After Diamantino’s death, Los Tiznados disappeared, mingling with the crowd. The police rounded everybody up and we ended up in the commissioner’s office, where we were interrogated. We all spent the night in jail with the exception of Madame, who was picked up by the governor himself as soon as we arrived and taken to La Fortaleza in his limousine. The next day Madame appeared at the police station. She was dressed all in black and she looked terrible. She had wiped away all her makeup, and it was as if she had erased her face and grief had been left in its place. She smiled at us behind a mask of ice and handed the commissioner a note from the governor, ordering him to release Dandré. When he was brought out, she led him out by the arm as if he were an old man.
A week later the dancers boarded the S.S. Courbelo, bound for Panama. The whole company sailed with Madame and Dandré—without me. I stayed behind on the island. I knew what it was like to be like a feather in the wind, or, as Madame once put it, “like flotsam at the mercy of the waves.” I decided to put down roots here. And yet I must admit that wasn’t the only reason. I stayed because Madame ordered me to. I was obeying her for the last time.
Dancing has to do with feet, of course, with the way you move in the world. Perhaps that’s why I fell in love with Juan. Although “fell in love” is perhaps not the most accurate description. “Blazed in love” would be more precise. We always kept a cheerful bonfire going between us.
Our relationship had one immediate effect, however. The minute Juan touched me, I became pregnant. Fortunately, we both loved children, and we ended up with six of them—the joy of our life.
Juan spent many years making shoes, giving people a solid foundation on which to stand, so they could make their own way. He was a wonderful man. He insisted that life, like the pounding of the heart, was never predetermined. “It’s the beat that makes the blood flow through the body,” he used to say, “not the other way around. Freedom has to do with the way you dare to live your life.” That’s why, when I think of Juan, I can’t be sad.
Before Madame’s troupe left the island, Juan asked Dandré and me to meet him in Old San Juan, and we sat forlornly at La Bombonera in one of the red plastic booths at the back. We all ordered coffee and mallorcas, and while we dipped the perfumed buns in our cups, we replayed the events of Diamantino’s passing. Neither the murder weapon nor the assassin of the young man was ever found; they were swallowed up by the mob that night. But in the days that followed, Diamantino was hailed as a hero. It was pointed out in the press that he had rallied the Home Guard around him and had saved the carnival queen’s life, as well as Daniel Dearborn’s. His picture was in all the papers and everyone remembered that he was Don Eduardo Márquez’s son, the heir without a kingdom, El Delfín without a crown. Molinari was accused of attempted kidnapping. In the preliminary hearing held just before they left, Madame and Dandré both testified against him, and managed to convince the judge that Molinari was a member of the Mafia through his connection with Bracale. The impresario had once been convicted in New York for racketeering, and Dandré presented enough evidence to help land him in jail.
Several months later it was revealed in court that Bracale was losing money on Madame’s tour, and that he had had her followed by Molinari—whom Juan and I had mistakenly taken for a police agent. Bracale felt, therefore, he had a right to the jewels, and if Madame refused to hand them over, he would simply take them by force. But then the governor had invited Madame and me to stay at La Fortaleza while Dandré was away in New York, and the jewels were out of his reach. Molinari had to do something to lure her away. He used Diamantino as bait, and he was very successful. The young man was at the end of his tether; everyone knew he was a revolutionary and that he couldn’t find a decent job. Molinari offered him a payoff and sent him to the Tapia Theater to play his violin for Madame. Then the unexpected happened. When the group left for Arecibo, Lyubovna had stayed behind at La Fortaleza, and kept with her Madame’s coveted alligator case. But Molinari didn’t know this until the night Juan and I caught him snooping around in Madame’s room at Dos Ríos.
Molinari’s efforts to kidnap Madame at the carnival—this time wearing her jewels—was his last chance, and Bracale sent Los Tiznados—a band of hoodlums disguised as revolutionaries—after him to make sure he did the job. Before Madame sailed she left a written statement as evidence of what she had gone through, and I read it out loud for her during the trial. Juan had informed her of everything except Diamantino’s last-minute refusal to cooperate with Los Tiznados.
Juan thought it better not to tell Madame the truth about him. She believed Diamantino had died a hero’s death, persecuted by the police for being a revolutionary, and it was better to leave things the way they were. At Juan’s urging, Dandré and I withheld the story—to protect Madame.
