House on the Lagoon (45 page)

I ran to where the police wagon was stationed at the other end of the avenue, looking desperately for Willie. I wanted to tell the officers it was a mistake, Willie wasn’t one of the strikers. But I was too late. They were beating him mercilessly. I screamed at them to stop, but they didn’t hear. They were lined up like a blue wall of muscle, oblivious to anyone or anything else. Willie collapsed to the ground, foaming at the mouth, his eyes rolling back in an epileptic fit.

I pushed and kicked at the men in front of me and managed to get to Willie’s side, but Petra had gotten there before me. She looked like a giant gone mad. Her huge arms flew like the blades of a windmill as she distributed blows right and left, her metal bracelets clanging like spearheads. The officers were so taken aback they didn’t dare block her way. Between the two of us, we picked Willie up and carried him back to the house.

Willie was unconscious for hours. The doctor came and said it was better not to move him from the house. He prescribed medication to prevent blood clots, in case of internal hemorrhaging. Petra and I tended Willie all night, putting compresses on his wounds and feeding him medicinal teas. “The only reason he’s alive is because of Elegguás’
Figa,
the tiny black fist I hung around his neck when he was born,” Petra said. The next day Willie came to, but he was very weak, and his right eye was swollen shut. “Why didn’t Quintín help me when he saw what the police were doing to me?” he asked. I tried to explain that in the melee, Quintín hadn’t realized what was happening—and I could see Willie wanted desperately to believe me.

Manuel had disappeared. He had left Alwilda’s house, and now no one—not even Petra—knew where to find him. Coral may have known where he was, but she said nothing. She had stopped seeing him and went back to her parents’, so as not to give him away. Quintín was sure Manuel had gone underground.

“I want the police to find him,” he demanded. “I’m not going to let him get away with this! He’s not only made me the laughingstock of Alamares—he murdered Fausto, who was sired by Buenaventura’s favorite Doberman.” Willie was convinced Manuel had been kidnapped by the AK 47 and had been forced to take part in the strike, and he told his father so. But Quintín only scolded him for trying to make excuses for his brother. I was terrified. The anger I had seen on Manuel’s face had made my blood run cold. I hardly recognized him; he looked like one of the tortured souls in Quintín’s painting
The Fall of the Rebel Angels.

The doctor came to the house again and examined Willie’s right eye. The beating had left him partially blind, and he might never recover his sight completely. I was furious with Quintín for not coming to Willie’s aid, but was so emotionally drained I didn’t have the energy to reproach him for it. Adrenaline fueled strange reactions in men; it made them blind to everything except the source of their anger. Maybe he hadn’t seen what was happening to Willie.

In a few days my hostility toward Quintín abated. He was suffering—he had lost his son also. We should comfort each other, share our tragedy. But soon I realized Quintín wasn’t sad; he was smoldering in anger.

Manuel’s presence at the head of the Independentista strike prompted him to draw up a new will. “Manuel is a leader of the Anaconda union, and a member of the AK 47. Do you think it’s fair he should inherit Gourmet Imports?” he asked, a steel edge to his voice. “He’ll donate our fortune to the Independentista cause, and Willie will go along with him, because he adores his brother and does what Manuel tells him. Neither of them cares a damn about Buenaventura’s reputation or about mine. Gourmet Imports and even our art collection will go to subsidize the Independentistas and the Nationalists, those fanatics who have been our family’s proverbial enemies for over half a century. I can think of much better things to do with my money.” That same day our attorney, Mr. Domenech, came to the house to draw up the will, and Quintín made me sign it with him.

I didn’t try to defend Manuel; I had given up hope in his case. But Willie was different. He was not part of the strike; he was beaten, and he was innocent. It was unfair to disinherit him. But I wanted to believe Quintín would change his mind later, once he cooled down.

T
HE FOLLOWING DAY AT BREAKFAST
, Petra walked with surprising energy into the dining room. She was wearing the coconut-white apron tied to her waist, as she used to, and her gay bead necklaces. I was amazed at her transformation; just a few days before, she had hardly been able to climb up the stairs to take care of Willie, so painful was her arthritis. Georgina was the one who usually served us breakfast, and I asked Petra what had transformed her. The servants had gone to Las Minas for the christening of one of her great-grandnieces, Petra said, and wouldn’t be back until that afternoon. She poured us some freshly brewed coffee and brought a platter of home-baked
mallorcas
from the kitchen.

