In The Time Of The Butterflies Part 8

Had they asked me the same thing, I would have stared back, mute, too.

What did I want? I didn't know anymore. Three years stuck in Ojo de Agua, and I was like that princess put to sleep in the fairy tale. I read and complained and argued with Dede, but all that time I was snoring away.

When I met Lio, it was as if I woke up. The givens, all I'd been taught, fell away like so many covers when you sit up in bed. Now when I asked myself, What do you want, Minerva Mirabal? What do you want, Minerva Mirabal? I was shocked to find I didn't have an answer. I was shocked to find I didn't have an answer.

All I knew was I was not falling in love, no matter how deserving I thought Lio was. So what? I'd argue with myself. What's more important, romance or revolution? But a little voice kept saying, Both, both, I want both. Both, both, I want both. Back and forth my mind went, weaving a yes by night and unraveling it by day to a no. Back and forth my mind went, weaving a yes by night and unraveling it by day to a no.

As always happens, your life decides for you anyway. Lio announced he was seeking asylum out of the country. I was relieved that circ.u.mstances would be resolving things between us.

Still, when he left, I was hurt that he hadn't even said goodbye. Then I started worrying that his silence meant he had been caught. Out of the comers of my eyes, I kept seeing Lio himself! He was not a pretty sight. His body was bruised and broken as if he had endured all the tortures in La Fortaleza he had ever described to me. I was sure I was having premonitions that Lio had not escaped after all.

Mama, of course, noticed the tightening in my face. My bad headaches and asthma attacks worried her. "You need rest," she prescribed one afternoon and sent me to bed in Papa's room, the coolest in the house. He was off in the Ford for his afternoon review of the farm.

I lay in that mahogany bed, tossing this way and that, unable to sleep. Then, something I hadn't planned. I got up and tried the door of the armoire. It was locked, which wasn't all that strange as the hardware was always getting stuck. Using one of my bobby pins, I popped the inside spring and the door sprang open.

I ran my hand along Papa's clothes, releasing his smell in the room. I stared at his new fancy guayaberas guayaberas and started going through the pockets. In the inside pocket of his dress jacket, I found a packet of papers and pulled them out. and started going through the pockets. In the inside pocket of his dress jacket, I found a packet of papers and pulled them out.

Prescriptions for his medicines, a bill for a Panama hat he'd been wearing around the farm, a new, important look for him. A bill from El Gallo for seven yards of gingham, a girl's fabric. An invitation from the National Palace to some party. Then, four letters, addressed to me from Lio!

I read them through hungrily. He hadn't heard from me about his proposal to leave the country. (What proposal?) He had arranged for me to come to the Colombian emba.s.sy. I should let him know through his cousin Mario. He was waiting for my answer-next letter. Still no answer, he complained in a third letter. In the final letter, he wrote that he was leaving that afternoon on the diplomatic pouch plane. He understood it was too big a step for me at the moment. Some day in the future, maybe. He could only hope.

It seemed suddenly that I'd missed a great opportunity. My life would have been n.o.bler if I had followed Lio. But how could I have made the choice when I hadn't even known about it? I forgot my earlier ambivalence, and I blamed Papa for everything: his young woman, his hurting Mama, his cooping me up while he went gallivanting around.

My hands were shaking so bad that it was hard to fold the letters into their envelopes. I stuffed them in my pocket, but his bills and correspondence I put back. I left the doors of the armoire gaping open. I wanted him to know he had been found out.

Minutes later, I was roaring away in the Jeep without a word to Mama. What would I have said? I'm going to find my good-for-nothing father and drag him back?

I knew where to find him all right. Now that Papa was doing so well, he had bought a second car, a Jeep. I knew d.a.m.n well he wasn't reviewing the fields if he had taken the Ford, not the Jeep. I headed straight for that yellow house.

When I got there, those four girls looked up, startled. After all, the man they always expected was already there, the car parked in back where it couldn't be seen from the road. I turned into the dirt path and crashed into the Ford, making the b.u.mper curl up and shattering the window in back. Then I came down on that horn until he appeared, shirtless and furious in the doorway.

He took one look at me and got as pale as an olive-skinned man can get. For a long moment, he didn't say anything. "What do you want?" he said at last.

