Flight of the Swan

by Rosario Ferré

  “Then, summoning the last of his strength, Diamantino yelled: ‘You’re just jealous! It’s not my fault you’re obsessed with Ronda. You’re crazy not to put her out of your mind.’

  “When Bienvenido heard this he lowered his head, his neck muscles bulging, and he tackled Diamantino full force. It was like seeing someone trying to fight in the middle of a trough of molasses. They rolled over each other on the ground in slower and slower motion until they were so exhausted, they were unable to lift a finger. Finally they passed out, lying on top of each other like lovers. Los Tiznados picked them up and carried them to a nearby clearing.

  “The next morning, when Bienvenido woke up, Molinari was sitting on the ground in front of him, looking more than ever like a buzzard. No one had noticed us when we joined the group; Los Tiznados had accepted us as if we were two of them. Molinari leaned against an empty crate and his black wool suit was spattered with mud, but he still managed to project an air of confidence and energy. In fact, now that I think of it, I don’t remember ever seeing Molinari look tired. There was something about him—perhaps his skin, which had a dark sheen to it, or his patent-leather hair, slick with brilliantine—that made him look indestructible.

  “Molinari sat there flicking the flies away from his face with a malanga leaf as Bienvenido opened his eyes. ‘It’s about time you came to your senses, both literally and figuratively,’ Molinari said, handing the young man a flask of rum. Bienvenido’s head must have felt as big as a house; his whole body was probably sore, throbbing with pain, but he took the bottle and managed a swig. I crouched in the shadows, trying to pass unnoticed, next to the campfire’s embers.

  “‘What time is it?’ the young man asked, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. His hair was disheveled and he had a crust of blood over his right eye. His upper lip had swollen and he dabbed rum on it with his handkerchief. He could hardly speak. A couple of Los Tiznados drew near and helped him get up from the ground. They had let him pass the night out in the open, lying on the ground, afraid that if they tried to help him to a bed before his fury was spent, he would lash out at them.

  ‘It’s nearly seven, by the way the sun’s rays are slanting into the trees,’ Molinari said.

  “Bienvenido didn’t seem surprised to see Molinari. Maybe he expected him to give testimony of how two men had taken justice into their own hands to prove which one was better. He walked toward the campfire, looking for some bitter coffee to shock himself awake. Molinari reached out with his foot and nudged Diamantino in the ribs. He was lying on the ground also, and let out a groan without opening his eyes.

  “‘Go to hell!’ Diamantino said to Molinari as he rolled away from him. After a few minutes, however, he slowly got to his feet holding on to a yagrumo tree. His head was reeling, but he managed to stumble off into the thickets to urinate.”

  37

  “‘WHAT ARE YOU WAITING for?’ Molinari asked Bienvenido when he came back. ‘You’ve had your fun and haven’t gained anything by it. The best thing you can do now is cut off an ear or a finger of your precious Diamantino and send it to Don Pedro to ask for his ransom.’ But Bienvenido kept putting it off. ‘We’re waiting for help from Santo Domingo,’ he said.’ A shipment of arms should be here at any moment; with it, we can launch our coup. We can ask for ransom later.’

  “When Bienvenido wouldn’t listen, Molinari stood up to face him. ‘Has it ever occurred to you why your middle initial is “B”? Or why your skin is white when your father, Arnaldo Pérez, is a mulatto? Everyone in Arecibo knows you’re Don Pedro Batistini’s son. That’s why Diamantino warned you about Ronda; there was no need for you to get so angry at him and provoke a fight.’

  “Bienvenido didn’t answer and hung his head.

  “‘Don Pedro raped your mother and you need money for the coup,’ Molinari added. ‘It’s as simple as that. Now, when you sack Dos Ríos, you won’t have to feel guilty. Since Don Pedro’s son committed suicide, you’re entitled to his fortune.’

  “Who asked for your opinion?’ Bienvenido yelled at him. ‘Shut up or I’ll shut you up myself!’ And he stalked off into the woods without answering Molinari.

