In the Time of Butterflies (20 page)

General Fiallo now begins chatting about the days he spent posted in El Cibao, the beauty of that region, the lovely cathedral in the square. I am wondering where all this is going, when a door opens across from the one we entered by. Manuel de Moya, tall and dapper, sporting a Prince of Wales ascot.

“Good morning, good morning,” he says cheerfully as if we’re all about to go on safari. “How are things?” He rubs his hands together. “Don Federico, how are you?” They exchange pleasantries a moment, and then Don Manuel looks approvingly at me. “I had a word with Paulino in the hall as he was leaving. It seems Señorita Minerva has been quite cooperative. I am so glad.” He addresses me sincerely. “I hate to see ladies in any kind of distress.”

“It must be difficult for you,” I acknowledge. He does not catch the sarcasm in my voice.

“So you thought you might be displeasing El Jefe by admitting to a friendship with Virgilio Morales?” I nod. “I’m sure it would mean a great deal to our Benefactor to hear that you have his pleasure in mind.”

I wait. I can tell from hanging around these guys that there is bound to be more.

“I believe Don Antonio has already spoken to you?”

“Yes,” I say, “he did.”

“I hope you will reconsider his offer. I’m sure General Fiallo would agree”—General Fiallo is already nodding before any mention has been made of what he is agreeing to—“that a private conference with El Jefe would be the quickest, most effective way to end all this nonsense.”

“Sí, sí, sí,”
General Fiallo agrees.

Don Manuel continues. “I would like to bring you personally to him tonight at his suite at El Jaragua. Bypass all this red tape.” He gestures towards the general, who smiles inanely at his own put-down.

I stare at Manuel de Moya as if pinning him to the wall. “I’d sooner jump out that window than be forced to do something against my honor.”

Manuel de Moya plunges his hands in his pockets and paces the room. “I’ve tried my best, señorita. But you must cooperate a little bit. It can’t all be your way.”

“What I’ve done wrong, I’m willing to acknowledge, personally to El Jefe, yes.” I nod at the surprised secretary. “But surely, my father and mother can come along as fellow sufferers in my error.”

Manuel de Moya shakes his head. “Minerva Mirabal, you are as complicated a woman as ... as ...” He throws up his hands, unable to finish the comparison.

But the general comes up with it. “As El Jefe is a man.”

The two men look at each other, weighing something heavy in their heads.

Since I am not bedding down with him, it is three more weeks before El Jefe can see us. As far as we can tell, Mama and I are under arrest since we aren’t allowed to leave the hotel to go home and wait there. Pedrito and Jaimito have come and gone a dozen times, petitioning here, visiting a friend with pull there. Dedé and Patria have taken turns staying with us and arranging for our meals.

When the day of our appointment finally arrives, we are at the palace early, eager to see Papa, who has just been released. He is such a pitiful sight. His face is gaunt, his voice shaky; his once fancy
guayabera
is soiled and hangs on him, several sizes too large. He and Mamá and I embrace. I can feel his bony shoulders. “How have they treated you?” we ask him.

His eyes have a strange absence in them. “As well as can be expected,” he says. I notice he does not look directly at us when he answers.

We already know from Dedé and Patria’s searches that Papa has been in the prison hospital. The diagnosis is “confidential,” but we all assumed his ulcers were acting up. Now we learn Papa suffered a heart attack in his cell the Wednesday after he was arrested, but it wasn’t till the following Monday that he was allowed to see a doctor. “I’m feeling much better.” His thin hands pleat his trousers as he talks. “Much much better. I just hope the music hasn’t spoiled the yuccas while I’ve been gone.”

Mama and I look at each other and then at Papa. “How’s that, Enrique?” Mama asks gently.

“Every time there’s a party, half the things in the ground spoil. We’ve got to stop feeding the hogs. It’s all human teeth anyhow.”

It’s all I can do to keep up the pretense that Papá is making sense. But Mamá’s sweetness enfolds him and coaxes him back. “The hogs are doing very well on palm fruit, and we haven’t grown yuccas since this one here was a little girl. Don’t you remember, Enrique, how we used to be up till all hours on harvest days?”

Papá’s eyes light up, remembering. “The first year you wanted to look pretty for me, so you wore a nice dress to the fields. By the time we finished, it looked like the sackcloth the yuccas were in!” He is looking directly at her, smiling.

She smiles at him, her eyes glistening with tears. Her fingers find his hand and hold tight, as if she were pulling him up from an edge she lost him to years back.

El Jefe does not bother to look up as we enter. He is going over a stack of papers with several nervous assistants, his manicured hands following the words being read out to him. He learned his letters late, so the story goes, and refuses to look at anything over a page long. In the offices around him, official readers go through thick reports, boiling the information down to the salient paragraph.

Behind him on the wall, the famous motto: MY BEST FRIENDS ARE MEN WHO WORK. What about the women who sleep with you? I ask in my head.

