Our Lives Are the Rivers

by Jaime Manrique

  From Quito, it was half a day’s journey by horse to Catahuango. My girls and I were on the main road of the Avenue of the Volcanoes as the sun began to rise. I spurred my horse and put some distance between myself and them. By mid-morning the volcanoes were in plain view, save for the peaks of the highest ones, which were swathed in a white shroud. In the distance, to the left, towered the massive Cotopaxi, its plume of smoke sinister in the morning light. Between the top of Cotopaxi and the flawless cerulean sky there was not a cloud, nothing but blue.

  I rode on a prairie flanked by fique plants, their stems crowned with yellow flowers as tall as the weeping willows. The willows were all bent by the wind that blew in the direction of Quito. We passed Indians carrying their wares to the city, the red-skirted, black-hatted women with their babies on their backs. The men wore white pants, short purple ponchos, and white hats.

  The sun was high in the sky, its white light almost blinding, when we left the main road and entered a lane of black volcanic soil flanked by purple wildflowers. This camino led to the family house. We passed low huts made of straw and mud where the field hands lived. From the orchards of pear and peach trees came the songs of blackbirds and mourning doves. Memories flooded my mind of the time I was old enough to ride horses far from the house and the three of us began to explore on horseback Catahuango’s woods of cedar and palm, its apple and peach orchards, its lush meadows where cattle and sheep grazed, and the fields of lustrous obsidian soil, crossed by transparent streams, planted with corn, wheat, sweet-peas, barley, potatoes, scallions, and arracachas. Despite the stories we’d heard of the pumas that came down from the mountains to kill livestock, and sometimes people, I could not resist riding to the foothills of the mountains to look for herds of the enchanting but haughty llamas. On clear days, it was possible to spot in the ridges of the cordilleras timid vicuña families, and, lording it above them—and this was the greatest thrill of all—the majestic condors, their shadows gliding across the landscape.

  My aunt and grandmother always protested loudly against my excursions. One afternoon I returned from one of my forays on the hacienda perspiring profusely, my dress splashed with mud. “Manuela,” Aunt Ignacia said when she saw the state I was in, and the condition of Jonotás and Natán, “riding the way you do is not proper conduct for a young lady from a good family. If you persist in behaving like a boy, I’m going to forbid those black wenches to accompany you. I’m tired of their arrogance. They only take orders from you. One of these days I’m going to punish them, and maybe that will put some sense in their heads.”

  How I despised Ignacia when she insulted my girls. Jonotás and Natán were my sisters, the only people I loved in the world.

  “I forbid you to raise a hand to them,” I replied. “Do I have to remind you once again that Mother left them to me? They are not your property.”

  “I warn you, Manuela,” Ignacia went on, “no man in his right mind is going to marry a girl who runs around with Negroes and behaves like an Amazon. At least no decent man I know of.”

  “I will never get married. I will take many lovers, but never a husband,” I said, delighting in her scandalized expression. I grabbed the girls by their hands and ran from the room, laughing.

  My relatives, both male and female, would cross themselves at such displays. Surely they prayed I would not grow up to embarrass them like my late mother. My aunt and uncle threatened to take away my riding privileges, but I scoffed at their threats. I would return from my rides smelly, ravenous, sunburned. It was so exhilarating to race the horses in the invigorating thin mountain air and see the wild animals that it would take me hours to calm down. I would stay up until late at night with Jonotás and Natán, planning the day when we would live under the same roof, far from my mother’s hideous family. Sitting in bed together, we exchanged stories. I would tell them about convent school and what I learned there, about the other girls, their pettiness and silly concerns, and about the cruel nuns who were my teachers. The girls, in turn, would tell me what happened at the farm while I was away at school. I read to them from history books and taught them to read and write.

  When Aunt Ignacia discovered me giving lessons to my girls, she of course disapproved. But my grandmother said one night at dinner, “You shouldn’t object to Manuela teaching her slaves. Giving lessons is the first ladylike thing I’ve ever seen her do. Leave her alone. Maybe she will become a nun and teach at a convent in Quito.”

