The News from Paraguay Read online

  THE NEWS FROM PARAGUAY

  A Novel

  LILY TUCK

  To my family

  Paraguay is the most interesting, loveliest, pleasantest country in the world, I believe.

  —from a letter written by

  C. B. MANSFIELD, ESQ., M.A., in 1852

  Stranger and visitor, she has written in her diary the news from Ireland. Stranger and visitor, she has learnt to live with things.

  —WILLIAM TREVOR

  Contents

  EPIGRAPH

  MAP

  One

  PARIS

  Two

  TACUARI

  Three

  BUENOS AYRES

  Four

  VILLA FRANCA

  Five

  ASUNCIÓN

  Six

  OBISPO CUE

  Seven

  LAKE IPACARAÌ

  Eight

  CERRO LEÓN

  Nine

  MARQUEZ DE OLINDA

  Ten

  CORRIENTES

  Eleven

  HUMAITÁ

  Twelve

  CURUPAYTY

  Thirteen

  GRAN CHACO

  Fourteen

  SAN FERNANDO

  Fifteen

  PIKYSYRY

  Sixteen

  PIRIBEBUY

  Seventeen

  AQUIDABAN RIVER

  Eighteen

  PARIS

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PRAISE

  OTHER BOOKS BY LILY TUCK

  CREDITS

  COPYRIGHT

  ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

  “Paraguay,” says Muratori, “means ‘River of feathers,’ and was so called from the variety and brilliancy of its birds.”

  “Paraguay,” says P. Charlevoix, “signifies ‘fleuve couronné’ from Pará, river, and gua, circle or crown, in the language of the people around the Xarayes lake, which forms as it were its own crown.”

  “Paraguay,” says Mr. Davie (1805), “would signify ‘variety of colours,’ alluding to the flowers and birds. Pará, in fact, may mean ‘spotted,’ as in the name Petun Pará, the speckled tobacco familiar to all Paraguayan travellers.” Mr. Wilcocke (1807), who borrows, without acknowledgment from Davie and other authors, echoes “variety of colours.”

  “Paraguay,” says D. Pedro de Angelis (1810), “must be translated, the River running out of the lake Xarayes, celebrated for its wild rice.”

  “Paraguay,” which in some old MSS, is written Paraquay, says Rengger, “is simply ‘sea-water hole,’ from Pará, the sea, and qua-y, water-hole.”

  “Paraguay,” says popular opinion, “merely expresses water of the (celebrated) Payaguá or Canoe tribe of Indians, corrupted into Paragua by the first Spanish settlers.”

  “Paraguay,” says Lieut.-Col. George Thompson, C.E., “is literally, ‘the river pertaining to the sea’ (Pará, the sea, guay, pertaining to and y—pronounced ü—river or water).”

  An eighth derivation, for which there exists no authority, is “Water of the Penelope bird” (the Ortalida Parraqua, still common on its banks).

  Without attempting to decide a question so disputed…, I would observe, that even as late as 1837, a tribe of Guaranis had for chief one Paragua;…and that, both in Portuguese and in Spanish America, the conquerors often called geographical features after the caciques whom they debelled or slew. Paraguay therefore, may mean the river of (the kinglet) “Paragua.”

  —CAPTAIN RICHARD F. BURTON, F.R.G.S., etc.

  Map

  One

  PARIS

  For him it began with a feather. A bright blue parrot feather that fell out of Ella Lynch’s hat while she was horseback riding one afternoon in the Bois de Boulogne. Blond, fair-skinned and Irish, Ella was a good rider—the kind of natural rider who rides with her ass, not her legs—and she was riding astride on a nervous little gray thoroughbred mare. Cantering a few paces behind Ella and her companion, Francisco Solano Lopez was also a good rider—albeit a different sort of rider. He rode from strength, the strength in his arms, the strength in his thighs. Also he liked to ride big horses, horses that measured over sixteen, seventeen hands; at home, he often rode a big sure-footed cantankerous brown mule. Pulling up on the reins and getting off his horse, his heavy silver spurs clanging, Franco—as Francisco Solano Lopez was known—picked the feather up from the ground; it briefly occurred to him that Inocencia, his fat sister, would know what kind of parrot feather it was, for she kept hundreds of parrots in her aviary in Asunción, but it was Ella and not the feather that had caught Franco’s attention.

