THE JOURNALIST OF THE MAGDALENA
A Story of Old Colombia in the Early 1900s
Alfred Joseph Osorio
An Adult Historical Fiction
An e-Book Edition
Smashwords Edition for Llanos Publishing
Copyright © 2001 by Alfred Joseph Osorio
July 31, 2010
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Journalist of the Magdalena: a novel by Alfred Joseph Osorio
ISBN 978-1-4524-1621-2
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
1. Colombia, South America. 2. Hispanic-fiction.
3. Early 1900s-fiction. 4. War of the Thousand Days-fiction. 5. Panama-fiction. 6. Family saga.
Image and source reduced
This book is also available at www.Llanos-Publishing.com
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to www.Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
In the Journalist…, a young Ricardo Gómez lives during the turn into the Twentieth Century where the social floorboards of Colombia are challenged by the rise of women’s rights, and the intrusion of outside ideas has clashed with old traditions. The Church’s role, as dominate political force in the Republic, is questioned, and many describe this time as one where an upper-class oligarchy struggled with equalitarianism. Old institutions trap Gómez, while two political parties—Liberals and Conservatives—go to war.
The War of the Thousand Days (1899-1902) provided the canvas upon which much of the early story was written. This obscure rebellion influenced Gómez. On a greater scale, the conflict was a tragedy for Colombia, and affected Latin American sentiments toward the United States for the next 100 years. The war provided the prelude for acquiring the land for the Panama Canal, and while historians regard the Canal as of great economic value, many consider the process as too aggressively accomplished. Theodore Roosevelt’s gunboat diplomacy transformed the Distrito de Panamá into a ‘puppet’ republic, and the acquisition regarded as a self-serving hostile one. Gómez is caught up with these events. They would be the physical barriers that keep him from his love interest—Mercedes. However, even without war or international conflict, were they meant to be? She is controversial in a society where women are ignored, considered as bearers of children, and machismo is a dominate trait. Her unconventional style, being an avid reader of foreign books, and spending time in Europe, labels her a liberal, heretic, and harlot, unworthy of acceptance in the Gómez family.
In this fiction, several historic figures have been included. There is no connection made between characters and today’s people, except for the occasional cameo appearance of Juan Osorio, the author’s grandfather. Many of the events of the plot were based upon actual occurrences of the 1899-1903 periods. Timelines have been moved about in order to allow the story to remain literary. Any points of view, in narration, dialogue, or description, are solely from the imagination of the author. They do not reflect the official ones of the government of Colombia at the time or the present, nor those of the Washington D.C. administration of the early 1900s. Accounts of events and the feelings reflect a measure of historical accuracy. Although the story has been derived from research material, and some of the writing of the Osorio, the Journalist of the Magdalena is not to be judged a scholarly work or historical account of the era. It is a work of fiction.
Readers will note numbers in brackets (e.g. [4]. These are footnotes, and may be useful to explain an historical event or cultural term. Those who wish to learn more, may write the author for a full list of all of the footnotes of this work.
Graphic/explicit scenes of Adult intimacy—not suitable for young readers.
Book One
1899-1900
Part ONE
1899
Chapter 1
Doña Mercedes Mancini
The sunset, no more than jagged crimson lines, glowed prettily, after the solar disc slipped behind the Andean peaks. Like giant fingers, each point clawed an increasingly darkening sky. Below the mountains, evergreen forests of a temperate climate joined shadows of the eastern edges of the sabana de Bogotá. There a city of terra cotta roofs already began to illuminate under a waxing moon. On a meandering road near the Church of Mont Serrate rode three horsemen. Don Ricardo Gómez led their way. The sound of shod hooves against loose gravel prevented his hearing the distant din of celebration until he halted his mount. He then looked across the savanna. Cattle gathered near a creek that lost itself in a spray of splashing water. “¡Mira allá!” He pointed to the heavens over a eucalyptus grove.
A flash of colors arched across the sky—then another—overwhelming winking stars. Explosions followed; deep sounding ones that shook the earth, and then more sparks of brilliant red and yellow dripped over the city. When a flash of blue mingled with these, the Tricolors formed, and they reminded those present that this was Colombia. On this evening of August 6, 1899, Bogotá had turned out for la fiesta de la celebración de la Batalla de Boyacá [1]. The national holiday had always bordered on despelote—chaos.
The three young men kicked their horses to a canter, and they headed toward the celebration. Once in the old section of the city, they stopped in search of hitching posts. Ricardo lashed the leather reins of his horse through an ancient bronze hoop the size of a man’s fist. His face grim, unmoved by what he saw. Festive people swarmed all over ancient pavement as if they were ants on a bowl of uncovered sugar.
“Be like them.” His paisano Juan, pointed. “Forget Linda.”
Ricardo pretended he could not recall a former sweetheart. “Who?” In truth, padre Martínez, at confession, made him recite prayers of penance because of the carnal thoughts he possessed for a young woman who had permitted him to have his way with her as if she were a wife.
He had written in his journal,
…I long for Linda… Class differences or word of God prevents my seeing her. If she were of my class, might what we did been overlooked or would the stuffy gentry have said, ‘unmarried ladies of lower-class never bed with gentlemen?’ I view a world where lovers would be blind to social rank; though I’m certain the Church would limit my bold behavior with loose women of any station until marriage…
At seventeen, Ricardo was a young man who had not come to terms with a pious Church, and his social rank added another burden.
“Don Ricardo and I emphasize don.” Juan interrupted the thoughts of his friend. “Do not forget who you are. You are gentry. She—Linda—well, what can I say? A don’s responsibility is to avoid public scandal, and prevent bastard children from bearing your name. Discard her before her belly swells. Your Mamá will cause misfortune to her family and evict them from your property.”
“Evict?” Ricardo asked, “I miss her soft body.” He recalled moments of rapture when she yielded to his desires in haylofts, open fields and along swift moving streams. “She made me feel like a lord. I could keep her on the edge of the property…send her corn and chicken…and—”
Juan laughed. “Lord or a court jester? Are you crazy? Forget her.”
“How?” He resisted the loss of a wench who allowed him to rush semen into her folds. He dismissed the consequences of a bastard child resulting from too many times at her parted legs.
“Tonight, thanks to Bolívar, you can take your mind off her. Think of her as just a pretty face passing through your life. This fiesta has many faces. I bet a silver peso you will soon replace the servant with the daughter of a don.”
