It's Just Lola
Authors: Dixiane Hallaj
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Genre Fiction, #Biographical, #Historical, #Historical Fiction
ALSO BY
DIXIANE HALLAJ
REFUGEE WITHOUT REFUGE
BORN A REFUGEE
CAUGHT BY CULTURE AND CONFLICT
“A Game of Peace”
A children’s story in the anthology
A WORLD OF STORIES
IT’S
JUST LOLA
© 2012
by Dixiane Hallaj
Cover by Merrill Worthington
Dedicated to the memory of my grandmother, the real Lola,
w
hose life inspired this novel.
V. January 1908: Lola almost 14
VI. February 1908: Lola turns 14
IX. October 1908: Still age 14
X. September 1909: Lola age 15
XII. March 1914: Lola Barely 20
XIII. September, 1914: Lola Age 20
XVI. August, 1917: Lola Age 23
XVII. March, 1918: Lola just 24
XVIII. January, 1921: Lola Age 27
XIX. March, 1924: Lola turned 30
face
I
n the darkest hours of the night, a woman barely into her thir
ties
lies
on her bed, racked with chills and fever. Her young daughter wipes her brow and holds a glass to her parched lips. Lola is frightened
; she
believes death may be hours away. Whether it is her attempt to keep the girl from falling asleep, leaving her to die alone, or a devout though estranged Catholic’s urge to confess, Lola begins to tell the story of her youth—a story full of secrets carefully guarded for many years.
Lola survived that illness, and swore the
young girl
,
my mother
, to silence
.
More than
e
ight decades
later
,
the story was passed to me under similar circumstances as I sat by my 95-year-old mother’s hospital bed.
Nothing in this account contradicts the story as it was told
to me,
although
I added details and filled in the gaps with fiction.
This is the story of what could have happened
.
..
E
l Patrón sat on his horse atop the small hill, his back ramrod straight as he looked out over the vastness of the land—his land. The face beneath the finely woven straw hat was deeply bronzed by the Peruvian sun. His green eyes were almost startling in contrast, but few people had the temerity to look closely into them. On his left, the fields of crops in varying shades of green reached nearly to the horizon. Past them, barely visible in the distance, stood the shade trees surrounding the house of his eldest daughter, Victoria. Victoria’s husband was doing well with the hectares he had deeded them as a wedding gift. Beyond Victoria’s
land lay
the plantations of Amelia and Ernestina—also wedding gifts. He scanned the sky, looking for the clouds moving in from the sea to dump their water on his lush valley, giving up the last of their moisture on the side of his mountain. There was a thin line of clouds to the west
—at
last the rain was coming.
Enrique nudged his horse and let it pick its own route toward the distillery. If the aguadiente was ready, he would share a bottle with Jacoba tonight. A smile played around his lips. Jacoba’s dark beauty had never compared with the porcelain perfection of his wife, but the wild passion in her young body had satisfied his appetites in ways that would have shocked his loving, devout wife—even before the illness began to eat away at her. During his wife’s lifetime he’d been discreet, but he felt no guilt. Men had needs that women couldn’t comprehend. That was how God made them, and who was he to question it?
Virginia had given him twelve lovely
daughters
—seven of whom survived the periodic bouts of malaria, yellow fever, and dysentery that plagued the rich and the poor alike. At first he’d been resentful of the seemingly endless stream of girls his wife’s womb had produced, but as they grew into adulthood their jealousies had made him realize that
s
ons
might become
rivals but sons-in-law became vassals—especially since the question of
the greater
inheritance remained unanswered. Enrique Herrera was El Patrón and he would remain so as long as it suited him.
He laughed softly and kicked his horse into a trot, raising a cloud of dust as he went. When he reached the distillery he dismounted and walked toward the door, confident that one of his men would grab the reins and care for the animal.
“
Buenos días, Patrón
,”
said
a voice behind him. He spat out dust and acknowledged the greeting with a small motion of his hand.
Enrique walked into the office of the distillery.