Once the madness of the carnival was over, San Juan’s bonfires were put out and its many churches were shrouded in purple. Madame returned to her previous dependence on Dandré, as I had known she would. The embers of their affection were still alive under the mantle of ashes, and they patched things up as much as possible.
There had been, however, one more tragic event on the night of the ball. Ronda Batistini, upon hearing that Bienvenido had fled from the Tapia with the police in hot pursuit, had run to the back of the theater and got on Rayo, the paso fino that was waiting for her there because she planned to ride him in the carnival after the ball. She was still wearing her billowing Statue of Liberty robe and golden crown when, during her maddening race down the streets of San Juan searching for Bienvenido, she lost control of the steed on Calle Cristo. Both horse and rider plunged headlong over the ancient city walls and landed on the rocks below. The next day the news broke on the front pages of all the local newspapers: “Queen Liberty Falls Headlong into Abyss.” Madame was deeply saddened by the news and went to the scene of the accident with Doña Basilisa, who was devastated, to light a candle to the Virgin of Vladimir and pray for Ronda’s soul.
Not long after these events Governor Yager was ordered to return to the States because of the loss of prestige his administration had suffered. The United States had to reverse its fund-raising policy on the island and could no longer force people to donate the shirts off their backs to buy Liberty Bonds; nor could the Americans go on making the natives grow food for the troops in their own backyards when the people themselves were perishing from hunger. Years later, thanks to President Roosevelt, the Puerto Rican Recovery Act was passed in Washington, and economic aid finally began to flow to the island.
The day Madame left, Juan went to say good-bye to her at the wharf. They stood on the deck of the S.S. Courbelo, taking in the windy blue of San Juan Bay, which sparkled in sharp-edged waves around them. Dandré went around giving orders right and left, carrying a barking Poppy in his arms, and Smallens held the cage with the nightingales. Everybody was sad: Lyubovna because she was leaving her friends at the convent, Novikov because he was saying good-bye to the trapeze artist, Nadja because she wouldn’t find any more wonderful old musical scores in San Juan. There were reporters everywhere taking “flashlight” photos.
Juan finally approached Madame. “I know you’re suffering because of Diamantino’s tragic accident,” Juan whispered softly when the reporters had left and they were finally by themselves. “Is there anything I can do to ease your sadness?”
Madame’s eyes glistened suspiciously, but she didn’t answer. She just stood there gazing at the walled city she would never see again. She never once asked about me, and Juan had to keep the apology I had entrusted him with to himself. Embarrassed, Juan looked away and was about to head down the gangway to the dock when he mustered up his courage, turned around, and said: “We know how much you loved him, Madame. And he was very young. Maybe donating something to the island would make you feel better—Diamantino would have liked that.” Although Madame promised she would, Juan doubted his words would accomplish anything. Now she was under Dandré’s thumb again and would have to beg and
wheedle for every penny she spent.
At the last minute Madame asked Juan to wait. She went down to her berth and, a moment later, brought up a pair of worn-out toe shoes which she gave to him. She wanted them to be a memento of her visit to the island, she said. Juan couldn’t help feeling disappointed. He had expected some donation to charity, no matter how modest. Instead, Madame presented him with the toe shoes, and he couldn’t return them to her without seeming impolite.
Juan kept the shoes for months, and after we got married we hung them from a bedpost in our bedroom. To Juan, they were worthless, but, as they were a relic of Madame, I refused to throw them out.
Then one day I decided to try them on. I sat on the floor, tied the silk ribbons around my ankles, and stood up.
“There’s something inside them!” I cried, clumsily losing my balance and stumbling to the floor. Juan ran in and helped me untie the slippers. He took them from me and examined them closely. The darning on the toes, which Madame had done herself, camouflaged a slit at each end. He cut them open with his shoemaker’s chaveta, and out tumbled Madame’s diamonds.
Today, Madame’s memory is revered on the island. With her money, several gymnasiums were built for schoolchildren, as well as ballet academies; our Russian Dance Academy is one of them. Most important, she gave many young women the opportunity to become professionals, so they could fly on their own.