The trio roamed the cobblestone streets in search of fun and las chicas. The huskiest youth Jesús, chomped at a wooden stick, heavy with roasted pork; and when he tossed a lusty kiss at a woman, meat dripped his chin.
Hundreds more tan-skinned people arrived, and joined at the epicenter of the carnival. Most of them never realized la batalla for whom they celebrated benefited los crillos—the Creoles—the dons who now ruled the thirty-three departamentos de República. Colombia had become a place ruled by Church and the oligarchy of politicians of the Conservative Party, who seemed to slumber in public office. Independence from Spain had given only freedoms to the landowners. Ricardo was of this fortunate class. Still, with enough cerveza and música, everyone partied together, and tonight they all seemed social equals, except for the women. No respectable doña flirted with a male of lower class, even at a feaster. Young women of class obeyed the rules of gentry; smiled with discrimination; and always were accompanied by a vigilant dueña.
Ricardo received the glance of a well-dressed chica, but she quickly hid her smile behind the fan she held. He ignored her. He preferred those more bold. “Over there!” He led the trio into a square where several respectable young women strolled about with their chaperons—the Sisters of Santa Clara—who claimed the minds and virginity of these maidens of upper-class families.
A military band came, and its noise drew the attention of las chicas. Behind it, soldiers in ceremonial blue and white uniforms kept step with a march. Above them, there was the repeating set of colored ribbon wrapped around balcony railings. Vivid yellows and reds, trimmed with a dash of the blue gave a patriotic feeling. In a doorway of a white house, a couple, oblivious to the world about them, embraced. Their affection escaped from the privacy of the dwelling’s entrance, encouraging others to kiss openly in the middle of the street. The girls giggled and pointed at them until the walls flashed with lights. Mischievous boys had tossed fireworks that spat white sparks. The young women screamed as red and white flashes dabbled on their round faces. The band never missed a beat. The damsels poked their faces through the crowd in an effort to get the best view of the military dressed men who passed in front of their soulful eyes. One set of eyes was different, and she answered to the name, Mercedes. Her dueña held a stick half her height. Ricardo slipped across the pavement, and his ears snatched schoolgirl slang that described a young man. His compatriots moved, with machismo, amongst the crowd. He turned to Juan Osorio. “¡Mira las chicas— allá!” She took notice of Ricardo.
He could hear her speak, and when she spoke, her voice seemed like an invited guest who had come from far off. She dressed foreign—different; and when she smiled at him, her friends frowned. “Why not?” He heard her ask. “Why shouldn’t I smile? This is a festive time. I did so in Rome.” Her eyes sparked with girlish excitement.
Rome? He had never seen irises the color of sapphires.
“Doña Mercedes, this is not Rome. Elena will be angry.” Valeria pointer to la dueña with her fan. The old woman had found a chair upon which to rest.
“Elena needs her rest.” Mercedes touched her mouth, and again gazed at Ricardo.
“Again!” Lorena asked. “He’s not even especially guapo?”
“Cute? He wears boots. He is a commoner.” Valeria added, touching her hair. “Your Mamá will punish you if she knew you flirted with that sort.”
“I know he is a don.” Mercedes did not blink. “Girls, why not buy an apple?” She pointed at a vendor. “Let me be.”
Below the street lanterns, the torched lights fell upon hundreds of vendors with multi-colored painted carts. They lined both sides of the sidewalk. “Tamales, dulce, tortitas, frutas, vino,” shouted the peddlers who tended their wagons where wine, food, fruit, fried meats, and pastries.
“Maybe some fireworks…” she whispered. “Go blow yourselves up.”
Ricardo returned another smile to her. “You’re funny.”
Jesús Fuentes was the most aggressive of the trio. “Shall we pursue them?” He spoke as if the meeting the women was a military engagement.
“We? I’ll wait here.” Ricardo moved to get a closer look. Her mane brushed smooth and pulled back on her neck by a large velvet bow of forest green. “Where did you get the bow?”
“The cemetery.” She did not smile.
“Do you shop there often?” He admired her lacy eggshell colored blouse that met a long swinging green skirt, which reached her dusty alpargatas—sandals. “Your dress…it’s European?”
“Very.” It made her seem sensual when she moved her hips. She stood on her tiptoes, straining to get a better view of the passing soldiers. About her waist, a white sash, with a bow on her left hip accented her frame. Her sleeves left her arms exposed, revealing a small silver serpent on her left wrist.
Ricardo later wrote of his first impression of her,
6 de agosto 1899
…By Cupid’s design, & at the steps of Our Lady of the Rose, our eyes met…. she had just smiled at the fireworks & when she turned…..Her face had captured the amber light of street lantern & then me. She raised her left hand, moving the two fingers that held silver rings & smiled a gentle sign of recognition…I knew at this moment that I wanted her in my heart, forever—para siempre….
The image of her pleasing form passed the veil of his black eyelashes, and then image entered into the pools of his brown irises. He saw long thick hair the color of a starless night. A curl fell over the forehead of her oval face. She tossed back her head with laughter, and when her left hand touched her ear, she looked his way. The vibrancy of youth filled her, as her eyes darted at the multicolored bursts of fireworks above her. He wanted her. Was she a replacement for Linda or something more? For the moment, feelings dominated mind and social expectations.
Another rocket soared to the heavens, splashing color and sparks over the parade. The pyrotechnic shower caused her glance to wander across the street and then back to him. She walked to her friends.
Juan returned. He saw the gaze shared between the two. He pulled him to the side. “I see a look of trouble.” Juan grinned. “What about Linda?”
“Linda who?” Ricardo did not blink an eye.
“You must be sure of her class or else su Mamá will become like a dragon lizard,” Juan said. “And if she has station, you better not play with her without your Mamá’s approval. Your Mamá discriminates unlike no one I know.”
“¿Qué dragóna?” Jesús had no idea what Juan meant until the words doña Patricia were said; and then his face seemed filled with fear.
“I’m certain Mamá will approve of her,” Ricardo said.
“Buena suerte.” Juan shook his head. “She seems a little broad at the hips. I’d wager a hundred pesos she’s still a virgin. I must go.” Jesús, with undaunted confidence, soon found himself in the midst of the women who accompanied Mercedes. His words of introduction filled with machismo. He became cloaked with an air of the strong male Latino presence of diminished brain and upswing brawn. Each of his sentences began with an ‘I,’ and then after he spoke they became punctuated by the giggles of the silly girls who seemed charmed by him. He gestured to Juan and Ricardo to come.
