The Ladies of Managua (12 page)

Ninexin told me once that she thought Mariana should do more with her life, go into politics or diplomacy, public service of some kind. “Politics has claimed entirely too many members of this family already,” I said, which quieted her down for a while. But in a way, she was right. Not that my Mariana should do more, because what greater contribution can there be than bringing beauty into the lives of others? But that she is the one who should have been a diplomat, not Ninexin. In all these decades I've had so much practice letting my thoughts go, left so many things unsaid, that sometimes even my mind is silent and all I can hear is my own breath. But my Mariana is young, she feels everything, thinks about it all. I can see her mind working when she doesn't know anyone is watching her. Her face changes so quickly, mirroring her thoughts; her eyes flicker when she's angry or hurt. And also when she's gathering information, trying to assess her own reaction, waiting until it's the right moment to speak. I see how she can yell in her mind and whisper with her voice, and isn't that what a diplomat should do? Feel things strongly yet speak softly enough to have her message heard?

It's my Mariana's fault, really, that I'm not sitting here thinking of Ignacio, reviewing our life together, blurring the hard edges and magnifying the moments of joy so that the marriage I remember is different from the one I lived, better. That is the job of the spouse who is left, revising.

But ever since my Mariana showed me the painting of the girl with the naked hands dropping the book, and the man in profile beaming at her, I've thought of nothing but Mauricio. People come and go, kissing my cheek, murmuring condolences, and they take my blank expression as shock, and my small smiles as gratitude for their kindness in doing what they can to mitigate my sorrow. When the truth is, I'm not spending every ounce of energy fighting my grief; I'm also, God help me, remembering each letter from Mauricio, each afternoon with him and Miss Birdie, each walk along the banquettes approaching Sacred Heart's gate as dusk fell and my curfew approached. The best I can do is to contain the smiles, keep them from erupting into grins.

By 1953, the end of my junior year, we had been together two years, and I was trying to puzzle out the best way to introduce him to the rest of the family, beyond just Dolly. She had kept our secret, although it bothered her, I know, that I had such a serious relationship and she didn't. At her graduation she would be almost twenty, marriageable age for that time and our set. She never acknowledged it, though; she said she had no interest in walking out with anyone in New Orleans, that she wouldn't even consider a suitor until she returned home to Granada. And when she did, she would reacquaint herself with the older brothers of the girls we'd played with as children, and see which one caught her eye. There were only a few families who were at the same level of society as our own, a handful, really, who had homes off the Parque Central, near the papaya-colored catedral, and of those only two, the de la Torres and the Ponces, had grand homes that matched ours. Our houses were lined up in a row along the plaza, and were so vast that the people of Granada called them, together, “the three worlds.” It was like that, in a way; our families orbited each other. But that didn't mean that Dolly would have to marry one of the sons of the other two worlds; we weren't that provincial. There were other planets in our solar system, good families who lived a few streets away, or, slightly more mysterious, those who came to town on holidays to see friends but who lived in Le
ó
n or Managua, or out on their fincas. If she didn't like the looks of anyone in Granada, Dolly would start paying attention to our brothers' friends when they came to visit. She wasn't worried. She had a trim waist and a fat dowry; any Granadino—no, any Nicarag
ü
ense—would be lucky to marry her.

As for me, I would, of course, marry Mauricio. I never said as much to Dolly, because I didn't want her to think that I disapproved of her plan for a prudent marriage. I didn't; it made perfect sense. But I was one of the lucky ones, chosen to marry for love, to experience the kind of passion we read about in Connie's books. God had given me a gift by sending me Mauricio; I just had to find the best way to make sure His will was done, that no one interfered with His intentions.

