The Ladies of Managua (28 page)

I left town that afternoon and headed to Costa Rica, then Honduras, traveling until my money ran out and Cristian came to find me. He asked me to join his family business; I had experience with my own family's import operations, and that knowledge would transfer, he said. I needed the money. So did my parents. And I appreciated Cristian's kindness. So I moved here to Mexico. It's where I met my wife, where I raised my family. We had a son, two daughters, and another son, all of whom were already grown and out of the house by the time my wife left. She is a painter now, in New Orleans of all places. It wasn't until after our oldest son was born that Cristian handed me your letter; one of the brothers at St. Michael's had given it to him when he last passed through New Orleans. He had it with him when he came to find me in Honduras. He hadn't read it, but when he saw how bitter I was, how drained, he decided to hold on to it until I was stronger; he worried it would only cause me more suffering.

I never told him how right he was. By the time I read it and realized it was Dolly's wedding I had almost ruined, not yours, by the time I realized that you had wanted me, too, I was already a husband and a father. Perhaps you were already married, too, and everything that led up to the beautiful girl crossing her ankles in the waiting room at Mt. Sinai had already been put in motion. If he'd given me the envelope sooner, maybe I would have come back to Nicaragua, tried one more time. But I had already lost more than a year of my life trying to find you and then to forget you; I could understand why Cristian wanted me to be firmly on a new path before he gave me the letter.

“Why show it to me now?” I asked at the time. And Cristian said he didn't do it for me, but for himself. He couldn't bear the burden of holding on to your thoughts, to thoughts that belonged to me, any longer, regardless of what the letter said. I had never seen him look so wretched, so afraid. So I told him he'd done the right thing. Because I knew, in the end, that I was at fault for all that had happened. When I fled Granada, I did so in anger. I should have looked for you. I should have fought for you. I should have come to the church where I thought you were being married and demanded the wedding be stopped. But I didn't, because I didn't want to be humiliated again. And because I didn't know if you would turn and walk down the aisle away from me once more—only this time, toward another young man you loved, a groom instead of a father.

Forgive me, Isa. Forgive me my pride and my cowardice. I hope you've lived a wonderful life and thought of me only occasionally, but with great fondness. And if that's the case, then forgive me for what I am about to write, and pray that God forgives me, too. But when Cristian saw your granddaughter in the hospital, I knew this was my second chance. I cannot stay silent any longer.

Isa, you are my one true love. It sounds like one of the books you girls used to hide from the nuns, but I can't think of another way to say it. I don't know what your life is like now, or what your feelings for me are, if any. But I want you to know that I love you and always have.

My health is not perfect; whose is at our age? My grandson attends the American school in the capital and he asked me to answer some questions for him, about what life was like when I was young, and one, the last one, about how I would like to spend the rest of my days. I lied to my grandson, Isa. I told him I wanted to live and die peacefully, surrounded by my children and grandchildren, on our farm in Cuernavaca. But that's not what I want at all.

I want us to be together again. When Castro dies, I want you to return with me to my hometown, Camag
ü
ey. I know this is a ridiculous thing to tell a married woman whom I haven't spoken to in over half a century. But I am old enough to have learned from my mistakes and to know that if I have a desire, and I never tell it to anyone, there is no one else to blame for it not coming true. Not Cristian. Not you. Not your father. Just myself.

I said I would keep this brief, and, once again, I've failed. Who knows? It may not even matter how long I carry on, or what I write; I don't know if you'll ever read this. Mariana was very clear with Cristian when he emailed her; she told him that she'd be happy to receive the letter he wanted to send, but couldn't promise when she'd pass it on—there was a great deal happening in your life, and this wasn't the right time to add to your concerns. I accept that.

But I want you to know that I feel better already, just having written this down. I feel understood, as I always did by you. Perhaps I should feel ashamed, immoral. But I feel proud. And relieved. As if I may finally be acting like the man I should have been all along.

