That evening Bienvenido, Don Pedro’s godson, was invited for dinner, and as he arrived early I welcomed him into the house, making small talk while everyone finished dressing. Doña Basilisa was in the kitchen giving the last touches to her suckling pig basted in Madeira wine. My mistress was taking a long bath. I needed a respite from so much tension and we sat out on the balcony admiring the star-studded sky.
I had heard a lot about Bienvenido and his family from Adelina, Doña Basilisa’s maid, the day before, when we were making the beds and scrubbing the bathtubs. Arnaldo Pérez, Bienvenido’s father, was a very competent mulatto who ran Dos Ríos when the Batistinis were away at the capital. Both he and his son came to dine often at the house—Don Pedro prided himself on the fact that his dark-skinned overseer sat next to him at his table. Aralia Pérez, Bienvenido’s mother, had passed away several years earlier, but his father had done a fine job bringing up Bienvenido by himself.
Adelina knew how many lovers Don Pedro had had in town and how many illegitimate children—in spite of his religious devotion. None was so beloved as Bienvenido Pérez, however. The boy was not only his godson, but his own flesh and blood. Although few people knew the secret, on the day of his christening Aralia had insisted that he be named Bienvenido B. Pérez. Tongues wagged that the mysterious middle “B” stood for “Batistini.” The mother used to come to the house to take up the hems of Doña Basilisa’s dresses, alter gowns, and turn the collars of Don Pedro’s shirts around when they became frayed. In spite of her humble origins—Aralia came from a family of poor farmers on the mountain—she was beautiful, with very white skin and eyes the color of mint. One day, when Doña Basilisa was away in Ponce visiting her family, Don Pedro raped Aralia. Adelina saw what happened and took care of the girl, seeing she got back to her family. When Aralia gave birth to the child and brought him to the house to show him to Doña Basilisa, Doña Basilisa had immediately recognized that he was Don Pedro’s because of his hair, which was red and curly, exactly like her husband’s. That was the reason Don Pedro worried so much about the boy and had given him the opportunity to study engineering at the university.
Bienvenido and Diamantino were practically like brothers. When Don Pedro and his family came to Dos Ríos to spend the summer months, Don Eduardo sent Diamantino with his godfather, to get him away from the city. Bienvenido, as the overseer’s son, was treated with a lot of respect. It was not a calculated thing; people were simply incapable of forgetting—even for an instant—that he belonged to both worlds, that of the owners and that of the peons. Even as a teenager Bienvenido tried to help the workers receive just treatment. Whenever he saw one of them maligned—if a worker’s pay was withheld because of illness, for example—he would stomp over to the overseer’s office, his red hair flaming like an angry banner, and demand from his father, Arnaldo Pérez, that the wrong be redressed. Diamantino was very conscious of this and admired Bienvenido, although he considered himself his superior.
At the farm, the food was always fresher and more plentiful, and there were few of the epidemics which periodically decimated the population in the capital. When Madame visited Dos Ríos, however, relations between Bienvenido and Diamantino were not what they had been in the past. The previous summer, when Ronda had just turned fifteen, Adelina had caught sight of Bienvenido and the girl kissing in the orchid grove as she leaned out the kitchen window behind the house to scrub some pots and pans.
“If you don’t watch out, your Ronda will be spirited away from you faster than a silver spoon from a rich man’s table!” she told Doña Basilisa.
“What are you ranting about, Adelina? You’re always gossiping and knitting cobwebs, as if you had nothing to do. That’s what I get for having kept you with us until you’re too old to do any real work.” But Adelina pulled Doña Basilisa to the window and pointed at the couple embracing in the orchid grove. Doña Basilisa dropped the pillowcase she was embroidering and let out a horrified cry.
“Oh, my God! It can’t be. I must be seeing things.”
“I told you so,” Adelina exulted. “That’s Don Pedro’s own flesh and blood down there, multiplied by two!”
Basilisa didn’t know what to do. She was certain that Aralia’s son was her husband’s, and she had done the seamstress and her child many good turns. But Aralia hadn’t explained anything to her son.
