House on the Lagoon (41 page)

“Perla and Coral Ustariz, hear us! God bless your beautiful tits, as well as your gorgeous bottoms, the best foundations possible for an old friendship!” Manuel shouted, climbing on the Bishop’s billowing cassock and waving exuberantly at the girls from La Rogativa’s pedestal. He let out a whistle which landed on Coral’s ear like a pesky mosquito. Willie climbed up on the medieval walls and began to wave his arms at the girls, too.

Coral nudged Perla with her foot. She was barefoot and her toenails were painted a bright red. Perla had fallen asleep on her chair, cooled by the breeze that wafted through the mahogany balusters. “Get up and get the pitcher of lemonade from the refrigerator,” Coral told her, “so we can get rid of those monkeys pounding their chests down there.” Perla opened her eyes and looked down. “What a pair! The short one looks like a hairy caveman and the tall one looks like a Viking. What do they think we are—birds in a cage for them to ogle?”

Manuel replied promptly, “We don’t think you’re birds at all, just two beautiful chicks! Come down and say hello to your old friends.”

Perla laughed and stared back. The short one had dark skin and a curly—almost kinky—cushion of hair on his head. But his features were finely chiseled, and she found him very good-looking. He was wearing orange shorts and a Save the Earth T-shirt, the same as the tall, brawny one. Coral, annoyed, nudged her sister again, and Perla went inside and came back with a ceramic pitcher full of iced lemonade, which she promptly emptied over the balcony’s rim.

The sticky downpour didn’t discourage the pair at all. They went on making such a racket that soon the neighbors opened their windows to find out what was happening. But by that time Perla and Coral, amazed that the “crazy monkeys” should know their names, had run inside the house and shut the balcony’s doors.

Coral was born
six years after Esmeralda’s marriage; Perla was born six years later. Quintín would have been very upset if he had known, but I had visited them at Doña Ermelinda’s pink house in San Juan many times. On one of these visits I took Manuel and Willie with me, and later we all went to the beach together.

In 1969, Ernesto’s father passed away. Ernesto sold the farm, Esmeralda packed everything they owned into two trunks, and they moved to New York with the girls. They took an apartment in Washington Heights, and Ernesto finally enrolled at New York University Law School.

Ernesto was a brilliant student and he had specialized in immigration law. He didn’t need the money; the fortune he had inherited from his father was enough for him to live on without working for the rest of his life. But Ernesto wasn’t like that. After he graduated, he found a job in the city at an office which dealt with illegal immigrants. He was a liberal and a socialist sympathizer, and soon made a reputation for himself among radical politicians.

Ignacio Mendizabal’s suicide, five years after Ernesto’s wedding to Esmeralda, had made a strong impression on him.

Ignacio had been seventeen when Ernesto met him at the Bougainvillea Ball, and he remembered him clearly. Ignacio had a crush on Esmeralda, and he was two years younger than she was. Esmeralda felt sorry for him and tried not to hurt his feelings. The Mendizabals, however, had hit the ceiling when they saw how taken Ignacio was with her. Esmeralda and Doña Ermelinda had gone to the party at the house on the lagoon because she wanted to see me. Since Quintín and I had gotten married at the beginning of the summer, I hadn’t been back to Ponce.

When Rebecca knocked off Doña Ermelinda’s turban at the party, Doña Ermelinda was furious, because she was sure it had been intentional. When they walked out the door of the Mendizabals’ house, people had laughed at them; they felt humiliated. That night, before they went to bed, Doña Ermelinda told Esmeralda: “The Mendizabals think they’re better than everyone else just because that ham peddler got off a cargo ship from Spain thirty-eight years ago! But neither of their daughters is as beautiful as you are. Ignacio Mendizabal will never be able to get you out from under his skin. Let that be a lesson to Rebecca, so that she’ll never dare insult us again!”

Ernesto, when he heard the details of the story, at first laughed them off as absurd. But on his wedding night, when Ignacio turned up at the house, firing right and left like some cowboy out of a spaghetti Western, he had had second thoughts. He never mentioned it to Esmeralda, but the memory of what happened that night had a lot to do with his decision to return to the island. He took the job that a legal firm affiliated with the federal government offered him in San Juan to investigate racial discrimination. San Juan’s bourgeoisie were among the most prejudiced in the world; they concealed their racism with polished good manners, but there were very few blacks on the corporate ladders in San Juan or in high posts in the local government. Now he wouldn’t have to feel guilty about being away from his country for so long. He could contribute hands-on to making things better.

