The Ladies of Managua (3 page)

Papa was always the one who made the decisions in our family. Even when I was little and I'd ask permission for something Mama didn't want me to do—to go to the park without my nanny now that I was twelve, or to a friend's house after school—she'd tell me, “Ask your father,” hoping he'd be the heavy. Was she afraid of me even then? The irony is that Papa would usually say yes. He trusted me even when he shouldn't have.

And yet, when I wanted him to say no—that he and Mama wouldn't move to Miami, that it would be wrong to take Mariana with them—he didn't, arguing that a war-torn country was no place for his granddaughter to grow up.

Now that he's gone I want to think he didn't fail me on purpose, that he thought the move was what I wanted, too. That he really believed, when I agreed to Mama's plan, that I meant it, that I was glad Mariana would be far away and safe. After all, I was the one who warned Celia that it wouldn't be very long before her son, my nephew Rigobertito, would be in danger of being drafted to fight in the war against the contras, who were trying to destroy our fragile new democracy. I was working my way up in the new government at the time, but I rushed to her house right after one of our meetings when it became clear that universal draft would soon be mandated. Two years of service in the Sandinista army would be required by all men ages sixteen to twenty-four, but kids much younger were already getting caught up in the conflict. The war with the contras was intensifying, and more manpower was needed.

I knew it was important to keep things quiet until the announcement was made, to avoid fueling the conflagration of rumors. And to keep people who could from fleeing the country. But I couldn't not tell my sister that Rigobertito would be in danger. I knew how much she loved her son; I did, too. And I owed it to her. Celia was always the good daughter, who did what my parents asked, what they expected. But she was a good sister, too. She told me once that she admired me, even if she wasn't like me. I wonder if she knew how important those words were, especially to a twenty-year-old who still looked up to her older sister with the straight hair and the slim waist. So I had to tell her. Rigobertito was turning fifteen and the conflict showed no sign of wrapping up. What destruction it took to improve our country!

I knew that if I told Celia it meant she would leave, and she did, the very next week. I didn't know that when Celia moved to Miami, our mother and father would go, too. It made sense for Celia to move—she'd been to college at the University of Florida, and her husband had investments he wanted to protect outside of volatile Nicaragua, and a friend with a car dealership who would guarantee him a job. But that my parents would go, too, and bring Mariana with them? That was so preposterous, it couldn't be anything but a fantasy Mama, and later, Papa, tossed around, spoke out loud to hear how it sounded. I fought the proposal from the start. I told Mama that my child belonged with her mother. But then my father said, “I know you want to honor Manuel's memory. And you should! But you'll never forgive yourself if this Revoluci
ó
n harms someone else you love.”

He was right. Even though I stormed out of his house, the door slamming behind me, threatening to knock Mama's porcelain shepherdesses off the side table, he was right. Manuel was more alive than anyone I'd known, but he was prepared to die for the Revolución. It was a risk he took willingly. “At least my death would mean something,” he told me when I found out I was pregnant and asked him to turn down the more dangerous assignments. “If I die, it would be to make a better country for this baby. Besides, I'm fast, and moving targets are too tricky to kill. And I'm lucky! After all, I have you.”

Remembering our conversation always makes me cringe so completely that I feel I might throw up; even my intestines are contorted in shame. If I didn't feel so guilty, I might at least appreciate the irony of his words. But knowing that I cost him his life, and Mariana her father, I had to keep fighting in his place, to try to keep his death from being a waste. Besides, how would it look if the widow of Manuel Vazquez abandoned the Revolución and moved to the United States, a country that had refused to help us in our struggle? It would tarnish his sacrifice, shame him even in death. I had always been a valuable compañera, one of the generals told me, one of the most reliable members of the Frente Sandinista de Liberación Nacional. After Manuel's death, I became even more: a symbol of sacrifice and struggle, triumph after tragedy. Whether I liked it or not, this was how people saw me now. I could use the role that had been assigned to me to help our country, or I could slip out of the ill-fitting halo I now wore and turn my back on the new nation Manuel died to create. It wasn't a choice, really.

