In The Time Of The Butterflies Part 9

"Perhaps we can bring you down to the capital," he says archly.

"That's exactly what I'm trying to convince Papa to do. I want to go to the university," I confess, playing this man against my own father. If El Jefe says he wants me to study, Papa will have to let me. "I've always wanted to study law."

He gives me the indulgent smile of an adult hearing an outrageous claim from a child. "A woman like you, a lawyer?"

I play on his vanity, and so, perhaps, become his creature like all the others. "You gave the women the vote in '42. You encouraged the founding of the women's branch of the Dominican party. You've always been an advocate for women."

"That I have." He grins a naughty grin. "A woman with a mind of her own. So you want to study in the capital, eh?"

I nod decisively, at the last minute softening the gesture with a tilt of my head.

"I could see our national treasure then on a regular basis. Perhaps, I could conquer this jewel as El Conquistador conquered our island."

The game has gone too far. "I'm afraid I'm not for conquest."

"You already have a novio?" novio?" This can be the only explanation. Even so, engagement, marriage-such things make a conquest more interesting. "A woman like you should have many admirers." This can be the only explanation. Even so, engagement, marriage-such things make a conquest more interesting. "A woman like you should have many admirers."

"I'm not interested in admirers until I have my law degree."

A look of impatience crosses his face. Our tete-a-tete is not following its usual course. "The university is no place for a woman these days."

"Why not, Jefe?"

He seems pleased by my referring to him by his affectionate t.i.tle of Chief. By now, we are so immersed in conversation we are barely dancing. I can feel the crowd watching us.

"It's full of communists and agitators, who want to bring down the government. That Luperon mess, they were in back of it." His look is fierce-as if the mere mention had summoned his enemies before him. "But we've been teaching those teachers their lessons all right!"

They must have caught him! "Virgilio Morales?" I blurt out. I can't believe my own ears.

His face hardens, suspicion clouds the gaze. "You know Virgilio Morales?"

What a complete idiot I am! How can I now protect him and myself? "His family is from El Cibao, too," I say, choosing my words carefully. "I know the son teaches at the university."

El Jefe's gaze is withdrawing further and further into some back room of his mind where he tortures meaning out of the words he hears. He can tell I'm stalling. "So, you do know him?"

"Not personally, no," I say in a little voice. Instantly, I feel ashamed of myself. I see now how easily it happens. You give in on little things, and soon you're serving in his government, marching in his parades, sleeping in his bed.

El Jefe relaxes. "He is not a good person for you to know He and the others have turned the campus into a propaganda camp. In fact, I'm thinking of closing down the university."

"Ay, Jefe, no," I plead with him. "Ours is the first university in the New World. It would be such a blow to the country!" Jefe, no," I plead with him. "Ours is the first university in the New World. It would be such a blow to the country!"

He seems surprised by my vehemence. After a long look, he smiles again. "Maybe I will keep it open if that will draw you to our side." And then literally, he draws me to him, so close I can feel the hardness at his groin pressing against my dress.

I push just a little against him so he'll loosen his hold, but he pulls me tighter towards him. I feel my blood burning, my anger mounting. I push away, a little more decidedly, again he pulls me aggressively to his body. I push hard, and he finally must let me go.

"What is it?" His voice is indignant.

"Your medals," I complain, pointing to the sash across his chest. "They are hurting me." Too late, I recall his attachment to those chapitas.

He glares at me, and then slips the sash over his head and holds it out. An attendant quickly and reverently collects it. El Jefe smiles cynically. "Anything else bother you about my dress I could take off?" He yanks me by the wrist, thrusting his pelvis at me in a vulgar way, and I can see my hand in an endless slow motion rise-a mind all its own-and come down on the astonished, made-up face.

And then the rain comes down hard, slapping sheets of it. The table-cloths are blown off the tables, das.h.i.+ng their cargo onto the floor. The candles go out. There are squeals of surprise. Women hold their beaded evening bags over their heads, trying to protect their foundering hairdos.

In a minute, Manuel de Moya is at our side directing guards to escort El Jefe indoors. A tarp is extended over us. "Que cosa, Jefe," "Que cosa, Jefe," Don Manuel laments, as if this inconvenience of nature were his fault. Don Manuel laments, as if this inconvenience of nature were his fault.

