The News from Paraguay

by Lily Tuck

  “Please, Señora Juliana, you have misunderstood me.”

  Her face wet with tears, Señora Juliana looked up at Ella. “You did not mean what you said? You were only jesting?”

  “Yes, my dear,” Ella did not know how else to explain. “I was jesting.”

  “Thank God! How relieved I am! Although I suppose one never knows for certain, even such an honorable and good man as Francisco—” Señora Juliana had dried her eyes and was trying to smile again.

  “I was speaking hypothetically,” Ella also said.

  “Well, in that case, my answer to your question is—” Pausing, Señora Juliana leaned down to examine a flower and give herself more time before she replied, “I would take a lover. Yes, a lover. Your roses smell so sweet, their scent is for your delight only, Señora,” she also added.

  Both women laughed.

  Diligently, Ella practiced her footwork: she ran forward and backward, she extended her arm, her leg as far as she could until she felt as if she were going to fall over. Each time she leaned a bit farther out, stretching her arm and her leg more, as if she were suspended in the air and floating.

  “Flèching,” Colonel von Wisner told her, “is a total commitment to attack. You cannot protect yourself and you cannot turn back. Smoothness is the key.”

  She practiced holding the sabre the way the colonel had shown her: the handle sitting in the crook of her last three fingers, the thumb and first finger loosely curled against the pad inside the shell, then rolling and flipping the sabre left and right, clockwise and counterclockwise, in wide ovals and arcs.

  “As a left-handed fencer against a right-handed fencer, you must be careful to cover the elbow of your fighting arm. As a left-handed fencer you can often score with strong cuts to the cheek or the shoulder,” the colonel both warned and advised Ella. “But, mainly—and don’t forget this—” he instructed her, “as a left-handed fencer you have the initial advantage of looking strange to your right-handed opponent.”

  In his exile at his estancia in San Pedro, Franco’s brother Benigno, his breathing labored and sounding harsh, spent most of the day sitting at his card table playing solitaire. If the cards did not turn out right, he cursed and shuffled and reshuffled them until they did.

  “Federico, darling.” Ella was sitting at her dressing table, doing up her hair. “Can you hand me one of those pins.”

  Standing in front of the mirror next to his mother, Federico was staring at their reflections. He watched himself pick up a hairpin and give it to his mother; he watched his mother smile at him and he smiled back into the mirror.

  “Good boy,” she said.

  Of her five sons, the third, Federico, most resembled Ella. He had fair hair, gray eyes and his nose was straight and fine like hers; also, he was small for his age and not as robustly built as his brothers; his health too tended to be delicate. When Pancho, Enrique and Carlos Honorio—Leopoldo was still too small—teased him, Ella usually sided with Federico.

  In the mirror, Federico watched his mother put on her earrings, then he watched her reach for the necklace of aquamarines. He put out a hand and touched one of the blue stones.

  “Lovely, isn’t it? Your father gave me the necklace.”

  Federico nodded.

  “Here, you try it on.” Federico looked at himself in the mirror as his mother clasped the necklace of aquamarines around his neck, then as she touched up his blond hair with her brush. “Don’t you look pretty,” she said, adjusting the collar of his blouse so that the necklace lay flat, “as pretty as a picture.” She laughed into the mirror at him and Federico laughed happily back at her.

  Dom Pedro, the Emperor of Brazil, was fastidious. It was rumored that he was in the habit of making everyone kiss his hand then, immediately after, having a servant wipe his hand with a clean handkerchief. However Dom Pedro did not appear to think it was necessary to reply to the letter Franco had sent him—the letter in which Franco asked for the hand of Isabella de Braganza, Dom Pedro’s daughter.

  Eight

  CERRO LEÓN

  One of Franco’s earliest memories—he must have been five or six years old—was of being at his father’s quinta and trying to pat a dog, a mixed-breed, brown-and-white working dog, and the dog, without giving him any warning, biting him. Years later, when Franco was riding back to town one day, he saw the same kind of brown-and-white dog trotting along the side of the road, and he caught up with the dog and whipped it. Brandishing his whip, Franco continued to chase the dog on horseback, and each time he overtook it, he whipped the dog some more, until, bleeding and whimpering, the dog fell down by the side of the road. Then Franco dismounted and walked up to the dog—the dog was a bitch—and very deliberately, Franco whipped her again. Franco knew perfectly well that this dog was not the same dog that had bitten him, but he did not care. For him, justice was served.

