Violeta, p.13
Violeta, page 13
He jumped up, surprised, with a hopeful smile dancing in his eyes, but before he was able to get the question out I assured him that he was not the father.
“You’re going to have an illegitimate child,” he spat, falling back onto his chair.
“That depends on you, Fabian.”
“Don’t count on the annulment. You know how I feel about it.”
“This isn’t a matter of principles, it’s just cruel. You want to hurt me. It’s fine, I won’t ask you again. But you have to give me half of our assets, even though I should get everything. I supported you our entire marriage and I earned every penny in that savings account myself so, rightfully, it belongs to me.”
“Where did you get the idea that you had a right to take anything when you decided to abandon our home?”
“I’m going to fight you for it, Fabian, even if I have to go to court.”
“Ask your brother how that’s going to turn out for you. Isn’t he a lawyer? The bank accounts are in my name, just like the house and everything else we own. I’m not trying to hurt you, as you claim, but to protect you, Violeta.”
“From what?”
“From yourself. You’re not in your right mind. I’m your husband and I love you with all my heart and soul. I’ll always love you. I can forgive you anything, Violeta. It’s not too late to reconcile …”
“I’m pregnant!”
“It doesn’t matter, I’m willing to raise your child as if it were my own. Let me help you. I’m begging you …”
I didn’t see Fabian again until a year and a half later. José Antonio confirmed that I couldn’t take the money I thought I had the right to; any amount I’d be able to get would depend entirely on my husband’s goodwill. I spent the following months going between my brother’s apartment and the office, without seeing anyone except the Rustic Homes clients. I gave my aunts, the Rivases, and Josephine and Teresa the news by phone. Everyone congratulated me, except my aunts, who had suffered greatly when I left Fabian, and for whom the pregnancy out of wedlock was another heavy blow. Their only consolation was that we were far from the family and gossip in the capital.
“Dear God, child, we’ve never had a bastard among us,” Aunt Pía sobbed.
“There are probably dozens of them, Auntie, but they belong to the men of the family, so nobody even keeps count,” I explained.
When my belly started to show, I kept out of sight to avoid running into Fabian’s family or any friends we still had in common.
My son was born in the Sacramento hospital the same day that Aunt Pía went in for a series of tests; I had my two beloved aunts with me, as well as José Antonio, who had to pretend to be my husband. Miss Taylor and Teresa didn’t come because women’s right to vote in presidential and parliamentary elections had just been won. Teresa had spent years fighting for this cause, and the victory found her in jail for disturbing the peace and inciting riot. She was released that very week and got to celebrate the women’s vote by dancing down the street.
Julián was in Uruguay and he found out a week later, after the baby had already been baptized and entered into the civil registration under the name Juan Martín Bravo Del Valle. I named him Juan in honor of Father Quiroga, so he’d be protected all his life, and Martín because I’d always liked that name.
That little boy transformed Julián; he hadn’t suspected that he’d reached the age where he was ready to raise a child. His son represented continuity, the opportunity to live life all over again through that boy, to give him the opportunities he’d missed, to create a more complete version of himself. Julián wanted to raise Juan Martín to be an extension of himself: bold, brave, adventurous, a lover of life, and a free spirit. But he wanted Juan Martín to have a more serene heart. Julián had spent his entire life chasing happiness, but it always seemed to slip through his fingers at the last minute, when he thought he had it just within his grasp. The same thing happened with his projects, something more interesting always appearing right out of reach. Nothing was ever enough for him, not his decorations as a war hero or his horseback riding trophies, not his flying machine, nor his success in everything he did, not his smooth tenor voice or his talent for being the center of attention wherever he went. That constant search for something better applied to love and affection as well. He didn’t have any family, cast off friends once they no longer served his needs, collected women then left them as soon as someone more attractive crossed his path. Julián wished for his son to avoid suffering the same perennial dissatisfaction.