El Jefe studies me as attendants dab at his dripping pancake. Annoyed, he pushes their hands away. I brace myself, waiting for him to give the order. Take her away to La Fortaleza. Take her away to La Fortaleza. My fear is mixed oddly with excitement at the thought that I will get to see Lio if he, too, has been captured. My fear is mixed oddly with excitement at the thought that I will get to see Lio if he, too, has been captured.

But El Jefe has other plans for me. "A mind of her own, this little cibaena cibaena!" He smirks, rubbing his cheek, then turns to Don Manuel. "Yes, yes, we will adjourn indoors. Make an announcement." As his private guards close around him, I break away, struggling against the sea of guests rus.h.i.+ng indoors out of the rain. Ahead, Dede and Patria are turning in all directions like lookouts on the mast of a s.h.i.+p.

"We're going," Patria explains, grabbing my arm. "Jaimito's gone to get the car."

"I don't like this one bit," Papa is saying, shaking his head. "We shouldn't go without El Jefe's permission."

"His designs are so clear, Papa." Patria is the oldest, and so in Mama's absence, her words carry weight. "We're exposing Minerva by staying here."

Pedrito looks up at the blowing lanterns. "The party is breaking up anyway, Don Enrique. This rain is a perfect excuse."

Papa lifts his shoulders and lets them fall. "You young people know what you do."

We make a dash for the covered entryway, pa.s.sing a table with a caravel still standing. No one will miss it, I think, hiding the little s.h.i.+p in the folds of my skirt. That's when I remember. "Ay, "Ay, Patria, my purse. I left it at the table." Patria, my purse. I left it at the table."

We run back to get it, but can't find it anywhere. "Probably somebody already took it in. They'll send it to you. n.o.body is going to steal from El Jefe's house," Patria reminds me. The caravel goes heavy in my hand.

By the time we run back to the entryway, the Ford is idling at the door and the others are already inside. Out on the highway, I recall the slap with mounting fear. No one has mentioned it, so I'm sure they didn't see it. Given everyone's nerves already, I decide not to worry them with the story. Instead, to distract myself-One nail takes out another-I go over the contents of my purse, trying to a.s.sess exactly what I've lost: my old wallet with a couple of pesos; my cedula, cedula, which I will have to report; a bright red Revlon lipstick I bought at El Gallo; a little Nivea tin Lio gave me with ashes of the Luperon martyrs not killed at sea. which I will have to report; a bright red Revlon lipstick I bought at El Gallo; a little Nivea tin Lio gave me with ashes of the Luperon martyrs not killed at sea.

And then, I remember them in the pocket of the lining, Lio's letters!

All the way home, I keep going over and over them as if I were an intelligence officer marking all the incriminating pa.s.sages. On either side of me, my sisters are snoring away. When I lean on Patria, wanting the release of sleep, I feel something hard against my leg. A rush of hope goes through me that my purse is not lost after all. But reaching down, I discover the little caravel sunk in the folds of my damp dress.

Rainy Spell The rain comes down all morning, beating against the shutters, blurring the sounds inside the house. I stay in bed, not wanting to get up and face the dreary day.

A car comes splas.h.i.+ng into the driveway. Grim voices carry from the parlor. Governor de la Maza is just now returning from the party. Our absence was noted, and of course, leaving any gathering before Trujillo is against the law. El Jefe was furious and kept everyone till well after dawn-perhaps to show up our early departure.

What to do? I hear their worried voices. Papa takes off with the governor to send a telegram of apology to El Jefe. Meanwhile, Jaimito's father is calling on his colonel friend to see how the fire can be put out. Pedrito is visiting the in-laws of Don Petan, one of Trujillo's brothers, who are friends of his family. Whatever strings can be pulled, in other words, are being yanked.

Now all we can do is wait and listen to the rain falling on the roof of the house.

When Papa returns, he looks as if he has aged ten years. We can't get him to sit down or tell us what exactly happened. All day, he paces through the house, going over what we should do if he is taken away. When hours pa.s.s, and no guardias guardias come to the door, he calms down a little, eats some of his favorite pork sausages, drinks more than he should, and goes to bed exhausted at dusk. Mama and I stay up. Every time it thunders we jump as if guards had opened fire on the house. come to the door, he calms down a little, eats some of his favorite pork sausages, drinks more than he should, and goes to bed exhausted at dusk. Mama and I stay up. Every time it thunders we jump as if guards had opened fire on the house.