  “The mingled feeling of enmity and contempt felt by the people toward Paraguay and especially the Lopez dynasty,” Charles Washburn, the conservative American minister, who disapproved of Franco from the start, wrote to U.S. Secretary of State William Seward, “has been greatly intensified lately by the rumors that the form of government here was to be changed to that of Empire. Nevertheless the indications here are that that change will be made. The President is building a new palace of grand dimensions which it is supposed is to be the imperial residence, and Buenos Ayres papers report the purchase of a crown in Paris, giving particulars of its cost and design. But as it is said that it is the same crown made for His Ethiopian Majesty, Faustin the First, it may be that the report is only got up to burlesque the whole affair….”

  British Minister Edward Thornton’s report to Lord Russell, in a “Confidential Dispatch,” was more critical: “The great majority of the people are ignorant enough to believe that they are blessed with a president who is worthy of all adoration. The rule of the Jesuits, of the Dictator Francia, and of the Lopezes, father and son, have imbued them with the deepest veneration for authorities. There may be three or four thousand who know better and to whom life is a burthen under such a government…. His Excellency’s system seems to be to depress and humiliate; if a man shows a little more talent, liberality or independence of character, some paltry excuse is immediately found for throwing him into prison….”

  Aiii! Aiii de mi! The headaches were bad and Maria Oliva was afraid she would go blind or pass out or, worse, drop Leopoldo while she was feeding him. All her joints ached. She was afraid to tell Rosaria for fear Rosaria would tell Ella, and Ella would dismiss her, then where would she go? Back to Villa Franca? No, never. She had wanted to ask the American doctor, Dr. Kennedy, but it had been several months since she had last seen him. Another foreign doctor had come to the house the time Enrique fell out of a tree and cut his head. Maria Oliva would never forget the amount of blood and how it took both her and one of the gardeners to hold the screaming boy down while the doctor stitched up the cut. An older man, the doctor had a kind face; he spoke good Spanish and was married to a Paraguayan lady. When he noticed how pale Maria Oliva looked, he told her to sit down. If ever she saw him again, Maria Oliva was determined to gather up her courage and ask him about her headaches. In the meantime, she would have to bear them.

  11 MARCH 1864

  The boys are growing so fast! All of them, thank God, sturdy and strong (Federico appears delicate but is not; he is the quickest and most agile of all the boys). This afternoon we went riding and we made quite a handsome little group if I do say so myself! Federico and Enrique rode their ponies and Pancho, who claims to have outgrown ponies, insisted on riding a horse. He is so much like his father! We went all the way out to Campo Grande and rode past fields of manioc and corn, bordered on each side by lemon trees—the fragrance of the lemons at this time of year is indescribably delicious. Again, I was enchanted by the simple beauty of this country. We stopped briefly for refreshments at the ranch of Don Mauricio, a very charming old man. (In parting, he gave Pancho and me cigars—
and Pancho insisted on smoking his!) On the way home, Enrique’s pony shied suddenly—a rabbit ran in front of him—and poor Enrique was thrown. Luckily, the child was not hurt except for, I daresay, his pride (although of all the children, Enrique seems to be the one most accident prone) and we rode on without further incident. Only—and this was very strange—just before we reached home, I saw a figure limping along the road and when we approached I recognized Doña Iñes. I could hardly believe my eyes! We stopped and I asked her where she was going and she said she was on her way to the market to buy pomegranates. I fear she may be going mad: not only is it not the season for pomegranates but there is no market within walking distance of Obispo Cue. Dismounting, I told her to get on Mathilde and I myself would lead her home. At first Doña Iñes refused—she said she had never ridden before and she was frightened of horses—but the children and I somehow managed to persuade her, and between the four of us we got her up on Mathilde’s back (I must say Mathilde behaved very well, she only tossed her head a bit to show her impatience). Poor Doña Iñes, she clutched both the reins and Mathilde’s mane and giggled nervously all the way home but, in the end, she seemed to enjoy her ride on Mathilde. However, I must think what to do with her—I cannot send her back to Spain or France on her own.