  “This information was all new to me, but I judged it wise to keep my own counsel. Soon Madame sent for me. I took my duffel bag and entered the tent that had been assigned to her. She was sitting on a stool in the middle of the airy canvas room, mending an exercise suit on her lap. ‘At last, you’re here!’ she cried when she saw me.’ I have to dance The Dying Swan at a nearby town tonight, and my shoes are worn to a pulp.’ No sooner had she said that than I brought out the new pair of toe shoes from my bag and laid them on the ground before her. ‘You’re an angel,’ she said, kissing me on both cheeks. ‘I know I can count on you when in need.’

  “That was when I learned about Madame’s solo performances around the island, during which she made good her promise to take ballet to the people. ‘I’m finally exorcising my nightmares about the war, Juan, about the millions of people who are dying in Europe, especially in Russia! When I dance The Dying Swan for these people, I’m saying a prayer for peace,’ she said. ‘They must never know what a war is like.’ When I heard this from Madame, I winced. What was she doing, talking about the war? About the people who were dying in Europe? Didn’t she know there was a war going on around her? How could she be so blind? Frankly, I couldn’t understand why Masha admired Madame so much. Either she had become completely estranged from reality because of her romantic involvement with Diamantino, or the high altitudes had unhinged her mind.

  “Every morning Madame, a group of Los Tiznados, and I got on our horses and went on a trip to a different town. I enjoyed the mountains in spite of the danger we were in. It was cool, and they reminded me of my youth in Cayey on my father’s tobacco farm. One felt safe, with many places to hide. The terrain was reassuringly familiar. Giant fern leaves blew like lungs of green lace in the breeze, yagrumo trees waved their silvery hands from the mountaintops, and my beloved nicotianas spread their wide, perfumed leaves over the valleys. As we mounted the steep hills, we crossed paths with several search parties, but they never found us. People always gave us shelter or told us where to hide. Los Tiznados had many friends. The farmers lied to the armed troops and pointed in the opposite direction from where we were going. After a couple of days we would return to Otoao, where Los Tiznados had their camp. There we rested and refurbished our provisions.

  “Otoao is an Indian word; it means ‘Rock Among the Clouds.’ The terrain was so steep there it made you claustrophobic, and it was difficult to breathe. The mist traveled through the area in huge shreds of gauze, as if the mountains had wounds in them that needed to be bandaged. In Otoao the earth was a deep red, and when it rained it seemed to bleed from every jagged hillock and abrupt crag.

  “Near the settlement a large, rectangular ball court had been discovered some time back, surrounded by giant boulders carved with Indian symbols and petroglyphs. This ball court, as well as the village beside it, was in the region of Las Brujas, one of the highest parts of the island. Bienvenido told us it was there that the last of the Taino Indians had entrenched themselves during the Spanish conquest, and now it gave refuge to Los Tiznados. Those bleeding mountains around camp made me fear our island would always remain cursed, that it would never heal.

  “The trips seemed to be a kind of pilgrimage for Madame, a way to pay for her sins, for having enjoyed a privileged life. She may have been estranged from her world, adrift in her own dreams, but she showed a great deal of grace under pressure. As we traveled by mule pack up the rocky paths, she was amazingly self-possessed. When we stepped over raging streams, her resiliency as a dancer was a great help to her in the dangerous leaps from boulder to boulder. Leeches, black and round like giant moles, stuck to our legs when we crossed the rivers and had to be removed with fire.

  “In the small towns we stayed in third-class hotels and had to drink the turbid yellow water pouring from the faucets. Madame suffered fro
m dysentery after the first few days. Some towns didn’t even have a hotel, and we had to sleep in the plazas or on tables at the local restaurants once the customers had left. We rode the pack mules into the forest and wrapped plantain leaves dipped in water on our heads to keep cool. The further we went into the island the poorer the towns became, and yet the minute we entered a town Madame would ask if there was a theater or a movie house in which to dance The Dying Swan. In Barranquitas, Los Tiznados stole a Philips phonograph, the kind you cranked up, with a tin amplifier that looked like a trumpet, and a crateful of records of classical music from the local casino. They gave it to Madame, who was thrilled; now she could die to the music of Saint-Saëns.