Soon, they ran between the parade’s marchers. Lorena almost collided with a musician playing a brass horn. Ricardo pulled at hand of the dark-haired girl who had become his newest interest.
“Wait…our chaperon.” Mercedes turned to study Ricardo’s face more closely.
Valeria awakened Elena. She jolted, rose, and then moved at a good clip. She was spry for her seventy years.
Lorena tittered. When Ricardo held Mercedes’ hand, Lorena rolled her eyes, and made the Sign of the Cross. She jabbed the ribs of the round-faced Valeria, and then they walked to a vendor selling sweet sugar cane. Elena caught up with them, and discouraged their handholding with her cane. A game of eluding la dueña began.
“Shouldn’t I know the name of the man who might one day hold my destiny?” Mercedes took a deep breath, increasing the size of her breasts. “We seemed to have become attached.” She tugged at his hand.
“¿Mi nombre de pila es Ricardo, y tú?” Ricardo touched his hat.
“Don Ricardo, my name is doña Mercedes.” She hinted a smile.
He offered her some banana chips from a purchased brown bag. She peeked in the greasy bag with eyes that puzzled him. She wrinkled her nose as if she doubted their goodness, politely took one out, and placed a chip past her red lips.
“Gracias.”
Ricardo gathered enough courage to formulate a question, “Do you attend many fiestas?”
“It’s my first one tonight.” Her smile increased in intensity.
“Funny. Do you live far from here?”
“Not very. Perhaps three kilometers,” she shouted to overcome the street noise.
“¿Tu apellido?” Ricardo cupped his left ear.
“My last name is Mancini!”
“Mine is Gómez. I live outside of the city.”
“A farmer. Do you pick corn?”
“Why? Are you hungry?”
“No. I was teasing. I just wondered what you do. Your hands seem like a don, capable of holding a sword, or a pen. Are they the hands of a writer?”
“One day I’ll carry a sword, lead men into battle, and then when I am old, a pen…but for not all I can think of is my holding not a sword, not a pen, but only your hand.”
“Such imagination. Do I sense the presence of a poet or a play writer?”
“I’ve considered journalism.”
“A man who writes what he believes is truth; so as to influence readers enough so they spend their centavos to buy newspapers which slant the truth of events. Isn’t that what publishers in the end do…slant the truth?”
“I would never allow others change my words.” His face held disapproval.
“I admire conviction. I hope I did not offend you?” she replied.
“No. You spoke your mind.”
“You will be a fine journalist.”
“How do you know?” Ricardo’s eyes narrowed, his black eyebrows lost their curve.
“You will just have to accept my word as a doña?”
“May I?”
“If you insist...” Her hand now was in the fold of his arm, “…on loan—while we walk these unruly, yet happy streets. You’ve my permission to be my gentleman protector. Aye, and if Elena appears, heavens, I must not or I shall spend a week saying prayers of forgiveness.”
“Forgiveness from what?”
“Lustful desires.”
“Then I will ask Elena’s permission and announce I mean no harm but my offer of your protection.”
“Ha! Don’t waste your time. Such permission comes only from Mamá.”
“Perhaps I may one day meet you Mamá.”
“Perhaps.”
At a distant beverage cart, her friends giggled.
“How far do you live from here, don Ricardo?”
“Perhaps twelve kilometers,” he replied. “I live at Arrebol, our ranch.”
“Your family owns Morning Glow?” she asked. “That is far.”
“Not too far to travel to see your pretty face again,” he said with a smile.
Mercedes turned around and looked toward the parade. She chewed another banana chip. She rolled her eyes, glanced up at him, and then whispered, “You’re cute.”
“¿Qué?”
“Nothing,” she said louder. Her eyes expressed more than her words.
Her remark, if he had heard correctly, surprised him. He thought she was a little forward for a doña of Bogotá. He gathered his machismo, “I know.”
“Oh. I prefer men not so tall,” she added.
They strolled further, now disengaged. Elena had arrived with cane in hand and cautionary words.
“I hear music,” Ricardo said. “Up this street!”
Guitars throbbed to an accompaniment of clattering carriage wheels passing over cobblestones.
“Shall we dance?” Jesús tapped his feet as if they needed preparation to follow the rhythm of the sound coming from a café, where the aroma of coffee mingled with the heavy scent of powdered ladies gossiping with their escorts.
“Sí!” Lorena and Valeria chorused. “Do you dance?” Valeria motioned as if she had caught the rhythm of music. Her white skirt draped loose about her hips. Her ample bosom challenged the limit of a natural linen blouse.”
“I dance,” Jesús said, with authority more laced with Latino confidence than reality, for he had not been there. “A Colombian fiesta without my dancing is impossible.”
They advanced to the source of the music, each holding the hand of the other to form a human chain of seven. The closer they came to the sounds, the louder the music. When they arrived, their energy seemed to increase at the prospect of dancing.
Elena appeared out of nowhere.
“You do dance?” Mercedes tried to suppress her giggle. “I mean you, don Ricardo?”
“Are we not Colombians?” he replied. “I like the dance of your eyes.”
“Yours…así así.” She turned her hand, first palm up, and then down.
“So, so?”
She looked into his. Their eyes locked. “I wish mine were like the others. Their color makes me different.”
Ricardo would write that evening in his journal,
…I have never seen such wondrous eyes—they were alive with music… I wanted to gaze into them forever, but she interrupted my dream when she spoke…
“Are you alright?” Mercedes asked, “You look strange. I think you ate too many chips. They are greasy, you know.”
He remained silent in her cerulean gaze.
…Inside I melted like candle in a hot afternoon sun. I felt silly inside. I wanted to swim in the deep blue color of her eyes, he thought.
“Oh, it’s just that you said my eyes were only okay—so, so.”
“Well, better than okay.” The tip of her tongue touched the edges of her upper lip. “I said you were cute. Are you deaf? Does a doña need repeat? If I must, I will become embarrassed.”
“You’ll only dance with me?”
“Elena will watch while we dance…three dances.”
“Only three? Where is la dueña?”
“I think Elena is sleeping at la fontana. She pointed, “The walk must have been too much for her. She’s seventy. I must not stay too long and I’ll need a coach for us to return home…or else, if Elena angers, needs to walk back, she’ll tell Mamá. You’ll never see me again. After all, I follow the strictest rules of gentry.” Her eyes met his again. This time she teased her smile from behind a fan that brushed her cheeks twice. “Only three dances and you must fetch our coach…agreed?”
