D’Elhuyar had taught me put no credence in the words of men when it came to love. But I recognized that caution was hopeless. I would do anything to keep Bolívar interested in me.
IT WAS CONVENIENT that James’s business demanded frequent travel to other ports and other countries. During his absences, I spent the nights with Bolívar at La Casona. Often we would stay up until well past midnight, talking, dissecting the character of the men in his circle whose allegiance he was uncertain of. When James was in Lima, I became accomplished at creating plausible excuses to be away from the house all day so I could spend time with the general.
Daily, Jonotás and Natán went out to the market, the public plazas, the parks, and returned home with the rumors that went unreported in the newspapers. I instructed them to befriend the servants and slaves of those Bolívar did not trust to find out what they were saying about him. Providing him with useful information was a way of making myself indispensable. As Señora de Thorne I had come to know the most important families in Lima, and I understood a thing or two about limeños.
Despite the precautions I took, our love affair soon became common knowledge in Lima. As I became more confident of my place in the general’s affections, I grew more indifferent toward James. He never acknowledged the change in our relationship, perhaps hoping that I would eventually come to my senses. Our marriage became that of two barely civil strangers bound to each other by convention. James and I stopped dining together, and communicated mainly through the servants. When his business associates came to the house for dinner, I excused myself, pleading illness. Ultimately, I left my husband no option but to confront me.
One night I was getting ready to visit the general when James burst into my bedroom without knocking. “Is it true what people are saying about your intimacy with the general? Is it true, Manuela?”
He had never before raised his voice to me. I was amazed at how little I cared. “It’s true, James. The general and I are lovers.”
“Are you aware how you’re publicly humiliating me, Manuela? As your husband, I have the right to demand you stop seeing him at once,” he said, calmer, his voice barely above its normal register.
“My dear friend,” I replied in English, the language in which we sometimes communicated, “I don’t see His Excellency in order to hurt you. I see him because life without him is inconceivable to me. I’d rather die than not be with Bolívar.”
“Very well, then. If you persist in your insensate behavior, I’ll have to send you to your father’s house in Spain.”
I took a step toward him. “James, when I was a girl I was ordered around by my mother’s family, by the nuns, by my father. I am a woman now, and I will not take any orders from anyone. Not even from you, husband or not.” All the frustration of this enforced marriage was about to erupt.
“Many women accept marriage as another kind of slavery,” I said steadily. “I am not one of them. I am a free woman. You did buy me from my father once, but you cannot buy me from Bolívar. There’s not enough money in the world to buy me away from him.”
“If you think that Don Si-món Bo-lí-var is above the law, you’re mistaken, Manuela,” he said, scornfully enunciating the syllables of the Liberator’s name. “I can make a great deal of trouble for him. He will come to regret this foolish affair. Just because he liberated this nation from Spain doesn’t give him the right to claim the wives of the men of Peru.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, James. What can you do to harm the general? Hire an assassin? You’d never do anything that might jeopardize the status of your business. You seem to forget that Bolívar is the government. As for making you a public cuckold, so far, out of consideration for your position in the city, I’ve made every effort to be discreet. But if you persist in tormenting me, I will write a proclamation about my love for the general and paper the walls of Lima with it.” Sensing by his silence that I had gained the upper hand in the discussion, I added, “Please leave my room; I am preparing to see His Excellency.”
The Englishman stood frozen, his face red, his lips pressed into a thin line the color of ice, his clenched fists pressed against the side of his legs. I sat in front of the mirror and resumed brushing my hair. A few moments later James left, softly closing the door behind him.
JAMES BEGAN TO spend more time with his mistress. Why was it acceptable—indeed a badge of honor—for a man to have a lover, while it was forbidden to a woman?
No, I would not stop seeing Bolívar as long as he wanted to see me. I would not be forced out of my house, either, not until I was ready to leave it for good. After all, I came with a handsome dowry. Besides, I was still a valuable asset to James—I remained the heroine of Peruvian independence he could parade on his arm at society functions; the English-speaking hostess who could entertain his business associates.