We moved to a small house in an old neighborhood of Sacramento, with century-old trees and wild roses that grew by work of magic from the cracks in the sidewalks even in winter despite the perpetual rain and fog. Julián began to select clients based on geographic location, so that his absences were brief and he could have more time with his son.
We began living together like a normal family and Julián recruited me to help manage his small aerial transport company in a more organized way. As he admitted, laughing, he couldn’t add as much as two plus two. We kept two separate books, an official one and another only we knew about. In the first, which the internal revenue service, and sometimes the police, would ask to see, we wrote down the details of every flight: date, destination, distance, passengers or cargo; in the second we kept the true identity of every person. Many were Jewish Holocaust survivors, rejected by almost every Latin American country, who entered clandestinely to start new lives with the help of sympathetic organizations or through bribes. After the war the country had accepted hundreds of German immigrants, taken in by the local Nazi party, which was forced to change its name but not its ideology after Germany’s defeat. From time to time, a criminal accused of wartime atrocities would come over, fleeing justice in Europe, and for the right price Julián would bring them into the country. Jews or Nazis, it was all the same to Julián, as long as they were paying.
Aunt Pilar returned to Santa Clara, where the summer chores awaited her, but Aunt Pía had to stay on with us to receive cancer treatment at the hospital. As soon as she held Juan Martín in her arms for the first time, she forgot all about his illegitimacy and began gleefully spoiling him. That would be her consolation for the eleven months she had left in this world. She’d sit in bed or on the sofa with the baby on her lap, singing softly to put him to sleep, and it soothed her pain more than the doctor’s pills, she claimed.
I had been assured that, as long as I was still nursing Juan Martín, I’d be safeguarded against another pregnancy, but it turned out to be another of the lies peddled to women at that time. Luckily Julián, softened by the influence of his son, reacted without a huge scene, but he made it perfectly clear that this would be the last child. He didn’t plan on filling the house with little brats, since just one had him trapped and tied down with responsibilities, and he had already lost enough freedom, he said.
In reality, Julián was just as free as he’d ever been; I never complained about his trips, and as far as being trapped by responsibilities, he was exaggerating, because he contributed very little to the running of the household. He came and went with the friendly ease of a close relative. He wouldn’t hesitate to buy the newest model camera or a piece of jewelry for me, but he never paid the power or water bill. I took care of our expenses, just as I’d done in my marriage, without being bothered by it, because I earned enough, but Fabian had taught me a lesson that I’d never forget: It’s not enough to simply make money, you have to know how to keep it. This idea, which now seems so obvious, was a novelty in my youth. It was taken as a given that a woman would always be supported by a man, first her father and then her husband, and in a case where she had her own means, whether inherited or acquired, she needed a man to manage her assets. It was unladylike to talk about money, or to earn it, much less invest it. I never told Julián how much I made or spent. I had my own savings and closed business deals without consulting him. The fact that we weren’t married afforded me an independence that would’ve been impossible otherwise. A married woman couldn’t open a bank account without the consent and signature of her husband, who in my case was Fabian, but to skirt that obstacle my accounts were registered in José Antonio’s name.
12
Aunt Pía died at my house, peacefully and with almost no pain thanks to a miraculous plant provided by Yaima, the indigenous healer. Torito had already been growing it on the farm, because it was useful for alleviating all types of pain, and we followed Yaima’s instructions, combining the seeds and leaves to make a more potent version. Facunda used it to make cookies, which they sent to me by train. Toward the end, when the poor woman couldn’t eat, Torito prepared drops that I placed under her tongue. In her final days, Aunt Pía slept almost all the time, and in her sporadic moments of consciousness she asked to see Juan Martín. She didn’t recognize anyone, except the baby.
“You’re going to have a little sister,” she whispered to him before she died.
That’s how I found out that the baby was a girl and began to think up names.