I heard the little girls crying, and I realized my own face was wet with tears. When he came forward, I gave a warning honk and wildly backed out of the path and into the road. A pickup coming around the curve veered and ran into the ditch-plantains, oranges, mangoes, yucca spilling all over the road. That didn't stop me, no. I stepped on the gas. From the comer of my eye I saw him, a figure growing smaller and smaller until I left him behind me.

When I got home, Mama met me at the door. She eyed me, and she must have known. "Next time, you don't leave this house without saying where you're going." We both knew her scold was meaningless. She hadn't even asked where I'd been.

Papa returned that night, his face drawn with anger. He ate his supper in silence as if his review of the farm had not gone well. As soon as I could without making Mama more suspicious, I excused myself. I had a throbbing headache, I explained, heading for my room.

In a little while, I heard his knock. "I want to see you outside." His voice through the door was commanding. I threw water on my face, combed my hands through my hair, and went out to Papa.

He led me down the drive past the dented Ford into the dark garden. The moon was a thin, bright machete cutting its way through patches of clouds. By its sharp light I could see my father stop and turn to face me. With his shrinking and my height, we were now eye to eye.

There was no warning it was coming. His hand slammed into the side of my face as it never had before on any part of my body. I staggered back, stunned more with the idea of his having hit me than with the pain exploding in my head.

"That's to remind you that you owe your father some respect!"

"I don't owe you a thing," I said. My voice was as sure and commanding as his. "You've lost my respect."

I saw his shoulders droop. I heard him sigh. Right then and there, it hit me harder than his slap: I was much stronger than Papa, Mama was much stronger. He was the weakest one of all. It was he who would have the hardest time living with the shabby choices he'd made. He needed our love.

"I hid them to protect you," he said. At first, I didn't know what he was talking about. Then I realized he must have discovered the letters missing from his coat pocket.

"I know of at least three of Virgilio's friends who have disappeared."

So he was going to pa.s.s this off as my fury over his taking my mail. And I knew that in order to go on living under the same roof, I would have to pretend this was our true difference.

That fancy invitation I found in Papa's pocket caused another uproar-this time from Mama. It was an invitation to a private party being thrown by Trujillo himself in one of his secluded mansions three hours away. A handwritten note at the end requested that la senorita la senorita Minerva Mirabal not fail to show. Minerva Mirabal not fail to show.

Now that Papa had become rich, he got invited to a lot of official parties and functions. I always went along as Papa's partner since Mama wouldn't go. "Who wants to see an old woman?" she complained.

"Come on, Mama," I argued. "You're in your prime. A mujerona mujerona of fifty-one." I snapped my fingers, jazzing up Mama's life. But the truth was, Mama looked old, even older than Papa with his dapper new hat and his linen of fifty-one." I snapped my fingers, jazzing up Mama's life. But the truth was, Mama looked old, even older than Papa with his dapper new hat and his linen guayaberas guayaberas and his high black boots, and a debonair cane that seemed more a self-important prop than a walking aid. Her hair had gone steel gray, and she pulled it back in a severe bun that showed off the long-suffering look on her face. and his high black boots, and a debonair cane that seemed more a self-important prop than a walking aid. Her hair had gone steel gray, and she pulled it back in a severe bun that showed off the long-suffering look on her face.

This time, though, Mama didn't want me to go either. The note at the end scared her. This wasn't an official do but something personal. In fact, after the last big party, a colonel friend had visited Jaimito's family asking after the tall, attractive woman Don Enrique Mirabal had brought along. She had caught El Jefe's eye.

Mama wanted to get me a medical excuse from Doctor Lavandier. After all, migraines and asthma attacks weren't against the law, were they?

"Trujillo is the law," Papa whispered, as we all did nowadays when we p.r.o.nounced the dreaded name.

Finally, Mama relented, but she insisted Pedrito and Patria go along to take care of me, and Jaimito and Dede go to make sure Patria and Pedrito did their job. Maria Teresa begged to go, too. But Mama wouldn't hear of it. Expose another young, single daughter to danger, No No, senorita! senorita! Besides, Maria Teresa couldn't go to night parties until her Besides, Maria Teresa couldn't go to night parties until her quinceanera quinceanera next year. next year.