“I’m serving you breakfast because today is Buenaventura’s birthday,” Petra said to Quintín gravely, standing next to him. Quintín was just opening
La Prensa.
He put on his glasses and read the small print at the top of the page. “You’re right, Petra,” he replied, after confirming the date, “Buenaventura was born on September 18, 1894. He would have been eighty-eight years old today. It’s nice of you to remember.”

“It was your father who brought me to this house more than fifty years ago,” Petra said, still more solemnly. “I was with him when he died, and I was with Rebecca when you were born. I’ve served you faithfully since. Even when temptation got the better of you and you got tangled with Carmelina in the mangroves, I never questioned what you did, because you were Buenaventura’s son. I have a question for you now, however. Is it true you disinherited Willie and left all your money to a foundation?” Her face had turned gray.

Quintín looked at her distractedly and went on dipping his
mallorca
into his cup of coffee. “And what if the answer is yes? It’s none of your business,” he said briskly. Petra stared at him. She stood very near his chair, straight and tall as a tree, holding the steaming silver pot of coffee over his head. All of a sudden I had a terrifying vision of Petra bashing in Quintín’s skull, or pouring the scalding coffee down his back, but she didn’t do either. “Willie is Buenaventura’s grandson, but he’s also an Avilés,” Petra reminded him. “If you disown Willie, I’ll tell him Carmelina’s secret, and the whole Avilés family will oppose you.” Petra’s booming voice echoed through the house.

Quintín pushed his chair back and got up calmly from the table. “I’m sorry, Petra. I’ve always tried to help Willie as much as possible; no one in San Juan would have been as generous as I have. But if you say Willie is my son, I’ll deny it in court. You have no proof.”

“Go ahead and disinherit Willie, then,” Petra said defiantly. “But I swear to you by Elegguá—he who is more than God—that one day you’ll be sorry!” And with that, she turned around and went back to the cellar.

I was stunned. It was the first time I had ever heard Petra openly defy Quintín. She had supported him in his most difficult moments. She had never reproached him for what had happened to Ignacio; in her opinion, Mendizabal’s bankruptcy had been a matter of the survival of the fittest. It was sad, she had said, but the stronger warrior always won over the weaker. But with Willie it was different.

I got up from the table and ran after Quintín as he walked down the hall. I put my hand gently on his arm. “You have to excuse Petra,” I whispered. “She’s very old and doesn’t know what she’s saying.” “Of course I excuse her,” Quintín replied brusquely. “But it’s time she went to live with her relatives in Las Minas. Tomorrow she’ll have to go.” I felt totally helpless. I had agreed with Petra in everything but was so afraid of Quintín I didn’t dare open my mouth.

T
HAT NIGHT QUINTÍN WENT
over everything Petra had said, and began to see clearly her motives for hating him: Willie had been brought up thinking he had been adopted. He had never been told he was Quintín’s son, as Petra believed, or that the Mendizabal name and fortune were his birthright. And then Quintín had made a new will leaving his money to the Mendizabal Foundation. It was
his
money; he had earned it with the sweat of his brow, and could do with it as he pleased. The Mendizabal Foundation was a noble cause; it would enable the house on the lagoon to become San Juan’s first art museum. Moreover, he wasn’t going to disinherit Willie or Manuel, as Isabel’s manuscript falsely stated. If anything happened to him, both his sons would have generous lifelong incomes, as would Isabel. But none of this made any difference to Petra. She wanted Willie to inherit everything—Gourmet Imports, the art collection, the money in the bank.

The reason for the manuscript’s existence suddenly hit Quintín like a thunderbolt. Isabel wasn’t under Petra’s spell at all, as he had deluded himself into believing because he couldn’t stand the thought of losing her. She was Petra’s ally, and they were writing the manuscript together in order to destroy him.

They wanted the novel to be such a scandal that the Mendizabal Foundation would be stillborn, discredited from the start. How could Quintín turn the house on the lagoon into a museum when the Mendizabal family was in disgrace? This time he was going to take the situation in hand. He was going to destroy the manuscript.

Quintín walked into the study. He took out the desk drawer and opened the secret compartment. But Isabel’s tan folder was missing. He groped around for it desperately, but it was not there.

