The News from Paraguay

by Lily Tuck

  Besides the location, the Hotel de la Paix had another advantage, a special rate for extended stays; Ella was planning on staying six months, until after the baby was born.

  After battling the current of La Plata and sailing past the islands of Martin García and Los Dos Hermanos, the Tacuari, with Franco, his retinue, his servants and band on board, entered the calmer waters of the Paraná River on her way up to Paraguay. Only since Juan Manuel de Rosas, the dictator of Buenos Ayres, had been deposed had the Paraná River been open to traffic and, as if to make up for the lost time, the river was crowded with ships. Although wide, the river was shallow and the ships had to follow shifting channels; they had to avoid sandbanks, floating islands of lianas and scrub. If the wind died down, the ships had to be poled up the river or else tied to a tree on shore and pulled along by the men on land.

  Almost three years since Franco had left Asunción and he was impatient to get home. In his shirtsleeves, he paced the deck and urged the sailors on; he swore at Captain Ribera when twice the Tacuari went aground and they had to wait for the tide before they were afloat again. He took no interest in the flat wooded landscape that stretched on one side of the shore or, on the other, the unmapped Chaco, inhabited by cannibal tribes; likewise Franco paid little attention to the abundant wildlife: the cougars and tapirs that came down at dusk to the shore of the river to drink; the loglike crocodiles that dozed in the mud; the tremendous herons that, with a great clap of their wings, suddenly took flight; the flocks of parrots—sometimes hundreds of birds at one time—that flew, screaming, only a foot or two above his head. On one exceptionally hot and steamy afternoon, they ran into a swarm of locusts—brown-winged insects two to three inches long. Thousands of them dropped on deck; some of the locusts landed on Franco’s French linen shirt and ate holes in it, but he hardly noticed.

  In addition to the Teatro Nacional, Buenos Ayres boasted a number of other theaters, an opera house, a natural history museum, a public library and several clubs. The popular Club del Progresso provided members with a reading room, a billiard room, a conversation hall where the commercial news of the day was written on a slate and, best to Ella’s mind, a monthly ball considered the most elegant in all of South America. The city, which was built according to an orderly grid, had plenty of parks and public spaces; the largest and most fashionable square, Plaza Victoria, commemorated the revolution and the independence of South America with a column to Liberty inscribed with 25 de Mayo 1810. Not far from the Hotel de la Paix, Ella walked to Plaza Victoria each afternoon with Doña Iñes; together they sat in the shade of the large Paradise trees and listened to the band play and they continued her Spanish lessons in the open air.

  Only when the wind blew in the wrong direction did Buenos Ayres no longer live up to its name. There were two abattoirs inside the city limits and hundreds of cows were slaughtered there each day—not for their meat but for their hides. The carcasses were left where they fell to rot or to be eaten by vultures and wild dogs. On those days, people rode through the city streets with perfumed handkerchiefs held tightly to their faces.

  Up before dawn, Marie was quick to find her way to the markets: the Recoba Vieja at the corner of Calle Potosi and Calle Peru and the Italian market, Mercado del Plata, at the corner of Calle Artes and Calle Cuyo, where she bought vegetables. She was quick to learn that the best potatoes came from Baradero; the best peaches from Santiago del Estero; the best butter from English-bred cows and from the Swiss colonies of Entre Rios and Santa Fe; and the freshest milk was supplied by the Basque lecheros who rode in every morning on horseback, from Quilmes, Lomas de Zamora and Moron.

  One morning, a young lechero brought Marie a gift, a cup filled with cream—crème fraîche.

  “Who told you he was Jesus Christ?” Father Gaspar Alvarez, Doña Iñes’s confessor, asked.

  “He told me Himself,” Doña Iñes answered, crossing herself.

