Our Lives Are the Rivers

by Jaime Manrique

  For months, I had dreamed of making love to him again. Yet tonight Bolívar did not seem anxious to become amorous despite his passionate greeting when I had arrived. El Libertador was far away. Finally I discovered the reason for his remoteness: he was obsessed with an upcoming convention in the town of Ocaña, near the border with Venezuela. I begged him to tell me about the event.

  “Manuelita,” he said, “our future depends on the outcome of Ocaña. I am convinced that if the new constitution my enemies propose is accepted and Gran Colombia is broken up into several countries, it will be catastrophic. The great majority of our people, as you know, are illiterate; they need a strong central government. Otherwise, anarchy and endless civil wars that will last for hundreds of years will be the future of these nations.” As he spoke these words, his eyes shone, staring at something that was not in the room, perhaps not even in this world. “One thing I know for sure is that my enemies will oppose any position I take.” He paused. “What they want most of all is to crush me. They care more about defeating me personally than about the future of the country.”

  I reached for his hand and held it tightly. He had worked for this all his life. “How can these men be so shortsighted?” I said, becoming angry.

  “Manuelita, mi cielo, you have no idea how tired I am of dealing with them. The two main characteristics of the Colombians are their hubris and their disloyalty. This is a nation of uncivilized Indians. I finally understand why San Martín went to Europe and stayed there. But I have to make an effort to go to Ocaña. I’m not quite ready to give up.”

  I had just arrived, had not yet spent a night with him, and already he was talking about leaving me again. “I’ll be happy to go with you to Ocaña,” I said. “You need a comfortable bed to sleep in, clean linen, good meals. Also,” I said cautiously, loathe to bring up the subject, “you’ll be more vulnerable to your enemies when you’re away, no matter how well protected you are. Besides,” I added, unable to hold back, “when you left me in Lima you said you would return shortly. Well, two years went by before I saw you again.”

  Bolívar stiffened. Even if I risked alienating him, I had to give voice to the thoughts that had tortured me for two long years. This was not how I had imagined our first night back together. I wanted it to be romantic, not full of recriminations.

  “It’s not a good idea for you to come along, Manuelita,” he said, shaking his head. “Vice-president Santander will use your presence in Ocaña against me with the undecided delegates. He’s the one who instigates all this resentment. I know he’s plotting against me. But I cannot remain in Bogotá because I’m afraid, damn it. What sort of a leader would I be if I let fear dictate my actions? A military leader must be fearless,” he said, his voice rising. “Santander and his followers tell the people I want to become king. And the people believe them. I’ve fought all my life against the Spanish monarchy—isn’t that proof enough that I would never seek such a title?”

  “Of course it is,” I said, gripping his hand once more.

  Agitated, Bolívar continued, “I tell you, Manuelita, it wounds me that Colombians idolize Santander because he’s drafted tomes of Byzantine laws, while they mock and ridicule me, who fought for their freedom and spilled my blood for them.”

  “Colombians prefer the mediocre dream of being citizens of an insignificant country over the worthy dream of being a mighty nation,” I said, looking for a way to make him feel better. “It’s the destiny of great leaders to be misunderstood. All I have to do is open any page of Plutarch to see that.” He never tired of reading Parallel Lives. On so many nights at La Casona in Lima, during the time of our greatest happiness, he’d asked me to read Plutarch to him before he went to sleep. “Colombians cannot understand your greatness, my general,” I continued. “Instead, they understand Santander because he’s small and insignificant, like their own vision.” I was so furious my hands were trembling. Though I had never met Santander, for years I had despised Colombia’s vice-president. In the time I’d known Bolívar, most of his unhappiness had been caused by the actions of this man. Santander’s power over Bolívar was great because he controlled the public funds of Colombia and could withhold them, and often did, when Bolívar was in the middle of a military campaign. “If I ever get close enough to that coward, I’ll put my hands to his throat and strangle him.”

  It was the first time I had seen the general smile since my arrival.

