Our Lives Are the Rivers Read online

  “Manuela, I’m not sure what they’re doing in there,” Rosita whispered to me one night, “but I don’t believe they’re saying the rosary. What do you think?”

  “And they’re not studying the lives of the saints, either,” I said.

  Months later we saw these young nuns swell up, their cheeks become full moons, their stomachs more prominent. Some of them died suddenly, from causes that no one would explain to the school or to the dead novice’s family. Later, Rosita and I learned that the young sisters died of infections as a result of crude abortions induced by potions made from the shavings of the peels of green avocados and performed in the convent. The fetuses and stillborns were burned in the crematorium in the back of the convent. Once in a while a nun would hide her pregnancy so well that she would bring the baby to full term. The crying infant, still covered in blood, would be taken away, wrapped in a blanket, and left at the door of Quito’s home for foundlings. Rosita and I began to fear that the fate of these young and most often desperate nuns might be awaiting us.

  One day, after class, I wondered aloud to Rosita, “Have you noticed how there aren’t any happy saints? How come at least one of them, just one of these many thousands of poor suffering creatures, couldn’t become a saint for making people smile?”

  Rosita laughed. “You are right, Manuela. Do the sisters really expect us to be uplifted by stories of crucifixions and burnings at the stake, of people starving to death, or getting stuck with arrows, their limbs torn off their bodies?”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Why isn’t there just one girl who became a saint for wearing beautiful gowns that made people feel good when they saw her?”

  We strolled down the corridor, giggling, until Sor Jacinta, having heard most of our conversation, bolted out of a classroom, wielding her length of cane. “Manuela Sáenz,” she called, her eyes bulging, her features distorted with censure, “I curse the day we accepted you in our school. This is not a place for the likes of you. And you, Campusano, if you don’t want to end badly, I strongly suggest you put an end to your friendship with this one.”

  ONCE MY EDUCATION with the nuns was completed and after I turned eighteen years old, I had two choices: to leave the school or to enter the novitiate. Of course, only the first was within the realm of possibility. I wanted my independence, and I had no desire to live in my father’s house.

  Although I knew I would incur my father’s wrath for bringing up the subject, one Sunday, after dinner, when Father was in the library smoking a cigar and reading the newspaper, I decided to make my hopes known. If this was going to be a hard-fought battle, why wait?

  I sat down across from Father. He put down the newspaper and said, “Yes, Manuela?”

  “Papá, may I pour you a drink?” I began, hoping to buy some time, regretting what I had started. Maybe I should wait a few more months. After all, I did not want to alienate him. Since he had taken me under his roof, the nuns were a little nicer, and Aunt Ignacia and the Aispurus were less insulting. Nobody wanted to offend the daughter of an important official of the Spanish Crown.

  “You didn’t come here to pour me a drink. Something’s on your mind. What is it, Manuela?” He smiled, encouraging me to speak. I intensely resented his condescending smile. It spoke of duplicity, and for the rest of my life I could never trust a man who smiled all the time.

  “Papá,” I began quietly, “I want to leave the school as soon as I graduate next year…. I don’t want to become a nun. I have no religious vocation whatsoever…”

  “Don’t think I haven’t noticed your lack of a religious temperament. If you want to leave the convent, you have my blessing.”

  “Thank you, Papá,” I said and sat staring at my hands, mulling over how to say what I really wanted to discuss with him. There had been no doubt in my mind that Father would approve of my desire to leave the nuns. But how would he feel about my desire for financial independence?

  “Is there anything else you want to discuss with me?”

  “Papá, please, I want to talk about what will happen to me after I leave school.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about, Manuela,” he said. “You are my daughter, this is your family and your home. You’ll live with us until we find a suitable husband for you.”

  “But, Papá,” I pleaded, “I don’t want to enter into an arranged marriage. I want to marry for love.”

  “Fine, then,” he said, exasperation creeping into his voice. “You are the most beautiful young lady in Quito. I’m sure among your many suitors—and there will be many suitors—you’ll find one you love.”