Manuel de Moya shows us our seats in front of the large mahogany desk. It is a disciplined man’s desk, everything in neat stacks, several phones lined up on one side beside a board with labeled buzzers. A panel of clocks ticks away. He must be keeping time in several countries. Right in front of me stands a set of scales like the kind Justice holds up, each small tray bearing a set of dice.

Trujillo scribbles a last signature and waves the assistants out of the room, then turns to his secretary of state. Don Manuel opens a leather folder and reads El Jefe the letter of apology signed by the whole Mirabal family.

“I see Señorita Minerva has signed this,” he notes as if I were not present. He reads off Mama’s name and asks if she is related to Chiche Reyes.

“Why Chiche is my uncle!” Mama exclaims. Tio Chiche has always bragged about knowing Trujillo during their early days in the military. “Chiche worships you, Jefe. He always says even back then he could tell you were a natural leader.”

“I have a lot of affection for Don Chiche,” Trujillo says, obviously enjoying the homage. He lifts a set of dice from his scales, upsetting the balance. “I suppose he never told you the story of these?”

Mamá smiles indulgently. She has never approved of her uncle’s gambling. “That Chiche loves his gambling.”

“Chiche cheats too much,” Papa blurts out. “I won’t play with him.”

Mamá’s eyes are boring a hole in Papa. Our one lifeline in this stormy sea and Papa is cutting the rope she’s been playing out.

“I take it you like to play, Don Enrique?” Trujillo turns coldly to Papa.

Papá glances at Mama, afraid to admit it in her presence. “I know you like to gamble,” Mama squabbles, diverting attention by pretending our real predicament is her naughty husband.

Trujillo returns to the dice in his hands. “That Chiche! He stole a piece of bone from Columbus’s crypt and had these made for me when I was named head of the armed forces.”

Mamá tries to look impressed, but in fact, she’s never liked her trou blemaking uncle very much. Every month, it’s a knife fight or money trouble or wife trouble or mistress trouble or just plain trouble.

Trujillo puts his dice back on the empty tray. It’s then I notice the sides don’t balance. Of course, my good-for-nothing uncle would give his buddy loaded dice.

“Human teeth, all of it,” Papá mumbles. He looks at the small cubes of bone with a horrified expression on his face.

Mama indicates her husband with a toss of the head. “You must excuse him, Jefe. He is not well.” Her eyes fill, and she dabs at them with the kerchief she keeps balling in her hand.

“Don Enrique will be just fine as soon as he’s home for a few days. But may this teach you all a lesson.” He turns to me. The cajoling smile of the dance is gone. “You especially, señorita. I’ve asked that you check in every week with Governor de la Maza in San Francisco.”

Before I can say something, Mama breaks in. “All my daughter wants is to be a good, loyal citizen of the regime.”

El Jefe looks my way, waiting for my pledge.

I decide to speak up for what I
do
want. “Jefe, I don’t know if you remember what we spoke of at the dance?” I can feel Mama giving me the eye.

But El Jefe’s interest is piqued. “We spoke of many things.”

“I mean, my dream of going to law school.”

He strokes his short, brush mustache with his fingers, musing. His gaze falls on the dice. Slowly, his lips twist in a wily smile. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll let you toss for the privilege. You win, you get your wish. I win, I get mine.”

I can guess what he wants. But I’m so sure I can beat him now that I know his secret. “I’ll toss,” I say, my voice shaking.

He laughs and turns to Mamá. “I think you have another Chiche in the family.”

Quickly I reach for the heavier set of dice and begin shaking them in my fist. Trujillo studies the wobbling scales. But without my set there, he can’t tell which are his loaded pair. “Go ahead,” he says, eyeing me closely. “Highest number wins.”

I shake the dice in my hand for all they’re worth.

I roll a double and look up at Trujillo, trying to keep the glee from my face.

He stares at me with his cold, hard eyes. “You have a strong hand, that I know.” He strokes the cheek I slapped, smiling a razor-sharp smile that cuts me down to size. Then rather than using the remaining dice on the tray, he puts his hand out and takes my uncle’s set back. He maneuvers them knowingly. Out they roll, a double as well. “We either both get our wishes or we call it even, for now,” he adds.

“Even,” I say, looking him in the eye, “for now.”

“Sign their releases,” he tells Don Manuel. “My hellos to Don Chiche,” he tells Mamá. Then, we are banished with a wave of his hand.

I look down at the lopsided scales as he puts his dice back. For a moment, I imagine them evenly balanced, his will on one side, mine on the other.

It is raining when we leave the capital, a drizzle that builds to a steady downpour by the time we hit Villa Altagracia. We roll up the windows until it gets so steamy and damp in the car that we have to crack them open in order to see out.

Dedé and Jaimito stayed on in the capital, making some purchases for the new restaurant they’ve decided to start. The ice cream business is a flop just as Dedé predicted privately to me some time back. Pedrito had to be back yesterday to see about stranded cattle in the flooded fields. He’s been taking care of his own farm and ours. So, it’s just me and Mama, and Patria and, of course, Papa mumbling in the back seat of the car.