Esmeralda hadn’t been able to study at New York’s Fashion Institute as she had hoped, because of the injury she had suffered on her wedding night. The little finger of her right hand had to be amputated after Ignacio’s attack, and writing had become awkward for her; drawing fashion models even more so. She had managed to cope with it, however, and had been happy with Ernesto all those years. Her daughters were a joy to her. Coral took after her father—she was a live wire and very political. She had just graduated cum laude from Columbia University with a degree in journalism and the minute she arrived on the island landed a job at
The Clarion,
the English-language newspaper. Perla was more relaxed than Coral and wanted to be a nurse. They both spoke Spanish as well as English; Ernesto and Esmeralda had insisted they speak Spanish at home. “For every language you speak, you’re worth another person,” Ernesto would say. “Each language gives you a new set of tools with which to solve life’s problems.”

The following Sunday, Manuel and Willie rode their motorcycles to La Rogativa again. They had both gone to Zabós Unisex Salon the day before and had had their manes shorn off. They were wearing linen pants and elegant navy sports jackets with red silk ties. The girls were lying in their deck chairs again, sunning themselves. This time, Manuel and Willie didn’t whistle but knocked politely on the door of the house. Esmeralda herself answered, and the boys introduced themselves as Isabel Mendizabal’s sons. Their mother had told them the Ustarizes were back, and she wanted them to say hello on her behalf to Esmeralda and her family.

Esmeralda embraced them warmly and a few minutes later Perla and Coral came downstairs, wearing T-shirts over their bikinis. Esmeralda introduced her daughters and asked the young men if they remembered them. Coral was the redhead and her skin was light gold; Perla was dark-haired, with a pearl-white complexion, which was why Esmeralda had named them as she had. Willie said he did; Manuel said he didn’t.

“Of course you do,” Coral said to Manuel. “The last time I saw you, we were down at the beach with our nannies. A jellyfish stung my leg and you took out your little dick and peed on it to cure the burn.” Then she kissed him on both cheeks. Perla stared at Willie, an impish look in her eyes. “That was a quick change! From hairy caveman to silk-tie Romeo,” she teased. But she was glad to see him and kissed him on both cheeks also.

From that Sunday on, they were a foursome. The girls came often to visit us at the house. Manuel and Coral spent Saturday afternoons water-skiing in the lagoon, while Willie taught Perla to paint. Everyone on the San Juan social scene took it for granted that Ernesto Ustariz’s daughters and Quintín Mendizabal’s sons were going steady. They never went out on their own. If Manuel and Coral wanted to go on a picnic to El Yunque, for example, Willie and Perla would go with them; if Willie and Perla were going to Luquillo Beach, Coral and Manuel went along. The blue and red Vespas, with the couples astride, roared up and down the island like two noisy, lovesick drones.

One day Coral invited Manuel to go to a political rally with her; she had to cover a story for
The Clarion.
“It’s an Independentista rally, of course,” she said to him. “I wouldn’t cover rallies for any other political party, it would go against my principles.” They were riding the Vespa down the road, and the wind kept sweeping away Coral’s words. “There’s going to be a referendum on the island in November,” she went on, “and the only honorable thing we can do is ask for self-determination.” Manuel was surprised to hear her say that; he wouldn’t have guessed she sympathized with independence. “But you’ve spent more of your life in New York than on the island; don’t you feel you’re an American?” Manuel asked. Coral looked at him reproachfully. “Don’t tell me you’re for statehood. Because if you are, I never want to see you again.” Manuel was amazed. He knew how passionately his father supported statehood and had always believed in what Quintín believed. So he was silent when Coral spoke.

Coral was unquestionably beautiful, and Manuel was taken with her from the start. She was lively and impetuous—she wanted to do everything on the spot. She had a volatile temper; when she argued, she jumped from one idea to the next, her words like sparks fanned by gusts of wind. Manuel, with his peaceful, somewhat slow disposition, felt irresistibly drawn to her. It was as if he could live more intensely when she was near. When they were together, he rarely spoke; he let her do most of the talking and would simply hold her hand. I liked Coral, too—much better than Perla, who had a quiet, almost humdrum personality. But Coral was interesting; she always had controversial things to say and she knew her own mind.

