Read Online House on the Lagoon by Rosario Ferré - Free Book Online
Authors: Rosario Ferré
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to live with Buenaventura any longer. She approached him, head hung low, her blond curls almost hiding her face, and told him she was leaving him. Governor Horace Towner, who was a friend of Don Esteban Rosich, had offered her father, Arístides Arrigoitia, an office job in Atlanta, and she had persuaded him to accept. Her mother, Madeleine Rosich, had always wanted to go back to the States. They would take Don Esteban with them, as he was well on in years. They would be living in a house with a pillared portico at the end of an avenue of ancient mahogany trees. Buenaventura couldn’t believe it. It had never crossed his mind that Rebecca might desert him.
“And what will we do with our beautiful house?” was the only thing that occurred to him to say. “Frankly, I don’t know,” Rebecca replied sadly. “For all I care, you may use it as a warehouse for your precious hams and your cursed codfish.” And she went on packing the flowing robes, the dancing slippers, and the books of poetry into her suitcase.
When Buenaventura found himself alone, he fell ill. For the first time since he arrived on the island, he didn’t have the energy to get out of bed. He stayed there all day like a beached whale, not shaving, not even dressing for breakfast. He couldn’t stand living in Pavel’s house, where everything reminded him of Rebecca. A week later he got out of bed, took a bath, dressed, clipped the tufts of hair growing out of his ears, and traveled to Atlanta to ask her forgiveness.
On the day Buenaventura arrived, Rebecca found that she was pregnant. She didn’t want the child to be born without the father’s knowing about it, so she told Buenaventura the news. He was exultant. He apologized for everything and promised Rebecca she could have all the artistic soirées she wanted if only she would return to the island with him. Rebecca consented. Her mother and father were happy with the decision—they had hoped the rift would be temporary—and a few weeks later the whole family boarded the ship back to San Juan. Rebecca returned triumphant on Buenaventura’s arm, and from that day on she reigned as undisputed mistress of the house on the lagoon.
8
Salomé’s Dance
B UENAVENTURA WAS SO HAPPY he wanted to please Rebecca in everything. She could invite as many artists as she wanted to her cultural gatherings, which would alternate with Buenaventura’s diplomatic meetings. Dressed in elegant gowns and velvet suits, Rebecca’s friends came at least one evening a week to the house, to lounge on the terrace and discuss poetry, art, and music until the early hours of the morning. They made fun of Buenaventura’s acquaintances—the businessmen, lawyers, and politicians he invited to dinner, who dressed in dark suits, had generous paunches, and ate with napkins tucked under their chins. But Buenaventura didn’t mind.
Rebecca wrote poetry every day. She visited the spring in the cellar and drank its waters, convinced that they nourished her inspiration. Her friends wrote poetry also, and they read their compositions aloud to each other on the terrace, commenting on them and making suggestions. They read books on modern art and became politically conscious. They admired Luis Palés Matos, the son of a white hacendado, who in 1929 had published a collection of revolutionary poems titled Tún tún de pasa y grifería in which black ethnic roots were regarded as fundamental to Puerto Rican culture. The bourgeoisie was scandalized, but Rebecca’s friends fell in love with the poems, which echoed with the mysterious rhythms of Africa. Rebecca was so proud to have these meetings in her own home that she kept her racial prejudice in check and never complained when her friends recited Palés’s poems.
Thanks to these rendezvous —the cultural and the diplomatic—Buenaventura and Rebecca got along better than they ever had in eleven years of marriage. Rebecca was content and didn’t even notice when Buenaventura brought
“And what will we do with our beautiful house?” was the only thing that occurred to him to say. “Frankly, I don’t know,” Rebecca replied sadly. “For all I care, you may use it as a warehouse for your precious hams and your cursed codfish.” And she went on packing the flowing robes, the dancing slippers, and the books of poetry into her suitcase.
When Buenaventura found himself alone, he fell ill. For the first time since he arrived on the island, he didn’t have the energy to get out of bed. He stayed there all day like a beached whale, not shaving, not even dressing for breakfast. He couldn’t stand living in Pavel’s house, where everything reminded him of Rebecca. A week later he got out of bed, took a bath, dressed, clipped the tufts of hair growing out of his ears, and traveled to Atlanta to ask her forgiveness.
On the day Buenaventura arrived, Rebecca found that she was pregnant. She didn’t want the child to be born without the father’s knowing about it, so she told Buenaventura the news. He was exultant. He apologized for everything and promised Rebecca she could have all the artistic soirées she wanted if only she would return to the island with him. Rebecca consented. Her mother and father were happy with the decision—they had hoped the rift would be temporary—and a few weeks later the whole family boarded the ship back to San Juan. Rebecca returned triumphant on Buenaventura’s arm, and from that day on she reigned as undisputed mistress of the house on the lagoon.
8
Salomé’s Dance
B UENAVENTURA WAS SO HAPPY he wanted to please Rebecca in everything. She could invite as many artists as she wanted to her cultural gatherings, which would alternate with Buenaventura’s diplomatic meetings. Dressed in elegant gowns and velvet suits, Rebecca’s friends came at least one evening a week to the house, to lounge on the terrace and discuss poetry, art, and music until the early hours of the morning. They made fun of Buenaventura’s acquaintances—the businessmen, lawyers, and politicians he invited to dinner, who dressed in dark suits, had generous paunches, and ate with napkins tucked under their chins. But Buenaventura didn’t mind.
Rebecca wrote poetry every day. She visited the spring in the cellar and drank its waters, convinced that they nourished her inspiration. Her friends wrote poetry also, and they read their compositions aloud to each other on the terrace, commenting on them and making suggestions. They read books on modern art and became politically conscious. They admired Luis Palés Matos, the son of a white hacendado, who in 1929 had published a collection of revolutionary poems titled Tún tún de pasa y grifería in which black ethnic roots were regarded as fundamental to Puerto Rican culture. The bourgeoisie was scandalized, but Rebecca’s friends fell in love with the poems, which echoed with the mysterious rhythms of Africa. Rebecca was so proud to have these meetings in her own home that she kept her racial prejudice in check and never complained when her friends recited Palés’s poems.
Thanks to these rendezvous —the cultural and the diplomatic—Buenaventura and Rebecca got along better than they ever had in eleven years of marriage. Rebecca was content and didn’t even notice when Buenaventura brought
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