The Ladies of Managua (34 page)

Isabela

I'm not the strongest of women. Sometimes I think it's ironic that I've gotten this far, that I've outlived my husband, virtually all of his friends, and even a few of mine. Apparently, I have staying power.

But while I may have stamina, I know I don't have much strength. I can never turn down the dessert I shouldn't eat, the way Ninexin does. And I always do what I'm told, which sounds like obedience, but which I'm old enough and honest enough to know is just a form of laziness. There are so many ways my life would be different if I were stronger. Perhaps I would have turned my back on Papa that day in the church in New Orleans, nodded at Father Antony to continue, and I'd be married to Mauricio right now. Or maybe I would have fled when I had the chance. On the morning of my wedding, Papa came to my room as Dolly was pinning my veil into my hair and asked her to leave us. I thought he was going to give me his blessing or some advice, maybe even a little spending money for the honeymoon. I was doing what he wanted; this had to prove that I was, in the end, a good daughter. Whatever he had to say, I wanted to know that I had made up for disappointing him so in New Orleans. To know that he still loved me as much as he always had. I started to turn away from the mirror, toward him, but he put his hands on my shoulders, held me in place, and said, “Look at yourself. Look how beautiful you are.” I tried to smile at my reflection but I couldn't; I looked down at the silver brush and comb set on my vanity so that I wouldn't have to watch my own eyes fill with tears.

“I thought,” my father said, and let his hands fall off my shoulders. “I hoped…” He walked over to the window that faced the street behind our house. “There's a carriage and driver waiting downstairs. I was going to send him to the station to get your t
í
a Gabriela; her driver took ill. But he'll go wherever I tell him. You'll be safe if you go to the Poor Clares; the nuns will take you in and I won't tell anyone where you are until we figure out what comes next.” He crossed the room to my side. I could hear his footsteps and then sensed him next to me but I couldn't look up, I felt frozen in place. “You shouldn't have to do this if you don't want to, hija,” he said. “You don't have to do this.”

Maybe Dolly would have let me live with her in Matagalpa, which was far enough away that the shame might not reach, and where a spinster sister could be useful in running her household, raising her children. Or perhaps if I prayed hard enough, I would have felt a calling and stayed with the nuns indefinitely. But I knew I wasn't strong enough to face the shame of humiliating my family, breaking my engagement to Ignacio, and none of the alternative futures running through my head changed that. So I turned to my father and said, “Thank you, Papa, but T
í
a Gabriela must be waiting at the station. And you look so handsome; I'll be proud to have you walk me down the aisle.”

Did my life turn out so badly as a result of my weakness? Not really. Yes, I'm a widow, and the effects of the too-many desserts are immediately visible. But I have my daughters, my grandchildren. Perhaps weakness isn't the worst defect a woman can have. I'm still here, aren't I? And I'm still receiving love letters from a person who can't forget me, although he hasn't seen me in over half a century. How many people can say that?

I'm boasting now. I know that. But I'm also making excuses. Because the same lack of resolve that has me eating Pio Quinto when I'm already bursting with churrasco and puré de papa is the same defect of character that caused me to show Mariana's gringo Mauricio's letter tonight at dinner.

I shouldn't have, I know I shouldn't have. Now he knows secrets that Mariana doesn't, that Ninexin could never imagine, things about me that Ignacio never got to know, thank heaven. If sharing those confidences with a virtual stranger is not a betrayal of the people who love me most, then I don't know what is.

But I couldn't help it. Mauricio's words keep floating around in my mind, which suddenly seems empty of everything else. I have become a living embodiment of one of Mariana's paintings, all words and blank space, with some hazy images scurrying around the edges. I needed to talk about it with somebody. And after Allen's honesty at lunch, it was my turn to offer a confidence. Besides, I do so hate a silence at the dinner table.

I had ordered a Tom Collins right away, and then, once our salads were cleared and before they brought the soup, I gave him the letter. I made no explanation, offered no context. I just handed it to him and said, “Read this.”

