Our Lives Are the Rivers

by Jaime Manrique

  How could my own father be so cold and uncaring? Were not all fathers supposed to love their daughters? As the years passed, my longing to see him lessened and evolved into a rancorous desire for revenge. One day I would become the most important woman in Ecuador and my father and his family would finally acknowledge me and seek my company. I would then publicly humiliate him and his family, treating them as strangers.

  It dawned on me that even if nobody believed in me, or encouraged me, it was up to me to forge a great destiny for myself. My chances were good, I knew. I was more intelligent than most of my dense classmates; and everyone, even the ungenerous Aispurus, praised my beauty. Furthermore, I knew with certainty that I was heir to my mother’s fortune. Once I came of age, Catahuango would legally belong to me. With my wealth, I would devise my own future: I would pick and choose any husband I desired. I would sell the hacienda and move to Paris. There I would open a salon where all the great people of the age would be regulars. Novels and plays would be written about me; lovestruck poets would dedicate books of sonnets to me. A European prince, a king—or at least a duke—would fall in love with me, and I would command the full respect saved for European royalty. This is where my dream got complicated. Even then I hated the idea of inherited titles, which I saw as one more despicable legacy from Spain. The only nobility I ever acknowledged was that of the men and women who achieved great deeds. The German explorer and scientist Alexander von Humboldt was my idea of nobility. Perhaps I might even meet von Humboldt, and he would take me on as a disciple and teach me everything he knew. And I would become an explorer, and write scientific books, and climb the highest volcanoes in Ecuador. In 1802 he had almost succeeded in climbing to the top of Chimborazo, which was thought to be the highest mountain in the known world—and a mountain that no man would ever conquer. But, most important, I adored von Humboldt because I had read, in a subversive newspaper Rosita brought me from the outside, that he had said that the South American continent was ripe for revolution.

  Rosita and I became close friends because, as the only illegitimate girls in school, the nuns treated us as outcasts. Two other bonds united us: our passionate love of reading and our interest in anything the nuns did not teach us. Rosita and I pooled our allowances so that she was able to buy books and bring them from the outside. Rosita had bribed a servant in her guardian’s home to buy her novels and books about history. Most books that dealt with contemporary issues were forbidden and were sold clandestinely.

  The other bond we shared was that even at that early age we both dreamed of the day when South America would become free of its Spanish chains. The time for revolution was now. Though the papers could not publish any commentary that was critical of the Spanish monarchy, and news from Spain took months, sometimes years, to reach South America, once it reached the continent, it spread through the land like lit gunpowder.

  Even the Royalists in Ecuador could not hide their alarm at the decadence of the Spanish court. Carlos IV and his promiscuous wife, Queen María Luisa, were hated by their own people, whom they kept in dire poverty and ignorance. Rumors reached Ecuador that the heir to the throne, their son Ferdinand, was a monster who had already tried to poison his own parents. That this prince was beloved by the Spanish people could only mean that the reign of the Bourbons was as decadent as the last days of the Roman Empire. So in 1808, when Napoleon Bonaparte installed his brother Joseph on the Spanish throne, it became obvious that Spain would soon be all too consumed by its mounting crisis to be able to contain the growing sentiment for South American independence.

  It was around that time that, among the printed materials Rosita managed to smuggle into school by wrapping it around her chest and back under her clothes, we read “The Declaration of the Rights of Man and of Citizens,” written by the National Assembly of France. I had heard about the French Revolution, though both at home and at school it was always deplored as an example of the unfortunate consequence of allowing the masses to govern themselves. I memorized the seventeen points of the manifesto, though perhaps I only understood the first one: “Men are born, and always continue, free, and equal in respect of their rights.” That was enough to sustain me during those years when I was made to feel inferior because of the circumstances of my birth. Those first words of the French “Declaration of the Rights of Man” would seal my fate.

