House on the Lagoon (33 page)

Rebecca’s preference for Ignacio had been a thorn in Quintín’s side since childhood, and the situation grew more painful when Ignacio came back to live at the house. In December of 1959, Ignacio graduated from Florida State University with a degree in art appreciation. The day he unpacked, Rebecca offered to send him on a trip to Europe as a graduation present.

“He can’t go on a pleasure trip now, Mother,” Quintín said, soberly shaking his head. “There’s too much work at the office. With Buenaventura gone, I need all the help I can get.” Rebecca was upset; it was as if she believed money grew on trees.

Ignacio loved it when Rebecca pampered him. He had forgiven her for having insulted Doña Ermelinda and for not allowing him to court Esmeralda Márquez; and Rebecca wanted to make it up to him. Now that Petra couldn’t make Ignacio her delicious desserts (she was forbidden to go into the kitchen)—the guava meringues, heaven’s bacon, and rice-and-coconut milk he loved—Rebecca made them for him herself. Ignacio seemed reconciled to his fate as a bachelor. He had an active social life; he went out with friends and was always joking and making people laugh, but I thought he was sad. He reminded me of someone looking at the world through the wrong end of a telescope; it was as if he saw everything upside down.

He was very good at doing watercolors on paper, but he never thought his sketches were beautiful enough. He liked to go walking in Old San Juan at dusk, to paint the ramparts of the city when they are bathed in purple light and seem to melt into the blue of the sea. But if you praised his work he would laugh and dismiss it as of no importance. If a young woman walked up to him at a party and told him she thought art appreciation was an interesting career because it enabled you to live while studying beautiful things, he said that good art was usually a combination of tragic circumstances and hard work. What I found even sadder was his lack of commitment to anything. When you asked Ignacio if he believed in independence for the island, he asked what you believed, and if you said you were for independence, he said he was, too. But five minutes later a Statehooder asked him if he believed in statehood, and he would say he did. Ignacio was so sensitive to disagreement that if you offered him a lemonade and he didn’t want it, he’d drink it anyway; it distressed him to say no. It was as if he were transparent, incapable of having his own opinion about anything or of thinking evil about anyone.

Ignacio had many artist friends and would often invite them to the house to read poetry or play classical music on the piano, which was wheeled out to the gold-mosaic terrace in the evenings. This was something Rebecca thoroughly enjoyed. On these occasions Ignacio always dressed as if he were going to a vernissage: he wore a white linen suit, had a red silk handkerchief in his vest pocket, and his gold-rimmed glasses—always immaculately clean—shone like polished wafers on his nose. When Rebecca sat down to listen to Ignacio play the piano or recite Pablo Neruda’s love poems, his blond hair blowing in the gentle breeze that rose from the lagoon, she found him the handsomest young man on earth.

Ignacio wanted to be on good terms with Quintín, though Quintín’s disapproval of his romance with Esmeralda Márquez had left a deep scar. His love for Esmeralda had been all-consuming, and he had acted against his family’s code. But when he tried not to love her, something tore in his heart. More than four years had gone by since Esmeralda’s marriage, however, and he had begun to see things in a different light. One day he confided to Quintín that he, Quintín, had been right to face up to him when he had asked for his help in getting his family to accept Esmeralda. The slap in the face had been a salutary measure; he should never have fallen in love with her; she deprived him of his inner peace.

Quintín asked Ignacio to lend him a hand at Mendizabal & Company, and Ignacio began to go in regularly. He would arrive early and stay until five, helping to supervise the warehouse. But the sawdust from the wine cases made his asthma worse, so he began to work at the office. He had a meticulous approach to everything. If a crate of champagne was to be delivered to a private club for a wedding, for example, he would make sure all the bottles were in good condition and had them inspected one by one. If a can of Aranjuez asparagus was slightly swollen or dented, he would have the whole shipment sent back; he didn’t want his customers to get sick. The intricacies of accounting bored him, and giving pep talks to the salesmen exhausted him. But he was interested in designing new labels for Mendizabal’s products, and he spent hours making them more colorful and artistic.

Ignacio was convinced of the importance of advertising, and he maintained that half the value of a product was in its marketing. He designed a new package for the smoked hams, for example, which were now sold in gold cellophane with red poinsettias on them; the asparagus cans were adorned with an elegant picture of the Plaza de Armas in Old San Juan; and the
chorizos
and
sobreasadas
bore a reproduction of Luquillo Beach.