He looked at it so intensely I felt he could see through the words to Mauricio's soul. And then he handed it back and said, “It's in Spanish.”

I had to laugh then. I'm afraid I must have caused a bit of a scene, because the waiter rushed over to ask if everything was all right. But I shooed him away and once I regained my composure, I took the letter back and translated it for the gringo giant.

I won't pretend I didn't enjoy doing so. Hearing Mauricio's words out loud, in almost-whispered English because you never know who is listening, made them even more romantic somehow, as if I were watching a movie in the cinema on Canal Street with him by my side.

By the time I said, “I remain, your Mauricio,” our soup had been on the table for several minutes and Allen hadn't taken a bite. I lifted my purse off the little stool the restaurant had provided for it, put the letter away, and said, “Your soup is getting cold.” I didn't want to seem too eager to hear his thoughts.

But Allen didn't start eating. Instead he looked at me and said, “That's some letter.” Only then did he finally lift a spoonful to his mouth.

I was feeling pleased with myself, thinking that I had made the right decision to share my secret with him, when he put down his spoon, reached for a roll, and said, “So you two never slept together?”

I dropped my spoon to the ground; luckily, it was empty, so broth didn't fly all over the restaurant, although I had to stop myself from spitting out what was in my mouth.

“Sorry, I've offended you,” the gringo said. “I shouldn't have even asked; it's clear from the letter that you didn't. It's full of the mystery relationships had back then. We've lost that.”

I probably should have gotten up and stormed out of the restaurant so that he would know how inappropriate his comment had been, so that he would realize how a gentleman should act, the kinds of things he should say and the kinds he shouldn't. But La Gran Francia makes the best French onion soup in Nicaragua, probably in Central America. So I took another bite, not dignifying his comment with a response.

He didn't notice that I was no longer speaking to him. He just kept right on talking. “Now the mystery isn't will we or won't we, so much as what will I do after? In the beginning it's all fun. But when things get serious, you can't help but start wondering, how will this end? Will I bungle it all somehow?”

“Most probably.” I took a sip of my Tom Collins. “I would not be surprised if you often said or did the wrong thing, Mr. Allen.” I emphasized the “mister,” so he would know how frosty our relationship was now.

“That's the thing with me and Maria.” I raised my hand to stop him from speaking; I don't want to know the bedroom details of this stranger's life, or my granddaughter's, for that matter. But he didn't seem to notice, even though he was looking straight at me. “I've never doubted her, not for a minute. She's an amazing person, she'll be a great wife someday—and probably a pathologically terrific mother, even if it's just to spite her mom.”

It almost seemed as if he were talking to himself, so I didn't say anything when he paused. In any case, I was back to not speaking to him. But he was so oblivious, he reached across the table and put his hand on top of mine. “It's me, Bela. I know I want to be with Maria forever, but I'm not 100 percent sure I'm up to being married again. The last one was such a spectacular failure.”

He took his hand back and I immediately placed mine in my lap, where it should have been in the first place, to diminish the risk of any further inappropriate displays.

“It didn't need to be. With women like Taylor—my ex—it's clear what they want. They need a man who makes a certain amount of money, who can give them a particular lifestyle. You know that going in, that's the bargain you're striking. In a way, it's a relief, because there's a clear agreement in place, a bar you can reach. You can deliver on that promise. Maybe there will be times when you'll want more of a partnership. But at least you know you won't disappoint them when it comes to what matters most to them. With someone like Maria—I couldn't tell you what it is she wants. And that scares me.”

I opened my mouth but he wasn't waiting for an answer. “But what if fearing the potential for failure just guarantees that I ruin everything anyway? What if I end up like Mauricio?”

I refrained from saying that I highly doubted he and Mauricio have anything in common.

“What if I lose the woman I love and fifty years from now—who'm I kidding? More like fifteen, or even five—what if five years pass and I spend all that time wishing I had done things differently, wishing I could be with her? The way this Mauricio wishes he could be with you. His one true love.”

