House on the Lagoon (48 page)

It was as if a dam had burst. “You’re the only one who can help me,” I said, sobbing. “I’ve got to take Willie abroad with me. The doctors have said that’s the only way he’s going to get well, but Quintín refuses to give us any money for the trip. You sold us our art collection, so you know how much it’s worth today.”

Mauricio told me not to worry, he would be only too glad to help. He promised he would be very discreet. He asked me if by any chance Quintín would be taking a trip soon. Fortunately, Quintín was planning to be away the following week. On Wednesday, he had to attend a wine convention in New York; he was interested in acquiring a new line of California wines for Gourmet Imports. He wouldn’t be back until Friday.

Mauricio set the date for the following Thursday. All I had to do was leave the door to the cellar open that evening, and around three in the morning his helpers would come into the house and quietly remove those paintings I would indicate to him in advance. They would stow them in Quintín’s forty-foot Bertram. They would borrow the yacht just for one night, Mauricio promised, and have it back the next day, moored at one of San Juan’s public wharves. Quintín would have no trouble finding it there.

The Bertram would navigate across Alamares Lagoon and Morass Lagoon, and somewhere near Lucumí Beach Mauricio’s yacht would be waiting, with Mauricio on board. He would supervise the unloading of the paintings and sail with them to Miami, where he would sell them at an excellent price. “You’ll soon have enough to take Willie around the world if you wish, my dear,” Mauricio told me reassuringly.

I went back to the house saddened but relieved, and during the next two days I made my preparations. I didn’t tell Willie anything at first; his health was so frail I didn’t want to distress him in any way. I hoped that when the moment came he would understand my reasons and would come with me.

Quintín left early Wednesday morning. On Thursday afternoon I went down to the cellar with our suitcases to make sure everything was ready for the trip. I hadn’t been there since Petra’s death and was surprised to see what a mess it had become. Petra’s wicker chair lay upside down in a corner, and the mangroves were pushing their roots through the mud-packed floor of the common room. A stench of wet earth came from the dark rooms at the back, and there were crabs everywhere. They had begun to creep up the Art Nouveau iron beams supporting Pavel’s terrace. I wondered why there were so many, but then realized what had happened. The servants who used to trap them for food were now gone, and Mefistófeles was dead; there was no one to keep them in check. The crabs had multiplied, and their claws could be heard tapping on the ground, a spiny horde slowly on the move.

The Boston Whaler was moored at one end of the pier under the beams of the terrace. I walked over to it with my bags, one of which held my clothes, the other one Willie’s, and hid them under a plastic tarpaulin at the prow of the boat. I checked the gasoline tank to see that it was full; I’d asked the new gardener to fill it up the day before, and gave him a big tip not to mention it to Quintín. I left the keys in the ignition switch of the Boston Whaler, and in Quintín’s Bertram.

Mauricio had told me I could probably get half a million dollars for three of the paintings: the blind St. Lucia, the Carlo Crivelli Madonna, and
The Fall of the Rebel Angels.
I didn’t feel the least bit guilty about taking them with me; after all, I had paid for them in part. For years, when my properties in Ponce were still bringing in a good income, I had given Quintín the proceeds, and he bought many works of art with them.

It was six when I went to Willie’s room; I wanted to bring him an early dinner. I found him sitting in bed, propped up with pillows, listening to music. I smiled and gave him a kiss on the forehead as I set the tray on his lap. “There’s something important I have to talk to you about,” I said, sitting down by his side. Willie turned down the volume of his record player—he was listening to Charlie Parker’s
Cool Blues.

“I’ve decided to go away for a while. I can’t stand not having any news from Manuel. I want to know how he is, but he won’t come near this place because of his father. Manuel is sure to get in touch with us when we’re living somewhere else. And I’d like you to leave with me, Willie.”

Willie understood. He wanted to leave also, he said. There was nothing for him on the island anymore. He couldn’t paint, he couldn’t work with his father. But at least he could take care of me. It was just like Willie to think something like that. He could hardly take care of himself, but he wanted to take care of me. I hugged him and gave him a kiss on the forehead.

“When would we go, Mother?” Willie asked.

“Tonight, darling. Mauricio Boleslaus has offered to help us; he says he can sell some of our paintings for a very good price in the United States.” And I explained that Mauricio was coming that evening to remove the paintings.