Poor Mate cried and cried. As a consolation prize, I offered to bring her back another souvenir. Last time at the party at Hotel Montana, we all got paper fans with the Virgencita on one side and El Jefe on the other. I kept making Maria Teresa turn the fan around when she sat in front of me, fanning herself. Sometimes it was El Jefe's probing eyes, sometimes it was the Virgin's pretty face I couldn't stand to look at.

With the party a week away, Papa had to get the Ford fixed. The president of our local branch of Trujillo Tillers couldn't very well arrive at El Jefe's house in a Jeep. It seemed pretty appropriate to me, but having banged up Papa's beauty it wasn't for me to disagree.

While the Ford was at the shop, I drove Papa to his doctor's appointments in San Francisco. It was sad how the richer he got, the more his health deteriorated. He was drinking too much, even I could see that. His heart was weak and his gout made it painful sometimes for him to move around. Doctor Lavandier had him on treatments twice a week. I'd drop him off, then visit with Dede and Jaimito at their new ice cream shop until it was time to pick him up.

One morning, Papa told me to go on home. He had some errands to run after his appointment. Jaimito would drive him back later.

"We can run them together," I offered. When he looked away, I guessed what he was up to. Several days ago, I had driven out to the yellow house and found it all boarded up. Of course! Papa hadn't broken with this woman but merely moved her off the grounds and into town.

I sat, facing forward, not saying a word.

Finally, he admitted it. "You have to believe me. I only go to see my children. I'm not involved with their mother anymore."

I waited for things to settle down inside me. Then I said, "I want to meet them. They're my sisters, after all."

I could see he was moved by my acknowledging them. He reached over, but I was not ready yet for his hugs. "I'll be back to pick you up."

We drove down narrow streets, past row on row of respectable little houses. Finally we came to a stop in front of a pretty turquoise house with the porch and trim painted white. There they were, awaiting Papa, four little girls in look-alike pale yellow gingham dresses. The two oldest must have recognized me, for their faces grew solemn when I got out of the car.

The minute Papa was on the sidewalk, they darted towards him and dug the mints out of his pockets. I felt a pang of jealousy seeing them treat Papa in the same way my sisters and I had.

"This is my big girl, Minerva," he introduced me. Then, putting a hand on each one's head, he presented them to me. The oldest, Margarita, was about ten, then three more with about three years' difference between them down to the baby with her pacifier on a dirty ribbon round her neck. While Papa went inside the house with an envelope, I waited on the porch, asking them questions they were too shy to answer.

As we were leaving, I saw the mother peeking at me from behind the door. I beckoned for her to come out. "Minerva Mirabal," I said, offering her my hand.

The woman hung her head and mumbled her name, Carmen something. I noticed she was wearing a cheap ring, the adjustable kind that children buy at any street corner from the candy vendors. I wondered if she was trying to pa.s.s herself off as a respectable married lady in this, one of the nicer barrios of San Francisco.

As we drove back to Ojo de Agua, I was working out what had been happening ten years back that might have driven Papa into the arms of another woman. Patria, Dede, and I had just gone away to Inmaculada Concepcion, and Maria Teresa would have been all of four years old. Maybe, I told myself, Papa had missed us so much that he had gone in search of a young girl to replace us? I looked over at him and instantly he looked my way.

"That was very fine of you," he said, smiling hesitantly.

"I know the clouds have already rained," I said, "but, Papa, why did you do it?"

His hands gripped his cane until his knuckles whitened. "Cosas de los hombres," "Cosas de los hombres," he said. Things a man does. So that was supposed to excuse him, macho that he was! he said. Things a man does. So that was supposed to excuse him, macho that he was!

Before I could ask him another question, Papa spoke up. "Why'd you do what you just did?"

Quick as my reputation said my mouth was, I couldn't come up with an answer, until I remembered his own words. "Things a woman does."

And as I said those words my woman's eyes sprang open.

All the way home I kept seeing them from the comers of my eyes, men bending in the fields, men riding horses, men sitting by the side of the road, their chairs tipped back, nibbling on a spear of gra.s.s, and I knew very well I was looking at what I wanted at last.