“I will certainly call a coach and pay the fee. You, of course, always do what is proper.”
“What a question to ask! Do I seem like another kind of a person to do the improper?”
“No.” He touched his side.
“If you’re considerate of my demand that you follow proper behavior I shall have a pleasant time.”
“And if I don’t?” His arms folded.
“Then, you don’t ever want to see me again.” She looked at him sideways. Her smile turned cold and her fan dropped, closed. The fan stopped short of her chin. “You do, don’t you?”
“Do what?”
“Are your ears and brain filled with corn meal?”
“¿Cómo?”
“Do you want to see me again?”
“I can call upon you again?” Ricardo asked.
“Don Ricardo, must I repeat things?” Her eyes flirted in their climb over the crescent of her fan, as if they were two rising blue moons. “Of course you may, but only after you have the permission of Mamá.”
Ricardo grasped her hand. They found their way to where people danced in the Plaza de Bolívar. Torches illuminated the square. A band played native traditional tunes. Their first dance ended.
“Can we stop? I want to speak con mi amiga, Valeria,” Mercedes said, and then went off, seeking Valeria with the speed of una gata en la noche. She found her gossiping with the others, and she pulled her to a doorway.
“He’s either deaf or worse jincho—drunk. I asked him for gaseosa uva and he returned with café con leche.” Mercedes’s breasts swelled with the need for a breath of air. “I’m not sure if he is interested in me. He’s like dancing with a broom.”
“Do his eyes wander too much?” Valeria pointed to her eyes.
“No, not even when Lorena came to flirt,” Mercedes said. “She always flirts.”
“He’s afraid of you.” Valeria touched her wrist.
“Me?” Mercedes’ eyes widened innocently.
“Get him to dance to something slow, real slow, un pajarillo,” Valeria said.
“And don’t talk so much. Act like us. Smile, laugh…no words. Why are you so different?”
“Because I am.” Her thin eyebrows rose. Her eyes widened.
“Act Colombian. Let him lead. Only let him talk.”
“If I don’t talk, then there will be no talking,” Mercedes said, “What if he can’t dance un pajarillo?”
“When the music plays, he will know what to do. He holds you and you just don’t talk,” said an impatient Valeria, “Which way did Lorena go? I have to talk with her. Buena suerte.”
Mercedes returned just as the band played the regional dance, el pajarillo, originating in the eastern region, known as los Llanos—the plains.
As a dancing couple, he could feel the pleasure of her embrace with the slow sensual tempo of the tune. He moved his fingers down her spine causing her to giggle. “You’re tickling me.”
He stopped when she spoke. “Don’t speak.” Ricardo’s lips advanced through the thickness of her hair. His breath brushed her left ear. He did not want the music to stop. When the last note played, Ricardo whispered, “Now, may I see you again?”
“You must first speak with Mamá.” After a pause, she directed her gaze from her tilted head to his eyes. “I’ll arrange with Mamá for you to call upon me.”
After the third dance, they sat at a table of the cantina. Elena joined them.
“Would you like some wine?” he asked Elena.
Elena ignored him. “We must leave in two minutes.”
Mercedes smiled when he returned with gaseosa uva. While he was gone, she wrote directions to her home on a scrape of paper, and then gave her writing to him. “I will speak with Mamá, but mind you, she might just say, ‘no.’—your address, don Ricardo, I will need your address so as to send you an invitation…if she accepts.”
‘Adiós’ echoed off the walls of a building along with the chirping giggles of women too young to ever have experienced a lover. Mercedes waved from the horse carriage.
~*~
Chapter 2
I’m not an anarchist
Ricardo placed a copy of el Tiempo at his mother’s elbow. A story, entitled: Clouds of War described an event that had occurred in Congress. Bogotá’s prestigious newspaper gave an account of an attack on government property by radical insurgents.
The editorial column forecasted a war of the worst kind, a civil war,
In the distance, los nubes de guerra have swept the quiet passes of the Andes. Our nation is in danger. In the mountains shadows, El Congreso sits in innocence like the baby Jesus. Liberal Party representatives exited doors in haste, creating such a stir that the peaceful sanctity of our government has been threatened. Their leader Ruiz [1] rode off with his military guard like a wolf in the night.
‘El Gran Viejo’—General Rafael Uribe Uribe [2] has summoned Ruiz after his ‘war’ Liberal army officers made a raid on the arsenal at Ráquira. The scoundrels now have the tools to seize a government and murder the soul of Colombia. God Save our Republic from these godless men…
Doña Patricia sat reading at desayuno—breakfast. Huevos revueltos—scrambled eggs—the color of lemons adorned the surface of rose-tinted plates like precious flowers. She sipped coffee, without a smile. El Tiempo held her attention. Her facial skin became crimson. “Scoundrels! Not a man with enough backbone amongst them to stand up for law and order.” She read on. “We’re on a verge of a civil war. And over what?”
The blackness of her eyes simmered anger. She adjusted her spectacles.
“The price of coffee,” Ricardo replied. “Eat or your food will spoil.”
“How can I eat while our nation will bleed again?” Doña Patricia was a learned woman. She had been an outspoken champion of economic stability as a means to hold her beloved nation together. Her prophetic words that in the next civil war, Colombia would never recover had many times echoed the walls of Arrebol. Like most landowners, she was a staunch supporter of the conservatives. Their party had held control of the government for decades.
“The disturbances are the result of the poverty.”
“Sí, precious, but only amongst los campesinos. Look about you. Here, in Arrebol, all is fine.” She peered over the brass-encircled lenses of her spectacles. “They must work harder. We do. We are not poor.”
“We eat each day, because others starve.”
“No, it’s because the poor are lazy and sinful.”
“I can’t agree.” Ricardo knew he was a sinner. Fornication was still a sin.
“Did you meet with padre Martínez? Did you speak with your confessor about your…?”
“Sins? Sí, Mamá,” Ricardo replied. “And then, I went to the fiesta. All is fine. I’d like to talk, but you know, in the end, it’s is between me and God.”
“Who is she?” she asked. “You can’t fool your mamá. More sin? I see it.”
“No sin, Mamá. I’ve found someone pleasing—sí, bonita y una doña.”
“Precious, I wish you would let me arrange your social engagements. You will enlighten me of this wondrous child whom you rush to at this early hour?”
“I must meet her Mamá for permission for us to attend a most important social event.”
“Social event…not a Church event?”
“Doña Mercedes informed me there will be discussion about the Church.”
