Our Lives Are the Rivers

by Jaime Manrique

  “How long will you stay in Panama?” I asked.

  “You can plan to be away for at least a year.”

  “What happens to me when you go to Spain?”

  “You’re welcome to come with us. But if you prefer to stay in Ecuador, you’ll have to go back to Catahuango. You cannot live alone in the city.”

  “Papá, I’ll go with you to Panama, but on one condition.”

  He frowned. “And what would that be?”

  “That Jonotás and Natán come with us.”

  He became pensive for a moment. “I hadn’t thought about it, but it’s not a bad idea. They can help me in the store and keep you company.”

  For an instant I felt gratitude and tenderness toward him. I got up from my chair, put my arms around his neck, and pecked him on the cheek. “Oh, Papá, thank you, thank you! When are we leaving?”

  “We leave for Guayaquil two weeks from today. We’ll be there a few days, and then sail for Panama.” He paused, regarding me. “I hope, Manuela, that this will be a good opportunity for you to forget the lieutenant and start anew.”

  “Yes, yes, Papá,” I said. He had no idea that I had already forgotten Fausto. “May I go tell Jonotás and Natán?”

  “Yes, you may. Tell them they should begin to prepare as of today for our departure.”

  I left the room feeling I was rushing toward a new life. How could I have known then that this journey, crossing the mountains and seas, would dominate my life for the next twenty years? Or that I would end up living my last years on earth in a godforsaken town between a pitiless desert and an indifferent sea?

  7

  PANAMA CITY

  1815

  As our ship entered the Port of Panama, I could not wait to set foot on land. I had already made up my mind not to go to Spain with my father. I would do anything to stay behind in South America.

  I immediately fell under the spell of Panama, with its lush tropical vegetation, the scented breezes that wafted in from the Atlantic, and the variety of peoples of all colors and nationalities who inhabited it. My father’s trading business was located on the ground floor of a two-story building in the old part of the city. He dealt in European imports: olives, hams, cheeses, wines, furniture, fabrics, the latest inventions. And he exported to the Old World silver and gold objects, mirrors from Cuzco, jewels, cocoa, rare woods, leathers, and exotic animals.

  We lived in a spacious apartment on the upper floor of the building. The sea breezes wafted through the rooms of our home, whose doors and windows faced the courtyard. Purple and white bougainvillea draped the walls of the courtyard, which had a drinking well, a few tall coconut trees, and a garden in the shape of a rectangle, overgrown with crepe myrtle, cannonball flowers in many colors, and red and yellow hibiscus.

  The apartment, with its high ceilings and tile floors of Moorish design, was furnished with the finest objects, thanks to Father’s business. In the corridor connecting the living and dining rooms to the back of the house hung cages filled with parrots, parakeets, macaws, and brilliantly colored songbirds. Natán was put in charge of the kitchen, Jonotás in charge of the housecleaning, and I of cleaning the birds’ cages, changing their water every day, and feeding them the seeds and fruit they ate. This new world was so enthralling, Fausto’s betrayal began to lose its sting. Many mornings I woke up feeling my days in Quito were a bad dream that had no power to haunt me in this place so filled with sun and surrounded by a warm sea.

  English was the language most commonly heard in Panama, and it was there that my girls and I learned it. I was kept busy as a bookkeeper, and receiving Father’s clients. Many of the merchants who did business with his firm were Englishmen who spoke no Spanish. Father decided I should learn the language, and I was tutored every day in the late afternoon. My teacher was a humorless Englishman, so I insisted that Natán and Jonotás sit with me during the lessons.

  Before, I had only been happy for short periods—while on horseback in Catahuango; during the first few days with Fausto. In Panama I knew contentment for an extended period of time. On the isthmus, everything conspired to make me thrive. D’Elhuyar had at least allowed me to discover my body. When I walked down the street, the ripeness of my breasts, my unblemished skin, my full, smiling cerise lips and black eyes drove men crazy. Suitors started to appear regularly to ask for my hand in marriage, but there was no one who caught my fancy or met my father’s approval.

