Our Lives Are the Rivers

by Jaime Manrique

  All the noise and gunfire had attracted the attention of the neighbors. Many windows along the street were opened, and people holding lighted candles and lamps began to shout questions at passersby. As loud voices approached in the street below, the conspirators guarding my door vanished. I threw a shawl over my shoulders, and ran downstairs, where I found Andresito wounded in the chest. His eyes were closed, but he was still breathing. Part of the skin of his skull had been sliced off. Afraid that Andresito would choke on his own blood, I folded my shawl and placed it under his head.

  I ran to the wing of the palace where Dr. Moore, the general’s official doctor, lived. He had been sound asleep but woke up when I banged and banged on his door. “There’s been an attempt on the Liberator’s life, Dr. Moore!” I blurted out when he opened the door. “Come with me downstairs. Fergusson’s dying.”

  Dr. Moore grabbed his instruments and, still in his nightgown, followed me downstairs. At that moment I remembered Don Fernando, the general’s nephew. He must have slept through the commotion. I ran to his apartment and banged on his door until I heard him stirring. “Fernandito,” I yelled, “there’s been an attempt on your uncle’s life. But he escaped. The conspirators are still in the building. Please arm yourself.”

  Don Fernando woke up immediately and came out with two guns—one of which he handed me. “Please, please, God,” I prayed, as we rushed downstairs, “if you hear me, save Andresito.” It was the first time in many years, not since I was a child, that I had prayed to God.

  By the time we got downstairs, the general’s guards were fortifying the palace. The conspirators had fled in the darkness. Though I was desperate for news of Bolívar, I served as Dr. Moore’s nurse as he tried to save Andresito’s life.

  WORD OF THE ATTEMPT spread through Bogotá. Soon after the palace was secured, General Urdaneta and Colonel Herrán and other friends of the Liberator arrived. I was inconsolable: Andresito Fergusson, one of my dearest friends, was dead. And I did not know if the general was alive.

  Jonotás and Natán arrived at the palace. Seeing the state I was in, Natán made me an herbal potion to soothe my nerves. Dr. Moore was now trying to stop the bleeding that was draining the life from Ibarra. It looked as though another valiant patriot would be a casualty of the attempt. I was sinking into total exhausted despair when word arrived that the Liberator had escaped unharmed and was in the Plaza de San Carlos, addressing his troops. I burst into tears. Natán made me finish the tea to calm me. When I was more collected, I said to my girls, “I’m going to the plaza. Come with me.”

  “Let me clean your face,” Jonotás said. She took a towel from the general’s bathroom, poured a little water on it, and rubbed some of the blood off my hands and face. “That’s better,” she said. “You would have given the general a heart attack if he saw you covered in blood.”

  I was racing down the cobblestone street that led to the plaza when I realized I was still in my nightgown—I didn’t care. Let the curious stare.

  That moment when I saw the general mounted on Paloma Blanca was the happiest moment of my life. He was talking to Córdoba and another man on horseback. It was Santander. I recognized him instantly. There he was, my greatest enemy, and the first thing I thought of was how handsome he looked. He was in civilian clothes. It didn’t look as if he had dressed in a hurry to go out, which I interpreted as proof of his knowledge of the conspiracy. He had probably been home fully dressed, waiting for news of the general’s death. He wore a round hat, a black jacket, green velvet pants, and laced boots. His mustache, his eyebrows, and the eyes below them were raven black. He was nodding his dimpled chin as the general spoke. My first impulse was to borrow a gun from a soldier and shoot him. A shred of sanity held me back. It was harder to refrain from screaming, “They are your enemies, my general. Have them arrested and shot!” I told myself that there would be plenty of time in the future to punish them. I swore then that Santander and his followers would pay for everything that had happened that night.

  When Bolívar spotted me in the crowd, he dismounted and rushed to my side. I ran toward him and threw myself into his arms and began to weep. I wept for all the times I had wanted to in the years since I had met him; for all the times I had been left behind; for all the times I had feared for his life; for all the times my own life had been in danger; for all the dark times that undoubtedly lay ahead of us.

