Authors: Esmeralda Santiago
Friends and relatives who’d known them since childhood had never seen Ramón without Inocente. They looked so much alike that people didn’t even try to tell them apart. Inocente said that people were lazy and it was easier to find the twins’ similarities than their differences. It had become a perverse game to test whether others saw them as individuals by deliberately confusing them.
They’d confounded Elena for years. She lived in the school most of the time because Leonor thought it was inappropriate to have a beautiful young woman among so many soldiers. Whenever Elena came home for vacation, Ramón and Inocente took pains to groom and dress alike.
Señoritas
at social events had trouble distinguishing one from the other, but the brothers wanted to know whether one who lived with them would, too. They were sure that Elena couldn’t tell them apart. Even their mother frequently confused Ramón with Inocente and vice versa.
From childhood, the brothers had slept entwined until Leonor announced they were big boys and should have their own beds. Still, they set up their cots inches from each other’s and often woke up holding hands. They’d compared their penises when they pissed outdoors, arguing over whose stream went the farthest. In early adolescence, they masturbated side by side, competing over which would orgasm first. One morning, however, Ramón woke up to Inocente’s hand on his exposed belly, centimeters from his swollen penis. He wasn’t sure if Inocente was awake or asleep, so he waited, curious whether the hand would move closer, willing it to do so. It did. Face up, his eyes closed, his hand crept slowly up Inocente’s right hip to discover that he, too, was naked and erect. It was much more exciting to have Inocente’s fingers on his penis than his own, and he knew that his brother was feeling the same thing.
Long before their father brought them to a brothel to be initiated into sex, they’d already found pleasure in each other without talking about it, aware that the minute they discussed it, all the injunctions against touching each other that way would inhibit them.
They were stunned to learn that their father frequented prostitutes.
“But if you love Mamá,” Inocente asked, “why do you visit whorehouses?”
“Men’s urges are different from women’s,” he said. “I love and admire your mother too much to ask from her what I expect from
putas
. Marriage is holy, designed for procreation, yes, but also to elevate us from savagery. A man honors his wife by protecting her from his baser instincts. That’s what
putas
are for.”
The explanation gave them license to indulge their most ignoble impulses so long as they safeguarded their future wives from them. They’d never, for example, admit to their wives that they liked to watch each other take the same woman.
It’s like watching myself in the mirror, Ramón thought.
The only times they didn’t share their sexual adventures was when Inocente began to experiment with bizarre contraptions in underlit rooms that spooked Ramón.
“It’s … exquisite. An exquisite kind of pain,” Inocente explained, “not at all what you’re imagining.”
Ramón tried it, naked and manacled, his eyes covered while a woman barked orders and whipped him. It wasn’t as pleasurable as he’d hoped.
The brothers were handsome and sought after in society, but they preferred ladies of dubious reputation. One of their favorites was doña Cándida, Marquesa de Lirios, whose much older husband had died from apoplexy upon discovering her in flagrante with his favorite torero. The Marquesa de Lirios suggested a ménage à trois with Ramón and Inocente. For six months the Marquesa de Lirios guided their fingers, tongues, and penises in fantastic explorations of every orifice, male and female, with such abandon that Ramón and Inocente were never the same.
Four months after the Marquesa de Lirios suddenly and inexplicably entered a convent, Ramón and Inocente met Ana. The competitive spark in her eyes told them that this was no ordinary girl. They were drawn to Ana because she treated them as separate people, looked beyond their identical clothes and accessories to find out who was Ramón, who Inocente. They were also grateful that she didn’t give away their deceptions and seemed, in fact, to enjoy being
part of their game outwitting others. As they spent more time with her, the twins believed that they’d found a kindred spirit. She wasn’t appalled when Ramón said they’d marry the same woman. They’d shared everything with each other; why not share a wife?
Days before the wedding, Jesusa invited Ana into her boudoir and, nearly paralyzed by ahs, ahems, trembling lips, and crimson blushes, told Ana how babies were made.
“Lie on your back as still as you can, and let him do what he has to do,” she instructed. “While it’s happening, pray two Our Fathers and as many Hail Marys as necessary until it’s over.”
Ana waited, but no more details were forthcoming. Ana, however, had had free rein in Abuelo Cubillas’s library. Hidden in a compartment behind the satirical poems of the Conde de Villamediana, she’d found manuals that left no doubt about how babies were made. The illustrations and, moreover, her lovemaking with Elena, disputed Jesusa’s instructions wonderfully.