  We had been living in Panama for over a year, thinking that, before Father left with his family for Spain, I would have to marry one of the wealthy suitors he brought home, many of them European. As a Spaniard, my father had a rather low opinion of all criollos, except for his wife and children, of course.

  Then I met James Thorne. I didn’t even notice him at first. Father often gave dinner parties for his business associates. James was the owner of a fleet of cargo ships based in Lima. He had the confident and attractive manner of a man who had made his own fortune. James was a tall, and slender beanpole of a man, with large steely-blue eyes and ash-blond hair. He certainly wasn’t a hero out of my novels.

  It was not unusual for one of Father’s acquaintances to come to dinner more than once, especially if his stay in Panama was prolonged because merchandise was not ready, or ships needed repair, or the weather was bad for sailing, as it often was between December and March, when the strong and chilly trade winds made the sea roil with huge, furious waves that endangered many vessels. So when James Thorne became a frequent guest at the house, and I found him seated next to me at the dinner table, I never gave it a second thought. Certainly, I gave no indication that I was interested in him, except as someone with whom I could practice English and improve my pronunciation.

  James asked my father if I might accompany him to a ball at the British consulate. Father granted him permission, without consulting me, of course. James and I looked like father and daughter, but I humored him to please Father. I was interested in the people we might meet there, certainly not in being with James, a lap dog I could dismiss or summon at will.

  Thus I was flabbergasted when James Thorne asked my father for my hand in marriage, and even more flabbergasted when Father accepted and presented James with my dowry of eight thousand pesos. When I was informed of this transaction, I ran into my bedroom and locked the door. I cried and screamed and took scissors to the expensive dresses, fans, and shawls Father had lavished on me. I broke every glass object on my dressing table and swore that I would rather kill myself than consent to an arranged marriage to a man I did not love. I let Jonotás and Natán come in, and they spent hours picking up the mess my rage had made.

  For days I refused to emerge from my room, refused all food, and refused to open the door to let Father in. James came to call on me, but he ended up in Father’s office, where, I imagine, they discussed my situation. Two weeks went by in this way and I did not relent and see Father or “my intended.” My girls listened to my ravings, without trying to calm me. They knew that eventually, unless I ran away again, I would have no choice but to give in. I could not remain locked up inside those four walls the rest of my life—and even if I ran away, where would I go? And with what money? And how far would I get before I needed help? My hope was for Thorne to give up and sail back to Lima. He could not stay in Panama forever. But I misjudged James’s tenacity; he was ready to wait in Panama for as long as it took. It wouldn’t be the last time James surprised me.

  Weeks went by. Then one day Father came to my door, and though he was not the kind of man who was given to shouting, he did just that as he banged on the door. “Manuela, I have reached the limit of my patience. If you don’t open the door, I’ll have it torn down.” Father did not make idle threats. I made him wait by the door a few minutes before I let him in.

  Father sank wearily into an armchair and sighed. “You have made my life an ordeal,” he said.

  “Please, Papá, don’t make me marry against my wishes,” I pleaded, kneeling in front of him. “I want to be
able to love my husband. Please don’t make me enter a marriage that will make me unhappy for the rest of my life.”

  “Listen to me, hija,” he said, holding my chin in his hand and staring into my wet eyes. “You may not believe it, but I’ve arranged a wonderful future for you. Mr. Thorne is a man of quality; he’s rich, you’ll live like a queen in Lima, you’ll be received by the best society. He’s well liked by the viceroy, and you’ll be welcomed at court. Any girl in her right mind would give anything to have all that.”

  “I don’t care about those things, Papá. Those are your ideals, not mine. Why don’t you marry one of my sisters to James? I was not made for that kind of life.”

  “Manuela,” Father said sternly, “Mr. Thorne does not want to marry your sisters. He wants to marry you.”

  “But I don’t love him, Papá.”