  I was shivering in the night chill. “Manuelita, mi Manuelita,” Bolívar repeated over and over again, kissing my cheeks, my forehead, my hair, my hands, my lips still bearing the blood of Andresito and Ibarra. Taking me by the hand, he led me to the middle of the circle made by Santander, Córdoba, and the military members of his staff who had begun arriving at the plaza.

  “Gentlemen,” the Liberator said loudly, addressing the men surrounding us, “I am alive because of the courage of Manuela Sáenz.” As he said these words, I stared at Santander with hatred. He blanched when our eyes met, but his features remained imperturbable. Still speaking in a loud voice for all to hear, the general anointed me a new name, “Manuelita,” he said, “you are the liberator of the Liberator.”

  It was daylight when we returned to the palace. The general was burning with fever. Though there had been many difficult nights in the years we had been together, I could say with all certainty that that September night was the most horrible night of my life; and that dawn, when I dressed the general’s scratches, put him to bed, and kissed him good-night, was one of the happiest.

  BOLÍVAR AND I began to sleep together again. One night, not long after the attempt, I could not sleep. The fear of men coming in the dark to kill us while we slept kept me awake many nights. That fear would persist for many years to come, and it would not be until my old age in Paita that I finally slept in peace, knowing that there was no one in the world who wanted to kill me. Feeling restless, I got out of bed while Bolívar snored, lit a candle, and went into his study to smoke a cigar. An unfinished letter on his desk caught my attention. It was a letter to his friend José Fernández Madrid, Colombia’s chargé d’affaires in Paris and London. I skimmed the letter until I came to the last paragraph:

  A man fighting against all others cannot do anything. My past efforts have exhausted my energy. This fight has left me overwhelmed, and I am alive not because I have the strength to go on or any desire to do so. No, my friend, I go on in this world out of habit, like a dead man who cannot stop walking.

  In Paita, where I had nothing to do for twenty years but remember, I blocked any thoughts about that painful night and the period immediately following the September conspiracy. I blocked it out because, although Bolívar had survived the attempt, his heart—as this letter to Fernández Madrid made clear—had been shattered by the betrayal of Córdoba and the people he loved. Bolívar could never understand why, though he had given up his fortune, his health, and his happiness to give freedom to Colombians, all they wanted in return was to see him dead. The conspirators had failed to kill him in his body, but the Liberator’s spirit had indeed been murdered.

  27

  Natán

  The September conspiracy was the beginning of the end. Even though el Libertador felt vindicated, because he finally had proof that Santander and his followers were actively trying to assassinate him, the attempt on his life robbed him of his will to live; he became less than half the man he had been. Bolívar made no effort to hide his unhappiness, and life seemed to hold few joys for him.

  A council of war headed by Croftson was convened to deal with the conspirators. It came to light that the group of young traitors, in order to meet without creating suspicion, had formed a group they named the Philological Society. They met regularly, under the pretense of studying literary works and foreign languages.

  The conspirators were convinced that the ultimate goal of the Liberator was to become emperor of the Andes, and they detested monarchy. They were santanderistas, believers in democratic institutions. The government of the United States of America
was the model Santander wanted to adopt for Colombia. The university students were disgusted with the ruthlessness of the general’s military, and how, in the name of keeping public order, the armed forces crushed any sign of discontent.

  As head of the council of war, Croftson published an edict threatening death for anyone found harboring the conspirators. Croftson was constantly on the verge of letting his military influence run unchecked, and now there was no one to restrain him.

  Bolívar’s power was absolute, and Manuela reigned as his empress.

  She thought nothing of giving orders to drag the men accused of conspiracy from their homes or jail cells so she could interrogate them.