“Doña Mercedes Mancini…the daughter of the painter…the late liberal painter? Heavens, how did your paths cross?”
“We met at Our Lady of the Rose. I believe it’s her church.”
“Odd, I didn’t think the Mancini family belonged to any church.”
Ricardo drove a horse-drawn carriage into the city in search of the home of doña Mercedes Mancini. The surrey creaked, as its iron-rimmed wheels made a raspy sound against old cobblestones. In time, he pulled his vehicle toward the curb of her home. He held flowers and a package. On exit, a splash of water, followed by a shower of yesterday’s flowers rained on him. He looked upward. “It’s me.” He wiped his hat.
“So it is. I thought it was the chimney sweep.” Mercedes called down. She had been cutting the flowers off the red bougainvillea vine that blocked a window overlooking the center of the square. Her balcony, decorated with facial exterior of iron grates, held many plants.
“Am I early?” He held his hand at his eyes to shade them from the sun.
“Sí, and Mamá does not like that. Be careful, Mamá keeps records of my gentlemen callers. She’ll surely give you low marks if you insist on coming in now. I’ll go inside and pretend you have not arrived.”
Ricardo waited an hour; and then the front gate opened. He offered her the flowers—orchids from the Gómez family greenhouse. Her eyes widened when she smelled the lavender petals, and they grew wider when he kissed her hand. He stood as if he froze in time.
“Come in.” She giggled. “Don’t just stand there.”
“How can I end the moment that I see you as you are?”
His introduction remained cordial, devoid of humor, and caused Ricardo to deepen his shyness as he stood in front of Mercedes’ mother. Doña Victoriana Verde de Mancini sat at her desk with her business ledgers. Her eyes studied him like an invoice. Widowed, stern and cautious of every male who came to court her only daughter, she set rules on expected behavior.
“Mamá, don Ricardo is a future journalist.”
Doña Victoriana nodded. “My daughter speaks highly of you. The sisters of la Academia Santa Teresa have trained her to think...though not too much. I understand you both met, by chance, at Our Lady of the Rose.”
“Sí, doña Victoriana.”
“Mamá, flowers! Look! Have you ever seen such beauty?”
“Lovely,” doña Victoriana, replied. “Only one orchid.”
“A symbol of your daughter’s beauty and this is a book for her mind.”
“A book?” Doña Victoriana read its title. “Las mariposas de expedición de José Celestino Mutis y poemas [3].”
“It’s a book of the butterflies found in the region Mutis visited in 1783, along with poems written by local poets, and it’s from Madrid,” Ricardo added.
“Let me see,” doña Victoriana said. “Does the book have subversive writing? Passages attacking the Church?”
“No, Mamá. It’s only a book of butterflies. I shall treasure this always. There’s notes on the inside cover: Butterflies are the way to my heart—dn Ricardo. Thank you, don Ricardo.”
“Now, this afternoon…I approve of the outing. Be sure you have my daughter home early. Our Elena needs her rest,” doña Victoriana said. “Where is Elena?”
Elena dozed in the kitchen over a molecajete. Ginger-colored sauce dripped from its black basalt grinding stone edges. Each drip trickled to the table with every snore she made.
“Mamá, I know Elena will be as vigilant as ever.”
Ricardo visited the Mancini residence on Sundays. On one occasion, Mercedes played a piano. Her mother sat with a needlepoint project. When the music stopped, he gently clapped his hands. It stirred a sleeping Elena.
“Thank you, don Ricardo. Would you like to see my collection?”
“Collection?”
“Pictures…stereo photographs. I have many of faraway places.”
They gathered in the courtyard. A servant trailed with a box of photograph slides, and a stereoscope. In the shade, the device passed from one hand to another, and when Elena left for the toilet, and her mother went into the house for a shawl, Ricardo touched Mercedes on her hand. They gently kissed—their first. Their courtship had progressed, though the metrics to define its quality depended on which family spoke of the couple. Sensual interludes with her were confined to his imagination. His reserved behavior may have gone a long way in gaining the trust of a vigilant mamá. In time, he became accepted in the Mancini home. However, at Arrebol, doña Patricia disapproved, and angrily refused an invitation for a meeting after church services with the Mancini clan. The matter went without further discussion, but the romance continued.
“Mamá, I would like to attend a school play with don Ricardo.”
“This comes as a surprise. When?”
“In a week.”
“I shall think upon it.”
A week later, Elena rode in the front bench of the carriage. She prayed with a set of rosary beads. Ricardo and Mercedes sat on the rear seat. Except for the vibration of the carriage they did not move. Daylight splashed through the vehicle as it advanced toward the outdoor school theatre. The dueña began to snore. The church clock’s iron hand pointed at a six—1800 hours. At an intersection, two university students dropped political pamphlets into the window of the buggy. Mercedes read one.
“You read?” he asked.
“Of course, and I write, and I cook; and the sisters taught us about babies. Do I appear uneducated? I’ll have you know, I’ve been accepted to la Escuela Ciencas Naturales, pending…”
“Pending?”
“Pending mamá’s approval of course. I would prefer to study abroad. She wants me to attend el Colegio la Merced. I have other ideas.”
“Oh,” he replied.
“Oh, what?” She studied his facial features.
“I follow my mamá’s wishes.”
“I believe each family does things their own special way…but I like that—that is, your respect of your mamá’s wishes. However, for me, I find studying here would be stifling. On the other hand, abroad—”
“It is nice you can read.” Ricardo glanced at one. “…even if the content is political.”
“Don Ricardo, you feel that a lady such as I am, should not be occupied with political matters?”
“How important could those leaflets be? Look at the quality of the paper.”
“Don Ricardo, the quality of the paper is not what interests me. It is the quality of the ideas. You seem stuffy.”
“Political papers do not interest me. I think these are especially subversive.”
“Subversive—such a big word? I choose to read them just the same.”
“Troublemakers.” Ricardo looked at the students as they scattered their papers through the crowd. “Look at how they dress?”
“Have you ever been to any of their meetings?” she asked.
“No,” he replied. “I’ve no intentions of attending any, either.”
“They talk about new ideas,” she added.
“I prefer the old ones,” Ricardo replied.
“I’m interested in some of them.”
“Like women’s rights?”
“Any objection?” she snapped back. “I read a wide range of subjects.”
“Like novellas and poems?” he replied with a smile.