  “What is this love, hija? Love,” he scoffed, “like in one of those stories in the silly novels you read? You loved D’Elhuyar—and look what happened! Let me tell you a story: When I married my wife I wasn’t in love with her. I chose her because I admired her moral qualities. With the passage of time, I have grown to love her, and I can say now that I have a most happy marriage.”

  How dare he compare me to my stepmother! “Father, I could never love James Thorne. I don’t care how wonderful he is. He’s not the kind of man I could ever admire, let alone love.”

  “It appears you don’t understand your situation, Manuela. In Quito society, your reputation has been ruined. Ruined.”

  “If that’s what worries you, I’ll stay here in Panama.”

  “And do what, Manuela? Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t stay here, an unmarried woman, when I go to Spain. Anyway, all that is beside the point. You don’t seem to understand that I have given my word to Mr. Thorne. Once I give my word, I never retract it. If you don’t marry him, I want you to know you will not be welcomed back in my house in Quito. Your stepmother and your siblings will not live under the same roof with you after you disgraced the name of our family.” He paused to let me absorb his words, then added, “If you’re thinking of going to live in Catahuango, I’ve been informed by the Aispurus that you’re not welcome there, either.”

  I got off my knees. “You hypocrite!” I exploded. “How dare you accuse me of dishonoring your family name? You seduced my mother even though she was a girl and you were a married man, and then you abandoned her. Yes, don’t make that face. You dishonored her name. Sir, if there is a hell, you will burn there forever.”

  “Don’t make me strike you, Manuela.”

  Anger blinded me. “I swear to you, if you strike me, if you…” The words caught in my throat. I wanted to say that I would kill him, but I could not. Our anger hung in the air between us.

  “I don’t like the turn this conversation has taken,” he said, rising abruptly. “I’m going to leave you alone to think things over. Please don’t lock your door again, because I will have it torn down. You will marry Mr. Thorne, and in years to come you’ll be grateful to me. And that’s the last word I’ll say on this subject.”

  He walked out of the room. I slammed the door after him.

  A FEW DAYS LATER, I informed my girls that one of the conditions to be met in marrying Thorne was that they would come to live with me in Lima. I resigned myself to my fate and began to look forward to moving to the City of the Kings, the greatest capital in South America, the city where it was said golden coaches traversed the streets.

  I had no idea then that this loveless arranged marriage would set me on the road to crossing paths with Simón Bolívar. Had I stayed in Panama, I would most likely have never known passion, or what it was to live for an ideal.

  Years later, in Paita, when Jonotás and I spent many evenings reminiscing, I admitted to her, “The truth is, Jonotás, I was relieved to marry James, just to get away from my family.” What I kept to myself was that I was never able to forgive Father for betraying me. I never would forgive him for pushing me into marriage with a man I could never love. Until his death, Father wrote to me from Spain with some regularity. I burned each letter without opening it, but not before cursing his name.

  8

  LIMA

  1817

  Lima was neither the exuberant, lush tropics, like Panama, nor the green, snowcapped Andes, like Quito. Sailing down the Peruvian coast, I saw a gray desert and a melancholy range of small mountains between it and the Andes. The colorless country looked eerily barren, uninhabited. The leaden stillness of the Pacific mirrored the monotonous desert, except when schools of flying fish broke its flat motionless surface, or when we ran into pods of sperm whales, shooting tall plumes of white spray.

  When our ship docked in the port of Callao and I breathed the scent of honeysuckle in the air, and I saw Lima’s many cupolas and minarets in the distance, reminding me of pictures I had seen of Arabian cities, I sensed the city might hold mysterious possibilities.

  As our coach passed through La Portada de Callao, one of the eleven gates of the adobe wall that surrounded Lima, I wanted to jump off the coach and immediately start exploring the streets and alleys of the city. The two pleasant years spent in Panama now felt merely a stopover on the way to the future. Something told me that Lima would be a defining place for me.

