The Ladies of Managua (43 page)

I wasn't getting married on the day you came to Granada. But I did marry, several months later, and had two girls, both lovely but otherwise more different from each other than you can imagine. My husband, Ignacio, was a man you would have liked. He was a man I liked, and admired, most of the time. I did not feel about him as I had for you, and I don't flatter myself to think that I was his one true love. I know I wasn't. But we gave each other our daughters, and also over a half century of our lives. And our daughters gave us our grandchildren, a boy, Rigoberto, and a girl, Mariana, whom Cristian Hidalgo met at Mt. Sinai.

If God had a hand in keeping us apart, it was so that Celia and her son Rigobertito and Ninexin and her daughter Mariana could be born, along with the children who were born to you and your wife. And I have no doubt that God also brought Cristian and Mariana to the same waiting room at Mt. Sinai, where they would meet. Mariana was there with Ignacio, and I like to think that, in this way, he too played a part in our finding each other again, knowing that he was about to leave this world and my side. He was a responsible man, it would have been like him to see that I had some joy to make up for the sorrow his loss would cause me.

Perhaps that meeting in Miami was ordained by God, knowing that He was about to take my husband from me. Or perhaps it's sacrilege to think that God bothers with lives as trivial as my own. In any case, if He had a hand in Cristian and Mariana finding each other, I believe that, after that, God stepped back to see what we would do with the gift he had given us.

You wrote me that brave and beautiful letter. Mariana kept it until her grandfather died. She knew all my stories about Sacred Heart, knew how much you had meant to me; maybe she felt giving it to me sooner would have been disrespectful of him. And I'm glad she waited, because if Ignacio had been alive when I read your letter, it would have been a definite betrayal of him, and of our life together, if I answered the way I am writing to you now. I cannot express myself better than you did in your letter to me, so I will use the same words in writing to you. Mauricio, you are my one true love.

But I am not the same girl I was when I left you. I am not young and beautiful. And I am not scared and shy. I don't know how long I have left, how long anyone does. And I don't know how we will feel if we meet, or how it will change our lives. All I know is that I want to see you again.

The greatest sins of my life have been sins of omission, borne of passivity, fear, or even politeness. Leaving you is chief among them. If seeing you after all these years is some sort of sin, then it is one I propose to commit knowingly, even if foolishly.

I am sure that Camag
ü
ey has changed since you last saw it, that it is not the city you remember. But if you still want to rediscover it, I would be honored to be at your side when you do. As for Castro, I don't know how long he has left either. But I am tired of waiting for other people to decide the events of my life. I am no longer willing to live according to others' schedules or rules.

Those are bold words for a woman who is approaching eighty. For all my brave talk, I am too nervous, and, perhaps, too slow-moving, to travel alone. My granddaughter is the one who brought me your letter. She is the one person to whom I've spoken of you all these years. She let me keep my love for you alive. I would like her to be the one to bring me to you as she brought your letter to me.

However, Mariana is expecting my great-grandchild. It is a great blessing, but there have been some complications in her pregnancy. I don't know when she will be able to travel. But if she is willing to accompany me, I propose that we meet as soon as that time comes.

If you agree, the where can be decided later. Should you prefer not to share Camag
ü
ey with Castro, why not New Orleans? We could meet in the lobby of the Roosevelt Hotel, where you took me and Miss Birdie to see the Christmas lights one December. We could meet at Antoine's, where you ordered the Baked Alaska on your birthday and it was so large we had to share it with the next table. We could meet in Audubon Park or the lunch counter at Walgreens, or under the clock at D. H. Holmes, or even in the courtyard of Sacred Heart, where I first looked up and saw you standing under the archway, laughing at me. You had a date with Silvia Contreras that night but you said you would see me tomorrow. And I was ready.

I am ready again. My address is at the top of this stationery; my phone number, I will write below. I will understand if you find this letter too eager, if the idea of meeting was more pleasant than the reality. But if you are prepared to start making plans, then let us begin again.