  One morning I was in Manuela’s bedroom tending to her because she had a cold, when Croftson came in accompanied by a prisoner and guards. Croftson informed Manuela that the prisoner’s name was Ezequiel Pérez. He was a scrawny boy, no older than fifteen, with peach fuzz on his chin. His eyes bulged with fear. Manuela received him with all courtesy and asked him to sit down. The boy’s legs trembled uncontrollably. His fingernails were bloody, as if he had been chewing his nails raw. Manuela said, “Ezequiel, I understand you worked for General Santander as his page, that you were present when the conspirators discussed their heinous plot to assassinate the general. I give you my word of honor that if you tell me the names of all the conspirators, including that of General Santander, your life will be spared.”

  The terrified boy answered that it was true he had worked for Santander, but that the vice-president had never taken him into his confidence, and that he had not been present at any meetings where plans were made to assassinate the Liberator. His voice cracked a couple of times as he spoke.

  The boy’s reply made Manuela angry. She motioned to me. “Go downstairs and tell his mother to come up.”

  I found the woman in the patio and asked her to follow me. She was dressed in clean but ragged clothes; she was probably a domestic. When she came into Manuela’s bedroom, she embraced her trembling son.

  “Señora,” Manuela said, addressing Ezequiel’s mother, “if you want your son to live you must order him to tell the truth and reveal General Santander’s part in the conspiracy.”

  “Please, Ezequiel,” the woman pleaded, “do as Doña Manuela says. If you love your mother, tell her everything you know.”

  “But I can’t, mamá,” the boy replied between sobs. “I can’t.”

  “Be a good son, Ezequiel, and make your mother happy,” Manuela said.

  I could only imagine what that boy felt as he saw the gleam in her eyes. To understand Manuela, you would have to see her eyes, because they revealed who she really was. They were her most striking feature, and she was well aware of it. All those years in Lima, when she walked out of the house with her head covered except for one eye, taught her the power of a single eye. She had mastered her glare. Her eyes could entice and caress you, like a feather, or they could make you feel worthless, or slash you like a knife.

  “I cannot do what Your Grace asks me to do, Doña Manuela,” the boy said still sobbing. “I cannot name General Santander as a conspirator, because I was not present at the meetings Your Grace is talking about.”

  Abruptly Manuela said to Croftston, “Take him away and shoot him with all the others.”

  Ezequiel’s mother knelt on the floor at the foot of Manuela’s bed, as though she were praying. “He’s my only son, Doña Manuela,” she pleaded, sobbing in a way that made me want to run from the room. “He is my whole life. His two older brothers, my husband, and my own brothers were killed fighting the Spaniards. My son is all I have left. Please, Doña Manuela, I beg Your Merciful Grace as only a mother can.”

  “Señora, please get up,” Manuela said softly. “Believe me when I say it breaks my heart to do this. I don’t want to cause you pain. I would love to spare your son’s life. May God forgive me for what I’m about to do. But your son must die with all the other conspirators. If I let him live, the Liberator will never be safe.” With a nod of her head, she said to Croftson, “Take him away.”

  The two of us were left alone in the room. I stood staring at the floor, waiting for her to tell me what to do next. When I looked up, Manuela snapped, “Why are you giving me that accusing look? You think it was easy doing what I had to do? Get out of here. Leave me alone. I don’t want to see you the rest of the day.”

  I closed the door behind me and stood frozen. It was an instant reflex. Eavesdropping was something I had been doing all my life, something all house slaves did. Since our lives depended on the whims and actions of our masters, and we were always the last ones to be informed about decisions that affected us, very early on in our servitude we learned eavesdropping was one of the few ways for us to get some control of our lives. When I remembered there was no one else in the room with Manuela, I began to walk away. Before I had taken two steps, I heard Manuela wailing in pain. I had never ever heard her make such a sound.

  I often heard the Liberator say, after he was criticized for an authoritarian act, that in war the ends justify the means. That day it became clear to me that if Bolívar and Manuela had stayed in power, they would have become as cruel as the most bloodthirsty of the Spanish tyrants. No one who took part in the epic of independence could claim not to have blood on their hands.

  LATER THAT WEEK, a man named Florentino González gave a full confession implicating General Santander. Although the vice-president declared from jail under oath that he had had no knowledge of the conspiracy, he was stripped of all his possessions and sentenced to die by firing squad.