  The year was 1854 and the forty miles of bridle paths and carriage roads were filled with elegant calèches, daumonts, phaetons; every afternoon, weather permitting, Empress Eugénie could be seen driving with her equerry. Every afternoon too, Empress Eugénie, in fashion-obsessed Paris, could be seen wearing a different dress, a dress of a different color: Crimean green, Sebastopol blue, Bismarck brown. The Bois de Boulogne had recently been transformed from a ruined forest into an elegant English park.

  Sent as ambassador-at-large to Europe by his father, twenty-six-year-old Franco was dressed in a field marshal’s uniform modeled on Napoleon’s, only his jacket was green—Paraguayan green. He was short, stocky—not yet grown stout nor had his back teeth begun to trouble him—and his thick eyebrows met in the middle of his forehead like a black stripe but he was not unattractive. He was self-confident, naïve, ambitious, energetic, spoilt—never had anything, except once one thing, been denied him—and he was possessed of an immense fortune. Franco put the feather in his pocket and mounted his horse again. He caught up with Ella easily and followed her home.

  At age ten, Eliza Alicia Lynch had left Ireland; at fifteen, Elisa Alice Lynch married a French army officer; at nineteen, divorced and living with a handsome but impecunious Russian count, Ella Lynch needed to reinvent herself.

  14 MARCH 1854

  A lovely afternoon! I rode the little mare again in the Bois with Dimitri. [Ella wrote in her diary that evening.] Each day I grow fonder of her—her mouth is as soft as silk and a touch of the rein is sufficient. Her canter puts me in mind of sitting in a rocking chair! But how can I possibly afford to buy a horse? Already I owe John Worth a fortune! Oh, how I loathe worrying about money all the time! Money and servants both! When I returned home and was changing my clothes, I once again had to listen to Marie complain about Pierre whom she accuses of drinking my wine and who knows what other thefts—servants are addicted to their tales of intrigue and to their jealousies! Also, Marie’s chatter nearly made me late—today was the opening of the Salon! However, as it turned out, I was fortunate. The President of the Jury himself, the Count of Morny, was the first person I met and he took me by the arm and recounted how the day before, his half brother, the Emperor, had gone through all the galleries never once stopping, never once glancing at the paintings, until he arrived at the last gallery—the least important gallery, the gallery filled with the most mediocre paintings—and then the Emperor, out of duty, the count supposes, stopped in front of a hideous picture of the Alps—the Alps looking exactly like a stack of bread loaves!—and after staring at it for a good five minutes, the Emperor turned to the poor count and said: “The painter should have indicated the relative heights.” I could hardly contain myself and laughed until tears streamed down my cheeks! Rain was falling when finally I left the exhibition to go to supper and of course in my haste I had forgotten to bring an umbrella but, as luck would have it, a gentleman smoking a foul-smelling cigar was standing at the door and he offered me his.

  From Paraguay, Franco had brought with him crates of oranges and tobacco. On boar
d ship, the oranges started to rot, the sailors squeezed them and drank the juice; the tobacco fared better. The tobacco (the Paraguayan leaves are allowed to mature on the stem and, as a result, contain more nicotine) beat out the Cuban entry and was awarded a first-class medal at the Paris Exhibition; the citation read, Very good collection of leaves, especially suitable for cigars. In addition to the tobacco, Franco had brought dozens of ponchos as gifts; the ponchos were made from a vegetable silk called samahu whose softness was much admired. After he followed Ella home, he had one of the ponchos delivered to her house on rue du Bac with his card.