We buried Aunt Pía in the tiny Nahuel cemetery, according to her final wishes, and not in her family’s crypt in the capital, where she’d be among dead people she no longer remembered. The entire town turned out that morning to pay their respects, just as they’d all come to my wedding, and an Indian delegation headed by Yaima sang a tribute to her with drums and flutes. It was a brilliant day, the air smelled of acacia flowers, the sky was free of clouds, and a veil of mist hovered above the damp earth, warmed by the sun.
There, beside the freshly dug hole ready to receive my aunt’s coffin, I saw Fabian, wearing his formal suit and black tie, blonder and more solemn than ever, as if the time apart had aged him.
“I loved your aunt a lot; she always treated me kindly,” he said, handing me one of his handkerchiefs, because mine was soaked.
Aunt Pilar, the Rivases, and even Torito and Facunda hugged him with so much affection that I took it as a reproach: Fabian was part of the family and I had betrayed him. Afterwards they invited him for lunch at Santa Clara, where Facunda prepared one of her specialties: potato pie with meat and cheese.
“I see that man isn’t with you,” Fabian commented when we were away from the group.
I explained that Julián was flying a passenger to the archipelago, an excuse that was only half-true, because in reality Julián hadn’t been readily accepted by my family. Aunt Pilar had planted the idea that he was a womanizer and gambler, who seduced me with lies and destroyed my life, my marriage, and my reputation; that he had gotten me pregnant and practically abandoned me.
Viewed from the outside, it all looked to be true, but nothing is as simple as it seems. No one knows what really goes on within a couple’s inner sanctum or why someone might put up with things that others deem inexcusable. Julián was a spellbinding man. I’ve never met anyone who compared to him, no one with such an ability to captivate others, like a powerful magnet. Men imitated him or tried to challenge him, women fluttered around him like moths to a flame. He was lively, intelligent, a great storyteller and comedian. He exaggerated and lied, but that was all part of his charm and no one called him out on it. He had irresistible means of seduction, like serenading me from the street in his operatic voice to apologize after a fight. I always admired him, in spite of his tremendous defects.
I was proud that Julián had chosen me; it was proof that I was special. Ever since Juan Martín had been born we’d introduced ourselves as man and wife and behaved as a couple in public, even though we were well aware that gossip brewed behind our backs. Just as José Antonio had warned me, I was rejected by certain circles: The wives of his friends wouldn’t speak to me, and we lost a couple of clients who didn’t want to work with me in the office; I didn’t dare go to any of the country clubs because I could be denied entrance. Of course, no one in the German community, much less the Schmidt-Engler family, could stand me. The few times I crossed paths with them they looked me up and down with a disgusted expression, and I could swear that more than one of them called me a slut between gritted teeth.
Julián, on the other hand, went wherever he pleased; he was free of blame, while I was the adulteress, the concubine, the wayward woman who dared to parade around pregnant by her lover. If my aunts, who loved me dearly and had raised me, considered my conduct to be immoral, I could only imagine how harshly others must’ve judged me. “Don’t worry, sooner or later Fabian is going to want to remarry and start his own family, then he’ll come to offer you the annulment on a silver platter,” Julián said.
His irresistible charm opened doors for us. He would start to recount one of his adventures or sing the romantic songs from his large repertoire and a circle would quickly form around him. I found other women’s attraction to him flattering, because I was the one he’d chosen. Julián and I were happy, up until the second pregnancy.
All through my pregnancy with my daughter, I still thought I was living an extraordinary love story, even though there were clear signs that Julián was already losing interest in me and unsatisfied with his life in general. He was openly disgusted by the havoc pregnancy wreaked on my body, but I imagined it was only temporary. He slept on the living room sofa, avoided touching me, reminded me often that he didn’t want another baby, and blamed me for having trapped him again, without acknowledging the fact that he’d played as much of a part as I had.
