by Lily Tuck
5 JANUARY 1863
How fortunate I am to have three ladies-in-waiting! Señora Juliana Echegaray de Martinez, Doña Dolores Carisimo de Jovellanos and Doña Isidora Diaz. My favorite, Señora Juliana, is the prettiest and the kindest; every morning when she comes into my room she has something sweet to say: “Señora, do you hear the birds singing this morning? They are singing just for you!” or “Do you see the beautiful flowers in the garden? They are blooming only to please you, Señora!” She is also the most outspoken by far—she is not afraid to make fun of certain people, like those two ignoramuses, Inocencia and Rafaela. Also, the way she laughs reminds me a little of Marie. Poor Marie! How I wish she was here still! Doña Dolores is lazy and too fat and Doña Isidora is sweet but absentminded. This morning, after my bath, Doña Isidora forgot to put out my shoes and when I pointed this out to her, she blushed and ran off; when she returned she brought two mismatched shoes: a green shoe in one hand and a blue shoe in the other! But enough about my shoes! Franco has never been happier. His dream of ruling the country has come true. (I must, however, try to persuade him to lose weight. Also, to drink less!)
At Obispo Cue, to celebrate, the banquet table was set for the guests with a dazzling white embroidered Belgian linen cloth and gleaming silverware; fine French wines were poured into Baccarat glasses and a ten-course meal was served on Ella’s Limoges china; huge bouquets of orange blossoms decorated the room and sweetened the air with their scent. Dressed in white satin—the waist of her gown squeezed tight (only a few months since she had given birth to Leopoldo Antonio)—the aquamarine necklace sparkling at her throat, Ella presided. On her right, Franco looked elegant in evening clothes, also squeezed tight, with the presidential tricolor sash spread across his chest; on Ella’s left sat Franco’s brother Venancio.
Vincente Barrios, Inocencia’s loud-mouthed husband, and greedy and opportunistic Saturnino Bedoya, Rafaela’s husband, were there; so were the vice president, old and feeble Señor Sanchez; Antonio Estigarribia, arrogant and by far the handsomest man in the room; Wenceslao Robles, Mariano Gonzales, and the well-meaning but foolish Gumesmindo Benítez, editor of El Semanario; also invited were a number of foreigners, including: Colonel von Wisner, dressed in his Hungarian hussar uniform; Mr. Frederick Masterman, an Englishman, recently hired by Franco to be apothecary general to the Paraguayan Army and the British minister, Edward Thornton (hard to know Englishmen, Ella warned Franco, always polite, always condescending); Monsieur Cochelet, the French minister, and his wife; a new engineer, Lieutenant-Major George Thompson—less than a month since he had arrived in Asunción and already it was reported he was complaining about the heat, the food, the dirty streets; sitting next to Lieutenant-Major Thompson, the American, Charles Washburn, and his wife, whom Ella disliked; and, finally, at the other end of the table, Baron von Fischer-Truenfeld, a Prussian, who had a long dueling scar across one cheek and hair so blond it looked white, and who was Franco’s newly appointed director of telegraphs and communications.
“Votre robe est très belle, Madame,” Ella complimented Madame Cochelet.
“Next to Asunción, London is my favorite city,” she said to Mr. Thornton.
“Los articulos publicados en su peridiodico por el Señor Varela me parecen muy interesantes,” Ella spoke to Gumesmindo Benítez.
“Presently I am reading The Last of the Mohicans, a most edifying book about your country,” she told Charles Washburn.
After dinner, Ella and Franco led the way into the next room; all but Inocencia and Rafaela followed. (To better enjoy their meal, Franco’s sisters had kicked off their shoes; now, in the rush and confusion of everyone getting up, they could not find them. In the end, Vincente Barrios, Inocencia’s husband, had to crawl under the table and get the shoes while Rafaela’s husband, Saturnino Bedoya, stood by cursing his wife under his breath.)
Uno, dos, tres, uno, dos, tres, Franco began the dancing; despite his having gained weight, he was quick and agile. He twirled Ella so fast she had to hold him tightly to keep in step. The orchestra had learned to play Johann Strauss’s “Loreley-Rhein-Klänge”—and when was the last time she had waltzed? Many years ago with Dimitri, whose face she could barely recall. Smiling, Ella spun around the room faster, the aquamarine necklace catching and reflecting the festive candlelight.
