Late at night, I lay awake, wondering whether Bolívar’s enemies would triumph, whether the man who had claimed my body and soul would ever again be the lover I had known. These thoughts were often interrupted by the eerie cries of the night watchman patrolling the deserted streets. The ringing produced by his bell, like the cries of shrill little night creatures in the air, was followed by the call of the hour—“It’s eleven o’clock”—and then the weather—“It’s drizzling, and there’s no moon,”—and the final cry of “All’s well in Bogotá. May God be with you at this hour!”
Lying in the warmth of our bed, I felt protected with Bolívar next to me. But outside the walls of La Quinta, I imagined a vast cemetery inhabited by vengeful spirits and criminals who took refuge in the frigid blackness.
I had nightmares. Nuns made me stand for days in the wet, freezing corridor of the school in Quito—my feet mired in blood, deprived of food and drink, mocked by the other girls as they passed me on their way to class. I dreamed of being tried by hooded Inquisitors who echoed the disapproving voices of my father, my aunt, my grandmother, and James Thorne. The Inquisitors condemned me to torture in contraptions that broke my bones and tore my flesh, then hanged or burned me at the stake, and sometimes both. I died surrounded by a cheering mob calling me a bruja, a bride of Satan. Other times, I saw myself encircled by statues of bleeding Christs on the cross, his blood soaking me, burning my skin.
I would awake from these nightmares shaking, gasping for breath, only to find Bolívar snoring beside me in our bed.
ONE MORNING AT BREAKFAST Bolívar said, “Manuela, we must make sure that bogotanos see us together in public. Otherwise, they will think I am trying to hide you. Tomorrow afternoon we will go for a ride through the streets of Bogotá in the open carriage.”
On this outing, I wore a dress and hat and wrapped a shawl around my shoulders, allowing the population for the first time to see me dressed as a lady. As we entered the Plaza Mayor, I saw scrawled on the walls of the cathedral, a sign in huge black letters: “Simón Bolívar was born in Caracas Eating Shit Like a Pig.” I did my best to keep Bolívar distracted by my chatter. I did not want to see him humiliated in my presence. Bolívar asked the coachman to stop.
“Bastards,” I cried out, before he could say anything. “How dare they? What disrespect! You were born a prince!”
“Manuelita, you must admit the Colombians have a mischievous sense of humor,” he said.
“I will make sure that sign is painted over tomorrow.”
“And then what? It’ll be a waste of your time and energy. If you do that, they’ll write it over and over again. The best thing to do is to ignore it, and all the other insults. The truth is, nothing surprises me about Colombians. They are an ungenerous and malicious people. Have you heard what they say about themselves? God made Colombia the most beautiful nation in the world—and to correct his largesse, he populated it with the worst people on earth.”
I laughed, though I was still furious.
THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, I sat down with my girls to embroider in a sunny spot of the garden behind the main house. I could tell Jonotás was burning to tell me something. “What is it, Jonotás?” I said.
“Manuela, you should have heard those women in the market this morning. While their servants were shopping, they gathered like gaggles of geese to talk about your ride in the coach with the general.”
I secured the needle in the shawl I was making and looked up. “What were they saying?”
“They were saying”—Jonotás pursed her lips, raised her chin, and mimicked them in a babyish voice—‘the general’s conduct is a disgrace! His behavior is inexcusable, unfit for a head of state. Not only does he bring his adulterous mistress to live with him, but he has the nerve to go out with her in public. Did you see that carriage? Not even the viceroys had such a fine carriage. Soon they’ll be riding in a golden coach! ’”
I snorted. “What imbeciles. They forget that the general was born to the wealthiest family in South America. If he wants to ride in a golden coach, he was born to it. What else were they saying?”
Jonotás did not hesitate, imitating another lady: “‘That woman is shameless! Did you know she’s a bastard? She was run out of Quito for eloping with a soldier. She left her husband, a respectable Englishman, to be the general’s whore.’ Sorry, Manuela,” Jonotás said, switching to her normal tone, “but that’s what they were saying.”