  “Even when it was raining and the roof leaked, Madame danced in the puddles. If the stage floor had holes in it, she asked for a canvas and spread it over the boards so her feet wouldn’t get caught in them. Finally, when we arrived at Sabana Grande, a town between Mayagüez and Ponce, the movie house where she danced remained completely empty. She put two gas hurricane lamps on the stage floor and announced that the performance that night would be free, and people flocked to see her. In Ponce, where she danced at La Perla Theater, the rumor went around that Madame was giving her support to the terrorists, and no one bought tickets to the performance. But Madame ordered all the windows of the theater opened, and she danced for free to a crowd of onlookers who stood on the sidewalk. At other towns there were open stages and kiosks in the middle of the plaza, and she danced on them as well, using the headlights of the local automobiles for lighting.

  “I pitied Madame: her tour wasn’t just the whim of a prima donna Los Tiznados were catering to. They were using her, traveling by her side from one town to another, to gain support for their cause. And Madame let herself be used.

  “After the fight, things between Bienvenido and Diamantino calmed down. They talked to each other like normal human beings and Diamantino suggested they visit Martina Arroyo, a sister of Bienvenido’s mother, Aralia. Diamantino was convinced that if Bienvenido managed to overcome his passion for Ronda he would leave Los Tiznados’ camp. ‘To be a Tiznado is to be suicidal,’ I heard him say to Madame one night.’ These men know they are going to die. If Bienvenido admits that Ronda is his sister, maybe he’ll be able to put her out of his mind. Then, perhaps he’ll let us go.’

  “Martina Arroyo lived in Naranjito, a barrio near the town of Barranquitas. Since Aralia, Martina’s sister, was dead, no one in Arecibo could confirm what Diamantino had told his friend, but Martina would know the secret.

  “We traveled there and squatted in front of the palm-thatched hut drinking hot, bitter coffee out of coquitos—carved, rustic coconut cups. Martina was old and wizened, and her hand trembled as she fanned the embers of an open fire with a plantain leaf.

  “‘The rich on this island are like the moon, they have two faces,’ she said, stirring the embers with a stick of wood. ‘The bright side is presented to the world. The dark is seldom made public, but the men are nonetheless proud of it. It’s proof of their masculinity, being able to have children “in” more than one woman, like a paso fino stud.’

  “Your father, Don Pedro, was like that. He was a bull of a man,’ she told Bienvenido in a pebbly voice. ‘Aralia became pregnant a few days before Doña Basilisa. I was midwife to both of them. Miss Ronda and you were born only hours apart.’ This time Bienvenido couldn’t retreat into denial; he was getting the information firsthand. His shoulders slumped and his face became ashen, so that his red hair stood out even brighter above his anguished face.

  “‘Very well, it’s true…’ he said, then swallowed his bitter coffee in one gulp. ‘But I love her just the same. I’ll never give her up.’ We were shocked, but there was nothing we could do.

  “Why do we fall in love with one person and not with another? Love is a mystery no one can unravel. Ronda looked a lot like Bienvenido. They had the same square, chiseled chin, wide-set eyes, and high forehead. Maybe they fell in love because they resembled each other so much. Ronda understood the contradictions of Bienvenido’s character. He loved good wines, was always impeccably dressed by the best tailor in Arecibo, and at the same time hated the petrimetres who were always lolling about the plaza, showing off their linen suits and reciting poems out loud. ‘I love the whole of you, your sophisticated and your barbarian side,’ Ronda would say.

  “I respected Bienvenido. He was a born leader and he always rode ahead of Los Tiznados, but his desire for Ronda was like a sickness. He knew he could never have her. He was like Tantalus—the fruit was ripe and perfumed on the branch, but he knew that if he reached for it, it would shrivel in his mouth. He made me think of Absalom, King David’s son. Absalom fell in love with his sister Tamar, who was exceedingly fair, and took her to his tent to force himself upon her. Still wrapped in the searing sheets of passion, Absalom regretted what he had done, and that very night galloped away on his horse to a faraway olive grove, where he hung himself from a tree. Bienvenido swore the same thing wouldn’t happen to him. He was never going to lay a hand on Ronda, he swore, no matter what tortures life held in store.”