  I LIVED FOR the school holidays when I could leave the convent for Catahuango, where I’d spend my days horseback riding with Jonotás and Natán. We were inseparable; we called ourselves the Three Musketeers. Jonotás, my favorite, had grown into a wiry, vivacious girl with a thatch of black curls, a long neck and torso, and the strong legs of a mountain climber. She was also an irrepressible prankster who, encouraged by me, loved to mimick the Aispurus.

  Natán, though shorter, was the prettier one. She had big, golden eyes and features so delicate they seemed drawn with a sharp-tipped pencil. Natán was not a boisterous tomboy like Jonotás; she had the demure manners of a lady. But despite her quiet nature, she was a willing collaborator in whatever mischief Jonotás and I instigated. She understood that Jonotás and I had a special bond and did not seem jealous of our intimacy. Natán seemed content just to be included. Her dream was to one day live an independent life and have her own family. I promised her that when I grew up I’d free her. I loved Natán’s sweetness of demeanor and felt more protective of her than of Jonotás, who was quite capable of fending for herself.

  Though the Aispurus disapproved of my attachment to the girls, they were relieved not to have to look after me all the time. When I returned to the convent, I spent many cold nights wide awake reliving the happy times with my girls, my true family.

  ON SUNDAYS, when most students left the school for the afternoon with their parents or relatives, or their guardians in Quito, I remained in Santa Catalina, reading in the library. Aunt Ignacia only took me home for the major holidays. I sought in books the knowledge that was withheld from us girls. I found solace in the forbidden activity of reading novels, romantic and exciting tales that transported me far away from the convent’s clammy, chilly walls. I read and reread Rousseau’s La Nouvelle Heloise, which Rosita had smuggled into school. Like Rousseau’s heroine, I longed to be struck by passion, to violate the strictures of society, and be redeemed by love. Reading sustained me, confirmed my belief that there were other worlds larger and more thrilling than the one I lived in.

  Now and then other girls invited me to visit their homes on Sunday, but the nuns forbade it. They never provided an explanation, yet I knew it was because of my bastard status. This was another way of reminding me of my inferiority, that I was one with whom girls from proper families should not socialize. The nuns’ enforced shunning had its intended effect—loneliness became a habit for me. To allay my suffering, I lived for the day when I would get away from the nuns, from my relatives, and from Quito itself.

  ONE SUNDAY AFTERNOON, four days before my fifteenth birthday, Sor Lorena came to the library, where, as usual, I was reading and told me to put on my best clothes because I had a visitor. I noted that Sor Lorena said “a visitor,” so it couldn’t be Jonotás and Natán, who usually came together once a month, carrying a basket of fruits, butter, cheese, and pastries from Catahuango. They also brought the toiletry articles I asked my aunt for in letters.

  In my room I rinsed my face and hands, brushed my hair and tied it back with a ribbon. I was excited by this surprise in my routine. In the room where visitors were received, a lone gentleman sat in a chair near the window. I took two steps in his direction and then stopped. The man had my oval-shaped face, my alabaster complexion, my abundant and glossy black hair, my copious eyebrows and large black eyes. As he rose from his chair neither of us moved. I stopped breathing until he spoke.

  “Come here, Manuela.”

  I stood in front of him and curtseyed.

  “I’m your father,” he said, confirming my intuition.

  I sat down across from him, mute, and looked out t
he open window into a courtyard with a dry fountain in the middle of a garden with a solitary fig tree. This was one of the few windows in the school that was not shuttered, perhaps so that visitors would not find it too oppressive. On each corner of the square that formed the garden was a small bed of pinkish carnations. In the dim, misty light, the garden had a deathly look. To the north, above the red clay tiles of the convent, Cotopaxi’s icecap was swathed in an ashen shroud of mist. I kept staring at the volcano, as if mesmerized. I bit my lower lip to fight the tears rushing into my eyes and clasped my hands to stop them from trembling. I was afraid that if I opened my mouth to speak to him I would spew toads, vipers, scorpions. My heart was beating so fast I could hear it pounding.

