by Freda, Paula
CHAPTER EIGHT
For seven days serenity reigned in the Pereira household. Esteban did not repeat his words that Doreen pack her bags and leave his house. As she suspected, he had spoken in anger and under unbearable stress. But under the guise of serenity, a new problem brewed.
Doreen attempted to block Esteban’s entry into the garden and was impatiently deposited on the side. "Wait ... please," she entreated, hurrying after him as he strode forward to confront Manuel.
At Esteban’s entrance, the lovers split apart and sprang to their feet. "Señor, perdone!" Manuel bowed his head; aware of the liberties he had dared with his employer’s sibling.
Rosaria stepped in front of Manuel. "Leave him alone you beeg boolly!" She craned her neck and shoulders back to stare defiantly at her older brother. Her chest heaved wildly and her hands rounded into fists as she readied to do battle for her lover. Doreen felt an impractical and dangerous urge to laugh. There was no help for it. She chuckled, then quickly sobered when Esteban twisted around and leveled her with a stygian glare. "Well, it’s—it’s all so innocent," she attempted to appease, wishing that Esteban would see the humorous side of the situation. "Innocent!" Esteban exclaimed. "Por Dios! Will you not rest until my sister’s reputation is destroyed?"
Manuel said, "Señor, I would never have presumed ..."
"Spare me what you would and would not have presumed," Esteban snapped, exasperated. "We will speak alone in my study." He motioned Manuel to follow him. Rosaria spun, skirts swirling about her legs, and blocked Manuel’s path. "Do not let him boolly you," she said, resting her palms against his chest. Calmly, and with tenderness, Manuel took her hands into his. "I will speak with Señor Pereira. He is a man of honor, and will demean me in no way. And as for us ..." He bent down and brushed her lips with a kiss, "As for me ..."I am but a caretaker’s son." He joined Esteban.
"My brother will make Manuel go away," Rosaria said miserably as the two men disappeared into the house. Tears shimmered on the tips of her dark lashes. "Manuel has too much respect for my family to contradict their wishes. He will not fight for me." Doreen shouldered the girl. "Come, let’s sit." She led Rosaria to a stone bench near a bed of carnations. "Esteban owes Manuel a great debt. He values the Pereira honor too much to be unkind."
After what felt like an eternity, both men re-entered the garden. They appeared non-the-worse for their talk. Esteban’s face was complacent and Manuel walked with his head held high.
"Come here, Rosaria," Esteban directed.
Tightlipped, stifling a retort, Rosaria complied.
"Rosaria, mi hermana, are you in love with Manuel?"
"Si, con todo mi corazón," she answered without wavering. "Bueno. Before you and my crazy wife bring down the walls of dishonor on this house, I think it best you and Manuel plight your troth, and let him assume responsibility for your future. And may Dios have mercy on his soul."
A moment of silence while his words registered, and then the young lovers fell into each other’s arms with exclamations of love and felicity. Doreen almost rushed to embrace Esteban to thank him for his good judgment, but again the face of Elena under a haze of rhinestones and sea-green veils, filled her thoughts and stopped any show of emotions. Her smile faded.
Esteban addressed the couple. "We will arrange for a celebration to announce your betrothal. And as soon as the banns have been read, you two will be married. Manuel has requested to remain in my employ. Working with the earth has always given him great pleasure. He will build you a house, on these same grounds, Rosaria. Is that satisfactory?"
Angelically, Rosaria nodded her approval.
Esteban turned to Manuel. "Rosaria will remain heir to her part of her parent’s beneficence, but as her husband you will be responsible for her physical welfare." Manuel agreed. Doreen wrinkled her nose. This scenario had the feel of a contractual agreement.
"Once you are married, I will not interfere in the running of your lives," Esteban said, "However, Doña Maria must be informed of your plans. I cannot guarantee her approval, but the decision has been made. She has no alternative but to accept it."
Doña Maria remained silent and moody for days after receiving the news of Rosaria and Manuel’s impending marriage. But as the happiness in her granddaughter’s eyes grew and excitement filled the household with invitations going out to relatives and friends, and everyone buzzing about with preparations for the Announcement Party, the old woman yielded to Rosaria’s pleas that she accept Manuel as her future grandson-in-law.
