Flight of the Swan (27 page)

I had seen the governor, wearing his tuxedo, enter Dearborn’s room a few moments earlier. Apparently Governor Yager had just conveyed Diana’s request to Dearborn, and was totally unprepared for the pilot’s irate reaction. “Impossible! I couldn’t exhibit myself in public that embarrassing way. Carnival king? That’s absurd!” Dearborn exclaimed. Governor Yager’s voice was lower, but we could still hear him. “You must do it, my friend. I’ve already said you would,” he said anxiously. “If you don’t, you’ll cause a diplomatic incident, and the people will never forgive you. You have no idea how important the carnival is for them. An insult such as this would be terrible for the image of the United States.” Their voices carried clearly because of the echo produced by the vaulted ceilings in the ancient building.

Madame was darning her toe shoes while I put the last touches to the red chiffon skirt she would wear that evening when she danced the role of Ariadne, and we stared at each other in wonder. The silence that ensued let us guess that Dearborn had agreed to go, although unwillingly. From the way he slammed the door behind him when he went out, we could tell that the young colonel was scalding mad.

I finished clasping Madame’s diamond necklace around her neck—she had insisted on putting it on, as well as her diamond earrings and bracelets, for that night’s performance. Dandré had already left for the theater with Molinari, who came to pick him up, and there was nothing I could do to prevent her from wearing the jewels. We ran down the stairs to the first floor, where one of the governor’s official chauffeurs was to take us to the ball.

Within a block of Teatro Tapia, we had to get out of the car because of the crush of people milling around at the door. We could see the governor’s black limousine parked in front of the entrance; a cordon of policemen and secret service agents were holding the mob back. We half pushed, half squirmed our way over between the merrymakers, and finally stood just behind a police agent. The queen, wearing Liberty’s Greek robe and golden sandals instead of shoes, had just gotten down from her blossom-decked float. She stood in front of the main entrance, a bronzed papier-mâché torch in her hand and her gold-lamé cloak spread behind her, and she was in tears. Don Pedro and Doña Basilisa tried to calm her. We could hear the Tapia’s orchestra already playing Verdi’s Triumphal March from
Aïda
, to which the queen traditionally made her entrance. Dearborn, dressed in his formal colonel’s uniform, with golden braid shining on his shoulders and his cap tucked under his arm, stood next to the governor, explaining why he couldn’t possibly escort her inside the theater.

“I’ve come this far to congratulate you on your having been elected queen, mademoiselle, but I can’t go any further. Please accept my regrets,” he said, bending politely at the waist. He took the queen’s hand and was about to kiss it when there was a mad rush: one of the cavalcades hastened down the street, led by masked revelers dressed in satin robes with large three-cornered hats on their heads, and they pushed us from behind. Dearborn, the governor, the queen, and all those standing near the entrance, including Madame and myself, were propelled by the mob into the Tapia.

All the chairs of the theater had been removed, the floor had been cranked up, and a giant ballroom had been made of the stage and orchestra. As we half walked, half slid into the ballroom, borne by the tide of the crowd, I could see Dearborn’s blond hair bobbing over the sea of heads in front of us. He had finally taken the queen’s arm, apparently resigned to perform the duty that had been imposed on him. Don Pedro, as the queen’s father, took her other arm, and a few seconds later they were mounting the stairs to the throne together. Verdi’s march filled the air with martial grandiosity as the French horns and trumpets swept the ballroom. Ronda Batistini raised her head and smiled at the deliriously applauding audience; I wondered if Bienvenido wasn’t in the crowd and she had recognized him. In fact, she looked very much like the Statue of Liberty as she stood on her throne, a faux-marble platform supported by Greek columns. Dearborn reluctantly took his place beside her on the stage, and Don Pedro walked proudly down the steps to rejoin Doña Basilisa in the ballroom.

People seemed both elated and vexed to see the famous pilot take the place of their beloved Rey Momo: half of them cheered, the other half booed and began to throw paper cups and napkins at him. Dearborn was Dearborn and they admired him enormously, but he was also a usurper. He had no right to be there. His presence threw a wet blanket on the whole purpose of the carnival, which was to make fun of authority. The orchestra began to play a waltz, but people didn’t want to dance; instead they pounded the floor in anger. I looked around nervously for Madame and saw with relief that she was standing close by, though her hand gripped her throat in anxiety. I put my hand on her shoulder to reassure her and advised her to stay near me. I could tell there was going to be trouble.