  The farmers of Cerro León were surprised to suddenly see a steady stream of war supplies and armaments, troop instructors and officials arrive and take up residence in their beautiful, peaceful valley. Sober and thrifty, they had not changed their ways much in the last two hundred years: tilling their soil, growing corn and manioc, tending their livestock, picking the plentiful oranges and drinking several gourds of yerba maté a day for their refreshment. But by the end of June, Franco had created a vast military training camp that numbered thirty thousand soldiers, and built both a railroad that linked the fifty or so miles from Cerro León to the capital and a telegraph line—the first telegraph line in South America, installed by Baron von Fischer-Truenfeld. Even so, the now familiar sight of their president, who spent days reviewing his troops and conferring with his officers Vincente Barrios, Antonio Estigarribia and Wenceslao Robles, and riding around on his big mule, did not reassure the farmers of Cerro León completely.

  Franco’s big-gaited mule stood over sixteen hands and was much taller than the native Paraguayan horse. Headstrong and hard of mouth, the mule was also difficult to handle and not friendly. At the sight of another horse, the mule rolled his eyes and laid his ears flat back on his large head and tried to kick; before the stable boy realized what he was up against, the mule had kicked and bitten him both. But Franco found the mule a challenge and he liked to sit taller in the saddle than anyone else.

  “Oh, what an ugly animal,” Ella remarked the first time she saw the mule. “What do you call him?”

  Perversely, Franco had named the mule Linda.

  Taita guazú was how, in Cerro León, all the farmers, including Julio Ignacio, called Franco. In turn, he called Julio Ignacio mi hijo—my son—as he listened to him tell about the lack of water that year for his manioc crop, how the corn had grown only to waist height and how his youngest son, who was eleven, coughed so hard he coughed up blood. When Julio Ignacio was finished listing his troubles, Franco told him how all his problems would be attended to and solved once Franco had dealt with their next-door neighbor, the Argentine Republic, whose revolutionary parties were in a constant condition of civil war and who, with their other neighbors, those macacos—the Brazilian monkeys—were plotting to take over all of Río de la Plata, and how it was Paraguay’s duty to stop them. Afterward, Julio Ignacio’s wife came out of the house and Franco complimented her on her embroidered dress and on the ornaments in her hair. He also thanked her as, smiling shyly, she presented him with a loaf of freshly baked chipa and a bouquet of flowers. Before he left, Franco did not forget to lean down from the big mule and pat the heads of Julio Ignacio’s children—including that of the eleven-year-old boy who coughed up blood—then, flicking his whip and kicking the mule with his heavy silver spurs, Franco rode off at a quick and smooth paso fino. When he was out of sight of Julio Ignacio and his family, Franco threw away the bouquet of flowers and took a large bite out of the freshly baked chipa—the rest he would give to the mule, Linda.

  Franco trusted Dr. William Stewart. A Scot, Dr. Stewart was senior medical officer in the Paraguayan Army and had been Franco’s father’s personal physician; now Dr. Stewart was his. Dr. Stewart was married to Venancia Baez, a Paraguayan lady, who was lively, slim and rich. Venancia Baez liked to travel and she had many friends in Buenos Ayres.

  Several times, Venancia tried to entice Ella. “Come with us. Next week is carneval.” Or she tried to tempt Ella with talk of the monthly ball at the Club del Progresso. “This month’s ball will be the most elegant, the best attended.”

  Several times, too, Franco asked Dr. Stewart and his wife, on their frequent visits to Buenos Ayres, to oversee the proceeds from the sale of large quantities of yerba that were exported to Argentina and, on Franco’s behalf, to deposit the money (a sum total of 212,000 gold pesos) in the Royal Bank of Scotland, where Dr. Stewart’s brother was a director. Dr. Stewart and his wife were more than happy to oblige and to make matters official, Dr. Stewart signed a letter to confirm the transactions.

  “You should have been there with us,” Venancia Baez reported back to Ella as, laughing, she did a graceful twirl in place to demonstrate. “We stayed up half the night dancing.”

  Pancho, the eldest, was a strong sturdy boy; he smoked cigars and knew how to read and write. He teased his younger brothers, especially Federico, who retaliated by calling him un matón, a bully. But Pancho was oblivious of insults, he was oblivious of most things and persons—already he showed a lack of emotional attachment, except to his father. He manifested this attachment by trying to imitate his father exactly: the way Franco walked, a rolling sort of gait; the way Franco talked, gesticulating with both hands; the way Franco puffed on his cigar, tilting his head back to exhale a thick cloud of smoke.

  Pancho’s favorite game was one he had invented. In the game he played Paraguay and he always won. His brother, Enrique, just six, was Brazil, Federico was either Argentina or Banda Oriental and three-year-old Carlos Honorio was the country Federico, at the time, was not; Leopoldo, asleep in his carriage and too small to play, was assigned the distant role of Spain or France or England.

