The News from Paraguay Page 5
On Mr. James White’s estancia, wooden chairs and tables for the guests were set under a grove of orange trees; a few yards away, inside a pit, a whole lamb roasted on a spit. At the smell of it, Marie was afraid she would be sick again. Ella, on the other hand, had never felt better. She drank several glasses of imported French wine and ate two large helpings of the greasy lamb and listened attentively to Mr. White as he explained the breakdown of the Rivadavian land system; how the first fence built in 1844 changed the nature of cattle breeding in Argentina; and finally (since Ella showed so much interest), how he had imported the first Durham bull from England. The bull’s name was Tarquin; and Tarquin, Mr. White also told Ella, would change the livestock industry in South America—change the value from hides, tallow, grease, to meat. Already, Tarquin’s descendants, Mr. White added proudly—half criollo, half English shorthorn—were known throughout the country as tarquinos.
“Tarquinos?” Ella repeated. Instinctively, she touched her belly.
Embarrassed, Mr. White quickly changed the subject. Sheep farming in Buenos Ayres, he said, was a whole lot simpler.
It was late afternoon when they returned to Buenos Ayres. On the way, Ella saw a quantity of birds: wild duck, snipe, partridge, black starlings that looked exactly like the starlings at home; once a little owl flew up nearly from under the horses’ feet, and she watched several hawks circling high up in the darkening sky. Also, there were some animals she had never seen before: they looked half rabbit, half badger, and as the carriage drove past, the animals stood up and stared at them before they bolted down into holes in the ground. When Ella asked the coachman what the animals were called, he said they were vizcacha.
“Vizcacha,” Ella repeated dreamily.
Then, just as they were crossing the Barracas Bridge back to the city, Ella’s water broke.
Four
VILLA FRANCA
During the hottest part of the day, José de Carmen Gomez, the handsome commandant of Villa Franca, was inside his house making love to a large-assed girl from the village—a girl he had pursued for several weeks. The girl was on her hands and knees on the floor and José de Carmen Gomez had just entered her when someone knocked on the door and shouted that Francisco Solano Lopez’s mistress—Lopez’s querida—had arrived and needed to be accompanied to the capital. Distracted and understanding only the word “querida,” José de Carmen Gomez shouted back, “Momentito,” and went on with what he was doing. The knocking continued, there was more shouting but, by then, José de Carmen Gomez was pumping himself back and forth into the girl and was near orgasm and the girl had taken José de Carmen Gomez’s hand and put it in between her legs and was moaning and climaxing herself, so that neither one of them heard the door open.
A few miles north of where the Paraná River divides into the Paraguay River, Juan Francisco, aged six weeks, got his first look at Paraguay. Dark-haired and dark-skinned like his father, Juan Francisco was a healthy, noisy baby. Always hungry, he kept his wet nurse, a Guaraní Indian woman named Rosaria, up at all hours of the night breast-feeding him. Only then was he quiet; his eyes half closed, his lips sucking, his small hand resting on Rosaria’s large breast.
When she was not feeding or looking after Juan Francisco, Rosaria made lace—a skill taught by the Jesuits, which had been preserved and handed down to each generation of her family he lace was extremely fine, the pattern as intricate as a spider web.
As soon as she was able, Ella had boarded an American steamer to Asunción. Mrs. Charles Washburn, the wife of the American minister to Paraguay, who was joining her husband there for the first time, was a passenger on the steamer as well. When the weather was fine, Mrs. Washburn, who was blond and fragile-looking, had a chair brought up and she sat on deck reading; she was reading The Last of the Mohicans. From home, she had brought along a little dog, a terrier. The terrier’s name was Bumppo—named, she said, after the hero in The Leatherstocking Tales. For his safety, Bumppo was tied to the ship’s railing next to Mrs. Washburn’s chair where he sat barking. Mrs. Washburn appeared oblivious of the sound but the barking irritated the other passengers and, when she was not looking, the sailors made it worse by teasing Bumppo—dangling food in front of him or making as if to throw a ball for him.
“How old is he?” Ella had tried to make conversation. “I love dogs, horses, all animals—I grew up in the country.”
“He’s just a puppy.” Mrs. Washburn was less inclined to talk. She had heard rumors about Ella.