  “Before I get married, there are other things I want to do.”

  “And what is it, exactly, that you have in mind?”

  “I want to sell Catahuango and move to Europe…with my girls.”

  He laughed, as if this were too incredible to take seriously. “Manuela, you don’t know what you’re saying. You forget unmarried women don’t travel alone anywhere, much less to Europe.”

  I grew emboldened, as I always did when I encountered opposition. “I didn’t say I was planning to go to Europe by myself. I said I would take Jonotás and Natán with me.”

  He gave me a puzzled look, as if I had spoken to him in Greek.

  I would not back down. “I know my rights, Papá. The hacienda is mine and I can sell it when I become of age. I don’t mean to make you unhappy. I just—”

  “Listen to me, Manuela,” Father said softly. In his eyes I detected something akin to pity for me. “Catahuango is yours because it was your mother’s property.” He spoke in a steady tone, enunciating every syllable to make sure I would not misunderstand him. “But when you were born, your mother registered you as a foundling. That means that according to the law your parents are unknown. Legally, you can inherit Catahuango only after the Aispurus die. It’s true that someday you’ll be a wealthy woman, but only after your aunt and uncle are dead.”

  My bachelor uncle, Domingo, was in poor health, and his end might be approaching. I couldn’t wait for him to die. I had no love for my uncle, who had always kept me at a distance. After his death only Ignacia stood in the way of my becoming the sole heiress of Catahuango. Still, Ignacia could live for a long time. By then, I might be an old woman myself.

  “Everyone knows I’m my mother’s daughter,” I said.

  “Your mother’s dead. She can’t corroborate that.”

  “But you can. Besides, in case you haven’t heard about it,” I quoted, “‘The right to property being inviolable and sacred, no one ought to be deprived of it, except in cases of evident public necessity, legally ascertained, and on conditions of a previous just indemnity.’”

  Father gave me his condescending smile again. Whenever he disliked anything I said, there was the smile. This was his way of silencing me, of making me feel invisible.

  “What’s this subversive nonsense you’re parroting? I wonder if you understand a word of what you said?”

  “I understand perfectly well every word I said. For your information, it’s item seventeen of ‘The Declaration of the Rights of Man.’”

  “The rights of man,” he sneered. “Not the rights of woman.

  When are you going to understand that men and women do not have the same rights? That they are not equal? That a good daughter must always obey her father? And unless you want to be shot by a firing squad, if I were you, I wouldn’t go around quoting the ‘Rights of Man.’”

  I felt as though I were about to choke for lack of air in the room. Knowing that someday I would inherit Mother’s wealth and live the life I envisioned was the great hope that kept me going during my time in that wretched school. He was denying me that hope. I felt a flare-up of my old animosity toward the man who sat there in front of me, whose seed had brought me into the world.

  I made up my mind that very day. As soon as I could manage it, rich or poor, I would leave my father’s house. My life was mine to control. Not my family’s. Not society’s. And certainly not the
law’s. I felt crushed but not defeated. I would have to find a way out of my predicament. A way that would give me what I wanted, without having to answer to anyone ever again. Never would I have guessed, that my answer would come in the form of first love.

  4

  I first set eyes on Fausto D’Elhuyar, a lieutenant in the Royal Guard of Toribio Montes, the president of the Royal Audiencia of Quito, on a Sunday tertulia at Father’s house. José María’s army friends were regulars at the tertulias. Many love matches were made at these gatherings. The most eligible young men in the city and the daughters of the best families got to know one another there, under the close chaperoning of their parents.

  Clemencia, the eldest of my half sisters, was keen on Fausto. Who could blame her? He was prettier than most girls I knew. His sleek, powerful body exuded confidence. He seemed fully aware of the effect his glittering flaxen hair, exquisitely groomed mustache, green eyes, and long lashes had on people. Everything about him proclaimed that he was destined for a brilliant career in the Spanish army. Judging by the eagerness with which my father and stepmother behaved toward Fausto, it was apparent they considered him a good match for Clemencia.