  While Pancho shut his eyes and counted out loud to ten, the three boys, without a word or a look at one another, their hearts pounding, raced off as fast as they were able. Enrique went to the stables, where there were a lot of places to hide, inside stalls or up in the hayloft; the quickest, Federico sped in the opposite direction, toward open country and fields where, even if Pancho spotted him, Federico could dodge and outmaneuver him and where Pancho could not catch him; genuinely panicked, little Carlos Honorio headed in a frantic zigzag toward the garden and the orchard.

  Diez!

  Once Pancho had captured Argentina or Banda Oriental—it was always poor Carlos Honorio, who could not run as fast as Federico or hide as well as Enrique, or if Carlos Honorio did hide, a part of him, an arm or a leg, always stuck out—Pancho would invent a new torture. He tied Carlos Honorio to a tree and pelted oranges at him; he stripped off his clothes, blindfolded him and spun him around so many times that, dizzy, Carlos Honorio fell down; one time, Pancho buried Carlos Honorio up to his neck in the flower-cutting garden and left him out there among the rows of gladiolas, zinnias and asters, his head broiling in the hot midday sun.

  Dios!

  Doña Iñes was the one who found him. Dropping her scissors and the red gladiola she had picked, she got down on her knees and with her bare hands, she began to dig.

  Ella spoke fluent Spanish and she had no time for lessons; if truth be told, most days she did not think about Doña Iñes. On the few occasions when she did run into her, the time on the road when she made Doña Iñes ride Mathilde, outside in the garden or walking in the upstairs
corridor, Doña Iñes looked thinner, her limp was more pronounced.

  “Doña Iñes, wouldn’t you like to return to Spain?” Ella stopped and remembered to ask her one day.

  Mumbling to herself, Doña Iñes looked distracted; for a moment it seemed as if she had not understood Ella. “No, Señora,” she finally answered, “I cannot go back to Spain. Have you forgotten that my father—God rest his soul”—Doña Iñes crossed herself—“was a member of the Progresista party and that he died saving the life of Colonel Garrigo at the battle of Vicalváro?”

  “Ah, yes. You are right,” Ella answered, “I must have forgotten.

  “Then how about returning to France?” Ella started to ask, but Doña Iñes had gone. Ella could hear the wooden sole of her shoe thumping along on the corridor floor.

  19 JULY 1864

  I perfectly understand the animosity the Paraguayans feel toward the Brazilians—what do they call them? macacos—monkeys!—the result of the endless border disputes in Río Grande do Sul and Matto Grosso provinces. As for the others—the colonel has done his best to try to explain the situation to me—the alliances keep shifting and are confusing: there are the Blancos and the Colorados, the whites and the reds of the Banda Oriental and the Confederados and the Unitarios in Argentina. Franco has offered to mediate again between them and the fools have turned him down and now, too late, Dr. Octavio Lapido is here, whining and begging Franco to join forces with Berro and the Blancos in Montevideo. Let him beg, I say! I agree with Franco that Paraguay must be treated with the respect the country deserves and its important position in Río de la Plata must be acknowledged. But enough about dreary political matters—I must get ready for dinner. I will wear one of my new dresses—luckily they arrived along with Franco’s latest shipment from France—although the shoes I had also ordered with the dresses were nowhere to be found, which I find most distressing. When I questioned the ship’s purser more closely on the subject, the man swore up and down to me that he had never laid eyes on a box of shoes and that he had searched everywhere on the ship and had gone through all the boxes full of bayonets, guns, cartridges and whatnot, but the whole time he was speaking to me he was sweating so profusely that it was hard for me to believe he was telling the truth. Instead I imagine all the ladies in his family staggering around on my new high-heeled silk shoes—my hope is that they will break their silly necks! Another unpleasant bit of news is that Rosaria tells me that something is the matter with Maria Oliva, the young wet nurse. Hard to believe—never in my life have I seen a healthier-looking girl. My instinct tells me that Rosaria is jealous of Maria Oliva, who is young and very pretty. But what should I do—dismiss them both? Poor Franco, he has been so preoccupied lately and he has enough on his mind without listening to me complain about the loss of my silk shoes and the troublesome servants. Tonight I want him to enjoy dinner; the cook is making his specialty: carne con cuero—beef cooked in its own hide—Franco’s favorite dish!