“I beg your pardon, don Ricardo. I’ve read many of the writings of Karl Marx, Voltaire, and Thomas Jefferson. I’m now reading the poet José Martí. Surely you’ve heard of them?”
“Sí, except for Martí, all great Englishmen.”
“Don Ricardo, you have read them?”
“Sí, of course,” Ricardo said smugly. “Martí was in Bogotá last summer.”
“Englishmen?” she asked. “Martí, the Cuban patriot? It must have been his ghost. He was killed three years ago in his attempt to free his country from the Spaniards.”
“Well, ah, I believe Voltaire was an Italian.”
“Really, my grandparents were born there. I was born there. I’ve relatives still there. I’m sure tío Fabrizio will be amused with Voltaire’s newfound citizenship. Uncle teaches political science in Rome.”
“He does?” Ricardo responded. “Really—claro?”
“Sí, which is why I know Voltaire, was French and you didn’t.” She smiled. “I’ve read one of his books.”
“I was only testing you,” he said. “Would you like more wine?”
“Gentlemen don’t test ladies. It’s rude.”
“I’m sorry. I confess I’ve not read his work nor ever heard of Marx.”
“He’s not English. But I forgive you, this time—don Ricardo, I insist upon honesty with my male friends.”
“You’ve male friends?”
“Do I look like spinster material to you?” she replied curtly. “What do you mean? Don Ricardo, you seem to say and, and imply much controversy when you speak. Perhaps we are too different to be friends.”
“No. I truly beg your pardon. I did not wish to offend.”
“Forgivable, if you make an effort listen to me.”
“I will listen.”
“A Colombian male who listens to women—a freak of nature!” She giggled.
“¿Comó?”
“Don Ricardo, if I hear another yo from you, I simply will take Elena home. Why do you use so many Is?” She frowned. “Always the ‘I.’”
“I don’t know,” Ricardo said.
“See? You interrupt. I’m unaccustomed to having my mind punctuated with those who are self absorbed, and have no purpose. Do you have a purpose? I wonder when you do not listen.”
“I promise I will listen to you,” he said, “so I can understand the reason for your charm.”
“There you go again. I’m not happy with the repression of women by the old ones.”
“Old ones?”
“Those of the Conservative Party. I read that the Liberal Party will further the rights of women.” Her voice carried a unique force. The color of her eyes shifted from violet to the color of a gem he once saw in the national museum, but whose name he had forgotten. Their blue changed with the pitch in her voice, and varied with her excitement to ideas he rarely, if ever, thought about, ideas that seemed alien to him.
“I can see you don’t read only novellas,” he said apologetically.
“I’ve gone beyond them.” She glanced at the pamphlet, and then paused as if she remembered what Valeria had said about her talking too much. “I do find you pleasing to talk with.”
“As I do you. You find novellas poor reading?”
“Dulces no son comidas. I choose to feed my mind, not lose it with silly imagination where mindless characters burst their hearts at the disappointment of a clever lover.”
“¿No novillas románticas?”
“I like romantic poems, especially those written to me.”
“Oh.”
“We’re almost there, and remember this date,” she whispered. “I want to go to the political meeting on this pamphlet. It’ll be near the library—the Biblioteca Nacional.”
“I like libraries. We’ve many books in my home. Mamá said thousands.”
“Have you read them? Books you don’t read are but blocks of wood for the stove.”
“I agree, books are for reading.” He nodded his head.
“Did you remember the date?”
“Date?” Ricardo asked.
“Oh dear, you forgot. May I humbly recommend Gondra’s essay El arte de escuchando. It’s about listening. Again, the date on the pamphlet.” Her eyes searched the night sky. “It’s important for me because it’s in a week.”
The next week, Ricardo’s black carriage arrived near the library. Students, mostly male, from the university, filled a large courtyard. White bougainvilleas climbed a wall making them glow in late afternoon sunset. The location remained a magnet, in the government’s view, for all sorts of political radicals, anarchists, socialists; and criminals who cloaked any ideology. They all seem to embrace the Liberal Party, who had yet to win an election by bullet or ballot. If doña Patricia known of this outing, she might have shot the carriage horse. To avoid her wrath, he had told her he would study the coffee export reports at the library. He knew she had a passion for economics, and a clever son knew his Mamá would approve his travel into the city.
Elena, awakened, Ricardo helped her exit the carriage. She almost fell, but with help, she managed to find her way to a chair behind several shouting students. Within minutes, she returned to her dreams.
“She always does this.” Mercedes turned. “I’d like something to drink.”
In the shadows of a doorway, they stopped. “May I?” He looked into her eyes, wanting to kiss her.
“Besame? Solo en tus sueños. Again, only in your dreams!”
“You’ve pretty eyes.”
“No! In public? I’m not that kind of a woman—”
A group of students passed, and interrupted her.
“When, then?” he replied.
“As I said, in your dreams. You’re acting silly. Now, fetch my drink. I’ll hold our seats.” She pointed to where Elena sat.
He returned with drinks. “What have I missed?”
“Shush—I’m sorry.” She looked at him. “I didn’t mean to quiet you, but they’re starting to speak on the economy. Pay attention. Perhaps we may learn something new about why the coffee prices have plummeted.”
The political meeting lacked form and direction. Speakers addressed the failure of the government to solve the problems of economy and social issues. Then one man rose. He stood out among all the others, and silence spread when he raised his left fist as if to touch the sky. The crowd’s attention focused on the speaker.
“They came to listen to Tulio Varón [4],” she said. “He often visits the university, coming all the way from Tolima, on the other side of the Cordilleras. Imagine a distance of many kilometers.”
“I want to hear what the fool has to say,” he whispered.
Varón towered over the rest of the speakers, not only in size, but also in charismatic style. Evidence of an ancient Tayrona warrior dwelled within him. When he spoke, his hair, the color of anthracite, scattered, unchecked, with the temperament of his subject matter—rebellion.
“As I came to your great city of the Andes, I could not help pass the great plantations to the west,” Varón said. “Your plantations—built upon the sweat and work of your families and countrymen. I saw the little red beans that reminded me of Colombian blood and I wept.”
The crowd clapped, many stood and all cheered.
“Now the beans rot in bags on the docks at Barranquilla,” he said. “And like our blood, drains into the slime of poverty because not one bean can be sold for our beloved nation.”
“Why Varón? Why? Tell us!” A student shouted.
“Because the Conservative President Manuel Antonio Sanclemente [5], is no better for Colombia than the previous cabrón, Miguel Antonio Caro [6]. We’d be better with no government,” Varón said with conviction. “They are incompetent. And because of them, you and your children will starve this year.”