Willie looked at me in amazement. “Sell Father’s paintings? You can’t be serious. He’d be furious if you did that!”

I spoke gently to him. “Those paintings belong to me as much as to him,” I said. “He bought them in part with my money, many years ago. I have a perfect right to sell them if I want to. And we need the money to get away.”

I went out on the terrace and sat on one of the wrought-iron chairs, waiting for time to pass. I was downcast but at peace; I knew I was doing the right thing. I wasn’t angry with Quintín, only deeply disappointed.

The only thing that made me nervous about the trip was Willie. He was already so frail, I was afraid the excitement might make him worse. As the sun went down, its last rays caught the Tiffany-glass panes, turning them red and gold. I got up from my chair and walked to the curve of the terrace, where it jutted out over the water. I could see the whole house behind me. It glimmered in the half-light and I looked at it with a curious detachment. Perhaps Buenaventura had been right all along, and there was a curse on Pavel’s houses. I was glad to be going.

Later that evening, when I had turned on the lights in the hallway before going to bed, I heard a key rattling in our front door. I stood at the head of the stairs, holding my breath. All of a sudden the door opened and there was Quintín. “The wine convention was over early,” he said, removing his key. “I went to the airport to see if I could get a flight today, and there was an empty seat on American’s five o’clock flight.” He picked up his carryon and walked slowly up the stairs.

I pretended nothing was the matter. We walked together to our room at the end of the hallway and I asked him if he wanted anything from the kitchen—a glass of milk or some poundcake. But he said he’d had dinner on the plane and was tired; he just wanted to go to bed. I helped him hang his clothes in the closet and went into the bathroom. I had to pretend I was going to bed, too, so I put on a nightgown. When I came out of the bathroom, Quintín was under the covers; he had turned off the lights and was asleep.

I lay there in the dark for what seemed like an eternity, scarcely daring to breathe. Quintín’s snores soon began to reverberate over the air-conditioner’s even hum. I knew Mauricio’s people would be able to enter the house undetected, and I hoped they’d remove the paintings without a sound. I looked at my Rolex and saw it was only twelve o’clock. In a little while I would get up quietly from the bed to see if they had arrived.

I must have dozed off. The next thing I knew Willie was standing by the side of the bed, dressed. He put his finger to his lips in warning, and signaled for me to follow him. I looked at my watch and saw that it was half past three. I got up very slowly and walked barefoot after him to the door. Fortunately, the room had thick carpeting, and our footsteps went unnoticed. Once outside the door, I stopped to put on my shoes and bathrobe. “There’s a strange orange glow in the sky,” Willie whispered, and when I went to the window at the end of the hall, I saw that a brushfire had started near the walls of the house, on the side looking out toward Ponce de León Avenue.

We ran toward the back of the building, to where the dining and living rooms faced the lagoon. Quintín’s paintings had been removed—but not just the three I had indicated to Mauricio; all of them. Quintín’s sculptures and his valuable collection of Art Nouveau vases had also disappeared. Open containers littered the floor; wrapping paper and packing material were strewn all about. There was a noise in the kitchen and Willie was about to investigate when all of a sudden the fire alarm went off. Quintín came running toward us, his .42 caliber gun in hand. He was struggling to put on his pants and he was barefoot. “Fire! Call the Fire Department!” he shouted, his face white with fear.

Suddenly a long line of men came noiselessly up the stairs. There must have been at least a dozen, carrying automatic weapons. They were dressed in black pants and sweatshirts, with black hoods masking their faces. I stared in amazement. Only their eyelids moved, and I remember thinking how funny they looked, like clams caught in a sock. Quintín held the gun in his hand, but one of the men, a tall, brawny one, grabbed it from him and pushed us toward the study. Once we were inside, he locked the door.

We tried to force the door, but it was no use. We banged and screamed and nobody answered. Quintín kept asking, “Who are they? Who gave them the key to my armory?” as if we knew who the intruders were. I ran to the telephone and tried to make a call, but the line had been cut. Willie raced to the window and looked out toward the lagoon. There was no fire on that side yet, but we couldn’t jump out; it was too high. We could smell the smoke coming from the far end of the hall, seeping under the door.