Edward Thornton never once took his eyes off Ella during the dinner. Later, when he got home to the one-story house he shared with Frederick Masterman, he could hardly wait to begin a letter to Lord Russell, the head of the British Foreign Office. “The Paraguayan Pompadour is the name I am obliged to assign to an Englishwoman calling herself Mrs. Lynch, who possesses considerable influence with the President.” Half-asleep, his houseboy stood behind him ineffectually waving a palm leaf to ward off the flies. “Her orders, which are given imperiously, are obeyed as implicitly and with as much servility as those of His Excellency himself.”
At the same time, in the adjoining room, Frederick Masterman, who likewise had stared at Ella all evening, was writing in his journal: “She is a tall and remarkably handsome woman, and I can well believe the story that when she landed in Asunción the simple natives thought her charms were of more than earthly brilliancy, and her dress so sumptuous that they had no words to express the admiration they both excited. She has received a showy education, speaks English, French and Spanish with equal facility, gives capital dinner parties and can drink more champagne without being affected by it than any one I have ever met with.”
On a Saturday evening, in late April, Dr. Henry Kennedy, his young servant, Antanasio, and their guide set out—Dr. Kennedy had obtained a five-day leave of absence from Asunción in order to see more of the country before returning to North America. All night, under a full moon, the three men rode in companionable silence through fields of green and pink manioc leaves; in the morning they stopped at the town of Ituguà for refreshments—in addition to orange juice, Dr. Kennedy drank several glasses of caña—then they changed horses and rode on. Their next stop was harder to reach. The road had washed away and they had to make their way through dense woods in the bed of a stream. The stream was rapid and narrow and they had to ride single file; sometimes the water rose up to men’s knees while, overhead, the branches from the trees—tall cedros and lapachos whose trunks were covered with climbers—hung down so that they had to keep their heads low, along their horses’ necks. Dr. Kennedy kept falling asleep and his body lurched from one side to the other in his saddle and his servant had to stay attentive and quickly kick his horse forward, abreast of Dr. Kennedy’s, and either push or pull Dr. Kennedy upright again; each time Antanasio did, Dr. Kennedy mumbled something and tried to grab Antanasio’s arm.
On the third day, they crossed the Cordillera Azcurra and reached Lake Ipacaraì. Lake Ipacaraì, the guide told Dr. Kennedy, was where the Jesuit missionaries were said to have planted the first Cross in Paraguay. According to the legend, the guide said, the site of the lake was once a village full of lazy, thieving Indians who preferred to remain heathens and refused to be converted, so that eventually the Jesuits had to go. However, on the very night the Jesuits left the village, the single well, and the only source of water for the Indians, overflowed. There was no stopping the water; the water kept flowing, faster and faster, spreading everywhere, flooding the roads, the fields, flooding the village and the houses, and drowning all the lazy, thieving Indians who were sleeping in their hammocks—all the Indians, that is, but one. The one Indian who was saved had given a loaf of chipa to the half-starving Jesuits and his parrot woke him up screaming: Terri-ho! Terri-ho! (Begone! Begone!), warning him in time to leave for higher ground.
“And is Lake Ipacaraì still rising?” Dr. Kennedy was laughing.
The guide crossed himself. “No, Señor, the Jesuits came back and sprinkled the ground with holy water to stop it.”
That night the three men camped out on the shore of the lake. After they had eaten supper, the guide played the guitar and sang:
> Ay Cielo! ay Cielo! esto cruel amor,
Es mia, es mia, Cielo estoy feliz!
Dr. Kennedy stamped his feet and hummed in time to the music, he drank caña straight from the bottle. A few feet away, Antanasio lay on his back looking up at the stars and smoking a cigar.
“Antanasio, dear boy! Come sit here, by me!” Dr. Kennedy patted the ground next to him.
Antanasio puffed on his cigar, he did not reply.
“Do you hear me, Antanasio? Or have you gone deaf all of a sudden?” Dr. Kennedy took another drink from the bottle of caña. “Or perhaps you’d like to try some of this?” Dr. Kennedy waved the bottle in Antanasio’s direction, spilling some of it.