  “That would be a great miracle indeed. There is a better chance of all the volcanoes in Ecuador becoming inactive than of Manuela becoming a nun,” Ignacia sneered, as if I were not there. “I just hope you’re right, Mamá, and we don’t live to regret the day those Negro wenches learned to read and write.”

  I wanted to grab my aunt by the neck and push her ugly face in my bowl of steaming soup.

  IN GIRLHOOD, I was only happy on my horse, roaming the land. When the weather was warm and sunny, my girls and I would tie our horses to the blackberry briers, undress, and bathe in the pools of diaphanous water created by the mountain streams. Afterward, we would dry each other off with our baby alpaca ponchos, spread them on the grass, and lay down naked to let the sun dry our hair. Often, we played my favorite game. We improvised makeshift swords and imagined ourselves to be soldiers in the revolutionary armies. Then we attacked the trees with our swords and hacked at them, pretending they were Spanish soldiers we were beheading. No one ever saw us enacting our battles in which we cavorted naked, else my family would have put a permanent end to my jaunts.

  At dinner one night I refused to pray before starting the meal. When my grandmother chastised me, I reminded my relatives I was an atheist.

  My grandmother crossed herself. “People were burnt by the Inquisition for saying less than that, Manuela.”

  “When South America is free of the Spanish Crown,” I said, “we will give all the priests and nuns a taste of their own medicine and burn them at the stake.”

  “Manuela, hija,” my grandmother said, “who puts these ideas in your head? In our family we don’t talk like that. It must be those Negro witches you’re always with. You had better come down from that cloud before you hurt yourself. Insolent women like you end up badly.”

  “I thought it was women who knew Greek who ended up badly,” I said, reaching for the tray of roasted corn.

  I WAS SMILING at the recollection of these scenes when we passed through the gates that led to the main house. A man I did not recognize, leading a burro loaded with potato sacks, approached us. I stopped him. “Good morning,” I said. “Does the señor know if Doña Ignacia is at home?” I asked.

  “Sí, señora, she is,” the man said, his gaze full of curiosity to find out who was this lady accompanied by two Negro women wearing turbans.

  Streams coursed through the eucalyptus groves, their scent filling my lungs. Sheep, donkeys, and llamas grazed in the corrals. Although many painful memories resided here, I could not deny the enchantment of the place. The land was greener than anywhere I had ever been, and the sky above the volcanoes in the distance, their snowcapped summits gleaming in the sun, was bluer than the purest aquamarine.

  Barking dogs rushed to meet us as we drew near the house. The handsome building looked well kept, but it was cloaked in an aura of sorrow. Not until Estelita, the Indian cook, appeared on the front porch in her apron, to call the dogs, did I stop feeling like a stranger.

  “La niña Manuela is home,” Estelita cried and hurried down the steps to greet us as fast as her old limbs allowed. We dismounted and exchanged embraces with her.

  Leaving the girls behind to chat with Estelita, I walked up to the house. The dogs had alerted Aunt Ignacia to our arrival. She appeared on the front porch, clothed in black, as if she were mourning not her loved ones but her ever having been born. Ignacia didn’t seem to have aged so much as to have withered, dried up, like a stalk of corn left unpicked at the end of the harvest.

  “Welcome, Manuela,” she said and offered
a wrinkled cheek for me to kiss. The glacial tone of her greeting told me I was anything but welcome. Still, Catahuango was my property and I would not allow my aunt’s coldness to make me feel as if it had been a mistake to make the journey.

  “Thank you, Tía,” I said. The affectionate epithet left a sour taste in my mouth.

  “I hope you are planning to stay for a while.”

  “I just came for the day with Natán and Jonotás.” She could not disguise her wince at my mention of the girls’ names. “I’d like to spend a few hours on the farm before I return to Quito this afternoon.”