  The tertulias ended at seven in the evening, and some of the guests would then say the rosary with the family in the living room before they left. It was during a rosary that I noticed Fausto stealing glances at me while the rest of the company prayed with closed eyes. I did not encourage the flirtation, but I didn’t discourage it, either. Whenever our eyes met, I would look at him blankly, as if his look meant nothing. Though I was flattered that the handsomest man in Quito seemed to admire me, the last thing I wanted was to create trouble with Clemencia or with Doña Juana, who, despite her surface hospitality, always made me understand I was not the equal of her daughters.

  THE SITUATION WITH Fausto did not escalate because I left to spend part of my school holiday at Catahuango, where my uncle was gravely ill. The usually grim atmosphere of the house was made even more oppressive by the proximity of death. Aunt Ignacia behaved as if Uncle Domingo were already dead and now dressed exclusively in black. She forbade laughter and singing, as well as visitors, in the house. I tried to spend as many hours as possible outside, and, regardless of the weather, every day went riding with Jonotás and Natán. To start preparing for the day Catahuango would belong to me, I took a new interest in the activities of the farm. I visited the corrals where the cows were milked, the lambs sheared, the pigs fattened. Accompanied by the overseer, who answered my questions, I learned about the crops we grew for sale in Quito.

  My busy days, however, did not prevent me from thinking of Fausto often. I had grown up in a world without men. In Catahuango, besides my infirm uncle, the only males were the Indian laborers and the African slaves; and at school, the lecherous priests. Fausto was the first man of my own class to catch my attention.

  Everything I knew about love, I had learned from reading the delicious romantic novels Rosita smuggled into the school. One morning I woke up feeling my skin crying out to be caressed, and the first thing I thought about was Fausto’s face. I knew from my reading that this meant I must be in love. I decided to keep those feelings to myself. There was nothing wrong with thinking about the handsome lieutenant, after all. It helped me to while away the silent hours when I sat embroidering with my aunt, the only activity we had in common. Aunt Ignacia made a point of teaching me everything she knew of the matter.

  When I embroidered flowers and fruits and birds, I pretended I was making a picture of Fausto’s face. When I looked out the window, the color of the mountains, the leaves on the trees, the hue on the hummingbirds’ breasts reminded me of his emerald eyes. When I walked outside at sunset, the light draping the mountains reminded me of his golden hair. I longed to hear his voice, his laughter. Entirely new were the daydreams of his hands touching me. I had touched his hand a few times in greeting. Now, thinking of him, I took my right hand, cradled it in the left, and kissed my palm tenderly, pretending I was kissing the warmth he had left on my skin.

  One afternoon when we were walking in the fields, Jonotás said, “Something’s troubling you, Manuela. You’re distracted all the time. What are you hiding?”

  “Nothing,” I replied.

  “Then why are you blushing? You can’t hide anything from me, Manuela. But I’ll understand if you don’t want to tell me.” She looked hurt.

  I had never kept a secret from Jonotás.

  I started walking faster, to outpace her. She called after me, “I know what it is. You’re not fooling me. It’s about a young man.”

  I ignored her remarks and walked faster still.

  “It’s about a certain lieutenant, isn’t it?”

  How could Jonotás know about Fausto D’Elhuyar? I myself had not been aware of my feelings for him until I had arrived in Catahuango. Perhaps my relatives were right: Jonotás was a witch and had supernatural powers. She could read people’s minds. I turned around to see her running toward me.

  “Is it about that attractive Lieutenant D’Elhuyar?” Jonotás said, trying to catch her breath.

  I flushed. “Are you crazy, Jonotás? He is Clemencia’s intended.”

  “He was interested in Señorita Clemencia. Make no mistake about it, now he’s interested in you.”

  “Why do you talk such nonsense!”

  “Well, maybe because he stopped me in the market when I was running errands and asked me questions about you.”

  I turned to face her. Could this be true? “About me? Why? I haven’t given him any reason to think I’m interested in him.”

  “Manuela, when two people like each other, they know it. He even asked me if I’d take a letter to you. I refused.”