  “Manuelita,” he said, “don’t let anybody catch you talking like that. Besides, Colombians are not the only people who misunderstand me. Or the only ingrates. My Venezuelan compatriots don’t like me, either. As for Santander, we have to respect him for his service to Colombia. His actions are misguided, but he believes he’s working for the good of the people.” He paused, searching for a way to explain it to me. “The tragedy is that the inflated code of laws he’s written will create a nightmarish bureaucracy that will be the ruin of our nation—we’ll never be able to shake it off. These nations are not ready for democracy, Manuelita. Santander forgets our people need to learn to read and write first, before they can think for themselves. This country is not the United States. Their model will not work for us.”

  He sipped his champagne, and then, without warning, threw the crystal glass in the fireplace, where it exploded into tiny shards. My hands flew to cover my eyes. I shivered, but Bolívar barely took notice. His mood was even bleaker. “I may not have much longer to live,” he said, his voice becoming hoarse. Holding my gaze, he added, “I can’t stop thinking for a minute about that damned convention. Trust me, Manuelita, I’d rather die than live to see my legacy, the ideal of a united Gran Colombia, repudiated.”

  I searched for words to assuage his pessimism but found none.

  Bolívar convulsed into a fit of coughing. He was spitting blood in his handkerchief. I started to get up from my chair to call for help, but he motioned me to stay where I was.

  It was not just his graying hair that made him look older. Now I could see unmistakable signs of advanced tuberculosis imprinted on his features. When a log flared in the fireplace, his prominent cheekbones and sunken cheeks made him appear almost mummified.

  In the past I had been forced to share the Liberator with other women, with his military campaigns, with his status as the most powerful man in the Andes. Now my rivals had metamorphosed into something more elusive and insidious. It was an abstraction, an idea, the uncertainty of his political future, the limited amount of time he might have left to live.

  “Come, amorcito,” I said, hoping to break the tension. “Shall we continue our conversation tomorrow? You need to rest; and I hurt all over after months on a horse. My behind is crying out for a good soft mattress. You should not worry about anything tonight—this is our reunion. You are no longer alone. I’m going to take excellent care of you. Tonight I need a little heat to take the chill out of my bones.”

  Later, when I blew out the flame of the candle, Bolívar turned to face me, embraced me, kissed my chin, rested his cheek on my breasts, and instantly fell asleep. My voracious lover had become a nursing child. At rest, the skin of his face had the unhealthy sheen of parchment. Listening to his labored breathing, I was glad I’d come to him before it was too late.

  I WAS AWAKENED by rushing waters calling me in the air like fresh-winged voices. A song of water, a susurration of the streams that hastened from Monserrate, filled Bolívar’s bedroom. He was still asleep, facing the wall. If I closed my eyes and listened, I could imagine we were on a boat, sailing down a swift-moving river.

  Through the interstices of the door and windows, slivers of gray light filtered into the bedroom. Quietly I got up, combed back my hair, and drank a glass of water. The cold water soothed my throat, still parched from the dust of the road. I wrapped myself in a ruana and in my slippers left on tiptoe, closing the door behind me.

  I sat on the low wall facing the patio, where noises reached me from the kitchen; the servants were already at work. The aroma of boilin
g chocolate and roasting arepas wafted in the morning chill. Right behind the house loomed Monserrate, a gigantic swollen breast, draped in verdant forest all the way to its summit, crowned by a chapel. The rising sun spread like a fan of golden light behind it. This house was so much more welcoming than La Casona, a severe building with high ceilings and a garden that was no more than a rectangle of dirt sprinkled with patches of grass and a few anemic-looking rosebushes. Soon after I moved into La Casona, I suggested to Bolívar that we plant a fig tree as a symbol of our union, but also as the start of a real garden. La Quinta was intimate. Surrounded by gardens, it was a walled-in country home, secluded yet just outside the city.

  The gardens had been cloaked in darkness when I arrived the night before, now I saw the beds of multicolored carnations that encircled the house. A veil of morning dew covered every tree, plant, and flower, and a frosty fog rose from the ground. Birds serenaded the new morning. I recognized the plaintive coo of the mourning doves; the rest of the birds’ calls were new to me.

