House on the Lagoon (42 page)

The following morning Manuel told Quintín there was something important he wanted to talk to him about, but Quintín told him to wait until after dinner, when they would have time to themselves. Manuel had been acting strange for some time. I had heard about his trouble at the office, but instead of being downcast, he was walking around with a smile on his face as bright as the moon. When I tried talking to him, he would stare off into space, hug me, and tell me what a wonderful mother I was.

That evening he came down to dinner in a coat and tie instead of a T-shirt. His hair was carefully combed and he was wearing the Mendizabals’ gold signet ring, so I knew something was up. Willie finally arrived, dressed in Levi’s and a madras shirt. His hands, as usual, smelled of turpentine because he had been painting up to the last minute. Quintín was wearing one of his elegant Ralph Lauren suits, and we all sat around our Majorell dinner table, the one with legs carved like lilies which we had bought on a trip to Barcelona the year before. I searched for the bell beneath the kilim rug with the tip of my shoe, so María would begin serving us.

During the meal Quintín went out of his way to be civil to Manuel; he wanted him to know he didn’t hold anything against him, in spite of his headstrong nature. When dinner was over, Quintín took Manuel into the study. “I’m only waiting for you to take that flag down to give you back your job,” he told him, laughing, as they went into the study. “Have you done it yet?” Manuel sat up very straight in one of the study’s red leather chairs. “No, Father, I haven’t,” he said. “But you mustn’t worry about it, because I’m not an Independentista; I’m not interested in politics at all. I want to talk to you about something much more serious.”

Quintín looked at him, mystified. He couldn’t understand his son’s attitude. One day Gourmet Imports would be his, and all of Buenaventura’s valuable commercial lines. He had simply wanted to put Manuel to the test with the silly affair of the flag. And he liked the way he had reacted. Manuel hadn’t lost his temper; he had stood by his guns and proven his mettle. Quintín was going to move him back to the front office the following day, so he could teach him his business secrets. What Manuel said took him completely by surprise.

“I’m in love with Coral Ustariz, Father, and she loves me,” Manuel said in a quiet but steady voice. “We’d like to get married, but we’re going to need your help at first.” It hadn’t even occurred to Manuel that Quintín might not like the idea. “We’re both twenty-one, old enough to decide for ourselves,” he added. “But I didn’t want to go ahead with our plans without letting you and Mother know about them.”

Quintín was sitting behind his desk and for several seconds he stared incredulously at Manuel. Then he picked up a pencil that was lying in front of him and, taking out his pocketknife, began to sharpen the point. It was so quiet you could almost hear the yellow slivers of wood falling on the green leather surface of the desk.

“Has anybody told you who Coral Ustariz’s mother is?” Quintín asked Manuel slowly.

“She’s Esmeralda Márquez, Mother’s best friend from Ponce,” Manuel replied innocently. “When Willie and I were children, we visited the Ustarizes’ home, and we’ve known her ever since.” Quintín stared hard at his son: “Isabel took you there?” he said. “Of course she did, Father. Why shouldn’t she?”

“I’ll show you why,” said Quintín. And, taking his pocketknife, he made a small incision on the tip of his finger, so that a spurt of blood appeared on it. “You see this blood, Manuel?” Quintín said. “It doesn’t have a drop of Arab, Jewish, or black blood in it. Thousands of people have died for it to stay that way. We fought the Moors, and in 1492 we expelled them from Spain, together with the Jews. When our ancestors came to this island, special books were set up to keep track of white marriages. They were called the Bloodline Books and were jealously guarded by the Church. Esmeralda’s marriage to Ernesto Ustariz doesn’t appear in any of them, because she’s part black.
That’s
why Isabel shouldn’t have taken you to Esmeralda’s house when you were a child. And
that’s
why you can’t marry Coral.”

I was listening in near-panic on the other side of the door. Then there was deathly silence. I knocked timidly, but there was no answer. When I pushed open the door, Quintín and Manuel were standing by the desk. At first I thought they were embracing, but in fact they were trying to wrestle each other down. The scuffle lasted only a few seconds. Before I could reach them, Quintín pushed Manuel away. “Get out of here, you ungrateful bastard. I never want to see you again.” Manuel went to his room, packed up, and left the house without another word.