Doña Maria manifested her tolerance of Rosaria’s engagement by summoning the family and Manuel to her room one afternoon. Under their inquisitive eyes she unlocked a very old and large leather chest. As she lifted the lid, the sweet, minty smell of moth repellent permeated the air in the room. Tissue paper covered the contents in the chest. Delicately separating the tissue, Doña Maria drew forth a folded mass of white flounced lawn and lace, embroidered in deep wine red. "I made this gown for myself, many years ago, when I was as young and as beautiful as you, Rosaria. Later, I gave it to your mother, and she danced in it with your father to our country’s national dance. If she were alive today, she would pass it on to you at this time. I do so in her place." She handed the voluminous gown to Rosaria who flitted around the room holding the Pollera against herself and showing off proudly.
"There is more," the old woman said. From the chest she removed lacy appliquéd petticoats, and slippers of wine red velvet to match the bold flowers embroidered on the gown’s tiers of ruffled lace. Royal blue yarn edged the neckline of the off-shoulder bodice and ended in a fanciful pompon in the front and back.
From the bottom of the chest, Doña Maria withdrew a jewelry box of the finest dark wood. She opened it to reveal gold necklaces, and bracelets shades of copper, and a black velvet satchel tied with a white silk ribbon. She undid the ribbon and disclosed a set of Tembleques — hairpins fashioned from fish scales and pearls on gilt wire springs. The Tembleques quivered with the old woman’s doddering. She handed the exquisite hairpins to Rosaria, and blessed the upcoming betrothal, wishing the couple the same happiness that her son and his wife, Rosaria’s parents, had known during their lives together.
CHAPTER NINE
On the morning of the betrothal, the cook rose with the first chirping of the birds and headed straight for the kitchen. The weather favored the lovers with sunshine and cool ocean breezes. In the center of an area the size of a small baseball field set aside adjacent to the garden for the gala affair, a dance floor was constructed. The serving staff bustled between the house and the grounds, setting up tables and chairs for the afternoon buffet.
Doreen and Doña Maria attended Rosaria. The hairdresser came early to style Rosaria’s hair, parting it in the center from the nape of her neck upward, and forming a bun on either side of her head to which she affixed the Tembleques. "Every hair is in place," she said with satisfaction, standing back to admire her handiwork. "The Tembleques, they will tremble with each flirtatious tilt of your head. And the sun will dance on their surface."
The hour of the celebration finally arrived and the servants set out tables and loaded them with sumptuous fair. Several cuisines were represented, foremost among them the Panamanian cuisine — Sancocho, a hearty, filling soup made from older hens;
Carimanola, rolls made from yuca rootstock and filled with chopped meat and boiled eggs. In addition to roast pork, there was lobster and shrimp laid out on a bed of palms, adorned by sliced lemons and limes. There were flowers everywhere, along with chilled bottles of chicha, seco, guarapo and palm wines, and cakes dipped in pineapple juice and rum.
For the occasion Doreen chose a fitted lavender gown of silk, its simple scoop neckline and plainness accentuating her slenderness. Notwithstanding, for one day forgetting her waistline, Doreen sampled everything. The food and the wines lightened her spirit, her gladness for the girl tempered only by her suspicions about Esteban and Elena. To all the guests, husband and wife presented a
jovial exterior, but for the past two weeks they had hardly spoken to each other. They shared the same bed, but nothing more. It was as though they had mutually agreed to avoid each other, although no words were spoken to this effect.
But Esteban was not immured to Doreen’s charm. She caught him watching her. She had styled her hair to cascade in soft waves about her face, and her pendent earrings, golden half-moons, often captured the light of the sun and glittered brightly. Tonight he would make love to her, perhaps even forgive her, she conjectured. The band struck up a merengue and Esteban approached her. "Will you dance with me?" he asked.
She nodded. His hands were warm and his breath heavy with the scent of old wines. In each other’s arms they glided across dance floor. When the dance ended, Esteban continued to hold her.