  Pierre, Ella’s valet de chambre, put Francisco Solano Lopez’s card on top of the other cards on the silver tray on the table in the front hall of the house on rue du Bac; then he gave the package with the poncho in it to Marie, the maid. The poncho was badly wrapped in brown paper and, curious, Marie opened it. Also, the package smelled strange. Like tea. The color of red soil, the poncho, although soft and no doubt warm, did not look like the clothes Ella usually wore—her fur stole, her velvet cloaks and paisley cashmere shawls. Holding the poncho in her arms, Marie shivered a little and, glancing out the window, noticed that it had begun to rain, a slight drizzle. God knows, she’ll never miss it, and anyway she owes me a month’s salary, Marie said to herself as, without another thought, she slipped the poncho over her head and went out the front door to do her errands.

  Everywhere he went—to the home of the Errazu sisters, who, like him, were wealthy South Americans, to the home of Countess Walewska, an Italian whose husband was Polish, to the Duchess of Persigny, married to Napoleon III’s minister of the interior, to the Duchess of Malakoff, to the Marchioness Chasseloup-Laubat, a Creole whose skin was even darker than his, or to the Maréchale Canrobert, who had a large goiter on her neck—Franco took along his retinue of servants and his private Paraguayan band. Invariably, halfway through the reception, his mouth full of champagne and sticky petits fours, Franco motioned them to play, and, invariably too, it took the assembled guests a moment to realize that the tune the hapless Paraguayan band was playing on their wooden harps was “La Marseillaise.”

  Not only did Franco astonish French society, he impressed them with his intellect. He had read Jean Jacques Rousseau’s The Social Contract and could discuss the difference between “true” law and “actual” law; he had gone up in Monsieur Nadar’s giant balloon, which carried a complete developing laboratory, and could discourse on photography; still better he was an accomplished and graceful dancer. Un, deux, trois, he waltzed the Errazu sisters around the ballroom, un, deux, trois, he swung the Countess Walewska in a mazurka, then whirled the Marchioness Chasseloup-Laubat around the room in an energetic polka.

  Messy, messy bang, messy bang—the only French words Justo José, one of the musicians in Franco’s band, had learned, he repeated. He hated France. Always cold, the food uneatable, and the people were pale and unfriendly. Worse still, there was no yerba maté. At home, he drank fifteen to twenty gourds a day, the silver straw never far from his mouth. The time he tried the French drink, a dark red substance the color of blood, he was sick to his stomach and the next day he felt worse—worse than when, as a boy, he was kicked in the head by the neighbor’s old burro who was blind in one eye. Another thing that bothered Justo José was the women. He had gone with one, a little blond—he had never been with a woman whose hair was the color of a yellow parakeet—he could not say her name although she made him repeat it—Eeyon. She had taken him up several flights of stairs to the top floor of a building; her room had a chair and a bed and a basin in it, and the first thing she did was make him wash his member in the basin, then she had lain on the bed with all her clothes on, her legs spread, and during the entire act she never moved or made a sound. Afterward, she asked him for ten francs—twice the amount they agreed on, he had held up the fingers of one hand. When he tried to leave, she stood by the door and screamed and Justo José screamed back at her: Puta, puta, but, in the end, he gave her the extra five francs.

  At supper in Princess Mathilde Bonaparte’s house on the rue de Courcelles, Ella drank too much champagne and ate too many oysters. The room was filled with Russians, Poles, Italians and filled with the noise of silver knives and forks striking china plates, the noise of glasses clinking and being refilled, and of everyone talking too loudly and at once in different languages. The room too, with its velvet drapes, heavy crystal chandelier and arrangement of sweet-smelling lilies, felt airless and hot. Next to Ella, Jules de Goncourt was repeating the latest Paris gossip and Ella only half listened as names floated by her—the Countess of Castiglione, the Count Cavour, Monsieur Viollet-le-Duc, the Duchess of Alba, Monsieur Balzac, Monsieur Mérimée. On her other side, Adolphe de Custine was repeating to her what the Emperor had told the Count of Morny when he saw the painting of the Alps. But Adolphe de Custine was easy and charming and Ella could not help think it was a pity that he preferred young boys. Mostly during the meal, Ella kept glancing toward the dining room door. Earlier Dimitri had sworn that he would come and join her for supper but he never did. By the time she was ready to go home, Ella had both a headache and a stomachache.

