by Freda, Paula
Doreen Carlson Pereira tapped her foot restlessly on the terra cotta flooring, listening with mounting ire to her husband’s breathing, deep and unworried. Her chin rose deliberately as she noted how he lazed on the terrace lounge, his lean frame clad in a white sport suit contrasting softly with the light blue satin upholstery. His apathy to her rebellious outburst of a short while ago made her blood simmer and boil. "Corazón de piedra!" she murmured angrily. The garnet folds of her belted robe swayed gently about her legs as she strode to the edge of the terrace and leaned on the iron railing. She stared down distractedly at the meticulously kept lawns of the villa. She felt imprisoned. She rued the day she had decided to visit Panama City and the hour she crossed the threshold of La Zapatilla Rosa, The Rose Slipper, and came face to face with its proprietor.
Esteban Pereira, presently asleep, was a man not easily ignored. Aristocratic and commanding, he elicited compliance and obedience. His eyes, stygian like a cobra’s, magnetized and riveted. Doreen Carlson, tall, slender, broad of shoulder and proud of bearing, had caught his attention immediately. Better she had turned and walked out, instead she’d allowed him to personally serve her, making sure her meal was cooked to perfection and her every wish catered to. Her formal upbringing had not prepared her for his irresistible Latin charm or the expertise with which, from that moment on, he used his magnetism and suave manner to relentlessly court her.
Esteban was a Latin of Spanish descent, his family name long honored and respected, his wealth and position in the Panamanian community well established. His English, though flavored generously with a rich Spanish accent, was pleasant to the ear and grammatically correct. He was shrewd in business matters and versed in the art of love. Doreen fell totally under his spell, married him, and gave herself completely to him, body and soul. In return, Esteban made her queen of his household, revered hostess, lover, and nothing more."
She banged her fists on the iron balustrade in frustration. She was no illiterate peasant to be wedded, bedded and left to mold under damp diapers. She had a mind that craved knowledge and variety, and a will equal in intensity to his. Esteban must release her. She refused to stay another night in this Spanish colonial mausoleum. She swung about determined to leave. Once more Esteban came into her view. Ironically she would miss him and their vital intimacy. Were it not for those poignant moments, she would have left him months ago. Yet she loved her freedom more. The desire to come and go as she pleased, to wear what appealed to her, to act in a manner she deemed fit, these privileges outweighed whatever happy moments she had shared with Esteban. Each night Esteban drove his white convertible into the City to supervise his lucrative business, La Zapatilla Rosa. The night club ran the gamut from international dining to nightly dancing and entertainment, and the operation of a government controlled casino.
Esteban did not return home until the early hours of the morning. Doreen, with nothing to do except wander through the villa’s grounds among the tall palms and the fragrant jacarandas, or drive through the city shopping for clothes she didn’t need, or do a hundred other boring things that she had done a hundred times before, found the hours between his going and coming long and tedious. As for cleaning the villa, or cooking the meals, or caring for the grounds, servants were employed to perform these tasks. Perhaps if she and Esteban had been granted the children they both desired, matters might stand differently between them. Of their eight years of marriage, the past five had been spent visiting one doctor after another attempting to find the reason for their barrenness. One doctor suggested they were trying too hard. Another advised that Doreen’s restless nature was the culprit. The bottom line — none of the doctors could find a medical reason for the pair’s infertility. When she suggested to Esteban that they adopt a child, he adamantly refused. If he could not have his own children, he would remain childless.
Doreen saw no hope for their marriage. Each day they grew further apart until their interaction was mostly habit rather than spontaneous. It was time to leave, but she dreaded a scene. Esteban had always treated her kindly, but like his grandmother, and his parents who were deceased, he held steadfastly to Latin tradition. And he had a temper. Doreen returned to the bedroom and dressed quickly, donning an inconspicuous beige suit. Fetching her overnight bag from the closet, she hurriedly packed some essentials. Her passport was in order. She had no problem with funds. Esteban provided her monthly with a sizable allowance. She had planned her escape for a long time. She knew the airline schedule by heart. Her black Cordoba waited in the garage. Shutting and locking her suitcase with as little noise as possible, she gathered her purse and a sweater and fled from the villa.