“Those stupid women, they can go to hell!” I said.
“First I’d quarter them, fry them in oil like pork rinds, and then feed them to the rats,” Jonotás said, and spat.
Without looking up from her knitting, Natán said, “Why do you want to do that to the poor rats?”
I laughed. “Next time we go riding into town, remind me to wear a mustache. If those witches are scandalized, let’s give them some reason for scandal.”
“Can I wear a mustache, too?”
“You and Natán can wear beards if you like,” I replied, and returned to my needlework.
BOLÍVAR DECIDED IT was time we had dinner parties to introduce me to the Bogotá families sympathetic to him. “If you are going to continue living here,” he said, “we have to present you officially, so to speak. We must not give the impression we are hiding anything from the people. The best way to neutralize the tongue-wagging is to show we have nothing to hide. Colombians have to get used to the idea that you are here to stay.”
I had never mentioned to the general the commotion my rides with Jonotás and Natán caused in the city, or the scornful looks we received. Yet I wanted to be an asset to him, not a liability. “I’ll do it, if you wish,” I said, then added, a bit timidly for me, “Sometimes I get the impression bogotanos disapprove of me.”
He grinned. “Well, I’m sure they haven’t seen many women like you around here. You do have an original way of presenting yourself. When you go riding dressed as a man you cut quite a figure.” He paused. “Whether they like you or not, Manuelita, you are the First Lady of Colombia.”
DINNER PARTIES BEGAN at La Quinta. I worked closely with María Luisa to prepare roast beef, suckling pig, duck cooked in red wine, rainbow trout—whose pink flesh tasted like salmon—caught in the streams of the savanna, boiled white potatoes, and fried yellow and purple ones, salads of beets, carrots, boiled quail eggs, petits pois, and corn, and dressed with olive oil from Villa de Leyva. Also pastries filled with arequipe, guava, and blackberry jam. For every meal I ordered a fresh supply of sweet corn arepas, which Bolívar loved.
Jonotás and Natán brightened every room of La Quinta with flowers—they were gifted at making exuberant floral arrangements. I pulled from my trunks gowns I had not worn since my days as James Thorne’s wife.
Dinner party after dinner party, the men showed up alone, making excuses for their suddenly indisposed wives. Eventually, a few couples bestowed their presence on us. I tried hard to be a charming hostess, making our guests feel welcome and attending to their every need. If I sensed they were ambivalent to Bolívar’s cause, I tried to build support. I was convinced that if I was welcoming, gracious, affable, I would make a favorable impression that my guests would talk about with their friends.
Yet, it was nearly impossible not to be repelled by the Bogotá women the men brought to my dinners. Most of them were fragile-looking, and so white that they did not seem made of flesh but of eggshell. The prettiest might remind me of snow-white orchids, yet the majority had the sickly pallor and the translucent skin of creatures that dwelled underground, never exposed to the sun. They all had lovely heads of hair that gleamed in the candlelight. I had been told that bogotanas washed their hair in urine, which they considered the best treatment for beautiful and healthy hair. Was that also, I wondered, why they reeked of perfume—to cover up the odor?
I tried hard to engage the women in conversation. They replied in girlish tones, giggled, and blushed when I asked them a direct question. Whenever I asked them about their political opin
ions, they would invariably respond that their husbands were the ones who had political opinions in their home. The fact that I had my own ideas was seen as a sign of bad manners and a lack of modesty. I swear these women did not care whether the Spaniards or the patriots ruled, so long as they were allowed to continue their privileged lives, the most exciting part of which involved going to mass and to daily confession.
More than once I had to restrain myself from grabbing one of these ladies by the shoulders and shaking her hard, screaming in her face, “Wake up! This is not medieval Spain. It’s 1828!”