Discovery Day Dance October 12 By the time we find the party, we're an hour late. All the way here Papa and Pedrito and Jaimito have been working out the details of their story. "You say how we started out early this morning to give us plenty of time, and then you say we didn't know the way." Papa a.s.signs the different facts to his sons-in-law "And you"-he looks around at me in the back seat-"you keep quiet."

"You don't have to plan anything when you're telling the truth," I remind them. But no one listens to me. Why should they? They're probably thinking I got them into this.

Here is the truth. We arrived in San Cristobal late this afternoon and got a room at the local hotel and changed. By then, our dresses were a mess from riding around on our laps all day. "The worse you look, the better for you," Patria said when I complained that I looked like I'd gotten here on a donkey.

Then we climbed back in the car and drove forever. As a man who always always knows where he's going, Jaimito couldn't very well stop to ask for directions. Soon we were lost on the back roads somewhere near Bani. At a checkpoint, a knows where he's going, Jaimito couldn't very well stop to ask for directions. Soon we were lost on the back roads somewhere near Bani. At a checkpoint, a guardia guardia finally convinced Jaimito that we were going the wrong way. We headed back, an hour late. finally convinced Jaimito that we were going the wrong way. We headed back, an hour late.

Jaimito parks the Ford at the end of the long driveway, facing the road. "In case we have to take off quickly," he says in a low voice. He's been a bundle of nerves about this whole outing. I guess we all have.

It's a hike to the house. Every few steps we have to stop at a checkpoint and flash our invitation. The driveway is well lit, so at least we can see the puddles before we splash into them. It's been raining on and off all day, the usual October hurricane weather. This year, though, the rains seem more severe than ever, everyone says so. My theory is that the G.o.d of thunder Huracan always acts up around the holiday of the Conquistador, who killed off all his Taino devotees. When I suggest this to Patria as we walk up the drive, she gives me her pained Madonna look. "Ay, Minerva, por "Ay, Minerva, por Dios, keep that tongue in check tonight." Dios, keep that tongue in check tonight."

Manuel de Moya is pacing back and forth at the entrance. I recognize him from the last party, and of course his picture is always in the papers. "Secretary of state," people say, winking one eye. Everyone knows his real job is rounding up pretty girls for El Jefe to try out. How they get talked into it, I don't know. Manuel de Moya is supposed to be so smooth with the ladies, they probably think they're following the example of the Virgencita if they bed down with the Benefactor of the Fatherland.

Papa starts in on our explanation, but Don Manuel cuts him off. "This is not like him. The Spanish amba.s.sador has been waiting." He checks his watch, holding it to his ear as if it might whisper El Jefe's whereabouts. "You didn't see any cars on the way?" Papa shakes his head, his face full of exaggerated concern.

Don Manuel snaps his fingers, and several officers rush forward for instructions. They are to keep a sharp lookout while he escorts the Mirabals to their table. We wonder at this special attention, and Papa begs Don Manuel not to go to so much bother. "This," he says, offering me his arm, "is all my pleasure."

We go down a long corridor, and into a courtyard hung with lanterns. The crowd hushes as we enter. The band leader stands up but then sits back down when he realizes it's not El Jefe. Luis Alberti moved his whole orchestra from the capital just to be on call at Casa de Caoba. This is supposed to be El Jefe's favorite party mansion, where he keeps his favorite of the moment. At the last few parties the excited gossip in the powder rooms has been that at present the house is vacant.

Only one reserved table is left in front of the dais. Don Manuel is pulling out chairs for everybody, but when I go to sit down next to Patria, he says, "No, no, El Jefe has invited you to his table." He indicates the head table on the dais where a few dignitaries and their wives nod in my direction. Patria and Dede exchange a scared look.

"It is really quite an honor," he adds when he notes my hesitation. Across the table Papa is still standing. "Go on, my daughter. You are keeping Don Manuel waiting."

I give Papa an angry look. Has he lost all all his principles? his principles?

From my vantage point at the raised table, I look around. In keeping with Discovery Day, the whole courtyard has been outfitted like one of Columbus' ships. On each table there is a clever centerpiece-a little caravel with tissue sails and lighted candles for masts, a perfect souvenir for Mate. I size it up but decide it won't fit in my purse.