  “It’s your house, Manuela,” Ignacia said. “You can stay here for as long as you like. You must be tired after such a long ride. Would you like to join me for refreshments?”

  We entered the gloomy drawing room, as cold as a mausoleum, to wait for the chocolate to be served. Nothing seemed to have changed since my last visit. All my fond memories of Catahuango were of the outdoors; the dark interior of the house had always made me feel ill at ease.

  While we waited for the servant to bring our food, I made no mention of my unanswered letters, and Ignacia asked not one question about my life. She behaved as if she had last seen me just the day before. I wondered if news had reached her at the farm of my intimacy with the Liberator. To break the awkwardness created by her silence, I said, “You look well, Tía.”

  “I’m as healthy as I can hope to be at my age,” she replied with a finality that closed the door on that subject.

  When I asked about the old servants, Ignacia said dryly, “They either died or left Catahuango. Only Estelita remains.”

  I waited, as was the custom in Ecuador, until the chocolate, pastries with blackberry jelly, guava paste, and cheese were served. Then I broached the reason for my visit.

  “Tía, I’m in Quito for only a short time. I don’t know when I’ll return to Ecuador again.” My aunt’s impassive stare did not indicate the least interest in my present or future life, so I continued. “There was a time when I thought I might end up living in Catahuango, but that seems unlikely now. What do you think about selling the farm? I’ll give you half the proceeds, and you can move to Quito, where you could live comfortably and be closer to other people.”

  “If that’s the reason for your visit, you’ve wasted your time coming here, Manuela.”

  I had promised myself that no matter how unpleasant she was toward me, I would not lose my temper. By law I was supposed to receive dividends from the farm upon coming of age. It had been years since I had received a cent. Was it possible the harvests had failed year after year, that the herds of livestock had been decimated by disease? Or could it be that my aunt’s overseers were cheating her? What was the situation? “If Catahuango is no longer profitable, why not sell it before it’s too late?” I said.

  Ignacia straightened her back and wrang her hands. The thick, knotted veins in her neck looked alarmingly taut, as if they might burst. “Manuela, I will never sell Catahuango as long as I live. You will never see a cent from it until after I am dead. And if you persist in trying to gain control of the hacienda, I am prepared to declare in court that you are not my sister’s daughter.” As if to drive a stiletto in my heart, she added, “May I remind you that on your birth certificate, the identity of your parents was marked as ‘unknown.’ Furthermore, I swore to myself when you ran away with that lieutenant that I would only leave the land upon my death.”

  Though I did not respond to her insults she had more to say. “You and your so-called revolutionary compadres are responsible for ruining all the haciendas around here. Before all this rubbish about independence, the decent families worked hard and made an honest living. But these ridiculous wars have ruined the countryside, and all trade. Every time a battle is fought nearby, the soldiers requisition our grain, and our animals are slaughtered to feed them. You and your kind are responsible for ruining this land your mother left you. Ecuador was the armpit of the universe when the Spaniards ran it; but now that it’s run by half-breeds and Indians, it will never, ever become a civilized nation—ever. Nothing good has come out of your so-called war of independence, and it never will. Mark my words. These mongrel nations of Indians and Negroes and mulattos will never amount to anything.”

  “Aunt Ignacia, please,” I said. “I ask you to respect my beliefs. I didn’t come here to be insulted.”

  “I always knew you would come to no good, Manuela,” Ignacia continued, her voice rising. “From the day of your bastard birth, you have brought nothing but shame to our family. Look at you, look at what you’ve become—a woman of the streets, servicing generals. Thank God my mother died before she could see you become an army whore.” She rose, indicating our visit was over. “I will repeat it in case you didn’t hear me—until the day I die, you will not see a cent from Catahuango. Until the day I die, I will damn you. And even after I’m dead, I’ll continue damning you for the shame you and your mother have brought to the Aispuru name.”

