woman that our paths first crossed. In 1822, I had returned to Quito from Lima, determined to sell Catahuango, the hacienda my mother had bequeathed to me. In order to leave James Thorne, the Englishman my father had sold me to, the man I had been wife to in Lima for the last five years, I decided I must liquidate my only valuable property. My marriage to James had made me one of the wealthiest ladies of Peru, but more than a life of luxury, I wanted my freedom, and attaining this depended on selling the hacienda.

  My entrance to Quito, accompanied by my slaves, Jonotás and Natán, caused a commotion. I rode into town wearing on my breast the highest honor Peru bestowed upon civilians—the gold medal of Knight of the Order of the Sun, which General San Martín had awarded to me for my contributions to the independence of Peru just the year before.

  Natán and I had barely begun to unpack my trunks in my old bedroom in my father’s house when Jonotás burst into the room, shouting the news that Simón Bolívar and his troops had reached the Avenue of the Volcanoes and would enter the city the following day. She informed us preparations were under way to receive the Liberator with a parade and a ball. Just the year before Bolívar had proclaimed the formation of Gran Colombia, which included the provinces of Nueva Granada, Ecuador, Panama, and Venezuela.

  I could not have timed my arrival in Quito better even if I had had knowledge of Bolívar’s plans. His imminent arrival was a fateful sign. I was determined to meet el Libertador at last. I immediately wrote a note to the authorities of Quito asking for an invitation to the ball in his honor. In the years that had passed since I first became obsessed with Bolívar, my admiration and loyalty had only grown. It was in part the blind admiration I felt for him that gave me the courage and conviction t
o work clandestinely on behalf of Peru’s independence. The news of his impending arrival in Quito rekindled every adolescent emotion I had: I burned at the thought of his presence. In the past, Bolívar had seemed as far removed from my immediate world as a distant planet. Now, for the first time, we would be in the same city—in the same room. The trip to Catahuango to see my aunt about my inheritance would just have to wait.

  I BARELY SLEPT that night. The invitation to attend the ball had arrived and today I knew I would meet him. I rose from bed and gave orders to prepare my bath. I immersed myself in a steaming bathtub full of fragrant herbs. Jonotás scrubbed every inch of my body, lathering it with French milled soap. I washed my hair with French shampoo. After the bath, I slipped on a simple white dress cut to leave my arms exposed. Natán wove my hair in braids—which gave me the appearance of a schoolgirl. In case he saw me before the ball, I wanted to exude the virginal essence I was sure would beckon him to me.

  The victory parade would pass in front of my father’s house. I enlisted everyone in the house to make crowns of laurel to throw to the patriots from my balcony. I waited all morning, never too far from the balcony, smoking cigars, refusing all food, monitoring the cheers of the crowd as they grew louder and louder, announcing the approach of the Liberator and his army of heroes. The bells of the churches of Quito had just tolled noon’s twelfth bell when Bolívar appeared in his general’s uniform, glorious on his white horse, Paloma Blanca. As he passed under my balcony, I tossed a laurel crown in his direction. I misjudged the force of my throw, and the crown hit him squarely on his forehead. The startled general yanked at his horse and Paloma Blanca reared up, nearly unseating him. I froze, stunned by the commotion I had created. Bolívar shot an angry look in the direction of the balcony and our eyes met. I smiled and cheered, “Viva el Libertador!” He did not return my smile or wave back, but I was sure I saw a gleam in his eyes signaling he forgave my incautious behavior. I knew then, almost immediately, that I could use this incident as a pretext to approach him at the ball later that evening and apologize for my faux pas.

  As the hour for the ball approached, I chose my dress, gloves, fan, shoes, necklace, bracelets, earrings with such deliberateness as if I were preparing for my wedding. As a finishing touch, I proudly fastened to my black sash the glittering medal of Knight of the Order of the Sun. How many women in Quito could compete? I was going to make sure that once the general laid eyes on me, all the other women at the party would fade into the background.

  At the ball, after the speeches and toasts, Bolívar asked to see a performance of an Ecuadorian folk dance. I volunteered immediately. This was my chance. As a girl I had been infamous in Quito society for my dancing. Unlike the other girls of my social class, who danced with precision and modesty, I had spent my childhood dancing with Natán and Jonotás who taught me to move with the abandon of their African bloodlines. I would have one chance to make an impression, and I would do it with my dance steps, my eyes, my hands, my smile, and the wiggle in my hips. I would have his total attention only once. There are some nights, and there are not too many of them in one’s life, when you are perfectly illuminated, as though on stage, and for that instant you are the cynosure of all life around you. I had to seize that instant.

  A partner was chosen for me. I barely looked at him. He might have been tall or short, handsome or ugly, I never noticed. I performed a ñapanga—not for my dance partner but for the general. I raised the hem of my dress above my ankles, thrust my shoulders and head back, and gyrated my hips. I twirled, flounced, strutted, and swayed. When it was over, I heard the rustling of dresses, the sound of ladies’ fans stirring the air, the clinking of glasses, a polite cough or two, throats clearing, whispers creeping into the moment. My dancing had not been well received by the women, but I only cared about what he thought. I dared not look in his direction. I had never heard his voice, but when I heard someone exclaim “Brava,” I knew, because of the authority it commanded, it could only be his. He began to clap, and every one in the room joined him.