Bark, bark, bark—below in her cabin, Ella could still hear Bumppo. The barking got on her nerves.
The journey from Buenos Ayres to the frontier fort of Itapirú took the ship a week, then from Itapirú to Villa Franca, a distance of only seventy miles, another week. To Ella it seemed like a year. Nervous and impatient, Ella paced the deck of the ship. For no reason she slapped Marie, she could not concentrate on her Spanish lessons with Doña Iñes; even the baby did not hold her attention for long. The nearer they got to their destination, the more agitated Ella became. Also, as the steamer slowly progressed upriver, Bumppo’s barking grew louder, more insistent. In her cabin, Ella lay on her berth, her hands over her ears, while, on deck in her chair, Mrs. Washburn, unperturbed, read on in The Last of the Mohicans. When at last they reached Villa Franca Ella could bear it no longer. She decided to leave the ship and go the rest of the way to Asunción on horseback. Quicker, she said. And she would not have to listen to a dog barking all day.
From Villa Franca, they rode through a forest thick with rebora-hacho and algarroba, a kind of mimosa, and thorn bushes that scratched their boots and tore at their clothes. Eventually the thorn bushes gave way to rushes and water plants and they waded in water up to the horses’ knees through a marsh dotted here and there with giant fan palms. Marie had never ridden before and, on a lead rein, her horse was being pulled along by one of Commandant Gomez’s soldiers. The soldier pointed things out to Marie—trees, birds, plants; in particular a spiky plant that had a pale blue flower with a bright yellow dot in the center of it—but Marie was too uneasy as she swayed uncomfortably in the saddle to pay attention to what the soldier was saying. A few paces in front of her, dressed in a Parisian riding outfit and sitting straight and tall in the saddle, Ella, on Mathilde, trotted abreast with Commandant Gomez; from the sound of their voices, the two were having a lively conversation.
“Merde!” Marie cursed under her breath as she slapped away a mosquito.
In the afternoon, they crossed a river; the horses were made to swim while, from inside the canoes, the soldiers held their heads. Marie’s horse tried to turn back and the soldier splashed water in the horse’s face to distract him and keep him swimming in the right direction. When Marie got back on, the horse was less docile; his ears were laid back. Instead of allowing himself to be led, he jerked his head up and reared; Marie screamed and the horse reared again, then finding himself free—the soldier had dropped the rein—the horse plunged forward and Marie fell off and broke her arm.
When Doña Iñes saw the man board the ship, she nearly fainted and Mrs. Washburn’s terrier, Bumppo, started to bark. The man was a Payaguá Indian and he was naked; a long piece of wood dangled from his slit lower lip, a black bird’s wing flapped from his pierced ear. He held a letter for the captain signed by Commandant José de Carmen Gomez that said to fetch Dr. Henry Kennedy right away. Speaking to the Payaguá Indian in Guaraní, Rosaria, the wet nurse, understood only a few words of what he answered: Canaza hanauaki—bad happenings. To whom? To Ella? The Payaguá Indian shook his head, making the black bird wing flap wildly. He could not say.
Doña Iñes stood at the ship’s railing and watched Dr. Henry Kennedy get into the dugout canoe with the Payaguá Indian; in one hand Dr. Kennedy was holding his leather case full of instruments, in the other, his canvas sun hat. He did not think to step in the middle of the canoe, the canoe tipped and he dropped his sun hat. Making a lunge for it, Dr. Henry Kennedy set the canoe to rocking, then, trying to reg
ain his balance and reaching for support, he lost his hold on the leather case full of instruments. Doña Iñes saw the sun hat get swept up in the current and disappear down the river, she also saw the Payaguá Indian lean over and grab the leather case just in time before it sank in the water.
As soon as she saw the dugout canoe reach the shore, Doña Iñes crossed herself and fell to her knees on the deck of the ship. She began to pray: Oh, Mary, full of grace, mother of us all and blessed virgin, I pray you, save my dear mistress from any harm that might have befallen her….
Bark, bark, bark—Bumppo had not stopped.