  I stepped on a path made of what looked like fossils and pebbles. The garden was as compact as a forest, every inch of soil supporting vegetable life. Wild flowering plants sprang up untamed. From the heights of Monserrate streams ran down through the garden, where wooden bridges arched over translucent brooks. New paths opened in every direction, taking capricious turns through the terrain so that it was impossible to see where they led.

  Tall walnuts, cedars, oaks, cypresses, cherries, and pines, their trunks and branches decorated with green moss, attested to the age of this garden. Hummingbirds were already feeding from flowering caper bushes, red camellias, purple and lavender fuchsia. The hummingbirds seemed unafraid of me, as if they knew they had no enemies in this garden. Orchids, of many colors and shapes, nestled in the branches and trunks of the trees. Papayuelos laden with ripe yellow fruit, and borracheros, with big bell-shaped ivory flowers, also grew in the garden. On my trip over the Andes, the Indian porters had pointed out the small trees growing on the side of the roads, explaining that these flowers could be used to put a person in a trance or, if too much of the flower was used, to poison them. The flower was also taken by Indian priests for special rituals.

  I took a narrow uphill trail lined with hedges of wild roses and purple and white chrysanthemums. The vines of the curuba fruit wove a tangled canopy overhead, hiding the sky. At the top of the path, sheltered by tall walls, was a secluded pool fed by a stream. The walls encircling the pool were lined with lime-colored ferns.

  From the hill I saw the city below. To the west, in the distance, the endless savanna was a placid green sea. To the south rose the red-tile roofs of the houses of Bogotá, over which towered the high steeples of the churches. I was horrified to see so many churches. I hoped Santa Fe de Bogotá was not another pious Quito. Anything but another Quito. Had I moved from the Rome of the Andes to the South American Vatican?

  I leaned against the wall and took a deep breath. The cool morning air quickened the flow of blood in my veins. The weariness of the months of traveling was lifting. I was finally here with Bolívar. My mission was clear: I was in Bogotá to make his life easier, make him a home where he could find solace, restore him to wholeness. I would have to prove myself worthy of his trust. I was still unsure of my place in his affections. I knew he desired me—or had desired me, when he was well—by the passionate way he made love to me. I knew I alone made him happy, made him laugh. We danced for hours; he confided in me, and his ideals for Gran Colombia were also mine. I knew, too, that countless women would be thrilled to be his mistress.

  I would have to make myself indispensable to him. I had become an outcast in Peru and Ecuador, and doubtless the same would happen in Bogotá. All for the privilege of being next to the man who had made my dreams of a free South America a reality. He had attained for me everything I had wanted to do myself but couldn’t, because I was born a woman.

  THE HAPPINESS I had dreamed of during the time I waited in Quito to join the general in Bogotá was a chimera. I had hoped we would be able to recapture the passionate nature of our love, but Bolívar’s lust had waned. His appetite for the flesh had diminished. Now and then there were flashes of our old intimacy. So, instead of bemoaning what no longer could be, I treasured those rare blissful moments, although each time I feared it would be the last we would ever have.

  In Lima, Bolívar had been at the pinnacle of his glory. True, he had many enemies; but his adversaries were fighting a losing battle, since the tide of history was with the general. By the time I arrived in Bogotá, Bolívar’s power was slipping; he was fighting a battle that I was not sure he could win. In Lima, the Spaniards had been his enemies, but here he was fighting the Colombian criollos, his own people. Just two years ago, the majority of the people in Gran Colombia shared his ideal of unity, of a vast powerful nation the equal of any empire in Europe, or in the Americas. But in order to achieve the unity needed to form just one powerful nation, it was now necessary to fight and crush the many brutal caudillos who had risen all over the Andes and who wanted to rule over large expanses of land with the absolute power of feudal lords. Colombians no longer shared Bolívar’s vision because it meant more warfare. Most of the people were ready to give up the great dream just so they could live in peace. The man who had done the most damage to undermine the general’s authority was Vice-president Santander, who, with his promises of peace and prosperity, had captured the imagination and the hearts of the Colombian people and turned out to be a formidable foe.