Whatever happens, I thank you for the joy your letter brought into my life in this time of loss, and for the joy you brought into my life long ago. I, too, remain Your,

Isa

I did not watch Mariana as she read; I couldn't. Instead I read the
Vanidades
again, or, at least, stared at the pictures and smelled the perfume. But I know how quickly she reads, and it seemed to take her far too long to finish my letter. When I could stand it no longer, I looked up to see that the notebook pages had fallen on the blanket, too, on top of Mauricio's stationery, and that Mariana was crying.

“Mariana?” Even though I'd spoken softly, when she heard me she started crying harder. I waited for her to tell me why—was she weeping for the years Mauricio and I had lost? Or were the tears sorrow for Ignacio, since I had never fully given him my heart? Perhaps she was crying because she knew she couldn't come with me, wouldn't be a part of this, and she hated to disappoint an old woman.

I waited for her to explain, but she didn't, not even when I reached over and lifted the letters from her lap. Then I took her hand, so that she'd feel safer when she answered me. Because I couldn't not ask. “Mariana,” I said finally. “Will you come with me?”

 

45

Ninexin

MAY 18, 2009

They invited me to come with them to New Orleans. It was a sweet gesture, and I don't know whose idea it was, Mama's or Mariana's. I like to think they both wanted me to feel included in this little adventure. But I told them no, thank you, that they should have a lovely time and text me photos all weekend, but that I need to save my vacation for August, when the baby is due, as I'll want to stay in New York as long as possible.

It's all arranged: in a few months, Mariana will move into Allen's apartment, which has plenty of room for her and the baby, and, just before she's due, I will come to stay in hers. If everyone likes the arrangement, Mariana says, maybe we'll keep it that way, and she'll hang on to her place so that Mama and I can visit as often as we like. I thought Mama would insist that she come for the birth, too, but I think having this trip to New Orleans, this shared romance, with Mariana and Allen makes her feel as if she's had enough alone time with her granddaughter. Maybe in her old age, Mama's becoming less competitive, less possessive of Mariana's love. Maybe Mauricio's constant letters and phone calls have distracted her, and, if so, I'm grateful to him for that. Or maybe I'm overthinking it, and that what she said is true: tiny little infants scare her and she'd rather wait until the baby can at least hold its head up. Mariana and Allen have promised to come to Managua for Christmas, so she'll get to meet the baby then. Mama has half of the old ladies in Granada busy smocking miniature dresses since we found out the gender.

It's a girl. Of course. The next generation, just like Mariana said. When she called to tell us the baby is a girl, standing on a street corner outside her obstetrician's, I burst into tears. I can't remember the last time I sobbed that violently. Not when my father died, which was sad, but not shocking, and made bearable by the fact that he had given me so much of the best of himself while he was alive. Not when Mariana was hemorrhaging; there was too much to do. Not even at Manuel's funeral. I was too numb then. Mariana was crying on the phone, too, but she, at least, has the excuse of hormones. I had no such explanation, I was just so happy. I didn't think I cared about the baby's gender, just that he or she continued to grow healthy and safe in Mariana's belly. But when I heard it was a girl, it felt exactly the same as when the doctor held Mariana, slick with blood, up in front of me, as Manuel squeezed my hand and said, “It's a girl! Our baby girl.”

I think that's part of the reason I was crying, too. That Manuel isn't here to see this. That he never got the chance to see the world he left behind, to see his country, the country he died for, grow, sometimes with his party in power, sometimes not, but freed from the dictator he fought to topple. That he never got to see his baby grow into a girl and then a woman. That he'll never get to meet his granddaughter. Manuel died for what he believed in; his death can never be called a waste. But I think this was the first time I let myself feel it as a personal loss. I missed him that day. For the first time in over thirty years, I missed him, not as a comrade or a national hero but as my husband.

I even suggested to Mariana that they name the baby Manuela. “It's a nice idea, Mama,” she said. “But I just don't think it's a very pretty name.”

I didn't say anything; I didn't want to press the issue. “Besides,” she added, “Allen and I have already picked out a name.”