The bone stuck out through the skin, Marie’s arm looked to be hanging inside out, she had suffered a compound fracture. Someone strapped her arm in a makeshift sling in between two boards, then she was put back up on the horse. Two soldiers were on either side of her and, not to jog her, they walked so slowly they soon lost sight of Ella and the others who were ahead. The soldiers gave Marie caña to drink out of a bottle and soon too, Marie had no memory of the ride to the next post house. She remembered waking up later in a hammock and seeing Dr. Henry Kennedy’s pale face rocking back and forth above hers. Then she must have passed out again. The next time she woke up, she felt as if not just her arm but her whole body was wrapped in pain.
Holding his Bigg and Milliken saw in one hand and a manual entitled Necessity of Amputation, in the other, Dr. Henry Kennedy stood over Marie and read, mouthing the words to himself:
Cases where a limb is nearly or completely carried away, leaving a ragged stump, with laceration of the soft part, and projection of the bone.
Cases in which the soft parts of a limb are extensively lacerated or contused, the principal arterial and nervous trunks destroyed, and the bone denuded or fractured. Cases in which a similar condition exists, without either fracture or denudation of the bone.
Cases of compound and comminuted fracture, particularly those involving joints.
The words blurred on the page. Overhead, a bird shrieked or was it the woman?
Blinking, he skipped a few lines:
7. Compound fractures of the middle and lower part of the thigh, occasioned by gunshot, require amputation. As regards similar injuries in the upper two-thirds of the thigh, the mortality following amputations has been so very great that army surgeons have generally abandoned the operation. And finally,
8. Great care should be exercised, before proceeding to amputation, to ascertain whether a patient may not be otherwise mortally wounded.
Dr. Henry Kennedy had never amputated a limb before. Several times during the procedure, he thought he himself would faint. Also, he had never felt so hot in his life and he missed his hat. Every time he bent his head, a stream of sweat fell into his eyes, the salt stinging, so he could not see what he was doing properly. To make matters worse, the saw was not sharp enough. The woman too was half conscious; she was screaming and struggling; then there was all the blood. Bright red blood from the severed artery attracted a swarm of flies—Dr. Henry Kennedy had never in his life seen so many: large filthy blue-black flies landing on what was left of the arm and spreading infection.
Gaspar and Fulgencio, the two soldiers who had led Marie’s horse, were brothers. The following morning, barefoot and dressed in only shirts, they walked down to the river together. They were going fishing. For several hours they stood on the bank of the Paraguay casting their bamboo rods. They hardly spoke—no need; since they were children they could read each other’s thoughts. Mostly thoughts of how the day before they had to hold the poor foreign woman down, hold her legs and her good arm and shoulders, her whole body bucking and resisting, her desperate strength surprising and frightening them (one time Marie had managed to sit up and looking Gaspar in the eye, she screamed, “Voleurs! Voleurs!”). In the end both brothers had to use all their force—Fulgencio sat astride on top of her as if the screaming foreign woman was his wife, his knees squeezing tight her soft hips—while the foreign doctor sawed off her arm.
The Paraguay River was full of dorado, manguruzu, a sort of catfish, pacu, a type of turbot, pike, salmon and piranha. The fish that morning were not biting and after several hours, bored, Gaspar put aside his rod and sat down. After inspecting his toes, he took out a pocket knife and began cutting out jiggers. Absorbed, he did not right away hear Fulgencio yell. Fulgencio’s line was straining under the weight of a fish. Dropping the knife, Gaspar ran to help his brother. Together they took turns playing in the big fish. It took them two hours.
The manguruzu was nearly three feet long—longer than Fulgencio’s extended arm—and it weighed at least a hundred pounds. Exhausted—wrestling the huge fish made both Gaspar and Fulgencio think of wrestling with the foreign woman, although neither one spoke of it—they finally beached the fish. Picking up a stone from the beach, Gaspar struck the ugly whiskered head, killing the manguruzu instantly, then, taking the pocket knife he had used to cut the jiggers out of his toes, he slit the manguruzu’s belly, lengthwise, from head to tail. In the stomach of the fish, Gaspar and Fulgencio found a whole and as yet undigested monkey—hair, tail, and pale blue eyes open wide.