She arrived early at the airport and purchased her ticket with no difficulty. The hour’s wait before the actual departure worried her. By now Esteban had awakened and noticed her missing. He would not directly note the absence of the suitcase. He might at first assume she was in another part of the house or taking a walk on the grounds. She counseled herself to be calm and not anticipate trouble. She was certain to be well on her way before Esteban discovered she had fled.
The hour passed slowly. At last she heard the announcement of the impending flight and hurried toward gate. Taking her place on line to board the jet, she placed her suitcase on the ground and dug into her purse for her ticket. A sun-bronzed hand suddenly closed over hers. She didn’t have to look to know that Esteban was standing beside her.
"Where are you going, mi querida?’ he asked.
The tranquil tone of his voice frightened her more than if he had tried to intimidate her. She lowered her gaze to his white loafers. "Let me go, Esteban," she pleaded.
"Never. You are my wife."
"I’m your prisoner."
"And I am yours," Esteban said. "I no longer know how to live without you."
"Your flatteries no longer impress me. I want a divorce."
"Querida, we share the same religion. You know as well as I we cannot divorce."
"Then I’ll get an annulment."
Esteban laughed. "After eight years, mi esposa. Eight passionate years."
"No matter. I’ll claim ignorance of what marriage to you implied." They were attracting attention. Esteban took her by the arm. She tried to pull away, but he held her tightly.
"I am stronger than you, querida, and unless you wish to cause yourself embarrassment, I suggest you allow me to escort you to my car." Had Doreen been raised slightly less conservatively, she might have fought herself free from Esteban and made a dash for the plane. But like her brother, Mark, the Carlsons were a gracious, sophisticated lot, the quality Esteban had found most charming about her. "All right," Doreen yielded.
"Thank you, querida. I’m well known in these parts. I did not relish a vulgar scene either."
Esteban called ahead from his car phone to arrange for the Cordoba’s return to the Villa. He drove his white convertible in silence, but Doreen sensed the rage that he managed to control.
Only when they arrived home and were in the privacy of their bedroom did some of his control snap.
"Mujer ingrata! Did you think that if you boarded the jet, you would escape me? Did you not know that I would follow you into eternity, if necessary."
"Possession is not love." Doreen entreated. "I’m suffocating, Esteban. Let me go, at least for a while."
Esteban studied her face. It was taut with signs of despair and frustration. What unforgiving thing had he done to cause her such distress and deserve her disloyalty? From the instant he had set eyes upon her, he had lived solely to win her heart and her love. He had considered himself the most fortunate of men when she returned his feelings and agreed to marry him. He made her queen of his heart, his home and his bed, heedless to his grandmother’s warning that although she found no fault with Doreen as a good woman of reputable background, the differences in that background might someday come between them.
"Por qué, mujer, why do you say you are suffocating? You lack nothing; I do not stop you from going into the
city when you please. Unluckily, there are no niños clamoring at your skirts. In the beginning you were content to be simply my wife."
"In the beginning we were on our honeymoon. Then as our lives assumed a daily routine, I begged you to let me work, at a commercial establishment, at the nightclub, anywhere, as long as I could exercise mind and limb. You said a working wife was beneath the dignity of a Pereira. Yet it’s not beneath that dignity to let my mind deteriorate under boredom. Niños clamoring at my skirts would not solve our problem. Not to mention that I don’t care for skirts. Yet in your house I’m forced to wear them, because it is beneath the dignity of a Pereira to wear jeans or slacks. I can’t even visit my brother as often as I want. Under your traditions, it is not proper for a Pereira wife to travel such a distance without the company of her husband, and for the past two years you haven’t been able to spare the time from your business to accompany me. Why didn’t you tell me about these restrictions when you first declared your love for me?"