The manager rose to his feet. “
Buenos días, Patrón
.”
“
Buenos días
. Is the new batch of aguadiente ready?”
“
Sí, Patrón
, I’ll get you a bottle. It’s excellent.” The manager scurried away.
Enrique s
a
t in the manager’s chair and pulled ledger books out of the drawers. Two hours later, satisfied that everything was as it should be, he
noticed
the bottle of aguadiente and a clean glass on the corner of the desk. He filled the glass and admire
d
the clarity
of the contents
. He inhaled the sharp vapors
and
took a small mouthful
,
search
ing
for any hint of imperfection. Satisfied, he let the fiery liquid slide down his throat. It was good. He took the bottle with him as he left.
He thought briefly of stopping for lunch as he caught sight of the
tidy
vegetable plots near the house, but the sun told him it was still early. He’d let the herders share their rough fare with him today, even if it meant coming home reeking of raw onions. The sun was low in the sky when he returned.
Throwing
his reins to a boy who came running at his approach
, he
strode
on
to the verandah that nearly surrounded the house.
“Rosa
,
” he called as he
entered
. “I need to talk to Juan
, t
hen I shall want my bath ready, and tell the girls they’ll dine with me tonight.” He walked into the library, knowing that Juan would arrive shortly.
Juan entered and gave Enrique an envelope with cash and a document listing the produce he had taken to town that day, initialed by the farm manager. Next to each item Juan had carefully added the price he had received, and the total was written at the bottom. Enrique read quickly through the list and nodded his satisfaction at the prices. He set aside both the list and the money. He’d check the arithmetic and count the money later. Juan had never made a mistake, but Enrique always checked. He smiled up at Juan.
“Did you take potatoes today?”
“
Sí, Patrón
. Good money today.” The potatoes were grown in ragtag patches on the mountain where it was cool and wherever there was enough top soil. The
Cholos
grew them when and where they could and the money was shared among them. All Enrique asked in return for their use of his land was enough of the crop for his own household use.
“Anything else?”
“Only this.” Juan placed a small package on the desk.
“Thank you, Juan. That will be all.”
When Juan
left
, Enrique sat staring at the package for several minutes.
T
he spidery handwriting
w
as his mother’s. Although he had no idea what was in the package, he knew
that his father was dead
. Receiving anything from his mother could only mean that she was no longer subject to his father’s will. He picked up the package and slowly removed the layers of wrapping. He had no quarrel with his mother; she was a dutiful wife and had obeyed the wishes of her husband.
He remembered his mother arriving at the dock in a curtained coach as he and Virginia were embarking for
Peru
. She’d lifted her veil and kissed him on the cheek, wishing him a happier life. When the coach moved away, Virginia
was
holding
his mother’s
pearl rosary
—
the same rosary he recently buried with
her
, the gold cross worn smooth with use. Victoria, as eldest, had claimed the rosary to remember their mother, but he
ha
d refused. Maria
, who
looked so much like her mother it made his heart ache to look at her
,
had also asked.
“No, that rosary was your mother’s most prized possession,” he had said. “I’ll not take it from her now.”
Beneath the last layer of
wrapping,
he found
a letter and a small silk pillow embroidered with tiny perfect flowers.
My dearest son, Enrique,
I am sorry to have to tell you of the death of your father. He died of apoplexy and did not suffer long, may God rest his soul. I pray that he finds more peace in the next world than he found in this one.
Many years ago we tasted a wonderful guava liqueur at one of those tedious social gatherings where your father went to see and be seen.
M
y heart fluttered and I had to be given smelling salts when I recognized the silhouette on the label as that of your lovely bride. I passed off my spell as fatigue and later made discreet inquiries about the liqueur. I located the importer and ma
d
e his life more comfortable. In return he has kept me supplied with imported guava liqueur and news of your well-being. It gladdened me to hear your news and it kept a mother’s heart beating in her breast.
