Flight of the Swan

by Rosario Ferré

  Doña Basilisa and Don Pedro were good friends of Governor Yager, and the next day we heard that they had sent him a personal message informing him of Ronda’s plight, asking for his help in finding her a king. But the governor was so busy organizing search parties for Los Tiznados all over the island that it slipped his mind. The letter lay on the governor’s desk, unanswered, for several days, and Doña Basilisa didn’t dare keep looking for a suitable monarch because the governor might be insulted if she took further steps to solve the problem.

  One of the governor’s aides dropped by the hotel the day after Madame arrived. “Governor Yager would like you to be his guest at La Fortaleza again, Madame,” he informed her. “He feels you’d be safer there until Mr. Dandré gets back. I’m supposed to drive you over to the mansion myself.” Madame thanked him and asked if I could go with her. Fortunately, the aide said yes.

  Half an hour later I was unpacking our valises and making Madame comfortable in one of La Fortaleza’s ample guest bed-rooms. The butler showed us to our quarters. Madame’s bed had a bronze canopy with gauze curtains falling down its sides and an absurd bronze crown sitting on top. It had been made for the diva Angelina Bertoli, queen of sopranos, when she had visited the island years before, the butler explained. I remembered Don Pedro’s vivid story about the nightingale in the little red plush cart.

  The room was beautiful, with a marble-topped console carved in dark, gleaming mahogany and a balcony that overlooked the bay and the Moorish gardens. The governor apparently wanted to make up for the discomforts Madame had suffered at the hands of the supposed “pranksters” of the Home Guard during her escapade in the mountains. He didn’t believe her story for a minute and suspected Los Tiznados—he’d received several police reports that Madame had been seen riding through the towns of the interior with them—but concluded it was better not to stir things up by questioning her before Mr. Dandré got back.

  This time I wasn’t put away in a cell in the basement, like the last time we had stayed at the governor’s palace. I had a small room to myself adjacent to Madame’s, which opened to an inner patio. Since Lyubovna was staying at the convent and Dandré was away, I was considered Madame’s official companion and everyone treated me with respect.

  Madame said she wanted to rest for a few days before she danced again, and I was glad of the decision. No one in the troupe dared ask if she had been with Diamantino in the mountains, or if she planned to be reunited with him later, and I was reluctant to question her. We all wanted to believe she had changed her mind about abandoning the company. I was the only one she confided in, and that only by halves, always drawing a reticent veil over what had really happened.

  Juan came every day to La Fortaleza as Madame’s official shoemaker and told me confidentially that Diamantino aimed to rejoin Madame at some point, but that he didn’t know exactly when. I pretended not to be aware of anything, and went on trying to make Madame’s life as comfortable as possible. One afternoon we were sitting on the balcony that opened onto the bay, brushing each other’s hair and doing our nails, when I heard a heavy step echo behind us. I turned around and saw Dandré’s bearlike shape pause heavily in the doorway. “How are you, Niura, my little swan?” he said, his dark shadow looming over his suitcase. “The Borinquen just got into port this afternoon. I never had a chance to send you a telegram.”

  My heart did a triple cabriole, and I had to hold on to my chair so as not to fall off. Madame didn’t move from her lounge chair. She kept on varnishing her nails with Revolutionary Rose as if Dandré had been away for only a moment. “You look thinner, darling,” she finally said, looking up from her nails. “Have you been eating well? I’ve missed you.” I didn’t need to hear anything else. I sighed, picked up my hairbrush, and left the room.

  The next days were agonizing. I was torn between feelings of relief at having Dandré back and my old jealousy, which sprang up in scarlet shoots around my heart. If it’s true that absence makes the heart grow fonder, it was certainly true in Madame’s case. Time had softened her image of Dandré, and his hoodlum ways now didn’t seem so menacing. She had missed his pampering and his attention to detail, which were very different from the undependable embraces of her firebrand lover. Dandré seemed to guess this and was very tender with Madame, so that soon her old dependence on him began to resurface. He went back to his coddling: “Don’t you think you should do this, darling? Why do you want to do that, dear?”—the you-know-it’s-not-good-for-you kind of advice. To make matters worse, at night Dandré and Madame slept in the bronze canopied bed, which took to jingling and jangling like a two-penny orchestra. Meanwhile, I lay in the next room stifling my hot shame under the sheets or gazing out of the window and counting the cold stars nailed to the sky.