"I did not consider a husband’s duty to protect his wife a restriction."
"Protect me! I protected myself well enough for years before we met."
"Basta! I will not let you go. On our wedding day we exchanged vows before God. I expect you to honor your word and mine." A boyish look surfaced on his face. He struggled with the ensuing confession. "Querida, I will admit that my excuse that I could not spare the time to accompany you was a deception on my part — to keep you with me." He hesitated saying more.
"Why, Esteban, why the stranglehold?"
"Very well, since you insist on trampling my pride. I was afraid that once you set foot back in your country of birth, you would not return with me to our home. I have not been blind these past years. I know you have been unhappy. I also know that you still love me. Querida, your lips may tell me differently, but when you are in my arms, your eyes and your body do not lie. That is why I will not let you go."
Doreen turned away. He refused to understand. But sadly for her, he was correct in his latter assumption. It wasn’t for lack of love that she wanted to leave him.
She felt depressed and in need of air. She opened the glass paned door leading to the terrace and stepped out. It had begun to rain, softly for now, but later it would pour. This was August. During the early part of the year the sun glared down upon the landscape and it was hot and humid. The remainder of the year rain fell in bucketfuls. One side of the city was close to the Panamanian jungle. Behind it in the distance the scattered mountains rose, shrouded in a blue mist. The Pacific Ocean boarded the coastal side of Panama City. The ocean breezes made the nights bearable.
Esteban followed her into the terrace. "Querida, I must leave now for the club. Let us not part with angry words."
Doreen turned beseechingly, "Take me with you to the club tonight. Let me work alongside you."
He did not answer straightaway, but when he did, she fared no better. "No, your place is at home. When I am not present, you are the head of the household, and must be here to make decisions."
"What decisions? To approve the dinner menu?" she inquired. "Or should we hang the damask drapes or the lace ones this month."
"There are more important matters for you to attend to. Ramon and Rosaria are still minors. They need your supervision," Esteban reminded her.
"Your twin siblings are seventeen years old. They rarely listen to my advice."
In part Esteban had to agree. "True, Ramon is a boy and capable of finding his own diversions. But Rosaria is a girl — a young innocent. She also grows bored when there is no one to speak to except for the servants and a very old abuela."
"Your grandmother may be old, but she has all her faculties, and she’s a lively old woman."
"I meant no disrespect to my grandmother. I love her very much. But she is ninety-two. At twenty-six, you are better fit to entertain my sister." Doreen fell back, stunned. "You’ve just portrayed me as a useful commodity, rather than a human being. You’re fortunate I don’t frequent your sister’s company. I might contaminate her thinking with my ideas on the modern woman and a thirty year-old chauvinist tyrant living in Panama."
She had the satisfaction of seeing his eyes widen with surprise. Esteban did not know whether to laugh or be insulted. No one had ever called him a chauvinist tyrant. He was a businessman and conscientious head of his household since his father’s death ten years ago. He was considered the liberal in his family. Nor had he in the past, nor did he intend to in the future, aspire to a dictatorship of his country, or his home. His wife’s malcontent was affecting her mind. He blanked the remark from his mind, answering simply, "Rosaria is young and vibrant and needs your companionship, and you are not a commodity. You are my wife on whom I rely to watch over my home and my family in my absence."
He silenced further argument with a quick kiss to her lips and walked down the terrace steps, then around to the front of the house where his convertible waited. Doreen wasted no time hurrying after him. "Esteban, what’s to stop me from leaving when you are at the club."
"These, my beloved," he said, pulling two sets of keys from his hip pocket — Doreen’s keys to the Cordoba and the spare set. "And this," he said, replacing the keys in his pocket and retrieving her passport from his breast pocket."
"How did you—" Did it matter how, Doreen contemplated, her shoulders slumping as despair gnawed at the pit of her stomach. In some unguarded moment he had deprived her of the instruments of her freedom and she was powerless to stop him.