  My father remained standing. I heard him say, “Manuela, you’ve certainly inherited your mother’s beauty.”

  I turned to look at my smiling father. “Sir,” I said coldly, “why have you come? I do not need you now. As for my beauty, I played no part in it. And my mother’s beauty only ruined her.”

  He sat down, took out a perfumed handkerchief, and blew his nose. I wanted to run from the room, hide in my bedroom, bury my face in my pillow.

  “Manuela, please believe me when I say I could not have come earlier. I am a married man with a family. My wife would not have understood.”

  “But she understands now? Is that what you’re saying, sir? Well, did you ever stop to think the shame your silence caused me? Or how much I would suffer because of your carelessness? I am afraid you’ve come much too late.” I wanted him to feel all the loathing I had for him, for his horrible wife and children.

  “You do need me, hija mía,” he said, ignoring my anger. “In a few years you’ll be of marrying age, and no man from a good family will want you for a wife unless I acknowledge you publicly as my daughter.”

  So, was he here because the Aispurus had asked him to come? I wondered how much money they had promised him if he would acknowledge his paternity. “Let me assure you, sir,” I heard myself say in a shrill voice, “that I have no desire to marry—if that’s what concerns you. When I come of age, I’ll have my own money. I won’t need a husband to take care of me.”

  “Stop talking nonsense, Manuela,” he said. “I am your father and you owe me respect. Beginning next Sunday you’ll come to my house for the day, and you’ll spend school holidays with us. My wife and your brother and sisters look forward to embracing you as one of their own. It’s true I have been a bad father,” he said as he rose to leave, “but all that has changed as of today. I hope you will come to love me in the same way I already love you.”

  Now that I had met him, I hated him even more for his hypocrisy. How could he claim to love me after spending only a few minutes with me? This was not a man I could trust. This was a man who could say anything, whether he meant it or not, in order to get what he wanted. That was how he had ruined my mother.

  I BECAME A member of the Sáenz del Campo family. Though I was predisposed to dislike my stepmother, I found no serious reasons to complain about Doña Juana del Campo. She treated me, the awkward new addition to the family, with formality; and my sisters, the sisters I had known from afar and been envious of for years, welcomed me with courtesy. Clemencia and Josefa were two and three years older than I, and were solely interested in talking about new dresses, parties, and young men who were good marriage prospects. My first Sunday at my father’s house, my half sisters left to visit a friend and did not take me along. When my father discovered what had happened, he summoned my sisters in my presence and told them that from that day on, without exception, they had to include me in all facets of their social life. Clemencia turned to me and, her voice dripping with insincerity, said, “We apologize, Manuela. Believe us that it was just an oversight. We did not mean to slight you.” I suspect that this forced apology caused them to feel even more resentment toward me, though they behaved with a measure of grace and never excluded me again.

  My sisters’ silliness was bearable only on account of my brother, José María, who had been born the same year as I. From our first encounter I recognized, from the gleam in his eye, that he was a dreamer like me. And he loved riding as much as I did. It was during our rides together that our intimacy grew into a loving bond. His devotion to me also meant that my sisters had indeed to accept me as a permanent addition to the clan.

  Although the seed of revolution already grew in my heart, the love of my new brother was so genuine that I forgave him for enlisting in the Royalist army. Given time, I told myself, I would convince him that the only defensible position for a patriot was to join the independentistas fighting to end the rule of the Spanish Crown. Still, I envied the male freedom that allowed my brother to leave the stifling family home—even if it was to join the abominable army of Spain.