The band began playing a slow number. Doreen rested her cheek against Esteban’s shoulder. The crisp, clean scent of his white linen jacket combined with the spicy fragrance of his aftershave to create an aphrodisiac strong enough to make her forget for the moment her quest for freedom and her suspicions of his unfaithfulness. Under its influence she asked, "Esteban, when will you forgive me?"
"My sister’s future is assured. Perhaps there is nothing to forgive." He drew her closer.
Shortly, they were forced to part and clear a space for the highpoint of the celebration, the national dance of Panama — The Tamborito. Four drummers in white campesino outfits reminiscent of the clothes worn by country farmers joined the band and sat in a horizontal row, with drums held vertically between their legs. They began striking a steady rhythm. Manuel, wearing a panama hat and clad in black pants that did not quite reach his sandaled feet, and a Montuno — a white collared tunic, tasseled and fringed and embroidered in cross-stitch which detailed tiny fruits and flowers, led Rosaria to the center of the dance floor. Embroidered on the front of his tunic, under the open placket, a large central design that resembled a heart rimmed by several rows of cross-stitch, shone metallic gold. Rosaria was a sun-kissed blossom of beauty, the Pollera and jewelry Doña Maria had passed on to her, enveloping her short full figure in regalia of flounces and red-gold chains.
Removing his Panama hat, Manuel tossed it at her feet, inviting her to dance with him. Rosaria spread her flounced skirt fanlike.
The bridal party-to-be – the women in Polleras and the men in Montunos – formed a circle around the lovers and began to clap a one-one beat. The women sang as they swayed and the men shouted with the lively thumping of the drummers and the musical bellows and chirps of the band’s accordionist and cornetist. Side-together-forward, Manuel and Rosaria promenaded halfway around the inside of the circle, then towards the drummers, stopping to stand and listen to the rhythm of the main melody. All at once while the music continued, the drummer on the left struck three separate powerful beats. Rosaria took three steps backwards, swaying gracefully with her skirt spread fanlike. The light airy Tembleques in her black hair glittered and quivered with each coquettish sweep. In answer, Manuel, with a holler and a hoot, jumped three times into the air, one foot in front of the other so as to land on a bended knee. The three bows completed, Manuel and Rosaria danced away from each other in separate circles.
Executing short, quick steps, Rosaria moved on wine-red slippered feet, swinging her skirt from side to side, until she passed in front of Manuel. With arms raised, the cuffs of his bell sleeves embroidered and fitted around his wrists, Manuel followed Rosaria to a series of slow-tempo side-steps three quarters around the inside of the circle. Sometime during the dance, Manuel had retrieved his Panama hat. With the flourish of a proud Latin, he waved it enthusiastically, and proceeded to show his approval of Rosaria’s dancing by placing it on top of her lovely adorned head. One by one, the males in the circle all placed their hats on top of Rosaria’s head until the hats unbalanced and toppled at her feet, drawing hearty laughter from all present.
The levada continued with a new couple taking Rosaria and Manuel’s place. After a short pause, another levada was played, and so on, until each couple had danced within the circle.
It was day of joy that would not be forgotten easily, and for a short time Doreen was content.
CHAPTER TEN
It lacked a week to Rosaria’s wedding. Doreen drove her Cordoba into the City to purchase a wedding gift for the prospective couple. She browsed for hours and finally decided upon a full set of crystalware, each delicate piece gently decorated with a frosted pattern of fleur-de-lis. The sky was a darkening amethyst as she rode past her husband’s nightclub, just as the scores of fat bulbs on the neon sign above the front doors blinked to life and silently shouted—La Zapatilla Rosa.
Checking to see if there were cars behind her, and finding none, she slowed to a full stop. One thorn continued to prick the back of her mind — Elena. This torn, this demon of curiosity, tempted her into parking the Cordoba and making her way to the back door.
The rear entrance was unlocked and no one presently stood guard. She entered. A file of empty produce crates, probably on their way to disposal, squatted near one corner. A series of doors lined the sides of the wide corridor. One door in particular caught her attention. A gold star gleamed on its plain wood surface, and under the star, a name — ELENA.