  Mathilde was stabled at the Allinson & Malcolm’s livery stables on Plaza 25 de Mayo, not far from Plaza Victoria. The mare had lost weight during the ocean crossing, the sheen was gone from her gray coat; she tossed her head up and down restlessly, nervously. “Do not worry yourself over her,” Patrick MacBride, the groom who took care of Mathilde, told Ella. “I’ll look after her fine for you. You’ll see, she’ll be right as rain soon.” Once a steeplechase jockey, Patrick promised to ride and exercise Mathilde every day for Ella now that Dr. Henry Kennedy, the young doctor from North America, had forbidden her to. And like Ella, Patrick was from County Cork—from Schull, exactly. He had left in 1847, at the height of the famine. “Not only in Schull but in Goleen as well, and as far away as Drimoleague, little children mostly died—twenty-five of them a day,” Patrick told Ella.

  Ella left Ireland when she was ten years old. One night, her father simply gathered as much of his belongings as he could carry and, abandoning his house and the rest of his possessions, he took the family to relatives in France. A doctor, her father had seen enough—not just famine but the fever and dysentery that followed. All the servants had fled and there was no food left in the house. Ella’s mother, Adelaide, had to make soup from the roots she dug out of the garden, and as long as she lived, Ella said, she would never forget that feeling of emptiness—she was so hungry that she once ate seaweed and right away was sick from it—and of giddiness she associated with not having enough to eat, with starving nearly.

  5 FEBRUARY 1855

  I feel astonishingly well and have regained my appetite and Dr. Kennedy says that everything is progressing as it should and I should not worry. I told Dr. Kennedy that I was afraid the baby would turn into a circus acrobat the way he tumbles around inside my stomach but Dr. Kennedy did not appear to be amused. I believe he takes himself very seriously. Something else I have noticed about Dr. Kennedy is that he has very small hands, smaller than mine I daresay, but I suppose that is a good thing since he is a surgeon and has to perform delicate operations. Nevertheless, I feel there is something strange about him, but “no importa!” as people here are so fond of saying, as long as he delivers the baby safely.

  (“Quién sabe?” is another favorite saying—I find the people in Buenos Ayres very kind but also quite lazy. Perhaps, it is the hot climate.)

  Naturally I miss Franco but I believe it is for the best that he has gone on ahead. In my present condition, he would not find me very entertaining company. Also it allows Franco the time to make the necessary arrangements for my arrival in Paraguay!

  A very elegant woman, Monsieur Maréchal, the proprietor of the Hotel de la Paix, observed to Madame Maréchal, his wife. Not only elegant but charming and well bred, even if she was enceinte. Monsieur Maréchal considered himself a good judge of people—after all it was his occupation, and here, in Buenos Ayres, he got to see all sorts of people passing through—rich landowners, engineers, naturalists, a lot of fortune hunters, too. Right away, as soon as someone walked through the hotel door, Monsieur Maréchal unerringly could tell, he said—and never mind how, an instinct perhaps—if that particular person would make trouble or complain about the food or the service. More important, Monsieur Maréchal could always tell if that particular person would pay his bill on time. Madame Lynch had a lovely smile, too, and when she spoke to him—not necessarily of anything of great importance—but only to say good day, or wasn’t it a fine day?, Monsieur Maréchal was once again struck by the mellifluousness of her voice, the sweetness of her gaze. And such a talented woman besides! The other night after supper, at their repeated request, she had played the piano, a beautiful piece by Franz Liszt, who she said was her friend and her teacher, and everyone, including Madame Maréchal, agreed that Madame Lynch played just like a professional, a concert pianist. Yes, there was no doubt in Monsieur Maréchal’s mind that Madame Lynch was a lady!

  8 FEBRUARY 1855

  Today, at last, I received a letter from Franco, who, since his arrival in Asunción, claims to have had no time to write. He describes the boat journey as long and ho
t and tedious and how he got bitten by at least a thousand different kinds of insects and that he missed me more than ever especially since there was no one there to scratch those bites for him. Ha ha! I am going to write back saying that I hope Franco’s affection for me is not based entirely on my ability to scratch mosquito bites! Franco also writes that his father, Don Carlos, has gained an enormous amount of weight—so much so that Franco, at first, nearly did not recognize him. He looked like some sort of mastodon is how Franco described him in his letter. Apparently the old man cannot get out of his chair without the help of at least two men and he must be carried everywhere. Franco did not mention whether he has told his family about me and our child—my supposition is that he has not. Frankly I am not surprised, in my experience, even the most courageous men are cowards when it comes to discussing matters of the heart.