  “Ma chère, are you not feeling well?” Princess Mathilde had asked her as she kissed Ella good night.

  With his unlimited bank account, Franco bought whatever took his fancy—snuffboxes, ormolu clocks and silver candlesticks, fine clothes and silk slippers, thoroughbred horses, carriages, and, more important, he bought arms and munitions (already, in England, he had negotiated a long-term contract with the Blyth Brothers, London’s leading arms merchant, for the construction of an arsenal in Asunción). Also, Franco bribed officials, shopkeepers, theater attendants. When a week went by and Franco still had not heard from Ella, he went again to her house on rue du Bac. This time, he gave Pierre, the valet de chambre, ten francs to make sure that Ella received his card.

  19 MARCH 1854

  Last night Dimitri informed me that in a few days he will be leaving for the Crimean front to join Prince Menschikov who he claims is his cousin (if I listened to him, Dimitri is related to all the Russian nobility including the Czar and Czarina!) [Ella wrote]. Still, I cannot believe it. Why? oh, why? I asked him. I tried to reason with him but that proved to be useless. I even got down on my knees, begging and pleading him to stay. All to no avail. Nothing I said or did could dissuade him. Dimitri is determined. He feels honor-bound, he says, to fight for his country. The truth is, I think, that Dimitri is bored with Paris. And bored with me. I know him well. Dimitri is the sort of man who needs constant challenge and excitement. I imagine he will find it quick enough in Crimea if one is to believe the most recent battle reports. How many dead thus far did Princess Mathilde say? Fifteen hundred? Fifteen thousand? She should know, she is in constant touch with her cousin, the Czar. But numbers mean nothing to me. When Dimitri tried to put his arms around me to comfort me, he even attempted to kiss me, I would not let him. Instead, in my distress, I reached up and scratched his face. My beloved’s handsome face! I drew a little of his blood, which caused Dimitri to turn pale and push me away. Then—oh, I cannot bear to recall Dimitri’s terrible words!—he called me a common whore, and without another word or glance, he left the room. I ran after him, I said how I was sorry, I said how I was out of my mind with grief and did not mean to harm him, but it was too late. I heard the front door close. Oh, what have I done? Damn Dimitri’s cold heart and his hot blood. I love him.

  A woman stood on the corner of rue du Bac and Boulevard Raspail—half her face was missing. Marie crossed to the other side of the street to avoid her. Still, the woman spotted her. “Vieille conne!” she screamed. With her fingers, Marie made a sign to ward off the evil eye. Farther down the street, she stopped at a fruit stand. She knew the fruit merchant, a big, good-natured man.

  “So,” he teased Marie, “what is Mademoiselle going to buy from me today? Some strawberries, perhaps?” The fruit merchant held up a basket filled with the fragrant little fraises des
bois, which were not yet in season in Paris.

  Marie shook her head but she leaned down to smell the strawberries. “Where do they come from? The Americas?

  “How much?” she also asked.

  “Too much,” she said before the fruit merchant had time to reply.

  He laughed and offered the basket to another customer. While his back was turned to weigh the fraises des bois, Marie slipped an orange underneath her poncho and quickly walked away.

  Marie liked the fruit merchant. He seemed like a solid and generous man; he would not be the kind of husband who would make her account for every penny she spent or every minute of her day. Also she could imagine herself in bed wrapped in his big arms and how he would smell of plum or peach or pear—depending on the season. Marie smiled to herself, in the coming months she was determined to pursue the man.

  Turning around, the fruit merchant right away saw that an orange was missing from the neat mound and he knew of course. He too smiled and determined that the next time he saw her he would make Marie pay for the fruit. Pay him with a kiss, pay him with perhaps more.

  When Franco saw Ella again, she was wearing a blue silk gown that matched her eyes. The dress was cut low and showed off the almost translucent whiteness of her skin. She was leaning against a young man’s arm and standing with a group of people who were laughing and talking. Each time Ella finished speaking, she ran her pointed little tongue over her lips to wet them. The occasion was a reception at the Tuileries and Franco, busy staring at Ella, nearly missed his much anticipated and one chance to meet Napoleon III.