A better man might accept this peace as its own reward and put this letter in his desk drawer, to be discovered after his death by curious grandchildren with indulgent eyes. But I am not a better man. I am just the man who loved you once, and who loves you now, and who always will.

I remain your,

Mauricio

 

30

Ninexin

TUESDAY, JANUARY 13, 2009

We were at breakfast in the courtyard of La Gran Francia this morning when we found out where Mariana is. The answer arrived having nothing to do with my connections at the Ministry of Transportation. It was Mama who got the news.

I was pushing pineapple and papaya around on my plate and Allen, Dios mío, he was on his third dish of gallo pinto—I know some people eat when they're worried, but what is it with gringos and gallo pinto? Mama was sipping her manzanilla tea when the phone rang, as it had every morning when Don Pedro called to ask if she needed him to pick her up, if she'd be coming back to Managua today, or if there were any errands she required him for. I heard her telling Don Pedro that no, we were going to hide out in Granada a bit more, we weren't ready to face the empty house, and then she paused and I knew he must have said something surprising because tea sloshed over the side of her cup. It wouldn't have meant anything if I had been the one slopping the tea, but for Mama it was unusual. She placed the teacup very carefully in its saucer and said, “Yes, it is her way, our Mariana. She wanted to see more of Nicaragua, to bring some happiness to such a sad trip.”

I was so desperate to hear what was being said on the other end of the line that I actually stood and leaned over the table toward Mama's phone, but she waved me off as if I were a housefly, slapping her napkin at me, then asked, “And how did you know she was traveling, Don Pedro?”

“He found her,” I whispered to Allen. He opened his mouth but I raised my hand in front of it so he'd know not to speak while I listened in on Mama's conversation, trying to decipher what was being said on the other line. It seemed like Mama was silent forever but I finally heard her say, “Gracias, Don Pedro,” and that she'd call and let him know what time to arrive tomorrow or the next day, she felt she was almost ready to return to Managua. She made a great show of placing the phone in the interior pouch of her Chanel bag. But I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of asking what he'd said; I knew she was dying to tell me and wouldn't be able to hold out more than a few seconds.

“For the love of God, Bela, where is she?” Allen shouted, and the tourists in the courtyard turned to stare at us as if they hadn't been just as loud while debating the merits of an isleta tour or a hike up Mombacho.

“I do not know about God,” Mama said in English, “but Don Pedro's granddaughter, Fatima, he just got married–”

“Yes, to the neighbor's son who works for the phone company,” I broke in. “Mama, where's Mariana?”

“That's what I'm telling you!” She switched into Spanish, becoming impatient with her woman-of-mystery act. “Fatima and Jackson went to Ometepe on their honeymoon; she called Don Pedro today to say what a wonderful time they're having. And she said that on Sunday morning when they arrived, they saw a woman who looked familiar checking out of their hotel. But it wasn't until the lady paid and headed down to the dock and a man in a boat yelled up, ‘Se
ñ
ora Vazquez?' that Fatima was sure it was Mariana; the last time she'd seen her they were kids playing Legos in the courtyard with Rigobertito. Don Pedro only mentioned it to say how nice it is that Mariana was able to stay on and travel a bit, how he hoped the trip is helping ease the loss of her abuelo, whom she loved so much; he'd never seen her looking so pale as she did at the funeral.”

I turned to Allen to translate; it was almost difficult to speak, I was smiling so hard. Mariana was fine, gracias a Dios.

“But where was she going on that boat?” Allen shook his head. “Was she coming back here?”

“I forget to say,” Mama said in English. “The boat driver, he yell, ‘Se
ñ
ora Vazquez? For Solentiname?' Don Pedro's granddaughter, he think maybe that's a nice place for a honeymoon, too.”