I planned to introduce Mauricio to my parents at Dolly's graduation, without letting on how serious our relationship was, how long we had been together. And they would be so charmed by him, by his excellent manners and easy laugh, that they would suggest on their own that perhaps we might spend the occasional afternoon together—with a chaperone, of course—during my senior year, when Dolly would be gone and I'd be lonely. And perhaps that Christmas they might invite him to visit Nicaragua, and we'd announce our engagement on New Year's, to symbolize the start of a new life, a new family. Then we'd return to New Orleans, I would finish school, he'd complete his freshman year at Loyola, and we'd marry in the spring and settle down. After school he'd start working right away, managing his family's sugarcane business but on the import side, opening up an office based in New Orleans. My parents would miss me, but surely they were used to not having me around after three years? And it would give them a bit of prestige, to have a daughter settled in New Orleans, someone they could stop over and visit on their way to Paris each year. It would be Dolly who would feel my absence most of all. But she could visit, too, any time she wanted—we'd have a room just for her. And if she made the kind of marriage she planned on, she might stop in New Orleans en route to shop in Paris each fall, too.

The difficult part would be the initial introduction. It would have to be a carefully calibrated performance. I'd have to show that I held Mauricio in great esteem, that I cared about him, but not too much, because if my parents had known I was seeing anyone so often, or so intensely, they would have put a stop to it long ago. And of course, I wouldn't want to take away from Dolly's day; she'd be the one in a splendid white gown, collecting her diploma and well-deserved accolades. She was a far better student than I could hope to be, she had a drawer full of
Tr
è
s Bien
ribbons, whereas I more often than not received plain old
Bien.
I could tell she wasn't entirely happy about this part of her life coming to an end. She respected the nuns, loved our friends. And she loved French and music even more—she was quite good at the piano; on weekends she would play for me and Mauricio and Miss Birdie and sometimes even Cristian Hidalgo.

I wanted to warn Dolly of my plan, so that she wouldn't be shocked, wouldn't feel that I had shanghaied her graduation. I needed to be sure that she understood that, in fact, I was doing the opposite: her graduation was such an important occasion that I had chosen it as the perfect time to bring together everyone I loved. And, to be honest, I'd need her help in convincing my parents there was nothing improper in my relationship with Mauricio.

So I sat next to her in the school courtyard, opposite the grotto of Our Lady, on the next Sunday that was an off-weekend, when the boys from St. Michael's didn't come and Mauricio and I had only our letters to sustain us. Dolly was trying to read and I had a notebook out as if I were working on an assignment. There was a piece of stationery on the inside, but I didn't want any of the nuns, or even another student such as Silvia, to notice that I was such an avid letter writer, so I kept it tucked between the ruled pages.

“I have something I have to tell you,” I said in Spanish, although we were supposed to speak only English or French on campus. But Sunday afternoon, after Mass, was as relaxed as life got at Sacred Heart. Girls were milling about, gossiping away with each other; no one would be overly interested in our t
ê
te–
à
-t
ê
te.

Dolly looked alarmed, so I reassured her right away, “It's nothing bad; it's something wonderful, in fact. I just want you to know.” I closed the notebook and looked directly at her. “I'm going to introduce Mauricio to Mama and Papa at your graduation.”

She dropped her book, and when I reached to get it for her, she put out her hand to keep me back, picked it up herself, then took her time finding her page and slipping in a prayer card she had been using as a bookmark.

“Why would you go and do that, Isa?” she asked finally, gazing at me as she did at the blind beggar she always gave a nickel to when we crossed his corner on Saturdays to get our sodas at the Walgreens lunch counter. Her expression stung at first. But then I reminded myself that I shouldn't be the object of pity here. If anything, Dolly should be, bless her heart. She just didn't understand what it was like to love someone this way.

“He can meet them the day before or after, we can save the graduation day just for you,” I rushed to placate her. “However you want us to do it. I know it's your weekend.”

She looked down at her book as if she wished she could be reading it again. “I should never have let you see him that often,” she said. “This is my fault.”

“No!” I said, too loudly; Connie looked over at us from across the courtyard but she was being tutored by a senior girl and couldn't come and see what the fuss was about.