44
I THOUGHT I’D NEVER see Madame again, but I was wrong. One day, a few years after she sailed on to South America, I traveled to New York with my husband. We had to go there periodically to replenish our academy with materials for the students’ yearly productions, and this time I had decided to accompany him. Following the tradition of the Imperial Ballet School, we were staging La Sylphide on the first of June as a graduation ballet. We needed yards and yards of white tulle for the nymphs’ costumes and two dozen diamante wings delicately wired so they would tremble at the slightest movement. I knew Madame was in New York; I had seen her picture in The New York Times, standing at the top of the marble stairs in the lobby at the Waldorf-Astoria, looking as gaunt as a heron and holding on to Mr. Dandré’s arm. She was back from her tour of Argentina, where she had danced for the president of the republic at Teatro Colón; the company had made thousands of dollars, just as Dandré had envisioned. Madame had managed to postpone her return to Europe once again, and had decided to start out on a third tour of the United States. From New Orleans to San Francisco, she would dance in the grandest theaters for fabulous sums of money. Dandré would push her bourreés just a little farther, make her soar in the air just a little higher when she did her grands jetés, until she folded her wings for good many years later in Amsterdam.
When I arrived in New York, I heard Madame was going to dance The Dying Swan at the Metropolitan Opera House, and I went alone to the matinee performance.
Her dance hadn’t lost any of its magic. The feather-light jumps, the inflection of the delicate wrists, the tremulous lifting of the arms had all remained the same. At the end of the performance I was so moved, I couldn’t go backstage as I had planned.
Juan and I were spending the week at a friend’s apartment on the West Side. The next day, while my husband took a taxi down to Sixth Avenue to shop for some special material he couldn’t find close to where we were staying—luminescent paint and a generous amount of silk tulle for La Sylphide’s costumes—I went for a walk in Central Park. It was a brisk fall morning and I wanted to take my mind off melancholy recollections. I was walking toward the duck pond just north of the Plaza, on Central Park South, when I saw a forlorn figure sitting alone on a bench. She had her back to me and I couldn’t see her face, but the way she tilted her head sideways on her long, slender neck and pulled her shawl more closely about her reminded me of Madame. I walked over gingerly, hardly daring to breathe, and sat down unobtrusively at the other end of the bench. She gazed at the pond in front of her and didn’t turn around to look at me, so for a few moments I could examine her at leisure. It was Madame.
She must have felt my eyes, because she slowly turned her head, a look of wonder on her face. “Is that you, Masha?” she said softly, her lips drawn in an incredulous smile.
I was pregnant with my second child and had grown matronly, so her hesitation wasn’t surprising. “Yes, Madame, it’s me,” I whispered as I lowered my head. I must have paled, because Madame rose and came to sit beside me. “Are you all right, my dear?” she asked. I couldn’t bear it, and I burst into tears.
Madame took my hand in hers and patted it; then she brought out a handkerchief from her handbag and handed it to me. “Why cry, Masha, darling? You have a baby and I have my art. What a wonderful thing is love! The world is irreversibly transformed by it.”
I was going to tell her how much I’d missed her, how sorry I was for what I’d done. That now I understood perfectly why she’d been willing to go with Diamantino to the ends of the earth, because I, too, had fallen in love, with Juan. But I would have been lying. I had never loved anyone as Madame had loved Diamantino. Except her; I had loved her much more. But before I could say another word, Madame rose and walked away.
About the Author
Rosario Ferré was born in Puerto Rico, where her father served as governor. She holds a doctorate in Spanish from the University of Maryland. She is best known for her novels and short stories. Her literary career began with the publication of the controversial literary journal Zona. Carga y Descarga in 1972, and her first short story collection, The Youngest Doll, was published in 1976. She has been a faculty member at the University of Puerto Rico, Rutgers University, and Johns Hopkins University. In 1992, Ferré was awarded the Liberatur Prix award at the Frankfurt Book Fair for the German translation of her novel Sweet Diamond Dust. She was a finalist for the National Book Award for her novel The House on the Lagoon in 1995. She was awarded an honorary doctorate from Brown University and received a Guggenheim Fellowship in creative arts. She was also the recipient of the prestigious Medal for Literature of the Institute of Puerto Rican Culture in 2009. Rosario Ferré lives in Puerto Rico with her family.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2001 by Rosario Ferré
Cover design by Mauricio Diaz
978-1-4804-8178-7
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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