  The massacres, uprisings, and wars that followed the arrival of the conquistadors had made the people of Colombia bloodthirsty—like those jaguars that, once they have eaten human flesh, can never be sated again. Human life was cheap. When so many people have died, a single human life has no value. Large massacres barely raised an eyebrow. Colombians constantly looked for excuses to spill more blood. Whose blood it was, it made no difference. The shedding of blood became a main source of entertainment, a never-ending, gory spectacle everyone could afford. Colombian crops were fertilized with rotten flesh and blood. Sometimes it seemed that more blood than water flowed down the streams and rivers of Gran Colombia. No one in Gran Colombia—whether rich or poor, Spanish or criollo, free man or slave—could claim innocence. There was no family in Gran Colombia that was not in mourning for the death of a relative killed in battle, or executed, either by the Spaniards or the criollos, or jailed and tortured, or exiled for life. Orphans, widows, childless parents made up the bulk of the population of Colombia. This was the result of the Wars of Independence—a nation of people with uncharitable hearts, a place where hatred was what made hearts beat. A nation of people blinded by anger, a race of vicious beasts indifferent to human suffering. People lived for vendettas and revenge. It was not the end of suffering that was sought but its continuation.

  On September 30, at noon, in Bogotá’s Plaza Mayor, the conspirators who had been caught—with the exception of Santander, whose death sentence was commuted—were shot in front of hundreds of cheering bogotanos. Orders were given that they should be left tied to their chairs, still bleeding. Pools of blood gathered in front of them for the rest of the day as a warning to any who might consider plotting against Bolívar in the future.

  THAT NIGHT HAIL as big and hard as large stones fell on the city, cracking and breaking many tiles on the roofs of the houses and shattering stained-glass windows in the churches and public buildings. Some people caught in the storm died of brain concussions. Afraid of the intensity of a storm that would undoubtedly kill livestock and destroy all the crops growing on the savanna, bogotanos began to pray. All through the night, a mournful prayer echoed all over Bogotá, mixing in with the cracking sounds of the hail that pelted the roofs of the city. I had heard similar prayers in Ecuador when a volcano near Quito threatened to erupt, and people took to the streets carrying images of the saints, begging for clemency; and I had heard the same in Lima, af
ter a devastating earthquake that left looting and pestilence in its wake.

  In the morning, when I left the house with my baskets to go to the market, all of Santa Fe de Bogotá, including the red clay roofs of the buildings, looked unsullied and white. The mountains ringing the savanna looked as if they were made of solid ice. As I reached Calle de la Carrera and began to cross it, I glanced in the direction of the Plaza Mayor—and gasped. The day before the plaza had been drenched in the blood of the conspirators. This morning the plaza, too, was sheeted in ice. But as the sun rose behind Monserrate, the layer of ice over the coagulated blood made the plaza look like a frozen lake made of the crimson juice of the corozo fruit.

  28

  You would think that the period after the September conspiracy, when the traitors were executed and Santander was thrown into a dungeon in Cartagena, and then exiled to Europe, would provide some peace for the general. But the Colombians—out of sheer stupidity, out of a narrow sense of nationalism—simply did not want Bolívar to govern them.

  Congress demanded a new election—and Bolívar agreed to it. One of Santander’s minions, Joaquín Mosquera, was elected as president of Colombia. Bolívar fell into a deep melancholy, and despite my best efforts he refused to take care of his health. Soon he was coughing and spitting up blood again. Following Mosquera’s election, large groups of bogotanos began to parade on a daily basis in front of the Presidential Palace carrying placards ridiculing Bolívar’s frailty, “Go back to Venezuela, you shriveled sausage,” they chanted. “Bring back Santander.”

  This conduct was so infuriating, I finally said to Bolívar, “Señor, you must send the troops out to disperse that rabble.”

  He shook his head. “The last thing I want to do, Manuelita, is to start behaving like a tyrannical viceroy. It’s true they don’t like me, but they are my people. I cannot forget that.”