Dede catches my eye, smiling only after a lag of a second, for we have to seem pleased. She touches her gla.s.s and gives me the slightest nod. Don't drink anything you are offered, Don't drink anything you are offered, the gesture reminds me. We've heard the stories. Young women drugged, then raped by El Jefe. But what could Dede be thinking? That Trujillo is going to drug me right here in front of a crowd?! Then what? Manuel de Moya will drag me off to a waiting black Cadillac. Or will there be two waiting black Cadillacs, one with a leering look-alike? That's another story. Security has introduced a double as a protective measure to confuse any would-be a.s.sa.s.sins. I roll my eyes at Dede, and then, as she glares at me, I lift my gla.s.s in a reckless toast. the gesture reminds me. We've heard the stories. Young women drugged, then raped by El Jefe. But what could Dede be thinking? That Trujillo is going to drug me right here in front of a crowd?! Then what? Manuel de Moya will drag me off to a waiting black Cadillac. Or will there be two waiting black Cadillacs, one with a leering look-alike? That's another story. Security has introduced a double as a protective measure to confuse any would-be a.s.sa.s.sins. I roll my eyes at Dede, and then, as she glares at me, I lift my gla.s.s in a reckless toast.

As if it were a signal, everyone rises to their feet, lifting their gla.s.ses. There is a stir at the entrance, newspapermen swarming, flashbulbs popping. A crowd presses around him, and so I don't see him until he's almost at our table. He looks younger than I remember him from our performance five years ago, the hair darkened, the figure trim. It must be all that pega palo pega palo we hear he's been drinking, a special brew his we hear he's been drinking, a special brew his brujo brujo cooks up to keep him s.e.xually potent. cooks up to keep him s.e.xually potent.

After the toast, the Spanish amba.s.sador presents this ill.u.s.trious descendant of the great Conquistador with yet another medal. There is some question about where to pin it on the cluttered sash that crosses his chest. Chapita, the underground boys call him. Lio has told me that the nickname comes from El Jefe's childhood habit of stringing bottle caps across his chest to look like medals.

At long last, we settle down to our plates of cold sancocho. sancocho. Surprisingly, El Jefe does not sit next to me. I feel more and more puzzled as to my role this evening at this table. To my left, Manuel de Moya commences reminiscing about his New York modeling days. The story is Trujillo met him on one of those shopping trips he periodically makes to the States to order his elevator shoes, his skin whiteners and creams, his satin sashes and rare bird plumes for his bicorn Napoleonic hats. He hired the model right on the spot. A tall, polished, English-speaking, white Dominican to decorate his staff. Surprisingly, El Jefe does not sit next to me. I feel more and more puzzled as to my role this evening at this table. To my left, Manuel de Moya commences reminiscing about his New York modeling days. The story is Trujillo met him on one of those shopping trips he periodically makes to the States to order his elevator shoes, his skin whiteners and creams, his satin sashes and rare bird plumes for his bicorn Napoleonic hats. He hired the model right on the spot. A tall, polished, English-speaking, white Dominican to decorate his staff.

My right-hand partner, an aging senator from San Cristobal compliments the stew and points to an attractive, blond woman seated to Trujillo's left. "My wife," he boasts, "half Cuban."

Not knowing what to say, I nod, and lean over to pick up the napkin I dropped when I stood up for El Jefe's entrance. Under the tablecloth, a hand is exploring the inner folds of a woman's thigh. I work it out and realize it is Trujillo's hand fondling the senator's wife.

The tables are pushed back and the music starts, though I wonder that they don't just move the party indoors. There is a strong breeze, announcing rain. Every once in a while, a gust topples a gla.s.s or caravel, and there's a loud crash. The soldiers patrolling the edges of the party reach for their guns.

The floor remains empty as it must until El Jefe has danced the first dance.

He rises from his chair, and I am so sure he is going to ask me that I feel a twinge of disappointment when he turns instead to the wife of the Spanish amba.s.sador. Lio's words of warning wash over me. This regime is seductive. How else would a whole nation fall prey to this little man?

G.o.d help him! Where is he right now? Was he granted asylum by the emba.s.sy or was he caught and locked up in La Fortaleza as my premonitions keep telling me? My head throbs as my imagination dashes here and there, trying to find him safe haven.