CHAPTER THREE
"Mi cuñada bonita, oh I am so glad you have returned. I have the most wonderful news," Rosaria greeted, as Doreen re-entered the vestibule. Rosaria’s flowery skirt swirled about her legs and her chest heaved under the shirred peasant blouse as she hastened toward Doreen and wrapped her arms about her sister-in-law’s slender waist. Doreen returned the hug, resting her chin upon the girl’s head. Rosaria’s hair was jet black, pulled tightly away from her face and twisted into a braid that reached the small of her back, and smelled of carnations. Doreen recalled seeing Rosaria in the garden earlier that day, gathering flowers.
The girl’s resemblance to Esteban left no doubt as to their relation. Except for her gender, and slightly plumper features and shorter height, she was Esteban from the top of her wide brow to the tips of her sandaled feet.
"Come, entremos en la sala de estar," Rosaria said, pulling her sister-in-law along. "What I wish to tell you is a secret, and you must promise to say nothing to anyone — especially Esteban."
They entered the living room through a massive double door patterned in cuarterones in keeping with the room’s Spanish decor. The dark supple leather of the couch crinkled under the weight of their bodies as they sat. Their calves felt cool against the fat brass nails fastening the leather to the couch.
"Do you promise?" Rosaria’s eyes were filled with entreaty as she waited for Doreen’s promise.
"Very well, I promise."
"Then I will tell you that I have met the most wonderful man. He is handsome and elegant, and he has told me that he loves me. Oh but he is a beautiful man!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands as her exuberance overflowed. "Dios himself has sent him to me. It was in Church that we met, during the Holy Mass. Mi abuela was busy with her Rosary and did not see Jose watching me. Naturally, I lowered my eyes modestly, in the manner taught me, but he continued to watch me. There were tears in his eyes. I did not understand why until this morning in the garden, when he explained his tears were because of me."
"He was allowed in?" Doreen asked.
"He climbed over the wall and we hid behind the bushes. He asked me to be silent, then he whispered such words of love to me as I have never heard before."
Doreen listened, somewhat skeptical and suspicious of the man’s zealous behavior, or was it play-acting.
"Why do you frown, mi cuñada?"
"I can’t help mistrusting his intentions. According to your customs, he should present himself to Esteban and your grandmother and as
k permission to call on you."
"He cannot present himself. He has no wealth or status to impress my brother. Esteban would never allow him to come near me again. No! Esteban must not know. You yourself know how strictly he follows the old traditions."
Doreen nodded. Yes, she knew. She cupped the girl’s chin affectionately. "You’re so young and inexperienced—"
"I am seventeen. Several of my friends are already engaged to be married."
"And you are not," Doreen said, about to laugh.
"Esteban has received three offers of marriage for me, from sons of good families."
"None of them were to your liking?"
Rosaria looked downcast. She shook her head sadly. "No, I felt nothing for them." Her eyes filled with excitement. "But Jose—" she placed her hands over her chest, "See how quickly my heart beats at the mention of his name."
Among the members of Esteban’s family, there were two who exercised a modicum of influence upon him — his grandmother and Doreen herself. "Perhaps if I explain to Esteban—"
"No, no, you promised!"
"What did you promise, mi cuñada?" Both women turned their heads as Ramon Pereira’s cocky tenor intruded in their conversation.
Rosaria hurriedly improvised. "Doreen promised to take me to the cinema tomorrow, and now she is saying she will not."
Ramon shrugged and deposited himself in an armchair. The green velvet upholstery struck a sharp contrast with his black Quianna shirt and pants. He was almost as tall as Esteban and his resemblance to him also undeniable. "Perhaps our cuñada has more pressing matters than to accompany you to the cinema." The tone of his voice gave Doreen cause to wonder what exactly he knew. It was not foreign to Ramon to stand unobserved, and watch and listen where he had no right to."