  I was sipping a glass of champagne and receiving compliments from a group of unmarried men when one of the Liberator’s aides-de-camp approached me and said, “Señora de Thorne, the general requests the honor of your company.” I felt dizzy as I followed the officer.

  “Brava,” Bolívar repeated once I was in his presence. “Thank you for the pleasure of watching you dance. That was splendid.”

  “My general,” I said, curtseying, avoiding eye contact, “I am Manuela Sáenz de Thorne,” I emphasized the de, so he knew I was a married woman. Blushing, I added, “I’m the woman on the balcony who almost killed you with my laurel wreath. My dance was meant as an act of contrition. Will you ever forgive me?”

  He laughed, full and throaty. “I know who you are. You are not only a marvelous dancer but also a heroine of Peruvian independence. We need more women like you, Señora de Thorne. Will you do me the honor of joining me for a drink?” His eyes bore into me as he offered me his arm. “It’s very stuffy in here. Shall we go out on the terrace for some fresh air?” His voice rang with the complete confidence of a man who was used to getting what he wanted. What did I care what people thought? I placed my hand on the general’s arm. I could feel his muscles under the fabric of his jacket and felt my blood rush to my head.

  Followed by a steward with glasses of champagne, we walked out of the ballroom and onto the terrace overlooking Quito’s plaza. In honor of the occasion it was illuminated with torches and various bonfires, around which soldiers and the people drank and sang songs of independence. The black of the sky was vivid, as if made of the finest black silk, and the shimmering frost of the stars looked as if it had been painted over with diamond dust.

  Bolívar and I stood next to each other, alone, Quito at our feet. The night air was brisk, and I shivered. He placed his glass of champagne on the railing of the balcony and said, “Allow me, señora, I don’t want you to catch a cold because of my desire for fresh air.” He removed his gold-embroidered red cape and draped it around my shoulders, his fingers brushing my bare arms. I could smell him, his perturbing maleness.

  I wanted to be natural; I wanted my admiration to shine in my eyes so he could see it. “How long does Your Excellency plan to stay in Quito?” I asked, lapsing into my socialite role.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “It depends on several things. But now that I’ve made your charming acquiantance, I’m not sure I want to leave Quito so quickly.”

  I pretended not to have heard his compliment. I did not blush nor did I giggle flirtatiously. I had to make him understand that I was different from the women he usually met. “While you are in Quito, my general,” I said, “if there is anything I can do to advance the cause of independence, no matter what, no matter how small, all you have to do is ask. I’m ready to give my life for your ideal.”

  “My, my, are you always this…intense…this serious, Señora de Thorne?”

  I was acting like a fool. I laughed.

  “Actually, you can be of help to me,” he said and looked at me with a seriousness which for a brief moment almost frightened me. “I understand you know General San Martín. I am interested in your impression of him. What kind of man is he?”

  When General San Martín had entered Lima after the defeat of the Royalist forces, I was one of the patriots he had asked to meet so he could thank me for my work on behalf of our drive for independence. San Martín and my best friend, Rosita Campusano, who had first involved me in the struggle, had become lovers, and I was later invited to small dinners at the palace.

  “Though I have met His Excellency,” I said, “I would not presume to know him. However, one can learn a great deal about a man not from the way he is with strangers, in public, but from the way he treats those close to him. General San Martín treats his servants well, his men with respect, and the woman he loves as an equal.”

  “Very interesting.” He sipped from his glass and looked away. He was still gazing into t
he distance when he said, “What was your sense of his plans for Peru? Is he a true republican, or does he want Peru to become a monarchy?”

  “We’re fighting these wars to do away with monarchies, Your Excellency.”

  “Yes, we are. But do you think San Martín wants to become king of Peru?” His sharp tone and the directness of his question surprised me. At that moment I caught a fleeting glimpse of the ruthlessness of the man who would stop at nothing to get what he wanted.

  “I hope not,” I said. “It would be a betrayal of our ideals. I don’t believe he himself would want to be king. Yes, there are murmurs that he would like to bring to Peru a European prince to rule as monarch. That’s what his enemies say. But I wouldn’t presume to know what General San Martín’s plans are for Peru.”

  “I am told you and the lady he loves are inseparable,” Bolívar said, continuing his line of questioning.

  “Rosita Campusano and I have been like sisters since our days in school here in Quito.”

  “Do you correspond with her? Has she written to you about the political situation in Lima?”

  “I have heard this is a delicate moment, Your Excellency. Independence is still fragile. There’s fear that the Spanish forces ensconced in the sierra could rally and attempt a takeover once more.” I tried to hide my confusion. Did he want me for a spy and not a lover? Because of my intimacy with Rosita I was the only person in Quito who could provide him with the information he needed about San Martín. I was better informed of the situation in Peru and of San Martín’s intentions, than anyone in Bolívar’s camp. Perhaps this was how I might win his confidence—I was only too happy to do it. If Bolívar wanted me as a political ally, I would show him the honor would be mine. The longer I was in his presence, the more I could make him love me. Of this there was no doubt in my mind. Bolívar was my key. In aiding him I would no longer care about pursuing my inheritance, about escaping to Europe. Being with him was another way of setting myself free.