Coral explained to Manuel that political ideals were very important. Believing in something made you think; it kept your spirit alive. Independence for the island was the purest ideal anyone could strive for, but statehood was anathema. It meant English would be our official language and we would have to
talk
and
feel
in English, would have to pay federal taxes, couldn’t participate in the Olympic Games under our own flag, wouldn’t be able to take part in the Miss Universe Contest—all blows to our pride and to our sense of identity. “Just think, we’re a country that in its five hundred years of existence has never been its own self. Don’t you think that’s tragic?” But Manuel wouldn’t say a word. He didn’t want to be disloyal to his father, so he just lowered his head and looked at her with lovesick eyes.

T
HE FOLLOWING SUNDAY, MANUEL
and Willie, with Perla and Coral hanging on behind, rode their Vespas noisily up the mountain road to Lares, the site of the Independentista rally. “Do you know what Lares means?” Coral asked Manuel as they roared up the winding road. “It’s the Latin name for the gods that protect the home. ‘Lares’ is the hearthstone, the place that’s always kept warm. As long as Lares is kept alive, there will always be hope for our island.”

At Lares they heard speeches and sang patriotic songs; someone gave Manuel a Puerto Rican flag—a lone star on a blue field with red stripes—and he waved it over his head to please Coral. When he got home, he tacked the flag to the wall behind the bed in his room, because it made him think of her.

That evening, when Quintín went to say good night to Manuel, he saw the flag on the wall. “And what is that flag doing there?” he asked, his eyebrows arched in surprise. “A prank for All Saints’ Day?” “It was a present from a friend, Father,” Manuel said nonchalantly. “After all, it’s our flag, even if one day we become a state.”

“I don’t like the kinds of friends you’ve been going out with lately, Manuel,” Quintín cautioned him. “Remember, you’re from a well-to-do family, and the island is full of people who would take advantage of us. Think it over, but by tomorrow I’d like you to take that flag down.”

The next evening, however, when Quintín looked in Manuel’s room, the flag was still there. This time Quintín was more direct in his comments, but he still managed to keep his temper in check. “Nationalism has always been a curse in our family, Manuel,” he explained patiently. “It was because your grandfather Arístides Arrigoitia was forced to take part in a Nationalist shootout that he fell ill and left. It was your Uncle Ignacio’s preference for Puerto Rican products that first made me worry about his abilities as a businessman. Independentistas are not to be trusted. That’s the reason why, when we interview someone for a job at Gourmet Imports, the first thing we do is ask his political affiliation. If he says he’s for independence, we have no work for him. I think you’d better take that flag down.”

Manuel didn’t have any preference for independence; he had no political ideals whatsoever. In spite of Coral’s insistence, he hadn’t given the matter much thought. But he was stubborn, and he didn’t like to be told what to do. The next morning, when Quintín opened the door to the room, the flag was still there, tacked firmly to the wall over Manuel’s bed. Quintín didn’t say a word. But when Manuel went to Gourmet Imports, he learned that his father had ordered his desk removed to the back of the warehouse, where the liquor plant was located. He was no longer chief accountant, he was told, but would be in charge of checking the liquor bottles for imperfections. He was to stand in front of a conveyor belt, looking into the empty bottles before they were filled with rum, to make sure there were no cockroaches in them, or that they weren’t wobbly or marred by air bubbles. Several times a day, he had to drive a pickup truck to the garbage dump and dispose of the flawed ones. Manuel wasn’t upset at all. “It’s only understandable that I should prove to you that I’m trustworthy, Father,” he said to Quintín that evening. “I don’t mind it if you want to try me out, before you put Mendizabal’s account books in my care.”

A few weeks later, Manuel and Willie invited Perla and Coral to a picnic at Lucumí Beach in the Boston Whaler Quintín had bought for them. At the last minute, Perla came down with the flu, so Coral went alone with Manuel and Willie. It was a beautiful day, and Lucumí was deserted. The three of them sat on the dunes and had salami sandwiches with white wine. Willie had a bit too much wine, lay down, and went to sleep under a palm tree. Coral and Manuel dove into the water together. They didn’t plan it; neither would have guessed what the other was going to do. But as they floated under the green shade of the mangroves they began to feel so good, so relaxed, it was as if they were in another world where neither gravity nor heat could affect them, and they slowly took off their bathing suits. There was an undertow and the cool water caressed their bodies and tickled their groins. Gently they drifted toward each other, Manuel floating on his back, with his arms and legs spread apart, and suddenly his penis rose up like a sail. Coral, for her part, was the bay where Manuel’s ship would come to berth. “Death must be like this, my darling,” Coral whispered. “You’re wrong, my love,” Manuel replied. “This is what our life will be like from now on.”