What Ignacio enjoyed most was designing new, beautiful bottles for after-dinner liqueurs. Liquor concentrates were shipped to Mendizabal & Company from all over the Caribbean, but it was at the Mendizabal plant that they were processed and finally bottled. Mandarin Napoleon essence from Martinique was bottled in a beautiful, crinkly glass container with a green bow on it; guava-berry liqueur from St. Maarten in a guava-pink glass; chocolate-mint liqueur from Grenada in a frosted glass which resembled an after-dinner mint. And Ignacio proudly labeled each and every one of them “Made in Puerto Rico.” Quintín, with his fervent belief in statehood, didn’t like this one bit. But he refrained from mentioning it to his brother, for the sake of family harmony.

Ignacio’s favorite bottle was the one he designed for Parfait Amour, a delicious liqueur of purplish hue that made one think of poison, and which was concocted at Mendizabal’s plant from a French concentrate. Ignacio considered this liqueur well named, since love
was
a poison and purple should be its color, and he designed a spectacular bottle for it—elliptical in shape and with a hollow at its center, which was just how one felt in the throes of unrequited love.

Six months after Ignacio began to work at Mendizabal, Quintín and I were having breakfast at the apartment—it must have been around six in the morning—when the doorbell rang. It was Mr. Domenech, and from the expression on his face we both knew what had happened.

“It’s your mother,” he told Quintín. “She died of a heart attack last night. They didn’t want you to know until today, when everything is ready for the wake.” Quintín and I got dressed and hurried to the house on the lagoon. Rebecca had promised Quintín that the will she had drawn up with his lawyer would be her last, but he couldn’t be sure she had kept her word. He had contacted a number of lawyers in the city, asking to be alerted if his mother made a new will. But the minute he got to the house he knew Rebecca had dodged his net. Patria and Libertad themselves opened the door. Mr. Purcell, the family’s new lawyer, stood by their side.

Rebecca’s open coffin was in the living room. Quintín and I walked in alone; his sisters and Mr. Purcell went out on the terrace, so we would have some privacy. No one else was there. It was seven in the morning, and people hadn’t started arriving to pay their respects. Quintín stood looking at his mother, his chest heaving as if something were stifling him. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” he said, his eyes full of tears. “Her face is as delicate as ever; it looks as if it had been carved on a Grecian urn.” And he bent and kissed Rebecca on the forehead with his eyes closed.

I have to admit
I
didn’t cry when I saw Rebecca in her coffin. There had been so many Rebeccas, she had played so many roles in her life—the Queen of the Antilles, the would-be poet and dancer, the political rebel, the defender of the Independentista ideal, the feminist stamp collector searching for stamps with the initials RF (for Rebecca Francisca
and
République Française), the religious fanatic, the obedient rebel, the perfect
Hausfrau,
the jealous wife, the spendthrift socialite, the unforgiving mother—that I couldn’t help thinking this was just another of her metamorphoses. I couldn’t believe she was dead.

The following afternoon, when we all came back from the cemetery, we sat around the living-room table in front of the lawyer, exactly as we had done after Buenaventura’s funeral, and Mr. Purcell read Rebecca’s will aloud. She had left each of her children an equal number of shares in Mendizabal & Company, and the shareholders were to elect a new president.

“I think it’s the fair thing to do, don’t you agree?” Libertad asked Quintín when Mr. Purcell finished. “This way, we’ll all have a say in the company’s future.” Quintín stared, pale with anger, and escorted me out of the house.

A
MONTH AFTER REBECCA’S
will was read, the family was supposed to convene at Mendizabal & Company for a shareholders’ meeting to choose the new president. Patria and Libertad approached Ignacio a few days beforehand and told him they wanted to vote for him, but Ignacio begged them not to. He trusted Quintín’s judgment and was content to go on working as he had been, taking care of the promotional side of the business. He wanted peace, he said. Quintín was the older brother and it was right that he should be president.

Patria and Libertad insisted. They were convinced Quintín was a skinflint; the company’s situation wasn’t as bad as he said. Quintín wanted to save and reinvest every penny in Mendizabal & Company, and they were expected to make great sacrifices. But that just wasn’t right.