23 JULY 1855
Oh, what a terrible thing has happened. Poor Marie. I should never have left the ship; I should never have told Marie to accompany me. She has lost so much blood and the infection has spread to other parts of her body. I am not sure she always recognizes me; when I tried to wash her face and tidy up her hair, she screamed and pushed away my hand. Also, each time Marie moves, the bleeding starts up again, I could see the blood seeping through the bandage and soiling the sheets. Poor Marie! So pale and pitiful, I can hardly bear to see her in such a state. When I think of how gay and good-humored she was, always gossiping and telling me jokes, always so full of life. How I wish I had never asked her to accompany me to the Americas! Please, please, God, make a miracle! Dr. Kennedy says a miracle is what is needed.
Oh, Marie!
Commandant Gomez was not an insensitive man, he was a lazy man. He was eager to return to Villa Franca and he spent a large part of the day swinging in his hammock, drinking yerba maté from his silver gourd and thinking about the large-assed village girl and the different ways he was planning to make love to her. Occasionally, when he caught sight of Ella, José de Carmen Gomez thought about what it might be like to make love to her.
Once he reached Asunción, he would return to Buenos Ayres, Dr. Henry Kennedy had decided, and from there go back to the States—not to Philadelphia, but to Baltimore or perhaps Washington—and begin his practice anew. Meanwhile, he would not worry; he had done the best he could for the poor woman. As everyone knew and as he had tried to explain to Commandant Gomez the time the commandant pulled down his pants and showed him the chancres on his penis, infection spread more rapidly in a hot, humid climate.
Still dressed in her Parisian riding habit—the skirt was torn and muddy—Ella never went far. There were poisonous snakes, man-eating jaguars and wild boar, the commandant had warned her from where he lay drinking maté and swinging in his hammock, and the woods were full of thorny mimosa thickets that made walking difficult; also the thick waterproof boots Ella wore were cumbersome and hot. One time she got as far as a wet meadow full of tall rushes and she watched a flock of wild ducks land—blue teal, she guessed; another time she scared up a family of wild turkeys whose sudden gobbling startled her. On the way back, Ella walked over to where the horses were kept hobbled and tied. She put her arms around the gray mare and buried her face in the elegant neck.
Oh, Mathilde!
In her dream, Rosaria was bathing the baby in the river. The baby was splashing water, gurgling and laughing. Rosaria was also laughing as she washed the baby’s little legs and arms, his full little stomach, as she pushed up the foreskin to wash the little penis, as she washed the baby’s back and behind. But slowly, slowly, almost imperceptibly, the current in the river got stronger, and Rosaria was having a harder and harder time holding on to the soapy, slippery baby; the baby too w
as no longer laughing but crying, and suddenly Rosaria was struggling with all her might to hold the baby against the current and, in the dream, the current had turned into a person, an evil person with superhuman strength, who was wrestling the baby away and Rosaria was no match for that person and she had to let the baby go. When she awoke Rosaria was soaking wet and it took her a few moments to realize that she was wet not from bathing in the river but from her sweat.
“Have you tried maté?” Commandant Gomez handed Ella his silver gourd. He also said, “As soon as I return to Villa Franca, I am going to marry my sweetheart.” He had made up his mind all of a sudden.
The liquid was surprisingly bitter and Ella was tempted to spit it out, but the commandant was watching so she swallowed it.
“Her name is Maria Oliva,” Commandant Gomez said.
The second time he handed her the gourd, Ella was prepared for the bitter taste. She took another small cautious sip.
“Maria Oliva comes from my village,” Commandant Gomez told Ella.
By the fourth and fifth sip, Ella found she was getting accustomed to the maté and she liked the feel of the cool silver bombilla between her lips.
“Maria Oliva is a good girl, she is still a virgin,” Commandant Gomez was saying.
Yerba maté was a mild stimulant and it might relax her muscles, Ella hoped, unused as she was to sleeping in the hammock the commandant had strung up for her. But sleep did not come. Every time Ella shut her eyes she heard Marie screaming.
Ella stayed at the post house five days. Most of that time, she sat at Marie’s side. She held a cold cloth to Marie’s hot forehead, she wet Marie’s lips with water, she brushed away the swarm of flies that kept landing on the stump of Marie’s bandaged arm. She tried to stop Marie from moving or from sitting up, so as not to start the hemorrhaging again.