“Have you seen Dandré?” Madame asked, looking around in a daze. I had to laugh! I knew it was Diamantino she was really looking for. She was on pins and needles because she had no idea of El Delfín’s whereabouts, or whether he would try to reach her.

Novikov and the girls were already positioned at the foot of the raised dais, ready to start the
Bacchanale
as soon as the preliminary ceremonies were over. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Dandré standing guard near the ballroom’s side exit, where he had taken his lookout post after I warned him that Diamantino Márquez was coming back. The Tapia’s president walked over to the stage to introduce the governor and Colonel Dearborn, his honored guest. Then he announced the first act of the program: the debutantes would dance the pavane. A dozen young girls dressed in glittering white gowns began to float like magnolias over the dance floor, sinking in graceful reverence before the queen and then gliding on. They danced for several minutes, fluttering their fans to the rhythm of the music. Then several politicians, bankers, writers, and other well-known public figures got up and read the pompous verses they had composed in praise of Her Majesty. Finally, Estrella Aljama and Diana Yager ascended the stairs carrying Liberty’s golden crown on a silk cushion and pinned it to Ronda’s hair. When the ceremony ended, the orchestra finally started to play Glazunov’s score, and the overture of the
Bacchanale
began.

But we never got to dance it.

What happened next was a shock to everyone. Suddenly I heard a murmur to my left, and the crowd parted to let a masked group disguised as
jíbaros
file through. They wore black pants and white shirts with red kerchiefs around the neck, and the women were dressed in long flowered skirts with flounced petticoats underneath. They had come into the Tapia thanks to Doña Victoria, who said they were her guests at the door. She was right there leading them, in spite of her deafness. She had on a
rumberas
muumuu which was so large, it made her look like a swaying tepee. The men’s faces were blackened with burnt cork and they carried short machetes tucked in at the waist. Under their leader’s direction, they began hauling in several cases of liquor and two large drums, which they set down on the floor next to Madame. Then they passed around jiggers of rum to everyone on the dance floor. Liquor was still strictly forbidden, but the crowd immediately began to drink.

Then someone blew a whistle and a stream of blue uniforms poured into the ballroom. Law-enforcement troops were never far away at carnival time because of the frequent brawls, and now they encircled the revelers. I immediately guessed who they were after, but the
jíbaros
rapidly mixed with the crowd and soon it was impossible to identify them. Everyone on the dance floor was in costume, and the
jíbaro
dress was particularly well liked by the social set, while the middle class preferred to dress up as kings and queens. The band of
jíbaros
with blackened faces and machetes at the waist was just another
comparsa
of partygoers. They began jumping, whirling, and noisily scattering a storm of confetti and serpentine over the heads of the merrymakers.

Madame and I watched from the sidelines when one of the
jíbaros
approached the orchestra and ordered it to stop playing. The brawniest of the group, a hatless man with a shock of red hair, walked up to the dais, picked up one of the drums, straddled it, and began to play. Suddenly, as if energized by the beat, Madame walked determinedly toward the center of the dance floor, and the girls followed her. I looked on in bewilderment—this definitely wasn’t on the program. The drumbeats—hand to hand and skin to skin—penetrated to the bone, and we swayed to the rhythm as if in a trance. The women lifted their skirts and petticoats to the waist, fanning themselves with them, as if directing the fumes of their genitals toward the crowd. Madame, in her red chiffon skirt and golden bra, stepped into the middle of the dance floor. She transformed herself into a flame, writhing and burning before us.

I couldn’t say for sure when the drums ceased and the mutiny began, but suddenly the whole ballroom broke into chaos. The revelers were divided between those who were anxious to see Dearborn up close and wanted him to be carnival king and those who were furious because the tradition of El Rey Momo had been violated and wanted the colonel to step down from the throne. Dearborn, dressed in his white gala uniform, stood next to the queen, and everybody had to curtsy. This couldn’t be tolerated.