"Could I have the honor?" Manuel de Moya is standing at my side.

I shake my head. "Ay, "Ay, Don Manuel, what a headache I have." I feel a little glee at being able to legitimately refuse him. Don Manuel, what a headache I have." I feel a little glee at being able to legitimately refuse him.

A cloud of annoyance crosses his face. But in a flash, he is all good manners. "We must get you a calmante calmante then." then."

"No, no," I wave him off. "It will pa.s.s if I sit here quietly." I stress quietly. quietly. I do not want to make conversation with Don Manuel about my headache. I do not want to make conversation with Don Manuel about my headache.

When he goes off, I look over at our table. Patria lifts her eyebrows as if asking, "How are you holding up?" I touch my forehead and close my eyes a moment. She knows how I am suffering from headaches these days. "Tension," Mama says, and sends me away from the store for extra naps.

Patria comes up to the platform with a whole packet of calmantes. calmantes. Always the mother, that one. She's got a handkerchief in that purse should someone sneeze, a mint to keep a child happy, a rosary in case anyone wants to pray. Always the mother, that one. She's got a handkerchief in that purse should someone sneeze, a mint to keep a child happy, a rosary in case anyone wants to pray.

I start to tell her about the hanky-panky I saw under the table, but the pervasive Manuel de Moya is beside us again. He has brought a waiter with a gla.s.s of water and two aspirin on a little silver tray. I open my hand and disclose my own pills. Don Manuel's face falls.

"But I do need more water," I say to show some grat.i.tude. He presents the gla.s.s with so much ceremony, my grat.i.tude dissolves like the pills in my stomach.

Later, at the table, I listen to him make idle conversation with the old senator about the various ailments they have both suffered. Every once in a while he checks to see if my headache is any better. Finally, after the third time, I answer him with what I know he wants. "Let's try the country cure," I say, and I verify that he is not a man to trust when he asks, "What cure is that?"

We dance several sets, and sure enough, as the campesinos say, Un clavo saca otro clavo. campesinos say, Un clavo saca otro clavo. One nail takes out another. The excited rhythm of Alberti's "Fiesta" overwhelms the pulsing throb of my headache. And whatever else he is, Manuel de Moya is a terrific dancer. I keep throwing my head back and laughing. When I look over at our table, Patria is studying me, not quite sure what to make of my pleasure. One nail takes out another. The excited rhythm of Alberti's "Fiesta" overwhelms the pulsing throb of my headache. And whatever else he is, Manuel de Moya is a terrific dancer. I keep throwing my head back and laughing. When I look over at our table, Patria is studying me, not quite sure what to make of my pleasure.

Everything happens very fast then. A slow bolero starts, and I feel myself being led towards where Trujillo is now dancing with the attractive, blond wife of the old senator. When we are abreast of them, Manuel de Moya lets go of my hand and opens up our couple. "Shall we visit?" he asks me, but it is El Jefe who nods. The blond woman pouts as she is whisked away. "A visit is not a long stay," she reminds El Jefe, flashing her eyes at him over Manuel de Moya's shoulder.

I stand a moment, my arms at my sides, feeling the same stagefright of five years back. El Jefe takes my hand. "May I have the pleasure?" He doesn't wait for an answer, but pulls me to him. The smell of his cologne is overpowering.

His hold is proprietary and masculine, but he is not a good dancer. All firmness, and too many flourishes. A couple of times, he steps on my foot, but he does not excuse himself. "You dance very well," he says gallantly. "But then women from El Cibao make the best dancers and the best lovers," he whispers, tightening his hold. I can feel the moisture of his breath on my ear.

"And your last partner, was she from El Cibao?" I ask, encouraging conversation so he has to draw back a little. I have to check myself from saying, A visit is not a long stay, you know.

He holds me out in his arms, his eyes moving over my body, exploring it rudely with his glances. "I am speaking of the national treasure in my arms," he says, smiling.

I laugh out loud, my fear dissipating, a dangerous sense of my own power growing. "I don't feel very much like a national treasure."

"And why not, a jewel like you?" His eyes sparkle with interest.

"I feel like I'm wasting my life in Ojo de Agua."