And I couldn't honestly tell my parents that Mariana's life wouldn't be at risk in Nicaragua. She was a seven-year-old girl; she wasn't in danger of being drafted. But the war was being fought all over the country. It was possible that she'd get caught in the crossfire, or worse, be harmed in a mission that targeted me. Children had been dying since before the Revolución, when Somoza's army killed kids as young as ten; it was after the death of one of them, Luis Alfonso Velasquez, that my involvement with the Frente intensified. Manuel and I wanted to make the country safer for our future children. We had toppled Somoza, and Manuel had died in the process, but war still raged in Nicaragua. Everyone I had left who loved me was insisting the best way to keep my daughter safe was to send her away.

The war had to end at some point, I reasoned. When it did, we would be together again. But even though I walked back into my parents' home calmly, righted the one shepherdess that had slipped, and agreed to their plan with my mind and my voice, in my stomach, deep in my body, I couldn't believe that this was actually going to happen, that my daughter would be separated from me. Logically, I knew it was the best thing for Mariana. But emotionally, I felt it was an impossibility. I thought someone would have to intervene. I don't know who that would have been—Papa? God? The ghost of Sandino? But I was sure some higher power would stop this impossibility from taking place. And yet, it did take place. A second time, an unimaginable thing happened as I stood and watched in disbelief. And even though Papa assured me that this was the only way to protect the person I loved most in the world, and I still believe he was right, that knowledge didn't make things any easier when I lost her.

All along, Mama swore it was the best thing for Mariana. And I tell myself that she's right, it was. She was so young, at that age where a butterfly or a vial of bubble stuff makes you happy to the core. I hardly saw Mariana as it was, even when we were all in Managua, my mother argued, among all my meetings, my consciousness-raising efforts for the Luisa Amanda Espinosa Nicaraguan Women's Association, and my work setting up the new government, the councils that would turn into the foreign ministry, where I've worked ever since, going from office worker to minister.

Even before we ousted Somoza, I spent half my time in hiding, working from outside the country, recruiting supporters to the cause: Honduras, Mexico, Cuba. Some of the postings were long enough that I was able to take Mariana and a nanny with me, which was great cover as I posed as a graduate student at the local universities, getting to know my fellow students' political leanings and abilities. That was fine when Mariana was little, Mama said, but she was about to start first grade and needed consistency. Celia enrolled Rigobertito in the public high school on Key Biscayne, and Mariana could go to the grade school, Papa said. Most of the kids there spoke Spanish, and she was smart; I knew she'd learn English so fast. Mariana loved her grandparents, her cousin. If they were leaving the country, she'd have no one but a nanny and me. And I'd be busy, distracted. Maybe, if my history with Manuel proved anything, destructive. So I let Mariana go, telling her that she was going on a great adventure with her abuelo and her Bela and that I'd visit very soon. I swore to myself it was just until her summer vacation, when we would all meet in Mexico, where I'd be seeking support for the new government. Even though I knew I'd most likely have to come back to Nicaragua alone after that, I told myself I would bring Mariana home as soon as the war ended and the situation stabilized.

I didn't think the war would take so long. Or that by the time it ended and things stabilized in the year or two that followed, Mariana would be thirteen, old enough and opinionated enough to say that she wanted to stay at her school, with her friends, in the country she had come to know best. Even then I had hope. Papa and Mama returned to Nicaragua after Mariana graduated high school, as the country rebuilt. And young people here live at home until they're married. Mariana could have moved into my flat near the office after high school, or stayed with my parents, even, in the house in Las Colinas, where there was plenty of room. But there was college and in the breaks there were always internships and summer sessions and friends' and boyfriends' families to visit, so except for a few weeks here and there, she seldom slept under the same roof I did. We saw each other quite often, of course we did. She's a good daughter, a dutiful daughter. But we never lived together again.