WHAT I HAD been dreading finally happened. The Liberator marched off to create Bolivia, the new country that would complete his vision of Gran Colombia. This was another test of endurance for me, the second time he was leaving me behind. This time, however, Bolívar made sure I heard from him, if not in his own hand then in that of Santana, his secretary. No word came from him, though, about when he might return.
Everything in my luxurious home reflected the Liberator’s absence and my loveless marriage. The rooms with high ceilings and many-paned windows where I displayed beautiful objects from all over the world became oppressive and stifling; the tiled corridors as glacial as the wind of the highlands; my bedroom a gold cage where I was indentured to the Englishman.
I spent many hours of the day reading Spanish love poetry. I memorized verses of Francisco de Quevedo, his definition of love: “It’s an embracing ice, a cold fire…it’s a coward with a hero’s courage, it’s walking lonely in a crowd…” In a rocking chair in the library I read love poems aloud, until I was hoarse. Other nights I locked myself with my girls in my bedroom and we drank wine and sang sad romantic ballads, until I fell into a stupor.
Only Rosita could understand my predicament. Though Bolívar and San Martín had not parted as friends after their meeting in Quito, Rosita and I shared the deep bond of being in love with the men who had given Peru its independence. It had been over a year since San Martín had left for Europe with a promise that he would send for Rosita. But even after San Martín’s wife died, he had not asked Rosita to join him. She lived in an apartment on the top floor of the National Library, spurned by her family and by society for her affair with a married man. Thorne considered Rosita a ruined woman and forbade me to invite her into our home. So I met with her elsewhere.
One morning we rode in my coach to the seashore, to picnic on the esplanade that overlooked the ocean. After our luncheon, Rosita and I strolled along the esplanade, the vast grayness of the still Pacific beside us. Our black lace mantillas were draped over our shoulders. We had uncovered our heads because there were no other people on the promenade. We were both so alike: our Quito past, the convent, our illegitimacy, our looks, though Rosita had a darker complexion—her features betrayed a distant African ancestry—and now we shared the pain of absent lovers.
“Before I met Bolívar, I could bear living with the Englishman. Now he’s repulsive to me, Rosita. With every passing day, I blame my father more for my unhappiness.”
“I don’t like to see you sad,” Rosita said, regarding me with affection.
From where we stood, we could see a whaling vessel entering the Port of Callao, flying the American flag. Hundreds of feet below us, flocks of shrieking seabirds fed off the still waters.
“At least you will have your own money when you sell your hacienda,” Rosita said. “You can survive without Thorne.”
Of course what she meant to say was; “If Bolívar ever tires of you, you won’t be destitute like me.”
“True. Someday I’ll be a rich woman, if my aunt doesn’t outlive me. When I sell Catahuango, you can come live with me. We’ll open a hat shop. And on the side a little candy story. We’ll make t
he most delicious sweets in the Andes.”
She laughed. “Knowing you, Manuela, you’ll eat every sweet before the first customer comes. But if San Martín doesn’t send for me, I like the idea.”
“Of course he will send for you,” I said with conviction, to reassure her. Rosita so desperately wanted to join him in England.
“It’s been over a year since he became a widower, Manuela. I thought once he settled in Europe he’d send for me. Don’t feel too sorry for me, though. Even if I never see San Martín again, I don’t regret—have never regretted—having been his mistress. To welcome him to a liberated Lima, in that intoxicating period after the defeat of the Spaniards—my life was glorious. Even if I’ve lost the support of my family and my place in society, it was worth it for those fourteen months of glory.”
I took Rosita by the arm and we walked back toward my coach. When the driver held my hand to help me climb inside, I turned around to look at the pallid sky over the ashen ocean and thought, “Rosita’s past could be my own future.”
As we approached the National Library, I reached for Rosita’s silk purse, untied it and poured into it all the gold coins in my own purse. I retied the ribbons of her purse and placed it in her lap. She leaned her head on my shoulder. “I was a woman who once had my own carriage,” she said. “Now I live on the charity of my friends.”