  I, too, rose to my feet, my knees shaking. Although Ignacia was old and feeble—and I had been taught to respect my elders—I could not control myself. I unleashed my open palm on Ignacia’s cheeks once, twice, three times until she collapsed on her chair, a heap of seething hatred. I ran away from the room, knocking vases and bric-a-brac from their stands and tables in my desperation to get away from her.

  13

  1823

  I returned to Lima hoping I would become Bolívar’s official mistress. Bolívar ruled without any significant opposition in Gran Colombia and was still loved by the people he had freed from Spain. Never again would the Liberator be so honored and respected as he was at that moment.

  An emissary of the general met me in the Port of Callao with instructions that I should proceed directly to my house, that Bolívar would contact me later. This cool reception was unexpected, and I had no choice but to return to playing the role of Señora de Thorne.

  James received me as if he were not aware of my romance with Bolívar in Quito. He seemed delighted to have me back in Lima. The time was not propitious for a confrontation. I myself was not sure what role, if any, I would play in Bolívar’s current life. So I spoke to James only about how Ignacia had refused to relinquish her control of Catahuango.

  “I’m sorry you had to make such a long trip for nothing, Manuela,” he said. “I’m happy to see you home again, my dear. I’ll make sure from now on you get a larger household allowance, to make up for your aunt’s selfishness.” Then he presented me with the dresses and jewels he had bought for me while I was away. I feigned pleasure as I unwrapped his expensive gifts.

  THE WORD IN Lima was that Bolívar was planning to move from the Palace of the Viceroy into La Casona, which had been the viceroy’s country house and was located in the nearby town of La Magdalena. As the days went by, with still no sign from him, my anger grew. One morning after James had left the house, a messenger arrived with an unsigned note that said, “Come to La Casona this afternoon.”

  Accompanied by Jonotás and Natán, I traveled by coach to the general’s new home. Three months had gone by since Bolívar and I had parted. My hopes about us had survived, fed largely by my imagination and the few little gestures he had made in my direction. I had no idea what to expect from this meeting.

  I was led directly to his office, where I found him pondering papers on his massive desk. His aide-de-camp closed the door and left us alone. In his presence all I wanted to do was run across the room and throw myself into his arms, but I stood still.

  “Manuelita,” he said, getting up from his chair and rushing toward me, smiling, “thank you for coming to see me.”

  I extended my hand. Bolívar took it, kissed it, and then put his arms around my waist and pulled me toward him. He kissed me on the lips, but I did not part mine to receive his kiss. I could not control my tears. I turned away—not wanting him to see me like this.

  “Why are you crying, Manuelita?” he said quietly. “Aren’t you happy we are together a
gain?”

  I pressed my open hands on his chest and backed away from his embrace. “Of course I’m happy to see Your Excellency again. It’s just that…” My words trailed off. I did not want to explode with ire at the careless manner in which he had treated me. I sat down on a chair, opened my purse, pulled out a lace handkerchief James had brought me from Chile, and dabbed my cheeks. Next I pulled out a cigar and lit it. He had allowed me to smoke in his presence in Quito. I wondered if he would allow it now. My hand shook. The general sat on the chair opposite mine and regarded me tenderly. “I know I haven’t been the most attentive lover, Manuelita,” he said, “but you have never been out of my thoughts all this time.”

  “May I remind Your Excellency that I am not a mind reader,” I said, not caring if I sounded too harsh. “If you had taken a few moments to write me a note since I arrived in Lima, or to dictate one to your secretaries, that would have been sufficient.”

  “Manuelita, I moved out of the palace so we might have privacy. If you came to see me there, the scandal would be too great. Here, if we are discreet, we can meet without creating an uproar.”

  I kept on smoking my cigar, staring at the ceiling.

  “Manuelita,” he said softly, “I’m no different from other men: I long for the intimacy and comfort of the woman I love in my bed. More than that, it is clear to me that you’re not just another woman passing through my life. Until I met you, Manuelita, I had never met a woman who could satisfy me in so many ways.”