  I began to look forward to the Sunday visits at my father’s home. After the early dinner that followed noon mass, José María and I, if the weather permitted, rode to the foot of El Panecillo, where we tethered our horses and then hiked to the top of the mountain. On clear days, gazing at the snowcapped volcanoes, we let our imaginations roam free and dreamed of glorious futures where we’d be happy, in love, and could prove our valor in battle. I saw myself fighting in the great battles for independence, felling the enemy with my gun, charging with the cavalry, wielding a lance against the Spanish troops, nursing our wounded soldiers. Though my desire to one day prove my bravery on the battlefield amused my brother, he did not laugh at my illusions, peculiar though they were. Nothing was said of the fact that our fantasies found us fighting in opposite armies.

  MY FIRST APPEARANCE with the Sáenz del Campo family at Sunday mass created an awkward situation when, after mass, the other families gathered on the steps of the cathedral to socialize. I was introduced as my father’s daughter—no other explanation was offered. Most people were cool but acted courteously enough, out of deference to my father. By my second or third appearance, quiteños got used to the idea that I was a permanent member of the family, although I was certain they continued to question my status behind my back. I was sure I was an object of gossip and scorn.

  My father now represented to me my best hope to leave the nuns and get away from the Aispurus, who would have been just as happy to see me take vows and be forever immured in a convent. As if to make up for the years when he was absent, Father made sure that Quito society knew how sincerely proud and defensive he was of me. Any young man who came near me was the subject of severe scrutiny. His custodial zeal made me uncomfortable. Sometimes I felt my sisters resented the way in which I came to take such a prominent place in our father’s affection. He constantly praised my beauty and intelligence, and would not deny me any of my wishes.

  I decided to exploit his guilt. At the time of our sixteenth birthday, the nuns allowed each student to have a personal maid who brought her food from the outside, cleaned her cell, washed and ironed her clothes, and helped her get dressed. At the end of the day, the maids went home. I asked Father to bring my girls to Quito to look after me, and he granted my request. From then on, they only returned to Catahuango for visits, much to their relief. Jonotás became my personal maid, while Natán became an indispensable housekeeper in my father’s household.

  Though I still could not forgive Father for all the unnecessary pain his neglect had caused me, I did begin to call him “Papá” instead of “Don Simón.” I wished, though, that when I called him “Papá” it came from my heart.

  MY FRIENDSHIP WITH Rosita Campusano made the years in the convent bearable. Though we were the same age, Rosita was shorter and smaller in every way. She was perfectly proportioned, like a miniature doll. Rosita’s father was a Spanish businessman who owned stores in Guayaquil, Quito, and Lima. His shops sold fabrics, buttons, ribbons, laces, hats, and other feminine accessories, which meant that Rosita never lacked for such things and generously shared them with me.

  Rosita was my ally against the nuns, who never stopped reminding us that they were doing us a f
avor by allowing us to study with our betters. The Mother Superior’s favorite form of humiliation was to ask me each year to present proof that my father had legally acknowledged me as his daughter. At the beginning of each school year I was called into her office to be warned that I might not be invited to return to school the following year unless I produced such a document. That translated into Aunt Ignacia each year having to make larger and larger contributions to the nuns’ charities, of which my aunt never tired of reminding me. When my father appeared in my life, I requested he produce this legal document. “I can’t do that, Manuela,” the coward said. “My wife would never allow it. That would make you one of my heirs by law, and that would be unfair to your sisters and José María. Remember, one day you’ll be richer than all of them when you inherit your mother’s estate.”

  It was not what I wanted to hear. Only his reminding me of the future money that I would inherit, which would allow me to pursue my true destiny, comforted me. It was a crude but potent solace.

  AS WE GREW OLDER, Rosita and I became more curious about the nocturnal activities inside the walls of Santa Catalina. The two of us wanted to find out the provenance of the strange noises we heard echoing in the gloomy, drafty corridors late at night, which the other girls in the convent believed to be ghosts. The ghosts turned out to be hooded priests who came and went in the midnight hours. Rosita and I began to spy on them as they skulked down the corridors to enter the cells of the younger nuns, most of them novices. At turns transfixed and giggling, we stood by the doors of the sisters who received nightly visits, and heard muffled moans.