I think it was only Juan Martín who kept him from leaving. The boy was not yet two years old and his father was already training him to become a man, as he said, which included chasing him around with the garden hose, locking him in dark places, making him do flips in the air until he vomited, or putting drops of hot sauce on his lips. “Men don’t cry” was his motto. Juan Martín’s toys were all plastic weapons. Torito gave him a bunny, which lasted only until his father returned from one of his trips and got rid of it.
“Men don’t play with bunnies. If you want a pet we’ll get you a dog.”
I refused, because I didn’t have the time or energy to take care of a dog.
I imagine that as I gained weight, he became entangled with another woman, or several. He seemed bored and impatient; lost his temper easily; started fights with other men for the pleasure of hitting and being hit; bet on horses, car races, billiards, roulette, and any other game of chance he came across. But then he’d suddenly transform into the most tender and devoted of partners, he’d shower me with attention and gifts, play with Juan Martín like a doting father, the three of us going on picnics or swimming in the lake. Then my resentment would start to fade and I’d be unconditionally in love once again.
I learned the hard way not to get in the way of Julián’s rage, except when I had to defend the boy. If I tried to warn him he was drinking too much or gambling more than he should, I received a battery of insults, or, in private, it might come to blows. He never hit me in the face and was careful not to leave marks. We faced off like gladiators, because my fury was greater than my fear of his fists. But I always ended up on the floor, with him begging for forgiveness and telling me that he didn’t know what had happened—that I’d provoked him and made him lose his mind.
After every battle, in which I swore I’d leave him for good, we ended up in each other’s arms. These ardent reconciliations lasted a little while, until he’d once again explode for no reason, as if his rage built up so much pressure he had to release it. But we could be happy between those terrible episodes, which didn’t always lead to physical violence; in general, it was verbal abuse. Julián had a rare ability to find his opponent’s most vulnerable spot. He hit me where it hurt most.
No one knew about our secret warring, not even José Antonio, whom I saw every day in the office. I was ashamed that I put up with Julián’s abuse, and more ashamed still that I always forgave him. I was shackled by our sexual passion and the belief that I’d be lost without him. How would I provide for the kids? How would I face society and my family after a second failure? How would I live down a reputation as a woman cast aside? I’d broken my marriage and defied the world to be with Julián; I couldn’t accept that the story I’d told was a lie.
Ten days before my due date, we learned that the baby was breech. I lamented once again that Aunt Pía was no longer with us, because I’d seen her use her magic hands to turn a baby in its mother’s belly, just like she’d do with calves to get them into birthing position. According to her, she could clearly see the child with the eyes of the soul, and could move it with a gentle massage, loving energy, and prayers to the Virgin Mary, universal mother. I went to the farm, and Uncle Bruno took me to see Yaima, but the healing woman had less skill than Pía for a problem like that, and after a chanting and drum ceremony, squeezing my belly, and giving me an herbal tea, nothing had changed. The doctor scheduled me for a Cesarean to avoid unnecessary complications.
Julián and I had just had one of our monumental fights, which often lasted more than a week. While he was off in the capital picking up a group of engineers who were planning to build a dam, a young woman came by the house looking for him, introducing herself as his girlfriend. I can only imagine how that poor girl must’ve felt when she saw me, bags under my eyes, face smudged with baby food, balancing a belly the size of a watermelon over swollen legs, claiming to be Julián’s wife. I felt so sorry for her and for myself that I invited her in, offered her lemonade, and we cried together.
“He said that our love was unstoppable,” she blubbered.
“He said the same thing to me when we met,” I informed her.
Julián had assured her that he was single, that he’d never been married, that he’d been waiting for her all his life.
I’ll never know exactly what happened between the two of them. The days until Julián returned were a roller coaster of opposing emotions. I wanted to go somewhere far away, so I’d never have to see him again—make up a new identity in another country—but I couldn’t even dream of it. I was about to give birth and would soon have a two-year-old child clinging to my skirt and a newborn baby in my arms. No. I shouldn’t be the one to give up my home. I should kick him out, let him go off with this latest girlfriend, to disappear from my life and from our children’s lives.