  Dandré had recovered Madame for us, but I feared it was only temporary. I was tempted to tell him what I knew, but I chose to be compassionate. They had spent too many years together, had braved many storms arm in arm. They were like two trees whose trunks had grown into each other and it was pitiful to separate them. Better to wait and see if things would resolve themselves.

  The girls, on the other hand, were happy to see Dandré and no longer minded when he patted their cheeks and pinched their behinds. They followed him everywhere, chattering and laughing, and when he gave them their new passports, they were exuberant, kissing him on the tip of his nose or on his bald pate. Dandré, for his part, had apparently talked to Molinari, because a few days after his arrival, he had more information about Diamantino Márquez and about Madame’s carryings-on with the young man than I ever would have dared reveal. His reaction was totally different from what I expected. He wasn’t jealous, he bantered in front of Madame; he was too old for that. But didn’t Madame feel guilty robbing the cradle? And wasn’t the corn just a little green behind the ears? From now on, every time he made love to her he was going to take a milk bath first, so Madame wouldn’t be able to tell the difference in how her two lovers tasted. When I heard him talk like that and heard Madame’s peals of laughter shaking the bed’s ridiculous bronze crown at night, my fears of Madame’s abandoning us or of a crime of passion being committed in the bedroom next to mine were scattered to the wind.

  At other times, however, I wondered how Madame really felt. At times she looked sad; she reminded me of the Swan of Tuonela, gliding silently on the icy Gulf of Finland in search of its lost reflection. Maybe Dandré wasn’t smart enough to realize that something was wrong, that perhaps Madame wasn’t sincere in her loving behavior. I desperately wanted her to stay with him and to forget Diamantino, so that our lives would return to normal, but she looked like she was waiting for something. She would sit out on the balcony staring out to sea for hours or watching the cargo ships sail in and out of the harbor. Even with Dandré constantly urging her to get up and practice, to round up her dancers and begin rehearsals again, Madame said she just didn’t have the energy—until the day I saw Juan coming up La Fortaleza’s stairs with a new pair of toe shoes tucked under his arm, asking to see her.

  I was going to take the package from him, but Juan refused to hand it over. “I’m supposed to give them personally to Madame, my duck,” he said quietly. I thought it was odd and immediately suspected something. I went to Madame’s room and silently mouthed the words behind Dandré’s back: “Juan Anduce is asking for you. He has something to deliver personally.”

  Quick as lightning, Madame went downstairs to meet Juan. When she came back, she was beaming, holding the new shoes tightly against her chest. “Diamantino is finally coming back,” she whispered breathlessly, and she made me swear I’d keep the secret.

  41

  A FEW DAYS EARLIER Daniel Dearborn had flown into San Juan from the island of St. Thomas. Danny Dear, as he was known, was the all-American hero of the moment. He had thousands of fans across the nation, and the president conferred on him the Congressional Medal of Honor. When he smiled, he looked like a wholesome American farm boy, and if he frowned he reminded you
of a Viking god. Sitting on his frail wicker chair inside the Silver Hawk’s cabin, he appeared on the front page of every newspaper in the world.

  Dearborn was independently wealthy, and had set himself the task of becoming his country’s first Ambassador of the Air. He had devised to fly nonstop from Washington, DC, to Mexico City in a twenty-seven-hour flight, financing the trip himself. From Mexico he flew to Venezuela and from there set across the Caribbean, hopping from island to island on a fourteen-country pan-American “goodwill tour.” That was when he visited Puerto Rico, on his way to Santo Domingo and Cuba.

  Unmarried, blond, and blue-eyed, Dearborn chose to fly his monoplane alone, without weaker souls to distract him. He had already crossed the Atlantic in a radarless flight from Newfoundland all the way to Paris, which first propelled him to international fame. During that heroic voyage, nights were dark as a wolf’s maw, and he had had only the stars to guide him. He had had to battle sleep, ice needles forming inside the plane’s unpressurized cabin, disorienting fog, islands appearing before the cockpit which turned out to be mirages, and even a whole array of ghosts who supposedly sat on the tail of his plane, laughing at him for his audacity. But he expected none of this to occur on his trip to the sunny Caribbean.