He went directly to the bedroom and turned on the lights. Isabel sat up in bed, startled, and asked what was wrong. Quintín shook her violently by the shoulders. “What have you done with the manuscript of
The House on the Lagoon?”
he hissed, his face white with anger. “It was in Rebecca’s desk the night before the strike.”

“How
dare
you read my manuscript!” Isabel cried out angrily. “You had
no
right.”

“How
dare
you write it!” Quintín retorted, beside himself. “I’ll turn this house upside down until I find it. And if I don’t, and you publish it, I’ll kill you.”

“You’ll
never
find it!” Isabel said. And then, with a strange calm, almost in a whisper, she said, “I’ll kill
you
first.”

T
HE DAY OF QUINTÍN’S
argument with Petra, I decided to go down to the cellar to talk to her. I wanted to assure her that I didn’t have anything to do with Quintín’s decision to disinherit our sons. I had grown so used to hearing her pray to Elegguá that I had begun to believe a little in him myself, especially after seeing how Elegguá’s
Figa
had protected Willie. All of a sudden the idea came to me that if I put the manuscript in Elegguá’s care maybe peace would come once more to our house. Manuel might leave the AK 47 and ask his father to forgive him; Willie might regain his sight; Quintín could change his mind about the will.

I got up from where I was sitting and went into the study. I took the manuscript folder out of the desk and carried it down to Petra. “These papers are very important,” I said as I gave her the folder. “I’d like you to keep them for a while. I’ve made a promise to Elegguá so that he will protect my sons.”

It was three years before I wrote again. With the help of Mauricio Boleslaus, our art-dealer friend, Willie and I moved to Florida, where we took refuge in a small hotel on Anastasia, a narrow island on the peninsula’s western coast which appealed to us because of its peaceful atmosphere. Every month we get a check from Mauricio and we manage to get along nicely thanks to him.

A year after we arrived, Willie’s epileptic fits had almost disappeared, and he had recovered enough so he could begin to paint again. I was enormously relieved. A few years later he would become an accomplished artist, and today his work hangs in important galleries all over the country. Petra had been right after all when she foretold Willie’s success.

There was a small pier in front of our hotel where fishermen brought their catch early in the morning, throwing the fish that were too small to sell at the local market back into the sea. Huge white pelicans dived after them, and a flurry of cries and whooshes ruffled the tranquil surface of the water, as the eternal struggle to eat and escape being eaten went on beneath its surface.

After the pelicans’ daily banquet, I would sit on the wharf for hours, staring at the pale, cold Atlantic and at the desolate beach, its solitary pine tree undulating in the wind. I missed our warm waters glimmering like a sapphire around San Juan, our graceful palm trees swaying like winged angels, but I had no desire to go back to the island.

I probably would not have recovered without Willie’s help. Looking at the Atlantic was comforting. The living and the dead were held fast by its embrace: Abby, Mother, Father, and Manuel on one side; Willie and I on the other. It made me think of what Petra had said before she died; she had insisted that water was love, that it made communication possible, and she was right. It wasn’t until a year later, when the peace of Long Boat Key finally healed my wounds, that I returned to
The House on the Lagoon.
I know publishing it may have dire results, but a tale, like life itself, isn’t finished until it is heard by someone with an understanding heart.

Quintín never read these pages. He never had the chance to scribble angry comments on the margins or introduce his thoughts in long, third-person monologues on the back of the manuscript pages, as he did in previous chapters. But he
did
know how the novel ended; that’s the story I’m about to tell.

T
HE DAY AFTER PETRA’S ARGUMENT
with Quintín, Eulodia knocked on the door of our bedroom early in the morning. It was still dark—it couldn’t have been more than five o’clock. Six women had arrived on a boat from Las Minas and were waiting downstairs in the cellar. “They want to see Petra,” she whispered through the half-opened door, “but I went to her room and called her several times and she didn’t answer. I tried to open the door, but it was locked. I’m afraid something’s wrong.” I put on my bathrobe and went down to the cellar with Eulodia, the master key in my hand. When I opened Petra’s door, I found her lying on the bed with her eyes closed. I suspected she might have had a stroke during the night, but then I saw her clothes laid carefully around her: her best red satin skirt, her
mundillo
lace blouse, and her beaded necklaces. When I drew nearer, I realized Petra was still breathing.