The gringo pays attention, even if he is a bit self-centered. I have to give him that.

“You like the letter, then?”

“It's the saddest thing I've ever heard. It crushed me when he said that as soon as Castro dies, he wants to take you to the place he grew up.”

“Camag
ü
ey.”

“He wants you to come away to Camag
ü
ey,” Allen says. “It would sound like a song if it weren't so poignant. He wants to bring the woman he loved and lost to the place he loved and lost.”

I didn't know what to say to that. Then the waiter came and asked if he could take our plates and Allen nodded, although his soup bowl was still half full. “It's a cautionary tale,” he continued. “The man wants another chance to do everything over again, to set things right now that he's at the end of his life.”

“Mauricio is very fit!” I informed Allen. “When he was in New Orleans he rode and played tennis and he never ate or drank overmuch. I'm sure he has many good years ahead of him.”

“Of course!” The gringo grinned as if I'd said something amusing. “I never meant to imply any different.”

The waiter returned and Allen asked for the check, then thought the better of it. “Dessert, Bela?”

I shook my head, so as not to give him the satisfaction, but he said, “Let's share something; you'll be giving me an excuse to try a local specialty.”

We ate our Pio Quinto mostly in silence as I tried to decide whether I should write to Mauricio, and if so, what would I say? Perhaps I should even figure out a way to try to see him if it's possible? Especially if the gringo isn't wrong about Mauricio reaching the end of his life. There are so many logistics to consider, and, besides those, emotions. But I already felt a little lighter, just having shared my secret.

Allen paid for the check, and gave me his arm to escort me back to my room. As he unlocked the door for me, I thanked him for dinner. He grabbed my hands again and said, “No, thank you for reading me the letter and making this lovely night in this grand old city even more beautiful.”

The words were pretty, and he seemed sad, so I let him bend over and kiss my cheek. Then he leaned a little farther forward and whispered, “You know, Bela, I've been to Cuba, on a junket with a museum that shows my work. And at least one of the cabbies there told me that the locals haven't seen Fidel in years. You know he's not in charge anymore; Raul Castro is the president now. Maybe Fidel's already dead.”

He straightened up but I held on to his arm, steadying myself. “Even the Cuban government could not keep so big a secret,” I said, dropping my hand and turning to cross the threshold into my room. “You are making yourself ridiculous.”

“That may be true,” Allen said, helping me with the heavy door by pulling it toward him. “But either way, why leave it up to Castro to decide whether or not you get to see each other again after all these years?”

 

36

Ninexin

I thought about telling her at dinner, but that seemed too much like a setup, waiting until we were in public so that she'd have to modulate her reaction because of the waiter or the eight Costa Ricans at the table next to ours. But when she got up from the table and gave a satisfied little sigh, I wished I had already told her, that it was over and I was already weathering her reaction, whatever it turned out to be. Rage. Fear. Disgust.

She seemed fatigued, but in a happy way, a feeling I remember so well from being pregnant with her: when the idea of keeping your eyes open seems like an impossibility, but you can't bring yourself to care. I hated to snatch this sweet, sleepy calm away from her.

I told her I was going to take a cup of tea to the little gazebo in the middle of the hotel lawn. “Why don't you sit with me a bit?” I asked, and I was already promising myself that when she said no, she was too tired, I would let her go and tell her before breakfast, in the morning when we were both fresh.

But she said, “Sure, Mama,” and asked the waiter for a mug of chamomile. I had no choice but to turn the little flashlight he lent us out toward the lawn, to do what it could to illuminate the vast darkness. I didn't want her to see me as I tried to fix this memory into my brain, of the last time she called me Mama. As I wondered whether it would be the last time, for a long time, that she called me anything at all.

*   *   *

I turn the flashlight off once we are settled in our sloping wooden chairs. The moon is hiding behind the clouds; there will never be a better setting than this. Nature is on my side, although I don't deserve it.