  I didn’t share the public’s overwhelming admiration for “the Viking.” Dearborn was the son of a Swede; his real last name was Mansson, and his father had changed it to Dearborn when he emigrated to the United States. In my eyes, he was just another phlegmatic Scandinavian, the same kind that for centuries had tried to invade Russia from the Baltic. The American government, bent on fostering his image as a demigod come to impart the blessings of civilization to the inhabitants of the islands, took advantage of Dearborn’s altruism and launched a huge publicity campaign. His airplane was like the moon—it pulled a human tidal wave behind it, and mobs would spill over airport fences and into landing fields every time the Silver Hawk was about to touch down.

  Danny’s visit was proof that Americans were able to pilot the destinies of the sleepy-eyed, lazy people of the tropics. “The young colonel’s mission,” a mainland journal proclaimed, “is to make men of alien races forget their differences in the common admiration of bravery.” But I knew what was going on. I wasn’t ignorant like the other dancers, who never read a newspaper or leafed through a magazine.

  I knew that the Caribbean was besieged by American warships. The American president had recently sent the marines to occupy Haiti. In Nicaragua and Honduras, United Fruit was king, and the marines were there to make sure it stayed that way. Mexico had been invaded by U.S. troops fifty years earlier, but the wound of that brazen act was still fresh in people’s minds. And now along came Danny, winging his way in like a dove of peace and claiming he wasn’t interested in politics, only in the “adventure of flying” and in bringing the modern world to Latin America. Masha, the peasant girl from Minsk, knew better than that. Dearborn’s trip was just another example of big white brother setting the example for little brown brother in the South to follow. Or else.

  Danny was in very good shape as he approached the island. St. Thomas was only a short hop away, and the flight from Charlotte Amalie to Puerto Rico was a piece of cake. He followed the coast from Fajardo all the way up to San Juan, often swooping down as low as he could and sticking his head out the window to identify the landmarks. San Juan’s streets and rooftops were crammed with people waving American flags and scanning the empty horizon when suddenly, out of the blue, a silver sliver began to dance merrily in the sky.

  The Silver Hawk appeared in all its glory and, under the blazing hot sun, a display of fireworks burst forth. One long, uninterrupted cheer went up and down the length of Ponce de León Avenue, and radio commentators began to yell out the news. Donkey-paced, sleepy Puerto Rico, el Jíbarito’s territory for more than three centuries of backward Spanish rule, had finally winged into the modern age. Dearborn had joined it to the future of mankind.

  Madame and I negotiated our way around the street vendors who were selling all sorts of Dearborn souvenirs. There were models of the Silver Hawk crocheted in silver thread by little old ladies; there were Dearborn busts cast in bronze or in silver-plated alloys, done in plaster, or carved in bone and soap; there were Dearborn ashtrays, toothpick holders, and beer mugs; stickpins of his monoplane were sold at every corner (in New York, J. P. Morgan had one with the Silver Hawk cut from a single diamond); a company in Massachusetts produced the Lucky Dearborn shoe for women, which featured the silhouette of the Silver Hawk sewn in patent leather, with a propeller on the toe and a photograph of Danny inserted in a leather horseshoe sewn on the side, and some had made their way to the island (Juan, who liked fine shoes, was furious when he saw them; he considered them an example of the horrendous taste Americans would impose on Puerto Rico). And for each product Dearborn endorsed, he was paid a generous sum. Madame bought a Dearborn tie and put it in her handbag to give to Dandré as a present.

  A few minutes later, Dearborn circled the capitol’s dome several times, waving to the cheering crowds below; then he did three Immelmann turns and soared almost straight up and over until he was flying upside down. Finally, he landed at the city’s canódromo, the dog-racing course, where Governor Yager was waiting for him in his classic white linen suit and immaculate white suede shoes. The official caravan whisked Dearborn away in a black Packard limousine and brought him straight to La Fortaleza, where Danny would spend the night in the bedroom next to Madame’s.

