House on the Lagoon (6 page)

This type of existence unfortunately was not conducive to the disciplines of learning, so their compositions—the light dramas, boudoir vignettes, and playful piano pieces they put together—were never very good. Some believed that to write a poem or a musical composition one had to slave for hours learning difficult techniques, but Rebecca’s friends didn’t agree. Like Rebecca herself, who thought one could learn to dance simply by “imitating nature,” they subscribed to the Muses’ inspiration. They loved to go to the beach, buy expensive jewelry and clothes, and were fervent admirers of Rubén Darío, the modernist poet then in vogue in Puerto Rico.

While in Argentina and Peru the rising stars were avant-garde writers such as Vicente Huidobro and César Vallejo, in the backwater of Alamares Lagoon the modernist poets Darío and Herrera y Reissig, who sang the beauties of the bejeweled Art Nouveau world, were still the darlings of the moment. In Europe as well as in Latin America, rhyme and meter were passé and poetry now strove to express the conflicts of modern civilization—the loneliness of the city, the protests of the exploited masses, the loss of religious belief. The world was bursting at the seams, but in Rebecca’s literary salon poets still sang of gardens full of roses, ponds skimmed by snow-white swans, and foam-crested waves spilling over the beach like lace-hemmed gowns.

Rebecca thought maybe Pavel could change all this. He was a cultivated man. In Chicago he had led an intense life, having made contact with the cultural elite there. He was well versed in the latest artistic movements from Europe: Expressionism, Constructivism, Cubism. He understood her when she talked about modern art.

Rebecca had been feeling more and more estranged from her husband. Buenaventura had begun to pay less attention to her, so preoccupied was he with business matters. After the First World War the price of sugar had soared, and the well-to-do were living in style. They often gave parties at home and wine and champagne flowed like water. Buenaventura was very busy at the warehouse, since he was in charge of sales.

As she walked with Pavel by the water’s edge, Rebecca told him about her life. There were no ballet schools in San Juan, so when she returned to the island with her grandparents, she decided she would learn to dance on her own. “Isadora Duncan never had professional training, either,” Rebecca said to Pavel. “She became a dancer by identifying with nature. That’s why I like to spend as much time as I can in the garden. I’d like to reach, through nature, the divine expression of the human spirit.

“When I came back from my trip to Europe, I began to dress in flowing robes and I read everything I could get my hands on about her. My parents were worried, and started to invite young people to the house often. They took me to picnics, concerts, as many social events as they could think of. Finally they contacted the committee of the Spanish Casino and offered to foot the carnival’s bill that year if I was elected queen. They hoped the social activities would take my mind off my supposedly bizarre interests. The ladies’ committee complied and suggested a newly arrived stranger—a Spaniard from Extremadura—as my escort. I was so taken with Buenaventura’s good looks I fell head over heels in love with him. We got married a month later, when I had just turned sixteen. Then I discovered that he didn’t like poetry and hated ballet.”

Milan was sympathetic. “Now that you’ve met me, everything will be different!” he said. “I’ll teach you all about modern art.” Rebecca was overjoyed. She was sure that, with Pavel near, her talents would be rekindled. Pavel talked to her about the need for the artist to make a total commitment. Rebecca shouldn’t go on spending time with dilettantes; if she wanted to become a true poet and dancer, she had to do serious work. As she listened to him, Rebecca felt transformed.

She’s like me, Pavel thought. An inveterate dreamer, as well as the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. I want to build a special house for her that will enable her to go on living for beautiful things in spite of being married to a boor. He hadn’t told her he had turned down Buenaventura’s commission. He pretended to have accepted, as Rebecca described what she wanted.

“You mustn’t just draw the plans for a beautiful house,” she said as they walked by the beach. “You must build me a masterpiece where everything will be carefully planned to preserve the illusion of art. I want Tiffany-glass windows, alabaster skylights, and floors made of
capá
wood from the cool forests of the island.” She laughed when she finished her fanciful description, but their conversation had brought a flush of pleasure to her cheeks.

Pavel looked around the property, which ended at the lagoon’s shore. To the left there was a large thicket of mangroves. Near Buenaventura’s bungalow, there was an old wall with a weather-beaten sign which read
Cristal de Alamares.
“That’s Buenaventura’s spring,” Rebecca said. “He used to sell water to the Spanish merchant ships just after we were married.”

