The Dictator's Ex-Wife Writes Him a Letter

(Alinari Archives -- Corbis - )

Bienvenida cannot complain. The clinic, in fact, reminds her of the palacio -- the ordered days, the trained staff. But here she can wear her loose housedress and slippers all day long. She no longer has to be on call to receive the wives of senators, presidents, ambassadors. Cut ribbons. Serve cafecitos in tea sets from England. Wear gloves in that tropical heat.

WHEN SHE MARRIED HIM EIGHT YEARS AGO, he was already the commander of the Northern Department of the National Police -- with a trail of disappearances and deaths behind him. A divorced man, he had discarded the first wife, una campesina, not suitable for the consort of the country's future leader. Bienvenida's was an old, distinguished family. For all his power, he longed for legitimacy, social acceptance.

"They voted him out of the country club, so he took over the country," her father once remarked bitterly.

Her mother had wept. "He will destroy you," she said, helping Bienvenida dress. The bridal gown, a joke. She could not be a church bride. His annulment petition had been denied.

That first night as husband and wife, all he could do was rage, "Esos curas de la porra!" Those useless priests. They will pay for this.

She had been thrilled to hear him say so, but, instantly, she had banished the thought. A mortal sin to side with him against the ministers of the Lord.

SHE KNEW SHE WAS NO BEAUTY. When she entered a room, people eyed her, wondering what on earth he saw in her. But by choosing her, he had lifted her above such judgments. Blessed art thou among women.

She was wildly in love. How else could she have opposed her parents' wishes? She had always been a docile, dreamy girl. Bienvenida Inocencia. Welcome innocence. Her new husband would smile when he pronounced her name. A smile of tender pity, as if she were a child who would someday find out how the world really worked.

She tried to please him in every way. He woke at 4 every morning, a point of pride to be the first one up. While he bathed, she hurried to the kitchen to oversee his breakfast tray, the melon sliced just so, the water bread warmed but not too crusty. She laid out his clothes carefully, the collars starched, the medals and sashes appropriate for each occasion. Generalissimo, Se¿or Presidente for Life, El Jefe, First Father of the Patria. The honors piled on.

Only she knew how he checked himself constantly in the mirror. How he ordered platform shoes to make himself taller, applied whiteners to his skin. How he was always preoccupied, forming a nation out of a rude people. The Americanos had left him in charge.

Always she held out the promise of a son, perhaps a daughter, on the way. She was often pregnant but could not carry to full term.

Then, last December, he insisted she go abroad. To see if her nerves would calm so she would bear his son.