  Speaking of the heart—I wonder what has become of Dimitri? I promised myself not to think of him but I cannot help myself especially since I am feeling alone….

  I try to keep occupied and in the afternoons either I go to Plaza Victoria or I visit the sights and Doña Iñes accompanies me. Such a strange woman! Thus far I am prepared to swear that we have lit candles for the baby in every church in Buenos Ayres! Meantime, too, I have become acquainted with many of the local families, who have been most cordial and hospitable, and I have spent several pleasant evenings in their homes—however, I cannot help but take note of how never in my entire life have I seen people, women and children included, consume so much meat. Each person must eat at least several kilos of beef a day!

  Tomorrow I plan to write Princess Mathilde and ask her for news.

  In Buenos Ayres, only Doña Iñes went limping along on foot. Everyone else, including the beggars, the pordioseros—so called because when they begged they cried out: por el amor de Dios—rode a horse or rode in a carriage. Every day, she walked from the Hotel de la Paix to the church of Our Lady of Monserrat and back. Sometimes she walked back and forth twice a day, mumbling to herself:

  Del Verbo divino

  la Virgen preñada

  viene de camino:

  si le dais posada!

  Dr. Henry Kennedy, technically Mr. Henry Kennedy, lived under a black cloud. A few years back, in Philadelphia, the city of brotherly love and his home then, a nurse had found Dr. Kennedy in bed with a patient—a twelve-year-old boy whose ethereal blond beauty and rosy cheeks were the result of a terminal case of tuberculosis—and immediately the nurse had alerted the entire hospital staff.

  Chère Yvonne, Marie was dictating a letter to Doña Iñes. We have arrived in Buenos Ayres safely. Marie stopped. She was unused to writing or dictating letters.

  “Yes? What else do you want to write your sister?” Doña Iñes frowned, her dark eyebrows meeting.

  “Wait. Let me think,” Marie answered.

  “Do you want to describe the climate to her?”

  Marie shook her head.

  “The countryside perhaps?”

  Marie shook her head again. “No.”

  “What then?” Doña Iñes persisted, tapping her pen.

  “I don’t know.”

  If Marie knew how to write for herself she would have written her sister how, on the evenings Ella went to theater and Marie was free, she and the handsome gaucho lechero, who wore boots made out of horsehide that left his big toe exposed, went to a pulperia and drank caña, a fiery sweet rum, and she would also write how the lechero had taught her to play a game of heads and tails called taba, with the knee bone of a cow, and how the lechero always tried to kiss her and how, one of these evenings, she might let him. Instead Marie said, “Write that I miss her.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Yes. That’s all.”

  Afterward, it occurred to Marie that, like her, Yvonne could neither write nor read.

  Early every morning Patrick MacBride, the groom and former steeplechase jockey, took Ella’s gray mare, Mathilde, for a gallop. He rode out into the country at the same time as the gauchos were coming into the city from the estancias to sell their provisions of milk, meat, eggs, vegetables. Soon, Patrick was able to recognize some of the gauchos and he would greet them as they passed one another on horseback. The gauchos, Patrick felt sure—he could tell by the way they looked at her—admired Mathilde. A few times, because he enjoyed those admiring glances, Patrick gave Mathilde a little kick with his spurs or he flicked her with his whip so that she would quicken her pace and show off her power and grace.

  One morning, Mathilde returned riderless to the Allinson & Malcolm’s livery stables on Plaza 25 de Mayo; her gray coat was streaked black with sweat, her nostrils were flared and the skin inside was veined red. Her saddle had slipped and was hanging upside down; one of the metal stirrups had come off, the other dangled against the ground, setting off occasional sparks. A stable boy had a hard time catching her by one of the broken reins, then he had to walk her round and round to calm her.

  20 MAY 1855

  Last night I went to a ball at the Club del Progresso, and according to the ladies here I hardly look eight months pregnant. Naturally I did not dance; instead I sat and watched and practiced my Spanish. I also met a very charming Englishman named James White. Mr. White is said to be one of the largest landholders in the Río Plate district. Mr. White was most attentive, he spent the entire evening sitting at my elbow, bringing me plates of food and glasses of wine and I admit I did not discourage him.