For a minute, Ana considered adding to Jesusa’s embarrassment by asking for details, but rejected the idea. It was rare for Jesusa to impart motherly advice.
“How do I know when I’m pregnant?”
Jesusa seemed grateful to talk about something less prurient. “Well,” she said, “with your problem of irregular periods, the only way to know for sure is to look for changes in your body.”
“Like my belly growing?”
“Yes, but there will be signs long before that. You might be nauseous in the morning and crave certain foods. With you, I wanted lemons, couldn’t get enough of them, and the midwife said it was because you were so sweet. With my first three pregnancies, I had no cravings.” She dropped her gaze, yielding to grief, deserting Ana.
“You’ve always told me the opposite; that I have a sour disposition. Maybe you had too many lemons.”
Her words weighed between them as three ghosts floated in the air: the sons Jesusa wanted and lost, the ones who wouldn’t talk back or challenge her.
“You’d better finish packing,” Jesusa dismissed her.
Ana was both relieved and depressed as she climbed the stairs to
the room where she’d left Elena folding linen. It had been her nursery once, but it was now lined with crates, chests, and boxes.
“I still can’t believe we’re going,” Elena said as she counted napkins, towels, blankets, tablecloths, then noted the amounts on Ana’s household book. “You look so serious. Did you get into an argument with your mother?”
“Not an argument.” Ana knelt before the linens and began to separate them into stacks. “We annoy each other.”
“You’ll miss her when you’re across the ocean, and your father, and your home.”
“I won’t miss them as much as you or they think. I’d miss more if I didn’t go.”
“Ana!”
“Why are you so shocked? You know we’ve never been close.”
“They’re your parents.”
“They’re shallow. All they care about is that their neighbors be impressed by their names and position in society.”
“Of course they’re proud of their good names and their ancestors’ achievements.”
“But they’ve done nothing,” Ana said. “They have no achievements of their own. They’ve made nothing, created nothing, worked at nothing. They will leave no trace that they ever existed. They have no legacy except for their names, which they did nothing to earn.”
“That’s so harsh.”
Ana folded and placed an embroidered pillowcase over a stack of napkins. “I don’t want to be like them. I’m more like our Larragoity and Cubillas relatives on the walls, the ones who turned their faces toward the future, not the ones who only look to the past.”
Elena moved the pillowcase to its proper place with the others. “Not everyone is comfortable with the uncertainties of the future, Ana.”
“How can you know what you’re capable of if you don’t embrace the unknown?”
“Some people, like your parents, like me, don’t want to be tested. We’re happy living as quietly and comfortably as possible.”
“Not me.” Ana closed the chest. “I don’t expect comfort, or even happiness when it comes down to it.”
“How can you not want to be happy?”
“I didn’t say I don’t want it. I don’t expect it. That day and night the nuns made me lie facedown on the cold stone floor, I learned that you pay for your happiness. That’s why I don’t expect to be happy all the time. I’d rather be surprised by one moment every so often to remind me that joy is possible, even if I have to pay for it later.”
“You’re more realistic, I suppose, than me.”
Ana leaned over and kissed Elena. “I’m happy when I’m with you.”
“That makes us both happy, then.”
Ana married Ramón on Saturday, August 3, 1844, one week after her eighteenth birthday, in a ceremony attended only by family, with Elena as bridesmaid and Inocente as best man. When she saw her daughter as a wife, Jesusa became the mother she’d never been. She cried through the Mass in the Catedral de Sevilla and at the subsequent reception in their home as Gustavo begged her to restrain herself.
“You’re making us both look ridiculous,” he said.
“Our darling Anita, our sweet, our cherished only child, and she’s leaving us,” Jesusa sobbed.
Ana was jealous of the Anita her mother was now creating as she, the real, living, adult Ana, was about to leave home. She couldn’t wait to escape Jesusa’s emotions. It was too much, too late. Were it possible, she would’ve sailed for San Juan that minute.
As soon as the wedding luncheon was over, Ramón and Ana, Eugenio, Leonor, Elena, and Inocente boarded the ship to Cádiz. The newlyweds would stay in a suite at a seaside inn until they would all sail for San Juan in one of the Marítima Argoso Marín vessels later that week.