“You seemed to be so happy with him and we all had such pleasant afternoons together,” Dolly continued. “But I thought you knew.”

“I knew the minute I saw him,” I said. “I knew God had sent me the man I was going to marry.”

Dolly put her book down and reached for my hand. I pulled it away but she took it again and twined her fingers through mine the way she would when she was ten and I was nine and we were finally allowed to walk across the plaza to the repostería with our nanny following, instead of standing right between us, holding our arms all too firmly. Walking just the two of us felt like freedom, even though we knew there were watchful eyes immediately behind us. Freedom, but, with my hand in Dolly's, safety as well.

“Who is Mauricio, really?” Dolly asked. “We know nothing about his family or his people. He's Cuban, and Cristian says that the situation there–”

“I don't care what Cristian says.” I finally succeeded in pulling my hand away.

“But think, Isa!” Dolly continued. “Where will you live? Here? Where we'll only see each other once a year? You'll lose us, not just me, but Mama and Papa and the whole family. The whole country, too: the Purísimas and Christmas, the G
ü
eg
ü
ense and Easter. Our whole life. And if you live there … what if you hate his family? What if his mother moves in with you, even in New Orleans? It happens. Right now he's a student in a city where he has no ties, but who is he deep down? What will your life be like with him? And without us? And what will I do without you?”

I hadn't considered what Dolly would do without me. The truth is, I hadn't considered any of them at all. It never occurred to me that they wouldn't all be there, in the back of my mind if not in person, on holidays. In Mass on Sundays. When my children were born. But even as I listened to Dolly and knew that what she was saying made sense, I also knew, sure as I did my own name, that it didn't matter. I would always keep Dolly, and the others, close in my thoughts and in my prayers. But I could—and would—start my life over again if that's what I had to do to be with Mauricio. In chapel in the morning, the nuns often spoke of fulfilling the destiny God chose for us, of listening for His call, and not just hearing Him but acting on His desires with a willing heart. Hadn't He brought me and Mauricio together, in this city where neither of us had been born? Hadn't He made me drop my book, made Mauricio notice me despite Silvia's pleats and emeralds? Hadn't He created two people who agreed so harmoniously on everything—the best po'boy, the best psalm, the kind of life a young couple starting out could create? It would be a sin not to follow the path God had shown me.

Dolly and I sat in silence. Somehow our hands had found each other again, our fingers intertwined. Finally she squeezed my palm and said, “You have one more year. Enjoy it if you can. But if you think that extra time will make you sadder when you have to part—or reckless while you're here without me—then say good-bye to Mauricio before we go back to Granada.” She put her other hand on the outside of mine. “But just know—and I tell you this because I don't want you to be hurt—that if Mama and Papa so much as see Mauricio's face and suspect anything, there's no way they will even consider sending you back here next year.”

She dropped my hands to open her book to the marked page. “I won't tell them, I promise,” she said, as if talking to the pages. “I won't ruin things for you. Just be sure you don't ruin things for yourself.”

It was starting to get dark and the other girls had left the courtyard. The air was still and heavy, and there was nothing but the noise of Dolly turning her page. But in my mind, that soft swish was the sound of my world crashing down around me.

 

15

Ninexin

I'm quite sure that I didn't faint at all. I just lost my footing as I went to stand, maybe my heel slipped on the overly polished floor. I believe you have to lose consciousness for it to count as fainting and I don't think I even closed my eyes. It's just that one moment I was trying to stand, keeping my eye on Mariana and that tall gringo, in case she needed me, and the next I was on the floor and poor Ignacito was crying while Rigobertito squeezed my wrist, feeling for my pulse. When I sat up I saw that the group from the office had the good sense to stop a respectful distance away. I was still feeling a little dizzy—I think the last thing I ate was a pasta de pollo sandwich back at the office, and that was probably around noon. So I looked over at Celia and Rigobertito and said, “Help me up, already. I can't sit here all night.”