Doña Basilisa was panic-stricken at the possibility of brother and sister falling in love, but she couldn’t show it. She had to keep the secret for Ronda’s sake, or the girl would despise her father. Doña Basilisa told Ronda in no uncertain terms that she shouldn’t get too close to boys like Bienvenido, because even though Bienvenido was sweet and a fine boy, he wasn’t of their same social standing, and in life one did many stupid things, but the stupidest thing one could do was marry beneath one’s station. Doña Basilisa didn’t want to go beyond that, because she knew that Ronda was headstrong and that if she was too strict and forbade Bienvenido’s presence at the house, her prohibition would backfire. Teenagers breathed counterclockwise, and what they most wanted to do in the world was exactly the opposite of what their parents told them. So Doña Basilisa had been nonchalant about Bienvenido, had counseled Ronda as if she weren’t too worried about him, and had given a deep sigh of relief when, at the end of the summer, the red-headed young man got on the train and left for the university in Río Piedras and Ronda went off to Lady Lane School in Massachusetts.
Doña Basilisa had also tried to exert her influence on Bienvenido, but here the maneuver was more complicated. Since Aralia had passed away when the boy was twelve, there was no one to caution him regarding his kinship with Ronda. Doña Basilisa thought about it and decided to ask Diamantino to warn Bienvenido. He should suggest, with as much tact as possible, that Bienvenido leave Ronda alone. The boys were very close and Ronda was still very young; Doña Basilisa hoped it was just a case of puppy love.
Bienvenido was older than Diamantino, but Bienvenido revered him. It wasn’t only because Diamantino was a city boy and Bienvenido came from a small town; Diamantino had studied philosophy and literature and he was a gentleman, while Bienvenido was a farmer’s son and would always remain one, even though he was studying for a college degree.
Diamantino had read Rousseau, Locke, and Leibniz, and was convinced that no country could belong to another, or even subject itself willingly to another country—as some local politicians insisted the island had done—without violating the most basic of human rights: the right to be free. Bienvenido didn’t know anything about philosophy or political science, but when he heard Diamantino speak about inspiring ideas like that, he felt lit up from within. He began to believe everything was possible, and his mood, which was usually despondent and morose for no apparent reason, lifted immediately. He felt sure that once the Americans were kicked off the island, Diamantino, the charismatic son of Don Eduardo Márquez, would be the republic of Puerto Rico’s next president.
It was a bright summer day when Diamantino approached Bienvenido with Doña Basilisa’s message. The boys were on vacation and they had taken their horses out for a ride across the lush cane fields spread out like a shimmering carpet all the way to the sea behind the house. They arrived at a stream at the end of a field, shaded by a cluster of bamboo shrubs that rustled like clouds of dry rain around them, and were letting the horses drink next to each other. Diamantino couldn’t be a hypocrite. “I know this sounds strange,” he said. “But Maite has asked me to tell you to ‘leave Ronda alone,’ whatever that means. You know how I feel about you; you’re my brother. I have no idea what’s going on between Ronda and you and under normal circumstances I wouldn’t intervene. But it’s about time you learned what everybody else at Dos Ríos knows: Ronda is your half sister.”
Bienvenido threw his head back and laughed. He was sure Diamantino was lying. He loved his father deeply: Arnaldo Pérez, the overseer, was an honorable man and he had always looked up to him. Don Pedro couldn’t be his father because Don Pedro was fat
, bald, and lazy; he got out of bed at nine in the morning and lived half the year in San Juan with Doña Basilisa, spending the money his peons sweated blood to earn for him at the farm. The mansion in Miramar; the magnificent yellow Pierce-Arrow; the artists’ soirées the Batistinis loved—since he had studied at the university Bienvenido was aware of what all that cost. He wasn’t a country bumpkin anymore.
But Diamantino insisted. Maybe Don Pedro couldn’t be his father because Bienvenido didn’t want to be his son. He wouldn’t respect himself if he were. And what about his mother? What had Don Pedro done to her? Or had she consented to his advances? Did his father, the overseer, know about her disgrace?
Bienvenido felt revolted. His blood went to his head and his fist came up like a jackhammer. He gave Diamantino a punch in the jaw which sent his glasses flying, and almost tumbled him off his horse. “You and your big talk of democracy and equality. You’re just another liberal hypocrite. And I thought you could be this country’s champion! I was wrong!” He galloped away in a fury.