I
TRIED TO BRING QUINTÍN
to his senses. “You’re a bully and a despot, just like your father before you,” I said as we got ready for bed. “You think Manuel is like you, that he’d do anything to inherit Gourmet Imports. But he doesn’t care about money the way you do, and he’s proud. Esmeralda’s daughter is wonderfully accomplished, and she’s also very nice. You must apologize to Manuel and let him marry Coral.”

But Quintín wouldn’t listen. “Buenaventura and Rebecca would never forgive me,” he insisted. “I’d rather be dead than have mulatto grandchildren and be related to Esmeralda Márquez.”

“What about Willie?” I asked. “Where does that leave
him
?” But Quintín wouldn’t answer.

The walls of the house on the lagoon had ears, and by evening everybody knew Quintín and Manuel had had a serious argument. Eulodia told me Petra was terribly upset; she had been praying to Elegguá for hours. That evening, she sent Eulodia with a message that she had something important to tell me. At ninety-three, Petra hardly ever came up to the first floor of the house. Her arthritis kept her from going up the stairs, and she was visibly strained from the effort as she entered my room.

“Manuel came to the cellar to see me before he left,” Petra said gravely. “He said his father had told him to get out, but he didn’t know where to go. He didn’t have any money for a hotel, so I told him he could stay with Alwilda in Las Minas. She has a relatively comfortable place; she gets a disability check from the federal government every month. I also told him not to pay attention to Quintín, to go to work tomorrow morning as if nothing had happened. ‘Quintín will eventually get over his tantrum,’ I said to calm him. ‘Your father is upset because he thinks you’re too young to get married. But he’s a good man. He’ll come to his senses.’ Manuel promised he’d follow my advice.”

I could see Petra was very concerned, and I was grateful. But I didn’t add any comment to what she had said. “Quintín is always letting me down, Isabel,” she said somberly, shaking her head. “He’s going to make Elegguá very angry if he doesn’t let Manuel marry Esmeralda Márquez’s daughter.” And then she added: “I’m not sure if I want to go on working in this house if Quintín goes on like this.”

Petra’s words shocked me—she had always been so loyal to Quintín. “It’s Rebecca’s blood coming out in him,” I said to appease her. “You know how much stock Rebecca put in public opinion, and sometimes Quintín can’t help being like her. It’s one thing to adopt Willie and be liberal-minded, another for everyone in San Juan to know the Mendizabals are marrying mixed blood. You must be patient, Petra. This is not easy for Quintín; but I’m sure in the end he’ll come through. Right now, Quintín needs you more than ever. You mustn’t leave.”

The next day I went to see Esmeralda in San Juan to inform her what had happened. She knew already; Coral had heard from Manuel, who had told her everything. Alwilda had moved out and left her cottage at Manuel’s disposal. The upsetting thing was that Coral had also left her parents’ house. “She didn’t even ask permission from Ernesto and me,” Esmeralda told me agitatedly. “She simply told us she was leaving. We’re glad she’s with Manuel—we think he’s a wonderful boy and we hope they’ll get married. But we’re worried something may happen to her in that awful slum of Las Minas if she goes there alone.”

I explained to Esmeralda that half the population of Las Minas was related to Petra, and both Coral and Manuel would be perfectly safe there. “Petra is like a sovereign in the slum,” I told her. “People worship her. Once they know Manuel and Coral are under her protection, they’ll do everything to help them.” I thought of trying to get in touch with Manuel myself, but it was difficult to do. The only way to reach Alwilda’s house was by boat, and I didn’t want to phone him at the warehouse. Quintín had made it clear he didn’t want me to try to patch things up. He expected Manuel to come to him and ask forgiveness on his own.

In the next few weeks I tried to convince Quintín to take the first step and make peace with Manuel, but it was no use. I could tell he was unhappy. He had begun to grow heavy, not fat, but solid—as if the flesh had hardened on his bones. At night, when he went to sleep next to me, he reminded me of a medieval warrior laid out in full armor. He refused to speak to Manuel when he ran into him at the warehouse, paid him three dollars an hour—the minimum wage—canceled his medical insurance, and expected him to work from six in the morning until six in the evening. Manuel wasn’t one to complain; he was punctual and didn’t miss a day of work.

One Sunday morning, Manuel came to the house in one of the company delivery vans to get the rest of his things. When I saw him load up his personal possessions—his clothes, his basketball, his camera, his fishing tackle, even his blue Vespa—my heart broke. I went to the study and begged Quintín to relent and ask Manuel to stay, but he sat stone-faced in the red leather chair reading the newspaper; he didn’t even lift his eyes from the page. “Tell him to return the van to Gourmet Imports as soon as possible. I didn’t give him permission to use it, but I won’t dock his salary this time,” he said.