The crowd applauded. Ricardo sighed.
“An anarchist, calling Caro an asshole…I knew this would be about political insults. At first, I thought he was a foolish Liberal. Now I see he is an anarchist.” Ricardo folded his arms in defiance as if clasped, one could shut out the words of Varón and a hundred years of truth. “Are you an anarchist?” he asked Mercedes. Realizing he may have hurt her feelings, he whispered, “I like you, so I will listen. You’re the most beautiful anarchist here.”
“I’m not an anarchist,” she said softly. “But he speaks the truth.”
Ricardo listened. Mercedes latched on every word as if one of the prophets spoke.
“Wasn’t that last statement true?” she asked in a low whisper.
“Sure, sure.” Ricardo did not wish to offend her further.
“Honest?” She searched his eyes, “or you just trying to be sweet so you can untie the strings of my corset?”
“No. I thought what he said was true, to a degree. There is some merit. Sí, I believe we need more coffee drinkers. We all should drink more coffee, perhaps even six or eight cups a day, before sleep if necessary. Of course, we must vote for the Conservatives again. I hear Liberals don’t drink pure coffee; some even drink tea.”
“Are you crazy or what?” Mercedes seemed angered. “This isn’t about drinking a cup of coffee.”
“Claro, no café. Well, perhaps we can go somewhere. Discuss coffee further?” Ricardo sounded apologetic.
“To a place so you can get your fingers on my corset strings? I don’t think so.” Mercedes folded her arms. “Besides there’s Elena, and we must return home.”
“I did not mean to threaten your honor,” Ricardo said. “We’ll just ride about and talk about the price of coffee.”
Varón continued while he spoke, and then the crowd grew louder.
“Sush—see, I missed what he said. Fine, a twelve minute ride, and then take me home. I must respect Mamá’s request.”
~*~
Across the patio, not far from a fountain, sat three men. The government had sent police from la Policía Nacional [7] to scrutinize the content of the speeches, and made note of those in attendance.
“Isn’t he the son of doña Patricia?” a secret service police officer asked.
“Sí, the young man is don Ricardo Gómez.” His associate entered notes onto a small pad. “The girl is doña Mercedes Mancini, the daughter of a widow; una italiana. What do you expect of aliens in our motherland?”
“Italian?” teniente Edgar Fuentes asked.
“The family came to South America from Europe in order to make money [8]. I’ve some notes on her in my office. I believe she was born in Rome,” sargento José Sábado said.
“Don Ricardo’s family is loyal Conservative Party members. This meeting has drawn the most radical faction of the Liberal Party,” Fuentes added.
“The Mancini family is noted for their obleas con arequipe—pancakes. They own several restaurants,” capitán Francesco Vinyals said, “their sympathy toward the Liberal Party political platform is known. Her husband attended their meetings, and there is evidence they have contributed to their candidates.”
“Don Mancini, the painter?” Sábado asked. “The impoverished painter? How?”
“They say he has sources in Europe—radical sources. His pretense of poverty is a lie. If not, how has his widow managed? Some of radicals have been known to arrive here with gems and money.”
“Really.”
“Sí José, the painter’s father fought with Garibaldi to overthrow an established government which supported the Holy Church. Muy peligroso,” Fuentes added. “The whole lot of them—very dangerous—especially, if they decide to support the ‘war’ Liberals.”
“You think so? Even after so many years here?” Sábado asked.
“These Europeans go back and forth. No telling what subversive ideas they bring to our country each time they return to our shores. Ah, these foreigners, they harbor ideas. The kind which damages our republic,” Vinyals said.
“What do they want?” Fuentes asked.
“They want to shove the Holy Church off our political stage,” Sábado said.
“A godless group,” Vinyals said. “Their seeds must not spread here.”
“The son of a Gómez should not be with any Mancini,” Sábado said. “The young woman, she is a bad seed.”
“Maybe he only wants to have fun with her,” Fuentes said.
“There aren’t less controversial young doñas in Bogotá?” Sábado asked.
“His mamá should know he is at a place like this with a subversive young woman.”
“The young vixen encouraged him, no doubt. I’ve seen her here before.
Perhaps it is she who wants to bed with the young Gómez.”
“She has been seen with Varón, near his apartment at the school.”
“This women’s movement is the work of evil,” Sábado said. “Do we have any details?”
“None. I wouldn’t be surprised if she sleeps with Varón. We’ll continue to watch her for subversive activity. Write all of this in your report,” Vinyals said.
“That she sleeps with Varón?” Sábado asked.
“Not that—that she needs to be investigated. Pay attention,” Fuentes ordered.
“Sí. I’ll have her watched.” Sábado wrote a note in his pad.
The lead point on the pencil of sargento José Sábado broke.
“Send me a copy of the report,” capitán Vinyals ordered. “I’ll talk with doña Patricia when you finish your investigation.”
~*~
The political meeting had special significance, since both government parties had been in secret preparation for another civil war. They stockpiled weapons, and more and more meetings were being held in public. However, both factions of the impending war could have staged a battle this night; the cannons would not have woken Elena. She snored throughout the evening. Mercedes left her seat and poked her.
“She’s sound asleep.” She laughed, lifting her hair from her face with her left hand.
Ricardo put his finger to his lips, gesturing not to disturb Elena anymore and moved closer to Mercedes.
“Want to?” Mercedes whispered.
“Come closer.” He placed his arm around her.
“What if we had a secret place?” She snuggled closer to him and then held his hand.
At the close of the meeting, a collection basket for coins was passed around.
Ricardo saw Mercedes give three silver coins that she found in her bag.
“Did you like the political meeting?” she asked.
“Wonderful. Now I understand what they or what you are championing.”
“Sí, I wish we had a secret place. We could discuss politics.”
~*~
Chapter 3
The Magdalena ran crimson
The day was hot, the clouds drew close, and they moved sluggishly with rain. The wax palms stood motionless beneath them like weeping widows with lowered heads. Tulio Varón’s black eyes focused through a Porro prism monocular. In the distance, the warships of a nation gathered like gentlemen to a duel. Generals, instead of admirals, took charge as if this encounter was at ancient Actium, and the Magdalena River was the Ionian Sea.
The red silk banner [1] of the militia Varón had brought from rebellious Tolima drooped listlessly in the dead calm. He came to lend support to the Liberal flotilla that held a section of the river with seven steamers. In nondescript dress, only a sun-bleached blue cap made Varón seem like a soldier. His followers had no common uniform. They were los guerreros, and every rock and tree became their weapon.