“I’d like to see the spring,” Pavel said, his curiosity piqued. They walked toward the enclosure. Rebecca searched for the key, which was hidden under a stone, and opened the padlock. They entered, taking care not to dirty their shoes in the mud. Inside, there was a well about four feet deep, full of water. A pipe drained the well in the direction of the lagoon. Pavel drew near and bent down to scoop some water into his cupped hand. “It’s delicious,” he said, taking a long drink. “Cool and sweet. Taste it.” And he offered Rebecca some. But when he felt Rebecca’s breath on the palm of his hand, he couldn’t resist the temptation and kissed her on the lips. Rebecca didn’t say anything. She just looked at him. “You should build your house right here,” Pavel told her. “That way the Muses will always inspire you.”

When he returned home that night, Pavel took out his copy of the Wasmuth Portfolio and picked out one of Wright’s masterpieces as his model. He wanted to build Rebecca the most beautiful house in the world. As he worked on the plans he grew inspired and added many new elements which would make the house more in keeping with life in the tropics. At the front entrance, the one which opened onto Ponce de León Avenue, there was to be a magnificent mosaic rainbow. Through this rainbow Rebecca would dance out into the world, swathed in her silk chiffons and reciting her love poems.

The bedrooms would be in the front wing, facing the boulevard, and an elegant open pavilion would connect that wing to the dining and living rooms, which would face the lagoon. As the terrain sloped gradually toward the back of the house, one could drive under the open pavilion, which would serve as a carport and at the same time add a colorful accent because of its mosaic decorations. Under the house would be a large cellar. The kitchens would be there, as well as a large number of storage rooms, and a special chamber for the spring. The ceilings were to be twice as high as those of Wright’s houses, and the edge of the gabled roofs would be decorated with a glittering mosaic of olive boughs—the token gesture Pavel made toward Buenaventura, since olives were one of Mendizabal’s best-selling products. The house would be surrounded by a garden, and the glassware used at table would repeat the motifs of the flora: the water goblets would be lotus-shaped, the wine goblets would resemble hyacinths, and the champagne flutes water lilies.

Pavel designed a beautiful golden terrace at the back of the house, floating over the lagoon. He would be more than glad to meet with Rebecca’s artist friends there, he said, and together they would stimulate the lazy artistic climate of the island. The next day Pavel accepted Buenaventura’s commission. It was the first time in his life he designed something truly original. He created the house on the lagoon as one would create a poem or a statue, breathing life into its every stone.

B
UENAVENTURA AND REBECCA MOVED
into their new house in 1926, and a few months later he was named Spanish consul for the island. This strengthened his economic situation even more. Now he didn’t have to sneak his merchandise into the city in covered barges that crossed the swamp, but could bring it directly into port, still without having to pay taxes on it. He sold his black Packard, bought a silver Rolls-Royce, and put a Spanish flag on its radio antenna. “Spain’s flag is the same color as the bullring’s,” he would say proudly to the diplomats he ushered around the city. “Gold for its sand and red for the blood that brave men spill on it.”

As Buenaventura’s wife, Rebecca was required to be at his side at all formal receptions for Spanish dignitaries and for goodwill ambassadors from other European countries. When Puerto Rico became a territory of the United States, diplomatic relations virtually ceased between the island and the rest of the world. Every business or legal transaction had to be processed through the Department of the Interior in Washington, D.C., and this office was so flooded with work that dealing with Puerto Rican affairs was like looking for a needle in a haystack.

Buenaventura acquired an unexpected political prominence as one of the few businessmen who could still import merchandise directly from Europe. His house became a meeting place for envoys from all over the Continent. Dinners were always seven-course affairs, and the elaborate social receptions required constant supervision. Buenaventura expected Rebecca to make everything run smoothly.

Rebecca herself told me about this time in her life during the months when Quintín and I were engaged and she was still my friend. Once our family difficulties began, though, this kind of confidence ceased. But in the summer of our courtship I used to travel from Ponce to San Juan often, and as I waited at the house for Quintín to come home from work, Rebecca would talk to me about herself.