“Antanasio, my querido.” Dr. Kennedy giggled and slid himself closer to Antanasio. “I order you to sit next to me.”
Antanasio moved farther away.
When the time came to go to bed, Antanasio had to help Dr. Kennedy into his hammock; only first, Dr. Kennedy said, he had to pee. Dr. Kennedy was so unsteady on his feet that Antanasio had to hold on to him while he opened his pants and pulled out his penis.
“Wait! Wait, Antanasio!” Dr. Kennedy called out to him. “Don’t be in such a hurry, I want to take a piss in the lake. In the goddamn holy lake!” Already urine was dribbling from Dr. Kennedy’s penis on his hand and, as he turned to face Lake Ipacaraì, a sudden stream of urine hit Antanasio on the leg. “Look out there, my boy!” Too late, Dr. Kennedy warned Antanasio just as Antanasio let him go. Dr. Kennedy fell backward and hit his head hard on a stone.
Dr. Kennedy did not move or make a sound; blood began to seep from under his head on the ground. After standing over and watching him for a few seconds, Antanasio and the guide, without saying a single word to each other, picked Dr. Kennedy up—Antanasio took Dr. Kennedy’s arms, the guide took his legs. Neither Antanasio nor the guide looked down at Dr. Kennedy or at his penis which was still spilling urine but at something invisible overhead as together the two men walked Dr. Kennedy as far as they could into the water of Lake Ipacaraì and dropped him in there.
As if he had read his mother’s mind—he would be damned if he drowned!—Franco decided to learn how to swim. Swimming, he knew, was both cleansing and good exercise. (In Europe, it was the rage—even women swam, and in the city of London alone there were six permanent pools and Franco had watched dozens of boys swim from floating baths under Waterloo Bridge.) At the suggestion of Mr. Frederick Masterman, the apothecary general to the Paraguayan Army, who also had assured Franco that he had seen this practiced successfully in his native town of Croydon, Franco put a frog in a large basin full of water, then lay naked on his bedroom floor and copied exactly the frog’s screwlike movements. Mañuel, Franco’s servant, acted as swimming instructor, urging Franco on and observing the frog’s actions, occasionally goading or prodding the frog with a little stick—most of the frogs were sluggish (or else the opposite was true and they leaped out of the basin and escaped and Mañuel had to replace them). For a month, Franco spent an hour every morning on the floor on his stomach doing the breaststroke; he lost weight, he became fit. When, at last, he felt ready to swim in actual water, the Paraguay River, Franco had soldiers in canoes beat the water to make certain there were no crocodiles or other harmful fish in the area; the shores were lined with curious well-wishers, and standing on the bank Franco’s band was all set to begin to play. Dressed in his wool bathing calzoncillos, Franco stepped into the fast-moving muddy river and, without appearing to hesitate, he took a deep breath and plunged in. In the water, he moved his arms, his legs, the way he had taught himself, but to no avail. Franco sank like a stone.
23 SEPTEMBER 1863
Thank God I did not witness the ridiculous swimming performance—I have never heard of such nonsense and what could have Franco been thinking of? And he tells me he nearly drowned! If only he had consulted me! And of course I will be the one who will be blamed for importing strange and dangerous European customs! Do none of the Paraguayan people know how to swim? I will make certain the children learn; swimming is such a healthy exercise! Speaking of exercise, I must return to my fencing. Ever since I received the new piano sonata in the last mail packet, I have been busy practicing it. Strange how absorbing music is. When I play I stop thinking about everything—the children, the housekeeping, the servants, Franco. Especially Franco.
Among the difficulties that beset Alonzo Taylor, the stonemason, was his wife’s unhappiness. She and their two daughters had arrived in Paraguay six months earlier and, although the daughters had adjusted—they were learning to speak both Spanish and Guaraní—Emily had not, and the new house with the fireplace and chimney meant nothing to her. Emily lay in bed all day, the bedroom dark and hot, the curtains tightly drawn; she would not get dressed or leave the room. She refused to look after herself, to wash or to brush her hair—her fine auburn hair, which had once attracted Alonzo, became matted and stiff—and Emily herself started to smell like old dead fish. When, every evening after work, Alonzo went to her bedroom, Emily turned her face to the wall and sobbed. Most nights then, after his two daughters were in bed, safe, Alonzo went out on his own looking for Dolores. Each night he liked Dolores more and if Alonzo had not been so attached to his daughters, he would have asked Emily for a divorce and told her to go home.