“Rosita, don’t think of my help as charity. You’re the sister I wish I’d had. Whatever I have is ours.”
The coachman stopped in front of the steps of the National Library. We embraced and kissed. As the driver opened the door, Rosita covered her head and face with her mantilla, leaving one eye exposed, in which I read fear, the fear of a woman who saw a bleak future ahead of her.
BOLÍVAR RETURNED IN triumph from Bolivia. One evening, wanting to see him, I had my horse saddled and rode the city’s unlit streets to La Casona. I had not sent word ahead, and I sensed by the awkwardness of the guards at the door, that perhaps I had come at an inconvenient moment. I hurried past them, shoved the sentry posted at the general’s door out of my way, and entered his bedroom.
Bolívar and a woman were naked in bed. The woman hid her face in a pillow.
“Manuela! Please wait outside,” Bolívar yelled, as he scrambled to get out of bed.
I dashed toward the woman, whom I recognized as Doña Teresa de Herrera y Alba, a high-born limeña prominent in her devotion to the Catholic Church. She had made a point of snubbing me in society since I had become Bolívar’s lover.
“Hypocritical whore,” I lashed out at her, striking her back with my riding crop. “You whisper behind my back for doing openly what you do in secret!”
Doña Teresa covered herself with the bed linens, screaming hysterically. Bolívar tried to restrain my punishing arm. I pushed him away, scratching his cheek. “Traitor,” I shouted at him. “I see I’m no more to you than another whore. A free ride to satisfy your insatiable lechery. That’s all I am to you.”
Doña Teresa grabbed her garments and shoes and fled the room.
Bolívar let go of my arm and sat down, blood trickling down his cheek. The sight of his blood made me pause. I took a towel and dipped it in the jar of water on the nightstand and handed it to him. He sat in silence, his face covered by the towel.
I did not regret what I had done—his betrayal was crushing. I had risked so much for a man who treated me as another spoil of war. He was no better than Fausto D’Elhuyar. I headed for the door.
Bolívar removed the towel from his face and said, “Manuela, please close the door. Come here and hold the towel until the bleeding stops.”
LATER THAT SAME NIGHT Bolívar asked me to leave the Englishman and move into La Casona. I decided to end my marriage in order to save my life. Married to Thorne I had almost been buried alive in a life of shallow concerns. My involvement in the revolution had given me a chance to play a part in the creation of history. I would pay any price to help the Liberator solidify his dream of a Gran Colombia. If Bolívar loved me only while he was in Lima, I would return his love without thinking of the consequences. I consoled myself with the thought that just to have his love for now was more than most women could ever hope to have.
THUS BEGAN THE DAYS of our greatest passion. Never again would we know the luxury of so much time together, nor would Bolívar ever again be so healthy and vigorous. Finally, I gave myself to him as I could not before. I let him possess me in many new ways, the way he preferred, with me on my hands and knees and him exploding in me from behind. We did not tire of each other in bed. We would postpone that moment when we became fully satisfied, eager to explore our limits as lovers. I walked about during the day feeling sore between my legs. I bore the discomfort proudly. Those nights contained the happiest moments of my life. It was then that I came to realize that the body and the soul were one single entity, that true love could only be experienced in the body if it resided first in the heart. D’Elhuyar and the Englishman had created a frozen place in my heart for men. I only allowed Bolívar to know me in my deepest intimacy when I saw him sacrifice something for me. During those days of sexual exaltation at La Casona, I came into my own as a woman, I became Manuela Sáenz, and I felt the glory and the beauty of being this woman. It had nothing to do with the fact that I had become Bolívar’s official mistress, that all of Peru knew I had moved into La Casona, with my girls, to be the lady of the house. Instead, I was the most powerful woman in Peru, because no other woman was loved with more intensity. Later there would be other happy days, but these would be intermittent. At La Casona it never occurred to me our happiness would one day come to an end.