I have only a blurred recollection of what happened next. It could have been five minutes, it could have been an age. We were certain we’d be burned alive, when the door of the study was flung open and the same man reappeared, the butt of his automatic rifle resting on his hip. Two other men came in behind him, and pointed their guns at us. “You and you,” the man said stiffly, signaling to Willie and me. “Come this way. You can escape through the cellar.” I started to walk toward him but Willie ran in the opposite direction, to the hall that led to the bedrooms. He came back a few seconds later, a square cardboard box under his arm. “It’s Elegguá’s sacred toys,” he said, holding on to it as he went toward the stairs. But Quintín got in front of him. “Why are you in such a hurry to take Elegguá’s toys with you?” he asked. “They’ve taken everything else; you might as well let them have Elegguá’s toys also. They should make good kindling!” And he grabbed the box with both hands. But Willie wouldn’t let go. Suddenly he erupted at Quintín, and pushed him hard against the chest. Quintín slapped him in the face with the back of his hand, and Willie’s glasses fell to his feet and shattered. Father and son rolled on the floor, and just then the pages of my novel spilled out from the box.

The tall man fired his rifle and Quintín came to his senses. He let go of Willie and got up from the floor. But Willie lay there motionless. The tall man knelt beside me. “He’ll come around,” he said in an even voice. “Here, let me help you.” And he picked Willie up and told one of his men to gather up the papers. The man put the manuscript back in the box and handed it to me. Then they ushered us rapidly toward the door.

We ran down the stairs. The tall man carried Willie, unconscious. But Quintín wasn’t with us. “Where’s Quintín?” I asked, stopping. “He’s not going with you. He’s staying behind,” the man said. I felt a void in my stomach. The tall man stopped in front of me. We were alone on the stairs, the smoke rising around us. “Then I’m not going, either,” I said. And I sat down defiantly on the landing. “Either you let the three of us go or we all die.”

The other men were in the pantry, stuffing silverware into plastic bags as fast as they could, just two steps ahead of the fire. I began to shake so hard I couldn’t stop. I had seen the heavy gold ring on his finger. It was Manuel.

“He’s your father,” I said. “You’ll live with the guilt for the rest of your life.” He turned around and faced me silently, still holding Willie. But seconds later, when one of his men came in, he ordered him to release Quintín.

The men pushed Quintín brutally down the stairs. Then we headed for the cellar. Quintín hardly looked at Manuel, as if he hadn’t recognized him. When we got to the pier we bent down to avoid the terrace’s iron beams, and got on the boat. I went first, and Quintín came after me. Manuel handed Willie to him, and we laid him down on the deck, up by the bow. I pulled the blue tarpaulin from under the prow, where the suitcases were hidden, and put it under Willie’s head as a cushion. Then I put the box with the manuscript next to him and stood at the controls, Quintín sitting in front of me. A second later I turned the key in the ignition, and we moved slowly out from under the terrace.

We couldn’t have been more than fifteen yards from shore, headed toward Alamares Lagoon, when Quintín noticed our two suitcases under the prow’s wooden seat. “So you didn’t know where your manuscript was?” he asked softly, contempt in his voice. I looked up from the controls to face him in the light emanating from the house. “And you didn’t know who those people were. Where were you going with these? Could it be you were running away, once the AK 47 had finished their job?”

“It’s true. I’m leaving you, Quintín,” I said. “But I wasn’t in league with anyone. I didn’t know Willie had the novel. And I have no idea who those people are.”

Quintín was on his feet. “You’re lying,” he said softly. “You’re part of the conspiracy. Don’t tell me you didn’t recognize Manuel!”

I didn’t have time to react before Quintín began slapping me back and forth, striking me on the head. I crouched helpless at the bottom of the boat, trying to protect myself with my bare arms. Then I saw my life unreel before me like a film: Quintín rising from our rattan sofa at Aurora Street, taking off his belt and whipping the sixteen-year-old boy for singing me a love song; Ignacio shooting himself and Petra standing all alone by his grave; Margarita coming out of the operating room, pale as an alabaster statue; Carmelina and Quintín making love among the mangroves; Quintín unleashing his dogs so they would attack his own sons and making me sign a will to disinherit them; Perla in her coffin, her dark hair flowing around her like a shroud. And I told myself nothing, nothing in the world could justify such violence.