Ana and Elena had talked about her wedding night, and had agreed that Ana should play the innocent virgin so that Ramón would believe that she’d had no experience with sexual intimacy. It was, after all, what a man expected.
That night, Ramón came into the bedroom after Ana had climbed into bed.
“You must be tired,
querida
,” he said, lying next to her but not touching her.
“It was a long day,” she said.
“Our life together has begun, and I plan to be worthy of you.”
“You already are,
mi amor
,” she said.
“You looked lovely in your wedding gown.”
“Thank you. It was my great-great-grandmother Larragoity’s. It’s now been worn by six generations of brides.”
It puzzled her that he made no move toward her, but for the next half hour at least, Ramón continued to make small talk as Ana responded in as few words as possible. She was sure he was trying to be a gentleman, to get her to relax before the inevitable ravishing, but the longer he talked, the tenser she became, which made him more voluble.
When he’d exhausted every possible theme of conversation, Ramón finally turned to Ana and placed his hand on her belly. “I’m sorry,
querida
,” he said. “This might be uncomfortable at first, but you will soon get used to it.”
He climbed on top of her, kissed her a few times, told her how much he loved her, fumbled with her nightgown until it was at her waist, pushed her pantalets down, separated her legs with his knees, and entered her with violent thrusts. When he was done, he kissed her forehead, thanked her, rolled over onto his back, and within moments, fell asleep.
She lay in bed stunned, pressing her thighs together against the pain. It wasn’t possible—this couldn’t be marital life. It had been a long day. The next night would be different. Her handsome, charming husband would make love to her, would make her feel like Elena did, every sense alive, every nerve tingling. She knew it would be different with a man, but she’d expected pleasure, not this utter desolation.
The next day, Ramón was as cheerful and lighthearted as usual, and Ana was sure that this night would be different. They joined the Argosos, Inocente, and Elena at evening Mass, then shared a leisurely dinner at a restaurant overlooking the harbor. When they went to bed, however, there were no caresses, no long delicious kisses, no hands roaming across hot skin. This time, he didn’t talk. As soon as he came into the room he extinguished the lamp, rolled on top of her, opened her legs with his knees, and pushed himself into her. Just as on the night before, he thanked her, turned to his side of the bed, and slept.
In the morning, they received a message from don Eugenio.
There was a complication with their travel plans. Word had come that their vessel had met with bad weather on the crossing back to Spain and required more repairs than anticipated. They could be transported to Puerto Rico on one of the Marítima Argoso Marín cargo ships, but it could accommodate only three passengers and a couple of their trunks.
“What are we supposed to do?” Leonor fretted. “They can’t take us all. I’ve already sent most of the furniture. I can’t leave my harp.”
“You, Papá, and Elena go as scheduled. Ramón, Ana, and I will stay for now,” Inocente suggested. “We’ll send your harp and the things you can’t take. We’ll follow as soon as they have room for us.”
“A good solution,” Eugenio said.
“But that’s exactly what I didn’t want, with us across the ocean from each other!”
“It will only be a couple of months at most, Mamá,” Ramón said.
“I’ll make the arrangements,” Inocente said. “Don’t worry.”
Neither Ana nor Elena was consulted about the plan. On August 8, 1844, Elena, don Eugenio, and doña Leonor sailed to Puerto Rico. The same afternoon, Ramón told Ana that they’d move in with Inocente to keep him company until another ship could take the three of them across the sea. The harp, furniture, and chests were sent on different vessels, and every few days either Ramón or Inocente inquired at the Marítima Argoso Marín office when they would be able to leave, but each time Ana was disappointed by another delay.
“It’s hurricane season in those waters,” Inocente reminded her. “Shipping is often disrupted by the weather.”
Over the next six weeks, Ana, Ramón, and Inocente explored Cádiz province. The twins always put Ana between them when they walked along the beach, promenaded around the plazas, or rode into the villages in the foothills. The peasants were rebuilding their cottages and villages following the devastation of the Carlist War five years earlier. Ana saw mostly old men, women, and children. The peasants received Ramón and Inocente with smiles and welcome gestures, happy to see young men again, or with angry, resentful glances if they’d lost husbands, sons, and brothers. With fewer men in their prime years to work in the farms, groves, and vineyards, the forlorn countryside had vast stretches of uncultivated land that had reverted to weeds and grasses.