Another difficulty Alonzo Taylor encountered, and one which kept him from completing construction on Franco’s large and ornate palace modeled on Buckingham Palace and situated right on the bank of the Paraguay River, was the growing lack of a workforce. Soon after Franco became president, he began building up his army; he recruited and conscripted every able-bodied man between the ages of eighteen and fifty. As a result, most of Alonzo Taylor’s workmen were twelve-and fourteen-year-old boys.
Franco was proud of his five sons; he spent as much time as he could with them. Also he liked to watch Maria Oliva, the new wet nurse, feed Leopoldo. He liked to watch how greedily the baby sucked on her big breast; one time he saw some of Maria Oliva’s slightly grayish-looking milk spill from Leopoldo’s mouth and dribble down the baby’s chin. In spite of himself, Franco had to swallow, he could not help being aroused. More than anything at that moment he had wanted to lean over and suck on Maria Oliva’s breast.
Maria Oliva was oblivious of Franco’s desire and, except for her occasional blinding headaches and Rosaria’s occasional cruel remarks, she felt content. She loved the children and the children loved her. More patient than Rosaria, she told them stories. Most of the stories were based on Guaraní legends: the one Enrique and Federico liked best had to do with two brothers, the sun and the moon, and how the moon got smeared with genipa when the moon had pederastic relations with his brother, the sun.
“What is genipa?” Federico asked Maria Oliva.
“A type of tree,” Maria Oliva answered.
“What is pederast?” Enrique asked.
“A type of person,” she answered.
The story Pancho liked best was about the celestial jaguar who could cause an eclipse by gnawing on either the moon or the sun.
“As no doubt you must have already heard, I want to marry Isabella de Braganza,” Franco announced to Ella one evening. “I’ve written to Dom Pedro asking for her hand.”
They were playing chess and Ella did not look up; she appeared to consider her move. No matter what Franco proposed, Ella had to remain calm and not show him her distress or anger. Also she had heard rumors. “What about our sons?”
“Nothing will change between us. The marriage will merely serve to bring our two countries together.” Franco continued, “My sentiments for you remain the same. We will go on as before.”
“Thank God for that.” Ella paused and moved a pawn. “I’ve heard from a very reliable source that Isabella is pleasant enough but not very pretty. I’ve heard she has something the matter with her lip—a harelip—which I believe is congenital.” She looked up and smiled at Franco. A dazzling smile.
“I know you.” Franco scowled. “You ar
e making this up to punish me. Who is this reliable source?” Although he was not faithful to Ella—Ella was pregnant a lot of the time; also she did not expect him to be—Franco relied on Ella more and more for her advice and support.
Ella shook her head. “I promised not to say.”
“Promised who?” Getting to his feet, Franco leaned against the table, tipping the chessboard. Most of the chessmen fell to the floor.
“Oh, look what you have done to our game!” Ella exclaimed as Franco took her arm and squeezed it.
“Who?” he repeated. “Tell me who said Isabella has a harelip.”
“Your mother, Doña Juaña, who told your sister Rafaela, who told my lady-in-waiting Señora Juliana,” Ella answered evenly. Gently, she disengaged her arm and took Franco’s. “Come, chéri. Let’s go upstairs.”
“What would you do if your husband left you for another woman?” Ella asked her favorite lady-in-waiting, Señora Juliana—Señora Juliana was so kind and pretty it was hard to imagine her husband, or any man, leaving her. The two women were walking arm in arm in the garden.
Señora Juliana stopped walking. “Oh, Señora, how can that be true?” She could not hide her sudden distress from Ella. “Francisco swore to me on our wedding day that he would always remain faithful—” Señora Juliana was nearly in tears. She had dropped Ella’s arm and had put her hands up to hide her face. “It is hard for me to believe. We have only been married a few years.”
“No, no—I was not speaking about your husband,” Ella tried to take her by the arm.
“What should I do if this is true? Oh, Francisco, Francisco, I cannot go on living,” Señora Juliana wailed. “After all you said, after all you promised me!”