Next day, early, while Papa is out seeing what damage this last storm has done on the cacao crop, two guardias arrive in a Jeep. Governor de la Maza wants to see Papa and me immediately.

"Why her?" Mama points to me.

The officer shrugs.

"If she goes, I go," Mama a.s.serts, but the guard has already turned his back on her.

At the governor's palace, we are met right away by Don Antonio de la Maza, a tall, handsome man with a worried face. He has received orders to send Papa down to the capital for questioning.

"I tried to handle it here"-he shows us his palms-"but the orders have come from the top."

Papa nods absently. I have never seen him so scared. "We... we sent the telegram."

"If he goes, I go." Mama pulls herself up to her full bulk. The guardias finally had to let her come this morning. She stood in the driveway refusing to get out of the way.

Don Antonio takes Mama by the arm. "It will be better all the way around if we follow orders. Isn't that so, Don Enrique?"

Papa looks like he'll agree to anything. "Yes, yes, of course. You stay here and take care of things." He embraces Mama, who breaks down, sobbing in his arms. It's as if her years and years of holding back have finally given way.

When it's my turn, I give Papa a goodbye kiss as we've gotten out of the habit of hugs since our estrangement. "Take care of your mother, you hear," he whispers to me and in the same breath adds, "I need you to deliver some money to a client in San Francisco." He gives me a meaningful look. "Fifty pesos due at the middle and end of the month until I'm back."

"You'll be back before you know it, Don Enrique," the governor a.s.sures him.

I look over at Mama to see if she's at all suspicious. But she is too upset to pay attention to Papa's business dealings.

"One last thing," Papa addresses the governor. "Why did you want to see my daughter, too?"

"Not to worry, Don Enrique. I just want to have a little talk with her."

"I can trust her then to your care?" Papa asks, looking the governor squarely in the eye. A man's word is a man's word.

Absolutely. I make myself responsible." Don Antonio gives the guardias guardias a nod. The audience is over. Papa is taken out of the room. We listen to their steps in the corridor before they're drowned by the sound of the rain outside, still coming down hard. a nod. The audience is over. Papa is taken out of the room. We listen to their steps in the corridor before they're drowned by the sound of the rain outside, still coming down hard.

Mama watches Don Antonio like an animal waiting to attack if her young one is threatened. The governor sits down on the edge of his desk and gives me a befriending smile. We have met a couple of times at official functions, including, of course, the last few parties. "Senorita Minerva," he begins, motioning Mama and me towards two chairs a guard has just placed before him. "I believe there is a way you can help your father."

"Desgraciado!" Mama is going on and on. I've never heard such language coming out of her mouth. "He calls himself a man of honor!" Mama is going on and on. I've never heard such language coming out of her mouth. "He calls himself a man of honor!"

I try to calm her. But I'll admit I like seeing this s.p.u.n.k in Mama.

We are driving around in the rain in San Francisco, getting our last-minute errands done before we leave for the capital this afternoon to pet.i.tion for Papa's release. I drop Mama off at the clinica clinica to get extra doses of Papa's medication, and I head for the barrio. to get extra doses of Papa's medication, and I head for the barrio.

But the turquoise house with the white trim isn't where it used to be. I'm turning here and there, feeling desperate, when I catch a glimpse of the oldest girl, holding a piece of palm bark over her head and wading through the puddles on the street. The sight of her in her wet, raggedy dress tears my own heart to shreds. She must be on an errand, a knotted rag in her free hand, a poor girl's purse. I honk, and she stops, terrified. Probably, she's remembering the time I rammed into our father's car, blowing the horn.

I motion for her to come in the car. "I'm trying to find your mother," I tell her when she climbs in. She stares at me with that same scared look Papa wore only a couple of hours ago.

"Which way?" I ask her, pulling out on the street.

"That way." She motions with her hand.

"Right?"

She looks at me, not understanding. So, she doesn't know directions. Can she read, I wonder? "How do you spell your name, Margarita?" I test her.

She shrugs. I make a mental note that once I'm back, I'm going to make sure these girls are enrolled in school.