  “You did? Why? I didn’t tell you to do that.”

  “Because Doña Juana fancies Fausto as Clemencia’s husband, Manuela. If she finds out you and Fausto like each other, she’ll lock you up in a convent and throw the key down the mouth of Cotopaxi,” she said, gesturing in the direction of the volcano. “And my teeth will bleed before you get out again. As for what she’ll do to me if she catches me serving as a go-between, more than my teeth will bleed.”

  “He’s handsome,” I said dreamily.

  “That he is,” Jonotás concurred. “But besides looking good in his uniform, what about his brain? Does he have one?”

  We laughed together as if on cue. I slipped my arm through Jonotás’s, and we skipped down the meadow, giggling.

  CONFIDING MY SECRET to Jonotás broke the grip of my obsession. I decided that, as flattered as I was by Fausto’s interest, I would not risk alienating my family. Their displeasure could make life a lot harder for me. The world was full of Fausto D’Elhuyars, I decided. All I had to do was wait until I became an independent woman, and then there would be plenty of handsome lieutenants to choose from.

  At the end of the holiday, I returned to the nuns. Jonotás came to my cell each morning, after we said mass and had breakfast, and left late in the afternoon. We did not mention Fausto again. If I thought about him, I immediately shook my head to expel his image from my mind. Fausto stopped appearing at the Sunday tertulias. I was puzzled by his absence, but there was no one I could ask about him.

  One morning, Jonotás came in carrying fresh laundry and the sweets Natán had made especially for me. She pulled out an envelope she had tucked under her turban and handed it to me. I studied the handwriting—it was not from Father or my stepmother. Jonotás turned her back to me and began making my bed.

  I took from my desk a gold letter opener Father had given me for my sixteenth birthday and opened the envelope.

  Dear Manuela,

  You may have noticed that since you returned from your vacation I have not been coming to your parents’ home on Sundays. I have deliberately deprived myself of the great pleasure of seeing you because I have come to realize it is you, not Clemencia, I love; you, Manuela, whom I want for my wife.

  When our eyes met at your father’s house, I thought I d
etected a warmth toward me. Could it be possible that you feel toward me the same way I feel toward you? If this is the case, I will be the happiest man alive.

  Manuela, I write because time is of the essence. In sixty days, I will be transferred to Guayaquil, where I will stay for at least a year. This transfer is an important step in being promoted to Captain of the Royal Guard. At the risk of displeasing your father, will you come with me to Guayaquil, where we can be married and where we will live as husband and wife?

  Yours,

  Fausto

  I handed Jonotás the letter, which she greedily read.

  “He’s loco,” she said. “I brought you the letter because he promised me that if I did he wouldn’t bother me again. Every day since we got back from Catahuango he waits for me to ask me to bring you a letter.”

  The letter was thrilling and frightening at the same time. “Next time you see him, Jonotás, tell him you gave me the letter and that you have no answer for him.”

  “What should I do if he gives me another letter?”

  I thought about it for a moment. To accept his letters was a tacit agreement that I reciprocated his feelings. Yet the idea of receiving love letters was too romantic a notion to abandon so quickly. “Take it,” I told her. “If he asks you whether I’ve read the letters, say you don’t know.”

  “If you say so, Manuela,” Jonotás replied, in a tone that hinted nothing good could come from this.

  JONOTÁS BEGAN TO deliver Fausto’s letters daily. I did not answer them; I wanted to test his constancy. My silence, however, was not enough of a deterrent. On the contrary, it seemed to make him ever more determined to get a response from me. “Just a sign from you,” he wrote. “Take pity on my suffering.” He was no great writer, that was obvious. The sentiments he expressed seemed so ordinary. I wanted his letters to make me tremble and swoon. Instead, they were repetitious. Yet although his power of eloquence was small, he did seem sincere and appeared to have fallen in love with me quite blindly. This romantic side of his nature appealed to me—he was like one of the adventurous male heroes in my favorite novels, and I could not stop thinking about him.