  ONE NIGHT at dinner with a small group of officers, after Bolívar had spent the whole day working on his speech for the Ocaña convention, with a nervous gesture he knocked over his wineglass. His face turned red. “These people will not rest until they’ve crushed my life’s work,” he roared at us at the table, although we had not been discussing politics. “Not until I’m dead, and not even after I’m gone. I gave them the sky over their heads, the water they drink, the plots in which they’re buried. Yet every chance they get they remind me I’m a foreigner—they have nothing but contempt and scorn for my friends, my family, and me.” He was trembling from the exertion of this outburst. I ran to his side, made our excuses, and took him for a stroll in the gardens. Our guests were left to finish dinner on their own.

  NO MATTER HOW much I indulged him, patiently listened to him rail against Santander and his minions, tried to amuse him with clever remarks at the expense of his adversaries, I remained powerless over his growing pessimism. His unshakable confidence, grounded in the liberation of four countries, had been shattered by these Colombians, who vilified him, accused him of being a despot, of wanting a crown.

  When he was accused in print of being an autocrat, or a dictator—no better than the most bloodthirsty viceroy of Spain—he flew into monumental rages, kicking the furniture, smashing vases and imported crystal to the floor, or against the walls, tearing up documents and feeding them to the flames. He would refuse to eat, or to see anyone—even me—and stayed locked up in his office until his fury passed. These outbursts would leave him feverish and weakened. With each tantrum, my hopes of bringing his health back lessened.

  I asked Santana to show me all the newspapers that arrived at La Quinta before anyone else saw them. I read through them carefully; if I found any disparaging remarks about the general, I burned the newspaper before he saw it. I made a list of the writers’ names and instructed Jonotás to find out who these men were and where they lived.

  BOLÍVAR WAS SO obsessed with his Ocaña speech that he forgot to eat, locked up in his office with his aides. I decided to take the matter into my own hands, and made an appointment to talk to his doctor. He confirmed what I already knew about tuberculosis: the best treatment for anyone in the general’s condition was rest, plenty of fresh air, and nutritious meals.

  I began to plan Bolívar’s menu with the cook, María Luisa. I insisted that he eat three regular meals. If the general was in his office, missing his noon meal, I sent José Palac
ios to inform him his food was getting cold. One day, Palacios brought back word that Bolívar was too busy to stop working. I hurried to the office and did not bother to knock.

  “Manuela,” Bolívar said, unable to mask his exasperation, “I don’t have time for you right now.”

  “Gentlemen,” I said to his aides and secretaries, as if I had not heard a word he said, “the general’s food is getting cold. He needs to eat.”

  With a cutting gesture of his hand, Bolívar indicated that the others should leave. As they filed out of the room, one by one, their eyes showed their disapproval of my conduct. When we were alone, Bolívar got up from his chair. His pupils shone, his lips trembled. “I will not tolerate this kind of public behavior from you, Manuela.” He only called me Manuela anymore when he was angry with me, otherwise it was always Manuelita. “You must never, ever, interrupt my work, much less give me orders in front of my men. Is that clear?”

  “Señor,” I said, “with all due respect, if you keep tiring yourself, if you fail to obey your doctors, you are not going to go to Ocaña, and you will not save Gran Colombia because you will be dead. May I remind you that we need you to stay alive in order to govern this country?”

  After an unpleasant silence a smile insinuated itself on his lips. Bolívar said, “Let’s go eat María Luisa’s delicious cooking.”

  Soon I had him eating three meals regularly, and taking a siesta. Regardless of the weather, at five-thirty each afternoon, I came to Bolívar’s office and reminded him it was time to conclude business for the day and to join me on the veranda for an aromatic water. Exhausted from receiving people, dictating letters, and working on his speech for Ocaña, the general sat with me on the terrace by the entrance of La Quinta, in front of the fountain, where wild ducks stopped to drink and splash merrily before making their way to their roosting places. As Bolívar and I sipped herbal teas, we listened to the whispering sounds of the fountain, inhaled the inebriating honeysuckle growing alongside the veranda, and admired the vivid colors of the sunset over the savanna of Bogotá. Dusk had a soothing effect on Bolívar’s nerves, and he would inquire about my activities during the day, and we would talk, as comfortable with each other as an old married couple. Soon color returned to his cheeks, and he stopped coughing blood.