  38

  “WE WERE STAYING IN a village near Loiza, on the north coast, when Madame saw a group of people dancing an atonal, rhythmic dance of African origin and she was curious. I know all about drums and so do many of our countrymen, so it didn’t surprise me when she asked me to introduce the drums to her: ‘This is Tumbador and this is Subidor,’ I said solemnly. ‘They are the high priests of Bomba. They were used by slaves to communicate with each other when a rebellion was afoot.’ And I showed Madame the wooden casks covered with goat skin, which were tightened with rough-hewn wooden pegs at the sides. ‘Drums can be as powerful as love—they push you toward the right or pull you toward the left. You have no choice but to follow,’ my grandmother Zambia used to say. I thought of her when I placed Madame’s hands over the drums so that she could feel the skins quiver.

  “For years Madame had danced in pink tights and frothy tutus in deference to the formal etiquette of the czar’s court, but now she burst out from all that as from a silk cocoon. She took off her toe shoes and concentrated on the rhythm of the drums. She danced wildly, whips of hair flailing around her. It was as if she were possessed by the spirits summoned by the drums. She choreographed a new ballet to them, which she said she would dance in the next town.

  “A few days later we were sitting on the floor of a palm-thatched hut at Otoao when a messenger arrived from the coast. He brought depressing news. The cargo of arms Bienvenido was expecting had been captured soon after it had sailed out of the Mapeye river, near San Pedro de Macoris, and its captain was now in a Santo Domingo jail. Without arms Los Tiznados would be annihilated. They desperately needed the money to obtain a second cargo.

  “A new strategy was devised to garner funds. Los Tiznados began to hold up innocent travelers on the road from Arecibo to Otoao, which cut across the steepest mountains. Several victims died, among them a priest, a sick child, and his mother, who were going to the hospital in Arecibo when their coach was held up. The driver lost control of the horse and the coach hurtled down a ravine. When Madame heard this, her anguish knew no limits. The purpose of her art was to bring peace to the world, and now this crime would be on her conscience for the rest of her life. It didn’t matter if Los Tiznados’ cause was politically justified, no one had the right to take another person’s life. Madame became physically ill. For two days she barely ate or drank.

  “At Otoao’s camp, every night after dinner, I sat with Madame and Diamantino in the dark and we would tell each other stories. Madame would stare into the darkness listening to the coquís, tiny frogs whose song streaked the night with silver.

  “Finally, one evening Bienvenido came over to the hut where Madame and Diamantino were staying. He had important news, he said as he pulled up a chair: Los Tiznados had decided to release her, but they wanted one last thing from her. She had to write a note to Governor Yager asking for f
ifty thousand dollars in ransom. If she refused, they would have to kill her.

  “‘I’ll write it, if that’s what you want,’ Madame answered quietly. ‘But the American government will never pay that much for a Russian ballerina, not even for a famous one. It would be much wiser if you let me return to San Juan. Perhaps I can get the money, and help you from there.’

  “Bienvenido consulted with Los Tiznados, and surprisingly they agreed to the plan. They didn’t hold Madame in any special esteem. Instead, they ridiculed her, and whenever they saw her dance The Dying Swan, they would guffaw and slap their thighs in merriment, making obscene sounds or gobbling like turkeys. When they saw she was head over heels in love with Diamantino Márquez, they told him, laughing, ‘May God bless your balls. Madame may go in peace.’ Then Los Tiznados told her, ‘If you disappear, you can be sure your boyfriend will pay for it. Juan Anduce will go with you; if anything happens, he’ll know how to take care of you.’ And they laughed uproariously again, smacking Diamantino in the back.

  “I looked at Diamantino, who sat on the floor next to Madame, and I felt sorry for him. He’d been a prisoner now for over two weeks, and except for the first day, they never tied him down. Now his wrists were roped behind his back. He didn’t protest or try to defend himself, but stared defiantly at Bienvenido. His eyeglasses had been cracked in the fight, but he still wore them. People’s characters shine through under stress, and El Delfín was a gentleman’s son, a true gentleman himself. But he was also an anachronism.