More police marched in, but people began to laugh and taunt them, knowing that they couldn’t fire on the crowd. The dancers fought each other for the jiggers of rum; women bashed their neighbors over the head with their handbags. Others blew their toy horns and threw handfuls of confetti and colored streamers into each other’s faces. Many found themselves robbed of their jewelry by the fierce, unruly, machete-wielding
jíbaros
. A second police battalion came in, brandishing heavy sticks, and it formed a circle around Colonel Dearborn. They urged him to come down from the stage and began to escort him cautiously toward the door.

Then several shots were fired, and I saw Don Pedro running up the stairs of the throne, trying to pull Ronda away to safety. Ronda wrenched free of him and fled to where the
jíbaros
were beating the drums. Don Pedro followed her and, recognizing Bienvenido by his red hair, immediately ordered the security agents to surround the young man. Don Pedro carried a gun and aimed it at Bienvenido, but Ronda got in front of him and shielded her half brother. “Go ahead, shoot!” she cried. “I’m not afraid of death.” Don Pedro paled and lowered his gun. Bienvenido managed to escape in the turmoil, and a few minutes later I saw him run out the door. A group of horsemen was waiting for him there, and they galloped away down San Juan’s narrow streets.

Madame stopped dancing, and one of the masked
jíbaros
took advantage of the confusion to propel her toward the exit. He caught her by the wrists and held her fast, using her as a shield to push his way through the crowd. The diamonds around her neck shimmered as the spotlights hit her, and she held her head up defiantly Dandré tried to make his way toward them, but unfortunately, he was too far away; it was Diamantino who stepped in and blocked the man’s way. “Let her go, Molinari!” he cried. “This is as far as you’ll get.” Molinari aimed his gun at Diamantino and ordered him to move to one side, but, surprisingly, the young man stood his ground. At that moment, Dandré approached them from behind, spun Molinari around, lifted his bear paw Russian-style, and slapped the gun away from him as if it were a toy. Then he punched Molinari in the jaw. Madame was just turning toward Diamantino when a shot rang out and the young man crumpled to the floor. Madame let out a wrenching howl as she bent over him, trying to revive him, but it was no use. Her cry tore the air.

“This is your fault, Masha,” she wailed. “You told them Diamantino was coming!”

I tried to reach out to her with my hand to calm her, but she pushed me away violently. “Don’t you dare come near me,” she shrieked. “Ever again!” And she fell sobbing into Dandré’s arms.

T
HE FOLLOWING WEEK WAS
a nightmare. This time there was no way to keep the press from scattering shit to the winds. The news of the carnival’s debacle was spread all over the front page. There were photographs of the governor hiding behind his aides-de-camp, trying to get away from flying chairs; of Queen Liberty running down the stairs, dragged by Don Pedro, her crown askew, brandishing her torch to keep Los Tiznados away; of Madame in provocative poses which made her look more like a vulgar Folies Bergère
vedette
than an imperial ballerina from the Maryinsky, which made me horribly ashamed.

After Diamantino’s death, Los Tiznados disappeared, mingling with the crowd. The police rounded everybody up and we ended up in the commissioner’s office, where we were interrogated. We all spent the night in jail with the exception of Madame, who was picked up by the governor himself as soon as we arrived and taken to La Fortaleza in his limousine. The next day Madame appeared at the police station. She was dressed all in black and she looked terrible. She had wiped away all her makeup, and it was as if she had erased her face and grief had been left in its place. She smiled at us behind a mask of ice and handed the commissioner a note from the governor, ordering him to release Dandré. When he was brought out, she led him out by the arm as if he were an old man.

A week later the dancers boarded the S.S.
Courbelo
, bound for Panama. The whole company sailed with Madame and Dandré—without me. I stayed behind on the island. I knew what it was like to be like a feather in the wind, or, as Madame once put it, “like flotsam at the mercy of the waves.” I decided to put down roots here. And yet I must admit that wasn’t the only reason. I stayed because Madame ordered me to. I was obeying her for the last time.

Dancing has to do with feet, of course, with the way you move in the world. Perhaps that’s why I fell in love with Juan. Although “fell in love” is perhaps not the most accurate description. “Blazed in love” would be more precise. We always kept a cheerful bonfire going between us.