Rebecca, as I’ve said, began to be unhappy in her new house. Once he was made Spanish consul, Buenaventura refused to let her meet with her artist friends, because it wasn’t seemly for a diplomat’s wife to patronize such bohemian goings-on. As a result, a year after they moved to the house the poetry readings, concerts, and dance recitals ended and the sparkling mosaic terrace went unused. Rebecca had wanted a Temple of Art, and instead they lived in a Temple of Commerce and Diplomacy where her husband reigned supreme. She maintained that a man’s kingdom is his business and a woman’s is the home, but Buenaventura wouldn’t take her seriously. “A man’s home is like a rooster’s coop: women may speak out when chickens get to pee,” he said to Rebecca, giving her a pat on the behind. Rebecca anguished about it for several weeks and then accepted giving up her artistic soireés for the time being, because she didn’t want to damage Buenaventura’s career as a diplomat.

In Extremadura, Buenaventura’s family wasn’t rich but they lived in a nice house and kept a moderate number of servants, in accordance with their modest prominence. After a number of years in Puerto Rico, however, he observed that the local bourgeoisie were very tight-fisted. They never spent a penny more than they needed to on their homes, and their servants lived in miserable conditions in underground cellars.

When they moved into Pavel’s house, it was as if Buenaventura enjoyed behaving in open contradiction to his opulent surroundings. He forced Rebecca to walk around the house with a sheaf of keys hanging from her waist with which she would lock up the wines, the coffee, the oil, and the sugar in the pantry. Mendizabal’s smoked hams were considered a great delicacy, and in their new home Buenaventura hung them from bronze hooks in the pantry’s cupboard. The hams were aged—sometimes five or six years old—and had a round tin cup at the bottom, into which the slow tears of lard dripped day and night. After a while, Buenaventura began to be afraid that someone would steal them, and he had Rebecca store them in her closet, next to her fashionable Paris outfits and lace lingerie. So, when Rebecca was invited to dinner at their friends’ homes, there was always an odor of smoked ham about her that left no doubt as to the prosaic origin of the Mendizabal family fortune.

Occasionally, Rebecca would defy her husband’s decrees, smiling sweetly under her Mary Pickford curls. Buenaventura had ordered that no broken porcelain plate or drinking glass should ever be thrown out before he inspected it, so he could keep track of how much waste there was at the house. Rebecca and the servants were so terrified of his outbursts that they would secretly glue the pieces together and put them back in the dining-room cabinet. On one occasion, when Buenaventura needed a loan for his cod-importing business, he invited the president of the Royal Bank of Canada to dinner at the house, and Rebecca poured him his coffee in one of the porcelain cups with a reconstructed handle. Unfortunately, the heat melted the glue and the cup fell into the man’s lap, staining his white linen pants and scalding his groin. When Rebecca saw his grimace of pain, she smiled charmingly and said without losing her composure: “Please excuse my clumsiness, sir. My husband abhors waste and never throws anything away, even broken cups. That’s why he fully deserves to be trusted by the Royal Bank.”

Buenaventura and Rebecca traveled to Spain for the first time in 1927. They drove south from Madrid to Valdeverdeja, but he wouldn’t stay with his aunts Angelita and Conchita at their quaint whitewashed home, with its geranium pots on the windowsills and its inner courtyard with the ancient well still in use. He insisted they set out immediately for the austere plains of Extremadura, where the Conquistadors were born. So they crossed the valley of the Tajo River in their rented Bentley without stopping until they reached the Monastery of the Virgin of Guadalupe, high up in the Sierra. He stayed there with Rebecca for a week, and visited the place every three or four years throughout most of his life.

Buenaventura had had the monastery restored as soon as he could afford it. It was from Guadalupe that several of the Conquistadors had set out for the New World, after being blessed by the prior at the chapel. Trujillo, the town of Buenaventura’s ancestor Francisco Pizarro, was nearby, and Pizarro had also been blessed at the monastery before he set sail for Peru.

When Buenaventura stayed at the abbey, he liked to sleep in the same spartan cell that King Charles V of Spain had used on his religious retreats; he strolled in the Mudéjar cloister, bathed in the freezing waters of the monastery’s pond, and shat comfortably in the white-porcelain toilet he had ordered built. It was the only building with modern plumbing in the province, and the monks had had the toilet raised on a velvet dais and draped with red damask curtains to keep the icy mountain drafts which seeped through the louvered windows from chilling their benefactor’s bottom.