“I have two children and a baby and they need a lot of attention,” Patria said. “I couldn’t possibly do without my three nannies. Can you see me washing shit off diapers? You know how our parents brought us up, Ignacio; it’s not my fault if I have such a sensitive nose!”

Juan and Calixto’s father had passed away in Spain and had left them two important titles: Count of Valderrama and Duke of Medina del Campo, which his sons had to lay claim to before any of his nephews did. But it would cost them ten thousand dollars each to do so. When Patria and Libertad heard about the titles, they were ecstatic. To be married to a count and a duke was beyond their expectations, and they immediately went ahead and purchased the titles for their husbands.

Libertad was upset with Quintín because he wanted Calixto to sell Serenata, a beautiful black Arab mare he had just purchased from General Trujillo in Santo Domingo for twenty thousand dollars. Of the two Osorio brothers, Calixto had had the most difficulty adapting to life on the island, and he had often told Libertad that he wanted to go back to Spain. In despair, Libertad asked her mother to lend her some money so that Calixto could buy a few
paso fino
horses, because he loved to ride. Rebecca complied and Calixto bought himself a stable with six horses, on the outskirts of San Juan. For the first time since he arrived in Puerto Rico, Calixto was happy and hadn’t mentioned going back to Europe again.

“If Quintín is president and Calixto has to sell Serenata, he’ll leave the island and it will break my heart,” Libertad said to Ignacio. “You must accept the position, so he’ll stay.”

When Ignacio heard Patria and Libertad’s arguments, he felt sorry for them. It was foolish to spend all that money on nannies, titles, and horses, but he thought things could be worked out if each side was willing to give a little. Perhaps two nannies instead of three, and four horses instead of six, would do it. The money that was saved could be reinvested in the company. Sometimes Quintín was too demanding, instead of doing things step-by-step. Even so, Ignacio didn’t want to be president; he didn’t want to fight with his brother. Patria and Libertad refused to accept his decision, however. They begged Ignacio to think it over.

On the day of the meeting, the whole family—Patria, Libertad, Ignacio, and Quintín—met at La Puntilla, and sat around the heavy oak conference table in Buenaventura’s office. Juan, Calixto, and I were also present, but we couldn’t participate in the election. The brothers and sisters were to write the name of their chosen candidate on a piece of paper, fold it, and drop it into Buenaventura’s
sombrero Cordobés,
the same one he had been wearing when he arrived from Spain. The hat went around the table, and they dropped their votes in it. Then Quintín spilled the papers on the table. He opened them one by one and lay them in front of us: Ignacio had two votes in his favor and Quintín had one. One piece of paper had nothing written on it: Ignacio had abstained from voting.

“You know you can’t be president, Ignacio,” Quintín said, looking pale. “You studied art appreciation and are used to dealing with beautiful things. I’m the one who has business experience, in addition to the benefit of Buenaventura’s coaching. You’ve admitted you made a mistake in falling in love with Esmeralda Márquez; you almost ruined your good name then. If you accept this absurd nomination, the whole family will be ruined.”

Ignacio looked at Quintín over his gold-rimmed glasses. Disagreeing with his brother made him perspire, and his glasses kept misting and sliding down his nose. In his heart, he would have preferred to leave everything in Quintín’s hands so he wouldn’t have to worry. But he was uncomfortable with his brother bringing up Esmeralda’s name; what he had said about her had been in the strictest confidence.

“Don’t listen to him, Ignacio!” Libertad intervened. “Quintín is always making everyone think he’s the only one who can do things right. You know your advertising campaign has been a success, and thanks to you, our products are now selling better than before. You’re just as intelligent as Quintín; I know you can be president!”

“Esmeralda was one thing, and Mendizabal & Company is another,” Ignacio said to Quintín, straightening up in his chair. “I’ll give the job a try, and see if I’m able to deal with the beautiful
and
the practical.”

Quintín was furious with Ignacio, and we left the meeting. I had no idea what he was going to do next; he was so angry he refused to speak to me for two whole days. Then he asked if I could lend him my diamond engagement ring—the one Rebecca had bought us when the first one splintered in two. He needed it for a while, he said, but of course he would return it. Then he pawned it and bought a round-trip ticket to Spain. When I asked him why Spain, he looked at me soberly. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you, Isabel. I have my reasons, but I can’t talk about it now.”