  Marie is certain Patrick was attacked by the gauchos. The gauchos are a lawless, violent bunch and one hears terrible stories about them—for instance, Marie told me one (she swears the story is true and that she heard it directly from a gaucho himself) about a gaucho who killed a man because he dreamt that man had slept with his wife! Hard to imagine! This time I asked Doña Iñes to light a candle for Patrick but I am afraid no amount of candles will bring Patrick back. Poor man, I shall miss him. He reminded me of home! Funny, I don’t think about rue du Bac or Paris, but I do think about Ireland! I miss the gentleness of the landscape, the greenness of the countryside. Here everything looks so harsh. Perhaps, too, it is my condition which is making me sentimental but I find that in the morning, often, before I am completely awake, I feel as if I am back in my old room in our house in Cork, lying in bed, and thinking how if I were to lift up my head a little I could see out the window to the garden and to the tall fuchsia hedge by the road, and also thinking how it must be time to get up or else I shall be late for school and I start to call out to Corinna, who shares the room with me, when I remember that I am in Buenos Ayres instead. All quite silly, I am afraid.

  The baby has dropped. Should I notify Dr. Kennedy, I wonder? Marie, too, has noticed, and she says that the way I carry it, the baby is sure to be a boy. Oh, I nearly forgot—at the end of the evening Mr. White invited me to his estancia in Belgrano next Sunday, to an “asado” to be cooked in my honor. Also, he promised to send a carriage for me.

  In her room with no view of the harbor in the Hotel de la Paix, Doña Iñes was eating a pomegranate. If anyone had knocked or opened the door, she would have hidden the fruit. The granada was a luxury, something she indulged in from time to time. Not a sin exactly, only she did not confess the pleasure she experienced eating the fruit to Father Gaspar Alvarez. She sat at a table and sucked each individual kernel, then she spat out the seed into a plate. Pomegranates reminded Doña Iñes of Spain and while eating one, she closed her eyes and imagined herself back home—her father alive, and she, thirteen, sitting outside in the garden with a friend. They were eating pomegranates and having a spitting contest—seeing who could spit the pomegranate seeds farthest out into the garden—and for once she forgot about her short leg, as did her friend. Of course, her friend spat farther and won and, as a reward, he demanded a kiss. Afterward, when she returned inside the house, Doña Iñes had felt moisture in between her legs—the onset of her first menses—the result, she assumed, of the kiss. From then on too, Doña Iñes would associate blood and the kiss w
ith the fruit—the inside part of the fruit with the little red gluey kernels and dark seeds.

  “An opera house.”

  In Asunción, the first time Franco officially went to see his father after he returned from Europe, he spoke to him of his projects.

  “Like La Scala, in Italy.”

  Carlos Antonio frowned and shook his massive head; he had no idea what Franco was speaking about.

  “A theater where people sing,” Franco tried to explain.

  “Sing? What do they sing? Here in Paraguay, people are happy to sing in their homes, to sing in the streets.” Carlos Antonio was struggling to stand up.

  “Rafaela and Inocencia are in favor of it.” Franco tried to pacify his father before he changed the subject. “We must construct arsenals, shipyards, fortifications, we must build up the army to defend our country from our enemies.”

  “What enemies?”

  Marie held a perfumed handkerchief up to Ella’s nose as they drove past one of the city’s abattoirs. Hundreds of carcasses of slaughtered cows and horses lay putrefied by the side of the road; large potholes contained their intestines. Hundreds of live animals were kept penned in corrals, they neighed and bellowed, pressing against one another and against the fencing that was made out of the dead animals’ bones and horns. It was only after they had crossed the Barracas Bridge and had left the city far behind them and the unpaved road opened up to a wide green plain that Marie, taking a deep breath, finally removed the perfumed handkerchief from Ella’s nose. Folding it carefully, she put the handkerchief away in her purse, then calling out to the coachman, “Parar, per favor!,” Marie got out of the carriage and threw up into the long grass.