“Oh?” I tried to make the syllable sound as unobtrusive, as nonjudgmental, as possible.

“Yes, but we're not telling anyone until she's born. And don't worry, I won't let my Bela drag it out of me in New Orleans no matter how hard she tries. But I'll give you a clue: it's continuing a family tradition.”

“Ay, Dios!” I said, before I could help it. “Please tell me you're not naming her after a Mayan warrior princess!”

I don't care what they name the baby. I suppose they might name her after Mama, which would thrill her, of course. But it's their decision. I already pushed the one baby-related matter I felt strongly about, that their little trip down Memory Lane take place in New Orleans rather than Cuba. The blood clots on Mariana's placenta have both disappeared; her pregnancy is no longer classified as high-risk, gracias a Dios. And she's having a wonderful second trimester, as every pregnant woman should, to make up for the fear and worry and nausea of the first trimester and the discomfort and bloating of the third. But I just feel better having all of them in the U.S., near a major medical center, than in Cuba, no matter how good Cuban medical schools are, no matter how many wonderful Cuban doctors I've seen here in Nicaragua.

Mauricio preferred the idea of New Orleans, anyway. He's old-school anti-Castro; in his mind, the two of them are engaged in a personal vendetta to see who can outlive whom. I can't wait to hear what he thinks of my career as a Sandinista; should make for interesting dinner-table conversation if we ever meet. Although that generation, I suppose, was raised not to bring up politics at the table. Lucky for me. Lucky for him is more like it.

But if Mauricio was pro-New Orleans, Mariana was voting for Cuba. She said the trip was also meant to be a babymoon—whatever that is—for her and Allen, and she so wanted to see Havana. I promised that they could go after the baby was born; they can leave her with me and go alone on a post-babymoon (although, apparently, that's not how the concept works). Or, I suggested, we can all go together. I could even get them in to see Castro, I promised, dangling the old man as bait in front of Mariana; everyone loves to meet a legend, especially one not long for this world. Everyone except Mauricio, I guess.

“Really, Mama?” she teased. “You could arrange that? You're that important in the world of Latin American politics?”

“Hija,” I told her, “last time I saw Castro, at a Nicaraguan-Cuban Friendship Summit, miniskirts were in fashion, and he kept wrapping his arm around me during photo ops, and trying to get me to join him for dinner.”

“No!”

“It wasn't easy turning down Castro without letting down the Revolución. I had to keep reminding him I was a war widow, faithful to a fallen soldier.”

It was all true. I don't know why she found it so hard to believe; I was a fetching twenty-something comrade, and Castro was an older man with good taste and a habit of getting what he wanted. But it was also a convenient truth to recall at this point; Mariana's as gossipy as her grandmother in some ways, and the story put her in such a good mood, she agreed to my request. She even said she'd like us to have a trip together, since I couldn't make it on this one.

I felt a little guilty then; I could make it if I wanted to, could join them for the weekend, only taking Friday and Monday off. But it wouldn't feel right. I was worried Mama would fall into a depression after Papa died, and Mauricio, and Mariana's baby, have kept her from that. Oh, and her new best girlfriend, Allen. He bought her an iPhone so that they can Skype, but of course she can never figure out how to use it if I'm not there. Still, I wouldn't be surprised if she learned sooner rather than later; Mama's life is so full now that she seems to be growing younger each day.

I'm thankful for that. But it's barely been four months since Papa died. I'm not ready to watch Mama meet the man she might have married instead. It all seems a bit sudden, and to be there would feel disrespectful. I would never tell her that; she deserves this late-in-life happiness. And if I did tell her, I know what she'd say: that she's never regretted marrying Papa because doing so gave her me and Celia, and Rigobertito and Mariana, and we are her world. And she'd mean it, too.

But I don't like to think of Papa as being a means to an end. I like to remember them not as two old people who'd grown used to each other, but as they were when they used to go out to the country club at night, and would tuck me and Celia in before leaving, Papa in his dark blue suit and slicked-back hair, Mama in long gloves and the jewelry from each of our births.