In a few turns we are at the little turquoise house. The mother runs out on the porch, clutching the collar of her dress against the rain blowing in. "Is Don Enrique all right?" A doubt goes through my head as to whether my father's a.s.surances that he's no longer involved with this woman are true. That cleaving look in her eye is not just memory.

"He's been called away on urgent business," I tell her more sharply than I meant to.

Then, softening, I hand her the envelope. "I've brought you for the full month."

"You are so kind to think of us."

"I do want to ask you for a favor," I say, though I hadn't meant to ask her now.

She bites her lip as if she knows what I'm going to ask her. "Carmen Maria, at your orders," she says in the smallest of voices. Her daughter looks up quizzically. She must be used to a much fiercer version of her mother.

"The girls are not in school, are they?" A shake of her head. "May I enroll them when I get back?"

The look on her face is relieved. "You're the one who knows," she says.

"You know as well as I do that without schooling we women have even fewer choices open to us." I think of my own foiled plans. On the other hand, Elsa and Sinita, just starting their third year at the university, are already getting offers from the best companies.

"You are right, senorita. Look at me. I never had a chance." She holds out her empty hands, then looking at her eldest, she adds, "I want better for my girls."

I reach for her hand, and then it seems natural to continue the gesture and give her the hug I've refused Papa all month.

Luckily, the rain lets up for our drive to the capital. When we get there, we stop at each of the three hotels Don Antonio de la Maza wrote down. If no official charge has been made, Papa won't be jailed but put under house arrest at one of these hotels. When we're told at the final stop, Presidente, that no Enrique Mirabal has been registered, Mama looks as if she is ready to cry. It's late, and the palace offices will be closed, so we decide to get a room for the night.

"We have a special weekly rate," the man offers. He is thin with a long, sad face.

I look over at Mama to see what she thinks, but as usual, she doesn't say a word in public. In fact, this afternoon with Don Antonio was the first time I ever saw Mama stand up for herself, or actually, for me and Papa. "We don't know if we'll need it for a whole week," I tell the man. "We're not sure if my father is being charged or not."

He looks from me to my mother and back to me. "Get the weekly rate," he suggests in a quiet voice. "I'll return the difference if you stay a shorter time."

The young man must know these cases are never quickly resolved. I write out the registration card, pressing down hard as he commands. The writing must go through all four copies, he explains.

One for the police, one for Internal Control, one for Military Intelligence, and one last one the young man sends along, not sure where it goes.

A day made in h.e.l.l, sitting in one or another office of National Police Headquarters. Only the steady pounding of rain on the roof is gratifying, sounding as if old Huracan were beating on the building for all the crimes engineered inside.

We end up at the Office of Missing Persons to report what is now being described as the disappearance of Enrique Mirabal. The place is packed. Most people have been here hours before the office opened to get a good place in line. As the day wears on, I overhear case after case being described at the interrogation desk. It's enough to make me sick. Every so often, I go stand by the window and dab rainwater on my face. But this is the kind of headache that isn't going to go away.

Finally, towards the end of the day, we are the next in line. The pet.i.tion right before ours is being filed by an elderly man reporting a missing son, one of his thirteen. I help him fill out his form since he isn't any good at his letters, he explains.

"You are the father of thirteen sons?" I ask in disbelief.

"Si, senora," the old man nods proudly. At the tip of my tongue is the question I burn to ask him, "How many different mothers?" But his troubles make all other considerations fall away. We get to the part where he has to list all his children. the old man nods proudly. At the tip of my tongue is the question I burn to ask him, "How many different mothers?" But his troubles make all other considerations fall away. We get to the part where he has to list all his children.

"What's the oldest one's name?" I ask, pencil poised to write.

"Pablo Antonio Almonte."

I write out the full name, then it strikes me. "Isn't this the name of the missing son, and you said he's number three?"

In confidence, the old man tells me that he gave all thirteen sons the same name to try to outwit the regime. Whichever son is caught can swear he isn't the brother they want!

I laugh at the ingenuity of my poor, trapped countryman. I put my own ingenuity to work, coming up with a dozen names from my reading, because, of course, I don't want to give the sons any real Dominican names and get someone in trouble. The head officer has a time reading them. "Fausto? Dimitri? Pushkin? What kind of a name is that?" I'm summoned to help since the old man can't read what I wrote. When I finish, the suspicious officer points to the old man, who is nodding away at the names I've read off. "You say them now."