“¡Mira ahí!” An insurgent pointed to the battle panorama unfolding on the river. “Did we come in time?”
“No, teniente, and I’m afraid we have witnessed a turn in the war.” Varón watched the clash of gunfire.
“¿Cómo?” The lieutenant’s wide brim hat shielded his puzzled face.
Against a gray sky, flat-bottom watercraft, armed with Colt field guns from norteamerica, fired shells. Missiles landed with deadly accuracy upon the wooden deck of Liberal vessel, La Helena. Its partner, El Cristobal Colon opened fire, with small caliber guns, and sprayed a swell on the advancing government gunboats—El Colombia and El Hércules. El Colombia dominant firepower and speed demonstrated a new class of warships on the river. Most fluvial fleet consisted of paddle-wheeler craft, coming from as far away as New Orleans. Their blackened stacks filled the air with soot. El Colombia possessed majestic power from steam boilers, fueled by almost anything that burned. Both Liberal craft were no match for El Colombia and El Hércules.
A seventy-five millimeter cañón de Francía, makeshift, rope-tied to the deck of a Liberal paddleboat, fired its death. The first shells fell at the portside paddle-boxes of El Hércules, but had little effect due to its armored plating. Government marines sat in a nearby launch, their sabers ready. Wooden splinters from El Helena’s transom burst into the air like a torn umbrella in a storm as it had rammed in error, El Cristobal Colon. The government boarding party continued its advance, unmoved by the danger of sinking. A Gatling gun raked the Liberal vessel and punched holes into flesh, timber, and dreams. Defending young soldiers dropped like lead sinkers into the murky current. Their thrashing dispersed red, and the current of the Magdalena seemed to bleed. Shoreline ibis, in snow-white dress, scattered to the sky, while crocodilians the color of death, lunged in silence downstream, ready to feast upon the mounting carnage of la Batalla de Los Obispos [2].
In the midst of the ponderous smoke, Infantry Sailors [3] boarded the Liberal craft, with brutal hand-to-hand combat following. Varón could see the flash of metallic sabers hacking defenders, causing the deck to run crimson. Two mustached officers climbed to the upper deck, and then held the boat commander at swords’ point. Hands of captured insurgents reached skyward, and the Blue Banner of the victors then rose over the rebel warship.
“¿Ahora?” Varón’s lieutenant asked. “We’ve many men, why not join the battle? Maybe we can help.”
“Our navy is out-gunned. The government warships move like disciplined cavalry. General Castro is no Agrippa, but I believe the day is his. Mierda—shit!” Varón studied his command—La Columna de Ibagué. His horsemen had come a long way, only to stand helpless amongst marsh grass overlooking a lost battle.
“Varón, shall we join the battle?” the lieutenant again asked.
“Battle? We’ve lost the Magdalena and without control of the River—the Whore—our cause may be lost. Perhaps, if we can’t regain her, we must sever the nation; spilt the nation and take way her value.”
“¿Cómo, comandante? No entiendo.” The officer did not comprehend.
Varón’s eyes pointed to the endless wires that strung along the river to both horizons. “Venga.” He spurred his mount to a wooden post. His long-barrel Smith & Wesson .38 flashed from his holster. The air vibrated with the sounds of shattered silica and twang of stretched wire when glass cups burst and telegraph cable split. “We cut and we cut, and when the Blue Jackets come to fix it, we then cut not only wire, but their testículos—while they are alive—then we feed our enemy’s balls to the crocodilians.”
“What if they send women?” The men laughed.
“The Conservative Army has no women. They bake pastries, pray to God, and fornicate in secret. Bogotá is a nest of hypocrites.”
The breeze kicked up, shifted direction, and the stench of more than burning wood carried inland. Varón’s horse became uneasy. Distant watercraft blazed and became a pyre for burning human flesh. The pungent odor spread like quicksilver, only to lessen when boats turtled and showed their keels to the weeping sky.
Varón’s field glasses filled with images of the final government blow.
El Colombia pushed forward into the middle of the river, surrounded by three Liberal vessels. Both side guns of El Colombia fired in rhythm. Liberal gunners, either dead, or their cannons were now without ammunition did not return fire. When their big caliber guns ceased firing, the sound of popping small gunfire mixed with the cries of dying men. The swirl of the river did not muffle the occasional coup de grace of an anonymous government Mauser pistol. But these small arms were no match for the superior Conservative Navy.
The ibis did not return to feed on the shellfish on the chocolate-colored shoal. Downstream, crocodilians feasted upon human parts, and the Magdalena ran crimson to the sea.
“Varón, who’ll come to repair the telegraph, when they learn they will be met by such a horrible way to die?”
“A brave man or a fool.”
Varón carried a gold locket. Inside, a photo of his family, taken in the days he taught at the university, gave him pause. I shall avenge you, he reflected upon their deaths, caused, he believed by the Conservative Army. I’ll kill their families—mutilate their bodies.
~*~
Chapter 4
Ladies will always be ladies
To Ricardo, Mercedes shared his social station. His Mamá, doña Patricia did not agree. She had her reasons. The Mancini family was one of many new arrivals from Europe who had settled since the 1870s. They came willing to invest. To advance Colombia, some applauded. However, an established aristocracy detested those with liberal ideas. To the gentry who lived in the outer-lying regions, their vast pasturelands at the base of the mountains had remained tranquil, and the Conservative Party claimed the last civil war was in 1863. Either they discounted the little engagements because a few thousand died, or they conveniently had short memories. Family rivalries grew between the old clans and new arrivals—émigrés—who openly spoke another language, traveled abroad, expressed opinions that some interpreted as anti-Church, even godless. They were ostracized. If their women read books, especially ones men regarded suitable for a profession or social rank, they were shunned as liberals.
Ricardo denied Mercedes was a liberal. “She reads childish pamphlets and my poems, Mamá.”
“Does she read Holy Scripture?”
After weeks of enjoying each other’s company, his gifts of boxes of dulces, sprays of flowers, and poesía romántica, their attachment grew. They now walked in public parks. Elena kept vigil like a sheepdog, so that his hands wandered no further than the slender wrist of Mercedes’ hand.
Doña Patricia denied a relationship existed, and ridiculed the Mancini family at least once a week at dinner. She insisted that Elena always be present when they met, fearing her son would compromise the family name.