THERE WAS ONLY one last step to be taken before I freed myself from my past—my unfinished business with James Thorne. One day when I got word he was traveling on business, I went back to his house for the very last time, to collect the valuables that were mine.
The Englishman had lavished upon me all the accoutrements of rich limeñas. My bedroom overflowed with riches. Gold opera glasses from Cuzco, silver brushes and combs from Potosí, pearls from Japan and Panama, emerald necklaces from Muzo, watches set with rubies and pearls, gold and mother-of-pearl vanity cases encrusted with diamonds and emeralds; fans made of feathers from exotic and rare birds; handbags embroidered in gold and silver; Chinese silk gloves; a gold cigar case, my initials inscribed in diamonds; ivory cigar holders; an emerald and diamond tiara boasting stones fit for a vicereine.
Each ring, necklace, brooch, or bracelet had a story—a birthday, an anniversary. There was no question that I would take the pieces I had inherited from my mother. As for James’s gifts, my father had provided him with a lavish dowry, so I had no qualms about taking back what rightly belonged to me.
I knew at that moment I might well be saying good-bye to my life of privilege and wealth. The mistress of el Libertador would lack for nothing, that was so. Yet leaving Thorne for a future of uncertainty was a gamble. But there was no going back to feeling dead in my body and soul. All my life I had enjoyed riches and felt dissatisfied, empty. Simón Bolívar made me the free woman I had always wanted to be. If there were consequences to be paid for my rashness, so be it.
14
Natán
I was happy to be back in Lima. For the first time since I could remember I had a life that was my own, not Manuela’s. Before we left for Quito, I had fallen in love with a freed slave named Mariano who wanted to marry me. We had met in the market. One day I passed by his stand where he sold nails, hammers, saws, knives. He had just looked up after receiving money from a customer and our eyes caught each other’s, both of us surprised. I had been attracted to other men before and a few had even proposed marriage, but I was determined to wait until a man I wanted came along. When our eyes met I blushed and kept walking. “Hey, pretty lady,” I heard behind my back. I knew it was him calling me. I turned around. “Did you say something?”
“You have a name?”
“Silly Negro,” I said, taking a good look at him. He was da
rk-skinned, rather on the short side, with a little round belly and huge hands. “Of course I have a name. Why? You don’t?”
“My name’s Mariano,” he said, leaning on the counter of his stand. “What’s yours? Come and talk to me.”
“I don’t go around telling my name to just any man who speaks to me,” I said. “And I have better things to do than talk to you. I have work to do.” As I walked away, swaying my hips, I heard him say, “I know you’ll be coming back, mystery woman. I’ll be waiting for you tomorrow.”
Usually, such forwardness would have put me off. But there was something about this Mariano. The mischievous sparkle in his eyes attracted me. I like men who make me laugh. Funny men are always intelligent. And I was thirty years old. If I waited much longer to get married, I might never have a family—my most cherished dream.
The next day, even though there was no need for me to go to the market, I strolled by Mariano’s stand with my shopping basket. When he saw me he greeted me again with “pretty lady,” displaying two rows of strong teeth. I didn’t smile back. “Do you have this kind of nail?” I said, pulling a nail from my basket.
Instead of taking the nail, Mariano touched my wrist. “I knew I’d see you today,” he said. “You’re just the prettiest thing since they invented silk.”
I didn’t pull my wrist away. “You insolent Negro!” I said, putting on a serious face. “Do you have this kind of nail or not? Because if you don’t…”
Mariano took the nail from my hand, and then took my hand in his and planted his lips on it. And that was that. I had never met a Negro with that kind of confidence.
FROM THAT DAY ON, not a day passed that I did not find an excuse to go to the market. I kept our romance a secret, even from Jonotás. The idea began to form that I should ask Manuela for my freedom. Mariano said he wanted to marry me. “Natán, tell your mistress I’m ready to buy your freedom, if that’s what it takes.”
Our Lives Are the Rivers Page 12