Diamantino didn’t say a word of what had happened to anyone. But Bienvenido stopped coming to Dos Ríos, and Ronda Batistini didn’t see him again that summer. She was utterly crushed, but was too busy to dwell on it. She would soon be leaving for the States, to begin her first year at Lady Lane School.
Bienvenido decided to shut his ears to the infamous rumors that were circulating and decided it was better not to mention anything to his father. If what Diamantino said was true, it would make Bienvenido’s father suffer to have to admit it to his son. And if it wasn’t true, his father would suffer just as much, hearing what people were saying about his late wife. So Bienvenido pretended he hadn’t heard. He went on preparing his clothes and books for his trip to San Juan, and a few weeks later he left for the university in Río Piedras. Nonetheless, after his conversation with Diamantino he was never the same. He lost his gaiety and debonair look, appearing instead serious and morose. Try as he would, he couldn’t erase Ronda from his mind. When the Batistinis invited Bienvenido and his father to their house for lunch one day to say good-bye to the boy, they noticed that Diamantino sat stonily silent at the table all through the meal. Don Pedro suspected the boys had quarreled, but he had no time to try to get them to make up.
Bienvenido went off to the university and Diamantino traveled to San Juan with his family, to spend the autumn months in town. The following year Diamantino’s father passed away, but Diamantino stayed away at Don Pedro’s house in the capital, without coming to Dos Ríos even for a short visit. Now, Bienvenido had arrived in Arecibo for summer vacation just a few days before Diamantino. Bienvenido had heard that Diamantino was back in town. His friend said he was traveling with a motley crowd of foreign dancers—led by a ballerina who was supposed to be from St. Petersburg and had danced at the czar’s court, the most decadent in Europe—and that he was playing in their orchestra like a common musician and making an utter fool of himself. Bienvenido was amazed when he found out. He had no desire to meet with Diamantino, but he had to admit he’d love to see him just for a minute, so he could land another one on his jaw.
31
DIAMANTINO WAS STILL IN his room getting ready for dinner. He took forever to dress, shave, and comb his hair with eau de cologne. When he finally appeared on the verandah, he greeted Bienvenido cordially enough. I stood there making small talk, but when I saw the disapproving look on Diamantino’s face I immediately excused myself.
“It’s good to see you again after such a long time,” Diamantino said, smiling broadly. Bienvenido didn’t smile and shook the young man’s hand reluctantly. He was dressed simply, in a cotton twill suit and brown leather boots. Diamantino wore the traditional hacendado’s white linen outfit, vest neatly buttoned under his jacket and golden watch chain attached to its pocket. The manners of both young men were impeccable, and I wondered whether Adelina hadn’t made up the whole story about the handsome Bienvenido being Don Pedro’s son just to keep me on pins and needles.
Don Pedro came out on the porch, wheezing and puffing and carrying two bottles of champagne. He’d been down to the half-cellar, the room under the stairs and the only place constructed of cement in the old wooden house. It was here Don Pedro kept his wine bottles and his safe-deposit box. In case of fire, everything else could go up in smoke except his liquor and his money. “Well, I’m glad you boys have made your peace! Now you know why Basilisa and I planned to have this little dinner party. We wanted to see our little family together again. After all, your father has been my right hand for the last thirty years, and you’re like a son to me,” he told Bienvenido. “And Diamantino is also like a son.” Bienvenido let Don Pedro hug him. He didn’t expect this and would rather have shaken hands; he couldn’t help feeling tense. His father, Arnaldo Pérez, was ill with a cold and had had to stay home, but he sent Don Pedro his greetings.
Doña Victoria arrived, all dressed up in lavender silk and accompanied by our reporter friend, Rogelio Tellez. Apparently the young man was an old friend of Bienvenido’s, too, and they immediately struck up a conversation. Rogelio began teasing Bienvenido, who, in his opinion, had made a spectacle of himself in town the day before by letting the man from the Home Guard address the spectators at the plaza like a common rabble-rouser. “What got into you? You should have stopped the man immediately! Do you want us to be a banana republic like the Dominican Republic or Nicaragua? We’re just starting to get out from under the despotic boot of Spain and you have to insult the Americans.” Rogelio Tellez wasn’t just a Bolshevik sympathizer; he was an American sympathizer also. He seemed to be running in a popularity contest.