Willie was with his brother, helping him move. I went upstairs and sat on the terrace overlooking the lagoon, sure that Manuel would come looking for me after he had finished packing. But he never did. He went to the cellar to say goodbye to Petra, and after a while I heard the van’s motor start, and then I heard it leave. I felt as if someone had died.

Willie couldn’t understand why his father was being so headstrong, but he didn’t want to judge him. Quintín had always been good to him; he had gotten along well with both his sons. He used to talk to Willie about the Spanish Conquistadors and about the pride he should take in their tradition of excellence. Willie thought that, because he was adopted, he didn’t have the Conquistadors’ blood in him, but nonetheless he shared in the family mystique. As to his recent disagreement with Manuel, getting married was a very serious thing, Quintín told him. One didn’t take such a significant step unless one was completely independent. Buenaventura wouldn’t give Quintín permission to get married until he had worked for more than a year and had his own income. Willie should remind Manuel of this when he next saw him. Willie didn’t entirely believe his father, but he was willing to go along. He looked at him with his sad gray-green eyes and hoped that time would wear down Quintín’s objections.

Willie didn’t have his brother’s problem. He was sixteen going on seventeen, too young to even think of marriage. But he was one of those people who are born old. He had innate wisdom. When he went out with Perla, they touched and kissed, but it never went beyond that. They went to the movies and held hands in the dark. They dreamed of getting married one day but wanted everything to be as it should.

Willie was worried about Manuel and spent hours trying to figure out how to help him. When Manuel first moved to the slum, Willie wanted to move there, too; he felt bad about staying in a comfortable house when his brother was living in such dire conditions. So he brought him food, clothes, records, the LP player and portable television set they had shared. But Manuel didn’t appreciate Willie’s efforts to keep in touch. Sometimes Willie felt Manuel wanted to shoo him away like a pesky bird.

Willie would arrive at Alwilda’s house in the Boston Whaler at ten or eleven in the evening, when he knew his brother would be there. He could hear him breathing through the weather-beaten planks of the walls. There was no electricity in Las Minas and it was terribly dark; there were so many mosquitoes Manuel had to keep all the windows and doors shut. Willie would get out of the boat, climb up on the rickety balcony, and knock repeatedly on the door, listening to the breathing inside and growing more and more concerned. Was Manuel sick, or was there something wrong? He pleaded with him to tell him if he was all right.

One day Manuel got tired of his brother’s naïveté and decided to give Willie the message. He turned on the battery-powered lantern on the floor next to his bed, and through the tiniest chink in the wooden planks Willie saw a wreath of arms, legs, and thighs, and Coral’s red hair flowing over Manuel’s shoulders like a fiery shawl. That was the last time Willie went to Alwilda’s house looking for his brother. Now he knew why Manuel didn’t have any time for him.

I began to suspect Coral had something to do with Manuel’s painful rejection of me also and asked Esmeralda to tell her that I wanted to see her. “I’ll try to arrange it, Isabel,” Esmeralda said to me anxiously, “but we haven’t been able to talk to her in days. She left her job at
The Clarion
and is working with the Independentista Party full-time. She hardly ever comes here anymore.” But a few days later Coral came to see me at the house on the lagoon. She was wearing a tight pair of jeans, no makeup, and no bra. Her breasts were drawn against her puckered-cotton voile blouse like alabaster moons, and all of a sudden she reminded me of Estefanía and how much we had enjoyed shocking the people of Ponce when we were young. But Coral was different; she had a cold beauty, as if she had been sculpted in marble. She was no frolicking temptress like Estefanía, but more like a determined Amazon.

I was in the study, and when Coral came in I made a place for her next to me on the couch. I liked Coral. She reminded me of myself when I was her age; I had the same intensity, the same need to empty life’s cup to the dregs. She chose to sit on one of the red leather chairs opposite me, however, took a cigarette from her purse, and lit it without smiling. “I hear Manuel and you are planning to get married, and I think that’s wonderful,” I said to her. “You mustn’t worry about what Quintín says; he’s terribly old-fashioned, but eventually he’ll come around. You can count on me for anything. Why don’t we go together to look for a nice apartment for you two? Las Minas isn’t the place to live.” Coral said she’d think about it, and I didn’t insist.