  Built on the left bank of the Rimac River, Lima’s green parks and public walks were like cool water on the eyes after the desolate coastline that spread for thousands of miles. The city’s cobblestone streets were crossed by shallow rivulets of clear water that ran from springs in the mountains and were lined with promenades shaded by poplars and weeping willows, where, late in the afternoons and on Sundays, people strolled or sat to take the breezes from the sierra and gossip on the stone benches. The Plaza de Armas was larger than any square I’d ever seen. In it was the imposing baroque cathedral, the Palace of the Archbishop, the grand Palace of Government, and any number of fashionable establishments patronized by women of means. I would soon learn that the homes of wealthy families, with their neo-baroque façades, were more palatial than any I had seen in Quito or Panama. Lima’s public buildings were imperial-looking, appropriate to the capital of a viceroyalty that at one point had spread from Guatemala to Tierra del Fuego.

  The city had a bullfighting ring visited by famous toreadors from Spain, and the Teatro de la Comedia, where zarzuelas and dramas played continuously, and where the legendary actress La Perricholi was queen. Its great University of San Marcos was the oldest in South America, and students from all over the continent came to attend it. Most thrilling of all—there was a bookstore, where I could buy the latest English and Spanish novels.

  I married James Thorne in the Church of San Sebastián in Lima. Though James had wanted to throw a lavish wedding, I insisted on a private ceremony. The excuse I gave James was that I was not religious and a religious ceremony would have felt like a farce to me. But the truth was I could not pretend the occasion gave me the slightest joy. My brother, who was stationed in Lima with the Royal Army, gave me away. Jonotás and Natán were also in attendance.

  My father’s prediction that by virtue of my marriage I would become a woman of consequence was correct. Whatever faults the Englishman had—his devotion to the Anglican Church, his prickly English reserve, his reactionary political views—he was magnanimous toward me. As a wedding present, James provided me with one of the finest coaches in the city. He had chosen one of Lima’s loveliest houses for us. Finely crafted furniture imported from England and France filled the rooms of the house, which was situated on the Calle del Progreso, near the home of the Marqués Torre Tagle. Marquises, counts, and other titled and august members of the Peruvian nobility were our neighbors. My house was staffed with many servants, and I had Jonotás and Natán as my personal maids.

  I was determined to get along with James and accommodate his wishes. I wanted to be a good wife. Most women who met James Thorne considered him attractive. Yet, when his ruddy, bony hands and his lukewarm and freckled milk-white skin made cont
act with mine, my body grew tense and cold. James seemed content with having me as his ornamental wife, parading me in public as the beautiful mistress of his house. Despite my indifference to him in bed, when he was emboldened by a few drinks after supper, he came into my bedroom and assumed that I must be eager to fulfill my wifely obligations. A crafty, ardent lover, he tried to awaken my passion with all the tricks he must have learned visiting the bordellos of the world. But when he touched me, I didn’t come close to feeling the thrill I had felt with Fausto.

  I stopped feeling guilty about my lack of passion when I discovered that James, as was the custom of married gentlemen in Lima, kept a mistress. With Jonotás’s help, who agreed to follow James one day, I learned she lived in a small farm on the outskirts of the city and that they had a daughter.

  Right from the beginning, there was tension in the house: we argued about my smoking. He had tolerated my love of tobacco in Panama, where many women smoked. As soon as we landed in Lima, he informed me he disapproved of his wife smoking cigars in public because limeñas of good breeding did not indulge in that dirty habit. I continued to enjoy my cigars at home when he wasn’t around.

  A more serious disagreement arose when I refused to accompany him to Sunday mass. The agony of my years with the Concepta had soured me once and for all on the subject of religion. I had no desire to become an observant Anglican. Finally, James accepted the fact that I was not going to relent, and he began to attend mass by himself. Yet the resentment was clear on his face each Sunday when he left for church, and did not lift for several hours after he returned.

  Lima’s tapadas were famous in South America—women never ventured out in public without a shawl covering their hair and faces, only one eye allowed to remain uncovered. Though I deplored this antediluvian custom, the city was the most exciting place I’d lived in.