A woman in this world has few things that are hers alone to dispose of as she wishes. I am entrusting this package to the importer, who became a friend many years ago. It contains a small pillow embroidered by your great-grandmother, Victoria. I would like your lovely wife to have it. She can kneel on it to pray, as I have done for years. It has great sentimental value.
It was God’s will that we walk our life paths so far from each other. Please know that not a day has passed that I have not wished you well.
Your loving Mother
Enrique felt no sorrow at the death of his father. He read the letter again and smiled at the thought of his guava liqueur being served in the noble houses of Spain. He searched his memory for the mention of a small pillow with great sentimental value. It seemed odd that his mother would send a pillow. The more he thought about it, the stranger it seemed. His
mother’s
name was Victoria. He had named his first girl after his mother.
He reached into the box and removed the pillow. It was firm and quite heavy. He turned it over and over looking at it. The silk looked very clean for something his mother had knelt on for years, and the stitching was perfect—too perfect. No threads had frayed over time.
A smile spread slowly across his face.
He picked up his letter opener, tugged carefully at the stitches on one side of the pillow, and plucked them loose one by one until he could pull the stuffing out onto the desk. It took seconds to tease apart the cotton
—he
ga
sped at the sight of the jewels.
He lifted one
emerald
necklace
that
sparkl
ed
with an inner fire
, and h
is eyes clouded with tears as he imagined the jewels around the lovely neck of his beautiful Virginia. How much joy the gift would have brought to her.
Anger boiled up within him as he cursed his father for not dying sooner and letting her have that joy—or maybe it was anger at God Himself for taking his beloved wife from him so early.
He rewrapped the jewels in the cotton
,
stuffed them back into the pillow
, and
locked the entire package in his desk drawer. Rubbing his hand across his face reminded him he still had the grit of a long day on his face, and he’d promised the girls to dine with them.
As he readied himself for the evening meal, he thought about the letter. Where would a woman get jewels that were hers alone? Jewels in the family would pass to his younger brother now, along with the title. He was sure he’d never seen that necklace before. The other pieces were less memorable but were definitely worth a small fortune.
He laughed
aloud
at the thought of his great-grandmother having a gentleman admirer. The laughter died as he remembered that he’d decided the stitchery was the work of his mother.
~ ~ ~
“Good evening, Papa,” said Maria as she entered the dining room.
“Good evening, Papa.” Enriqueta and Lola spoke almost in unison.
“Good evening, ladies.”
H
e’d started using
the greeting
years ago when Victoria was a toddler.
I
t was amusing to
see
the girls simper and act
as
they thought ladies should act. Maria smiled comfortably, knowing that she actually was a lady now, and Lola kept her eyes on the table in front of her.
He watched them as
Rosa
served
the food. Only Enriqueta was simpering, or maybe she was just squirming in a too tight dress. He was mildly surprised to see bosoms straining at the bodice of her dress. Even little Lola was showing signs of budding maturity. But Lola was still so small; she couldn’t be old enough for bosoms, could she? He thought of his own mother’s exquisitely petite frame as he tried to count years. He frowned as he saw Lola’s red-rimmed eyes.
Was she still crying for her mother?
“Papa,” said Maria, “would it be all right if I took the young ones to the river to swim tomorrow?”
“Oh, yes, please,” said Enriqueta, bouncing in her seat, “It’s so hot in the afternoons
.
”
Her father smiled at her sudden return to being a little girl.
“I’ll ask Jacoba to accompany you.”
“I’m sure Jacoba would prefer the comforts of the house,” said Maria. “May I ask Pilar if Dolores can be spared for the day, Papa?”
Enrique looked at Maria for a moment before turning to his youngest child. “And what about you, Lola? Would you like to go swimming tomorrow?”
Lola nodded with her head down, still staring at the plate in front of her.
“Lola, I asked you a question, and I expect you to look at me and answer.”
“Yes, Papa.” Reluctantly she raised her head and looked at her father. “It would be nice to swim.”
Enrique was shocked to see the faint mark of a hand on his youngest daughter’s face. “Maria, did you strike your sister?”