Though an atheist, every day I thanked God that I had been born with a skeptical mind. I knew these egg-white creatures were the product of the same miserable education I had been subjected to by the nuns in Quito. All of us had been taught to mistrust the senses: the eyes, ears, mouth, and tongue were instruments of the devil. We were taught by the nuns to close our eyes and pray to the Virgin Mary, clutching a rosary in our hands, as our husbands mounted us and entered us through a hole in a sheet that covered our bodies. The morning after, we were to run to our confessors and beg forgiveness for having succumbed to temptation.
I did not give up trying to win the favor of these women. After dinner I would sit and chat with them for a short while, until I announced a need for fresh air. I would then excuse myself and join the men—who were drinking and talking about subjects that excited me.
I have no doubt that most of Bogotá’s men resented my brash behavior. On the other hand, Bolívar’s officers, the Irish in particular, seemed to relish my company and considered me one of them. To them I was not the oddity I represented to most Colombian men—in Europe they must have seen many independent women like me.
20
Natán
In Bogotá, like everywhere else in the Andes, ladies of society met regularly in their sewing circles to socialize and make costumes for the statues of the saints in churches and convents.
Jonotás and I were in the library with Manuela, making floral arrangements, when an invitation addressed to Manuela—to attend the sewing circle of Doña Ana María Holguín—was delivered.
“You know how much I enjoy embroidering and knitting, but can you imagine me,” Manuela said to us in a mocking tone, “making costumes for a saint?”
I could not and was about to agree with her when she said, “The general will want me to behave diplomatically and not slight Señora Holguín. I’ll go—once—and then won’t have to do it again.”
MANUELA RETURNED FROM her outing in a bad mood. We had to wait till dinner to find out how it had gone at Señora Holguín’s sewing circle. When the general and Manuela dined alone, Jonotás and I took care of serving dinner.
Often the general was tired, in bad humor, or ate very little. Manuela tried to cajole him into tasting the food, pointing out that she had made him the ajiaco—one of his favorite soups. She would chatter about rumors that reached her ears, usually things Jonotás or I had brought back from the market, or else she asked him questions about his day. Tonight it was she who was morose, not him. The general noticed her mood. “How was your visit to Señora Holguín’s?” he asked.
Manuela shrugged off the question, at the same time beckoning me to refill her wineglass. The general insisted. She took a big drink from her wine before she answered: “Well, my general, after we drank our chocolate and ate pastries—which were delicious—the ladies began to discuss their ideas for new Easter costumes for the statues of the Virgin of Chiquinquirá and Our Lord of Monserrate in the cathedral. Suddenly I got the most marvelous inspiration. I said, ‘We have many wounded soldiers roaming the streets of Bogotá, dressed in rags. Why not make clothes for them, instead? ’”
Manuela speared a potato out of the plate of steaming ajiaco and began to chew it, taking her time.
I was dying to hear what had happened.
“A very good idea. So?” the general said, holding the spoon with his soup in midair, his eyes open wide.
“You won’t believe what happened next, my general,” Manuela said, after she washed down the rest of the potato with a sip of wine. “My proposal was met with silence. I elaborated, thinking that perhaps they needed more explanation. ‘Why not make clothes for the poor? For the beggars? For the sick? For the children of our dead soldiers? There are so many in the streets going hungry and cold. Why can’t we help clothe them? Why make costumes for statues that do not care whether they are dressed or undressed? ’”
I had to put my hand to my mouth to repress a giggle. Bolívar continued to watch her with an amused expression.
“Well, Señora Holguín’s sewing circle just looked at me, as if I had proposed copulating with the devil in public.”
Bolívar let out a loud chuckle.
Manuela went on: “They went back to nibbling on the pastries and cheese, and sipping their chocolates from their gleaming silver cups, just as if I had never spoken a word.”
“It offends me that Bogotá’s women do not appreciate you,” Bolívar said.
“I don’t care what those women think of me, my general. The only approval I seek is yours. As long as you’re happy with me, they can go to hell.”