“
She,
Mama, Don Pedro's granddaughter is a she,” I said automatically. Mama shrugged off the inadvertent sex change, the way she always does; Allen understood what she meant, after all. And she was right, she's not the stupid one here. Mariana has been asking me about Solentiname for years; I should have guessed that's where she went when she took flight. Anyone could have guessed. She's a painter, and an art dealer, and the archipelago has been an artists' cooperative since the sixties. It's the kind of suggestion I make all the time at conferences when some minister or other official leans over and says, “My daughter's studying Spanish in Costa Rica and she's going to pass through Nicaragua on the way back. Where should she go?” I don't say, “Let me lend you a
Lonely Planet
guide,” but I smile and ask, “What's your daughter like? Oh, she's creative? Well, she should time her trip to coincide with the poetry festival in Granada, and take in a performance at the Teatro Nacional Rubén Darío, and if she likes primitivist art, she'll love Solentiname.”

How many trips have I planned in thirty seconds or less for the children of other diplomats looking for a little culture, a bit of adventure, and I couldn't extend the same amount of consideration to my own daughter? Why is it so impossible for me to imagine Mariana's thoughts? Not thinking of Solentiname was starting to feel worse than an oversight. It was beginning to feel like a sin.

“Finally! After three days of calling and searching and waiting!” Allen tipped back and forth in his chair the way children do before a concerned adult tells them to stop or they'll fall over.

I nodded. “And they heard on the third day, according to the Scripture.”

Allen shrugged.

“I'm not great on Bible verses; my parents aren't religious.” He grinned. “Mariana always says I'm a man with no archetypes—Jung would have no idea what to do with me.”

It sounded like something she would say. But I'm not sure it's a compliment. A man with no context is a man with no past, someone who's created himself out of nothing. A person with no beginning, and, maybe, no end. But Allen, with his children and his ex-wife, is hardly free or unencumbered. Certainly not compared to Mariana.

“How do you get to Solentiname from here?” Allen asked.

“Drive to San Carlos, hire a boat. We'll be there in time for a late lunch,” I told him. “Only a few of the islands are inhabited, there's just a handful of hotels. Mariana won't be hard to find. We've got her.” I smiled to make the words sound less like an old Western, but Allen was laughing anyway.

“I guess you can call off your dogs, huh?” He seemed to have caught the imbecilic grin I'd been afflicted with a few minutes ago. “Tell the Sandinistas thanks for the help, but if I ever start a government, I'm making Bela my chief intelligence officer.”

Mama was drinking her tea but I could tell she was smiling, although it seemed to be more at Allen's collar than at his face; she was casting her eyes down as if she were playing Madame Butterfly. “You catch more flies with honey, no, Mr. Allen?”

I stood and my chair ended up on the floor behind me, although I wasn't aware of rising with any particular force. “Mama, call Don Pedro and tell him you've decided to go home today,” I said in Spanish, and it was a command, not a suggestion. Then I switched to English. “Allen, Scarlett O'Mama can go back to Managua today. I'll have the office driver bring us to San Carlos. Can you be ready in an hour?”

Allen stopped rocking his chair. “I'm not coming.” When I didn't respond, he added, “I'll stay here with Bela. She doesn't have to rush back tonight. She already told Don Pedro that he has the day off; who knows what he wants to get up to? We'll set up a nice homecoming lunch in the restaurant for when you return tomorrow.”

“But, Allen,” I started, so surprised by what he said that English was coming to me more slowly than usual. He stood, and I assumed it meant he'd changed his mind. But then he leaned over, so close to my face that I could smell the gallo pinto.

“I came to the funeral and she ran away,” he said, soft enough that Bela wouldn't be able to hear him. “From me,” Allen continued. “She ran away from me. I know she and I need to talk, but if Maria's willing to go to such great lengths to avoid me, it's going to have to be when she wants to, not when I decide to show up.”

All this time when he had been drinking whiskey and playing games on his phone, or doodling on the paper napkin his silverware came wrapped in, I thought he was fidgeting, wishing he were in a cabin in the woods with his horrible kids, maybe even wondering how he could make a final clean break from this wild girl and her even crazier family. But no. He must have spent the last three days doing the exact same thing I had: thinking about Mariana. Wondering what she's feeling, and fearing that when she finally decides what it is she wants, it will have nothing to do with him.