“Desiderio is a hero,” Bienvenido answered gravely. “Right now he’s being questioned—perhaps tortured—by the secret police. I won’t have you criticize him.” He spoke slowly and deliberately, so that everyone listened. Bienvenido was shy, but his intensity reminded me of a Russian commissar’s. He had a glass of sherry in his hand, and as he spoke, he put it down carefully on a miniature French ormolu table, as if he were afraid of breaking it.
Rogelio changed the subject to ease the tension. He told the story of the Russian peasant who had broken into the czarina’s apartment. He was holding up the czarina’s toilet seat, Rogelio said, which was upholstered in blue velvet, when a reporter took his picture and it came out in the paper. The peasant was laughing and holding his sides; he found it hilarious that anyone would shit on a velvet cushion. “He was shot the day after he broke into the palace,” Rogelio said. “Let’s hope Desiderio doesn’t suffer the same fate.” Bienvenido was incensed, and he was about to grab Rogelio by the lapel of his jacket when Madame stopped him.
“We lived through the Russian Revolution,” she said. “You two don’t know the first thing about it.”
“I know how to take care of my friends,” Bienvenido answered. “Don’t get mixed up in this.”
Doña Victoria couldn’t hear a train go by, but she immediately guessed what her nephew and Bienvenido were arguing about. Rogelio’s father was Governor Yager’s press aide, as well as the publisher of the Puerto Rico Ilustrado, and he favored statehood. But Doña Victoria never quarreled with her brother, Rogelio’s father, because of that. Like so many families on the island, theirs was divided politically, but that didn’t prevent them from being always cordial and affectionate with each other.
Bienvenido’s face had grown a deep purple. Doña Victoria pulled her nephew by the arm and sat him between Don Pedro and herself on the medallion-backed living-room sofa to keep him out of trouble. Fortunately Rogelio was as thin as a reed and sat obediently between them, not saying a word. Don Pedro began to make small talk with Madame.
I heard Adelina calling me and I went into the kitchen to get some hors d’oeuvres—Spanish jamón serrano and fried quesitos de Arecibo. I came back as fast as I could because I didn’t want to miss anything. Bienvenido had walked out of the room and onto the verandah, where Ronda was smoking a cigarette.
“The more this
island changes, the more it stays the same,” Bienvenido said angrily, shaking his head. “It’s people like Rogelio who do the most harm: ‘tira la piedra y esconde la mano’ He likes to throw stones and then hide his hand,” he complained to Ronda. “Rogelio’s magazine is full of patriotic poems and songs, but when things come down to brass tacks—or to lead bullets—he scuttles away and nothing happens.”
Ronda looked up at him and smiled. “And are you the type that scuttles away too? It’s been a while.”
They hadn’t seen each other since the kiss in the orchid grove three summers before, and Bienvenido hadn’t even said hello that evening. He hadn’t acknowledged her presence yet. I crept up softly to where they were talking and stood behind the balcony’s louvered doors.
The young man gave up. “How are you, Ronda? You’ve grown up; you’re even more beautiful than I remembered,” he said. Ronda leaned toward him, her arms on the balcony’s railing, her brown curls falling over her shoulders like an unruly mantle.
“Really? I wouldn’t have thought you remembered me at all. Not after the way you behaved.” She took one more pull from her cigarette and extinguished it in a flowerpot.
Bienvenido protested that she was being unfair. He was terribly busy getting ready to leave for San Juan, and his studies at the university had been grueling. “Of course I remember you; in fact, I thought of you often.”
“Three years. Has it been that long? It seems it was yesterday,” Ronda said. They looked at each other as if they were on opposite banks of a river and not on Don Pedro’s moonlit verandah.
“Why did you run away, Bienvenido?” I heard Ronda ask. “I know! ‘No country should belong to another without violating the most basic of human rights: the right to be free.’ Your famous motto,” she said, speaking in a loud voice and gesturing with her arms as if she were about to give a speech. “Is that why you can’t love me?” She had meant it as a joke to ridicule him, but her voice shattered, and it came out like a plea.
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