The sound of a knob twisting alerted her. Grateful for the stacked crates, she quickly flattened herself against the wall. Their width completely hid her from the view of anyone entering the corridor from the opposite direction. As the door to Elena’s dressing room opened wide, she heard laughter, vibrant, exotic laughter ... Elena’s laughter, and joining it, a man’s laughter, deep, full and proud ... Esteban’s laughter. Doreen peered around the side of the crates. Esteban stood on the threshold of Elena’s dressing room, his back to the corridor. He wore his black evening suit. Doreen looked at her watch. It was past seven. She had lost track of time while shopping and missed dinner at the villa. But food was the furthest thing on her mind. Elena’s arms were wrapped about Esteban’s waist.
With the assurance of man who knows his worth, Esteban brushed the top of Elena’s black silken hair with his lips. He pulled himself free of her embrace and walked through the corridor toward the dining room. Elena’s face as she watched him leave was a mixture of triumph and complacent certainty.
Doreen fell back among the shadows. She could hardly breathe. She felt as though a fist of nerves was twisting inside her chest. She was a fool to have let her sister-in-law’s happiness cloud the issue of her husband’s unfaithfulness. Was it not practical for Esteban, a rich man, both financially and heritage-wise, to have both a wife and a mistress — a wife to enhance his prestige and assure the continuance of his line, a mistress to cater to his ultra masculinity. She could see clearly now, reasoning coldly inspite of the scorching resentment welling within her. Elena was Esteban’s mistress. "Idiota!" she swore softly, berating herself.
The demon that had prompted her to satisfy her curiosity now drove her toward Elena’s dressing room. The door was ajar. Perhaps the stripper expected Esteban to return. Doreen boldly entered to confront her husband’s mistress. Elena was seated at her dressing table, her cosmetics spread out before her. Her costume of veils lay across a chair nearby. Doreen’s livid expression registered in the mirror. In one swift move Elena turned and stood. Her grey satin robe shimmered and clung to her like a second skin. For an instant she appeared non-plussed, but only for an instant. Her smile was nothing short of malicious as she raised her chin to face Esteban’s wife squarely.
Doreen did not waste words. "Get out of my husband’s life!"
Elena’s reply was a throaty, contemptuous laugh. "I might, if he would ever allow me to." Her expression was smug and impertinent.
"Quit! Find employment elsewhere. But get out of his life!" Doreen was close to losing all control.
"No! Never!" Elena snapped. "I love him and he loves me. You are only his wife, an obligation he owes his family name, a possible receptacle for siring an heir. Did you really think that a woman as simp
le and conservative as you could satisfy his every need? You’re a fool. Go home, little wife."
Doreen had never truly wished anyone harm, but she was doing so now, to this strumpet who called her a fool and claimed to be keeper of Esteban’s love and fidelity. In the contained light of the dressing room her dark brown eyes reflected homicidal green as she lashed out at Elena with her open hand and caught her with a resounding crack on the side of her face.
She was never quite sure of what followed next, except that Elena lashed back and a moment later they were both savagely attacking each other, employing every natural weapon they possessed. Sometime during the fight, she landed a powerful punch on Elena’s jaw, which TKO’d the stripper into the wall. Elena slid to the floor unconscious.
Doreen fell back, stunned, herself reeling from Elena’s blows that had been far from meager. Her shoulders came in contact with the door, and without meaning to, she pushed it closed. Her first thought was that she had killed her competitor. She bent down and felt for the woman’s pulse and signs of breathing, then sighed with relief. Elena continued to breathe and her pulse remained strong.
A knock at the door startled her. It was the stagehand shouting that it was time for Elena to perform her act.
The lights dimmed. The orchestra on the dais in the background struck up the Syrian tune. The spotlight lit upon a solitary figure clad in numerous veils, semi-sheer, so that all that was visible beneath the sea-green colors were shadowy curves. The dancer moved erotically to the undulating tune. No one behind the dancer looked hard enough to realize that the girl dancing appeared to have grown a few inches since her last performance, or that the shapely limbs had bleached from warm copper to ice pink, or that the eyes which normally glinted black onyx, were now a lustrous dark wood brown. But the proprietor of the club noticed.