I watch the young women Mariana's age who work in the press office with me, I see how confident they are, how radiant, even the ones who aren't beautiful. They're lit with the energy of possibility: trying to make the best of the options open to them a reality, or steeling themselves against disappointment when an opportunity disappears—a job goes to someone else, a lover leaves, a parent insists they choose a more suitable career than politics, or settle down and get married. These girls talk to me as if I'm just a few years older, a big sister or a trusted aunt. Should she take the offer in Colombia, even if it means leaving her aging parents behind? Will he ever stand up to his mother and propose to her? What should she do next to ensure that she'll end up like me—strong, successful, admired?

And as I talk to each one I wonder, what are the questions my daughter is busy turning over in her mind as she stands in line to get her coffee to take a quick break from the gallery? And who does she talk to about them? Who does she admire? Who has access to her soul? Because I am fairly certain that Mariana spends a significant amount of time wondering what she should do next to ensure that she won't end up the way she sees me—hard, cold, alone.

*   *   *

I parked in the lot next to International Departures, so as I walk toward the VIP area, I have to pass the statues of women representing the earth's different nations and peoples. I know some of the models the sculptor used. I've written press releases about these statues, about how Augusto C. Sandino International Airport is the most modern in Central America, and how these all-female statues are inspiring for visitors of all races and countries, and especially for those of us who live here in what is still a machista culture. But the truth is, I hate walking past them. They're carved out of black stone and the eyes have no pupils or irises, no definition. Their eyes are empty, but if I walk past them too slowly, I feel as if they're watching me, judging me, finding me wanting. As if they know what I did. As if I've disappointed them more than they thought possible.

Revolutionaries make bad husbands, Mama says. And she's right. But as I rush past the statues of idealized women to meet my daughter, I have to wonder how revolutionaries shape up as wives, as mothers. I don't want this to be true, but I suspect it's an even harder trick to pull off.

 

4

Maria

I thought I was going to make it through the airport without interference, but just as I rolled my carry-on up to the customs line, a bashful teenager appeared at my side. I smelled the kid before I saw him, soap, and underneath that, anxiety. He's actually probably in his twenties, married, most likely, with a baby or several children, so he's more of an adult than I am in the eyes of the world, someone who is responsible for the livelihood and happiness of others. But he looks like a teenager dressed up for Halloween in his French-blue-and-navy security uniform. He wouldn't call it French blue, of course. Sky blue, maybe. Celestial. Such a beautiful word for a color that is meant to enforce, to intimidate. This boy is anything but intimidating, stammering as he introduces himself. His name is Jos
é
. Or Juan; I couldn't quite hear over the hum of the airport.

“Se
ñ
orita Vazquez,” he says, and when I nod, adds, “follow me,” and whisks me off to the VIP lounge. Although they're socialists—maybe because they're socialists—Nicaraguans are obsessed with VIP areas; they even have them in movie theaters. This usually amuses me, but today it's just annoying. I'd packed light, hoping to roll through Customs and Passport Control with my twenty-inch bag, out to the curb where I knew my Bela would be waiting with Don Pedro, the only man left who has yet to abandon her. I'm ready to slide into the frigid backseat of the Accord, to lean against the bulk of her warmth and show her what I've brought. It's in my pocket still. I didn't even entrust it to the carry-on; what if all the overhead bins in my row were taken and I had to slide the bag farther back? Or if they insisted on checking my carry-on at the gate, and it was raining as they unloaded, and it got wet and ruined? It's not supposed to rain in January in Managua, in more certain times my Bela would say it
never
rains in January in Managua, but now she's a widow and there's global warming and I have no idea what to do next. All I know is that I have to protect the envelope in my pocket, because if I can put this right, if I can give fate the little push it needs to resolve things that remain unfinished in my Bela's life, then maybe fate will be a bit more straightforward with me in return, and I'll know what to do. I'll be strong and confident and sure. For once, I will take after my mother, walking the right path instead of bumbling into the wrong hallway, like my father, with tragic results.