“Approve of you?” Bolívar said, his eyes shinning. “You’re my greatest joy, Manuelita. I wouldn’t want to change anything about you. You are perfect the way you are. I’m sorry I cannot provide you with women like Rosita Campusano here in Bogotá. There are a few brilliant women in the city, but unfortunately they are admirers of General Santander.”
“They can’t be too bright, if they prefer Santander to you,” Manuela said.
The general laughed again. He did enjoy her jokes. She was the only person who could make him laugh.
TRUE, MANUELA HAD not made many friends in Bogotá, but that was nothing compared to how unpopular Bolívar and his government were.
It made Bolívar’s blood boil that Santander had the support of the people and he did not. Bolívar was aristocratic, stiff, like an Englishman. He was simply not Colombian enough. He was uncomfortable in the presence of humble people. Colombians thought he was cold and ruthless, and he was. Once I heard Manuela saying to him, “Señor, you have to be more expressive with them. More tropical. More caraqueño. The people want from our politicians public displays, demagoguery. They interpret your reserve as arrogance. After all, they are sick and tired of the cold indifference of the Spanish viceroys.”
Despite her prodding, the Liberator could not change his temperament. When a mother presented a baby to be kissed, Bolívar touched the infant as if he were afraid to get his hands dirty. He was baffled by the Colombians; he could never understand why, though he had given them their independence from Spain, they still saw him as a foreigner. The truth was that—at best—they respected him, but he never earned their love.
Colombians preferred Santander, a level-headed, modest man who did not seem arrogant. They liked him because he was one of them. He had come from the provinces and had made his own way in Bogotá, using his intelligence and charm. Bolívar, on the other hand, was proud and prone to violent tantrums when he did not get his way. He would always be seen as a spoiled rich boy who had been educated in Europe, like a future king. Colombians mistrusted their liberator because he was forever declaring “war to the death” to this one and that one. They longed for peace, of which Santander had given them a taste soon after independence. Even more, Colombians loved Santander because he was a devout Catholic.
If the criollos mistrusted Bolívar, the Indians were indifferent to him. To the heroes of independence the Indians were impenetrable people who spoke strange languages and often refused to learn Spanish. Santander, however, was interested in the Indian roots of the nation and in improving the Indian’s lot, probably because he himself had Indian blood. Manuela, Bolívar, and his followers dismissed Santander because he was of Indian descent and not educated in Europe. It is true that Bolívar treated his slaves well, that he loved José Palacios and the slaves who reared him, and it’s al
so true that he wanted to see an end to slavery. As Manuela never tired of reminding us, he had written, “Slavery is a gangrene that begins in one limb and, if the infected limb is not cut, it spreads until the entire body dies.” But when he spoke about the “chains of slavery,” he was thinking mostly of how the criollos felt enslaved by the Spaniards—the slavery of the Indians or the Africans was not his main concern.
After years of following Manuela and Simón Bolívar, I came to my own understanding of the political reality of the Andes. The way I saw it, both Bolívar and Santander won the Wars of Independence without making great changes. The Wars of Independence were about money and business—criollos were tired of paying heavy taxes and having the Spaniards control trade and reap all the profits. Criollos were fed up at having their children barred from the same schools as the children of the Spanish aristocracy. And criollos hated the fact that they were considered unfit for government and fit only for manual work, along with slaves and their descendants, whether Indians or Negroes. That’s what offended criollos the most—to be lumped together with Negroes and Indians. Anybody who was not one hundred percent European they referred to as “the race of the earth.”
If Bolívar and Santander had coexisted in one man, he would have been the ideal ruler. The tragedy of Colombia was that by choosing one man over the other, Colombians would never be able to see but half the truth.
21
As Bolívar’s departure for Ocaña became imminent, my anger at Santander grew. The damned convention should not even be taking place. It was putting Bolívar’s health at risk, and it was taking him away from me. He was overworked, not sleeping in preparation for his departure. Still, he went on with the demands of the state.
Our Lives Are the Rivers Page 17