  The following day, over breakfast, the governor congratulated Dearborn: “Your trip is a monumental step in the development of mankind; we need more peacemaking missions like yours,” he said. Then he confided that the island was going through a dangerous period of unrest, and that there were rabble-rousers everywhere. He told Dearborn all about Los Tiznados, and how, after kidnapping the famous Russian ballet star who was staying next door to him—she had turned up in San Juan drugged and with a scarf tied over her eyes a few days earlier—they still remained out of reach in their redoubt in the mountains. “We need your help, Colonel. Your motto, ‘Airplanes give the eyes of birds to the minds of men,’ could be of great value to us. Would you take a turn or two around the island in the Silver Hawk in order to see if you can discern any sign of them? I hear that, from an airplane, one can discover places that are very difficult to reach by land. The truth is, we have no idea of Los Tiznados’ whereabouts.”

  Dearborn didn’t think he could be of help, but he asked for a map of the island to humor the governor. He would gladly fly over the hilly forests a few times—the island was very small, after all—only thirty-five miles wide by one hundred miles long and shaped like a crumpled lozenge—to see if he could discover some clue to the desperadoes’ whereabouts. While he was at it, however, he wondered if the governor wouldn’t mind telling him if there were any Indian ruins around, because he was an amateur archeologist and there was nothing in the world he loved to do more than discover archeological sites from the air. He had done it in Mexico, where he had taken the first air photographs of Chichén Itzá, the famous Mayan metropolis, and he had then proceeded to discover half a dozen Mayan cities in Quintana Roo.

  Governor Yager agreed to his request, gave him a map, and pointed out the general area of the ancient Taino baseball park of Otoao, which had never been reconnoitered from the air. The following day, Dearborn flew southwest toward the jagged peaks that rose like a spine the length of the island. After twenty minutes of scanning and swinging in and out of the clouds, he saw a large, rectangular clearing with rows of huge stones standing on edge. He swooped down to get a better look and suddenly found himself being fired at by what looked like a band of scraggly, bearded men with straw hats on their heads. Their camp was practically an arsenal, and there were rifles and ammo boxes everywhere. No doubt they were Los Tiznados.

  Dearborn turned his plane around and twenty minutes later he was back in San Juan, landing at the dog-racing course. In less than an hour he had traveled to
and from Otoao, a distance which usually took a week to reach, scaling steep gorges and mountain paths, and a week to return. As soon as Governor Yager was informed of the location of the Indian site, a police detachment was sent to the spot and most of Los Tiznados were wiped out or captured. The news was published in all the papers. Bienvenido and Diamantino, who barely managed to escape, read about it at El Carite, a cafetín near Arecibo where they had taken refuge. They swore they would make Colonel Dearborn pay.

  42

  THAT AFTERNOON I WAS ironing Madame’s clothes when I heard a knock at the door. It was Estrella Aljama and Diana Yager, who had come to visit Madame. They were dressed in muslin, one in pink and the other one in white. They came in laughing and embraced Madame affectionately. They were surprised to find Dandré in the room and immediately stopped chattering, but I introduced him and told them who he was and that he had just arrived from the States. Dandré bowed graciously and left the room after paying his compliments. The girls went on jabbering excitedly. They told Madame all about Dearborn’s arrival; he was as good-looking as it was rumored, six feet tall, lithe, with a golden cowlick on his forehead. To top it off he was a bachelor, the dream man of every single young woman on the island. Madame definitely had to meet him.

  The girls wanted Madame to hear the plans for the Ponce de León Carnival, which was to be held the following night. Preparations for the celebrations were almost ready. The ball was to be named the Democracy Ball, and everyone was to attend masked. Ronda’s ladies-in-waiting would be Diana and Estrella, dressed respectively as Fraternity and Equality. In fact, a marvelous idea had occurred to them: since Ronda Batistini, the carnival queen, still hadn’t been able to find a king, if Dearborn could be persuaded to stay on the island one extra night and postpone his flight to Santo Domingo, he could take the king’s place and it would make the event an even greater social success. Ronda had suggested it to her father, who told Governor Yager. The governor thought the idea brilliant—he had just read Don Pedro’s letter, which he had finally stumbled on under a pile of backlogged correspondence—and immediately sent a message to the committee in charge of organizing the festivities. They wouldn’t have to pick a king for the Democracy Ball after all, he said. He promised to take Dearborn to them in person, and the famous aviator would escort the queen to her throne that evening.