The Dictator's Ex-Wife Writes Him a Letter
She found the best cure of all for a broken heart

By Julia Alvarez
Sunday, February 10, 2008

She hears the commotion, the quirky creole and expressive voices of her island, and she is instantly at the window. One look at the well-dressed woman and the nervous little man in a guayabera, and her heart quickens.

The weekend nurse is shaking her head. Madame cannot receive visitors. They must wait in the garden until the doctor has been notified.

The residence is full of windows, a peculiarity of Dr. Marion's treatment. The patient should be exposed to a great deal of light, wear loose clothing, nothing restraining, and be encouraged in activities that stimulate the creative mind. She has been permitted pen and ink and paper so she can draw -- the flowers in the garden, the hands of her fellow patients: the widow, Bernadette, whose husband died in a fall from a stallion; the Belgian girl, Justine, who has not uttered a word; the Argentine, Margarita, married to a vastly wealthy rancher who sent her here by ship, along with his linens to be laundered by a French establishment.

"Tell him that El Generalissimo has sent us," the man says. His French is atrocious. An embarrassment as a consul. "We have news for her from him."

"Generalissimo? How do you spell that?"

They are not used to delays when they invoke his name, but they spell it out for the nurse.

Bienvenida whispers his name, the one he has taken away from her along with everything else. Or so he thinks. But she, too, has news for him.

DR. MARION HAD SEEMED PLEASED BY HER NEWS -- as if it were his doing. He had counseled Bienvenida, his elbows on his desk, his fingers forming the spire of a church.

She should continue her strict regimen: a glass of milk every few hours, mineral baths, massages in the morning, afternoon. No books, no writing, no visitors, unless approved.

"You are a tyrant!" she had told him, shocked at her own indiscretion.

"I am. A tyrant for your happiness."

The slight enigmatic smile, so much like her husband's. The same neatness, the soft almost feminine voice, the iron will. He makes his rounds in his starched whites, always at the appointed hour. Dr. Marion learned her language traveling in Cuba, Puerto Rico and La Republique, as he calls her country. His private clinic in the outskirts of Paris specializes in a certain class of wealthy woman with a broken heart and mind in need of creative reconstruction. She is not a prisoner. But neither is she free to leave. When she gave herself over to his care, she agreed to stay until she was healed and happy.

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.

The rumor, she knew, was that he wanted his wife out of the way. He was running around with someone. So? She was used to his street life by now. His manly appetite, part of his appeal. A shop girl in La Romana. An actress in the capital. The wife of the minister of justice. But now there was a mistress who had become a regular. A mistress who knew how his heart ached for an heir.

She lived in limbo in her hotel in Paris. She scoured the papers for news of him. One day, she found the small article. A new law had been passed weeks after she had been spirited out of the country: A man may divorce a wife who has not borne him a child within five years of marriage.

She tried calling the palacio, but he was never available. She could not sleep. She had always had a healthy appetite, but she could not keep her food down. She heard of Dr. Marion, his private clinic dedicated to restoring the broken and distraught.

"Restored to what?" she had asked him during their first interview.

"Let us be creative," he replied. "Life will reward us."

And it had. Three months ago, a surprise. El Generalissimo was in Paris, himself unwell, consulting the experts. He had always been superstitious. A brujo had told him, You have left something behind which you must recover.

He came back to her looking for it. Dr. Marion allowed a weekend leave, even the loan of a cottage. She gave herself to her Generalissimo, as she always would. But she would never give it back, the piece of him lodged deep inside her heart.

In the intimacies of that weekend in the cottage, he had recited verses to her. She did not know if he composed them himself. The words like a balm.

Nothing had changed, he promised. Their divorce was a formality. He needed an heir. But she would always be his.

"Siempre," he had said. Always. But by Sunday evening, he had vanished, taking with him her happiness.

THE CONSUL AND HIS WIFE ARE ANNOUNCED.

"Dr. Marion will be joining you shortly," the nurse says. She hesitates at the door before leaving Bienvenida to her visitors.

"Let us go sit under the pear tree," Bienvenida tells them, leading them back outside. An unseasonably hot day for autumn, not a breeze. She could be back home in the sweltering heat of Monte Cristi.

They give her the news. El Generalissimo is getting remarried. She receives it calmly, the nurse anxious at a nearby window.

Bienvenida tells herself not to get agitated. This is why she has always miscarried.

She speaks at last, finding it easier to address the woman. "Will you deliver a letter?"

But it is the man who responds effusively. "Anything, anything. I want to assure you that our jefe has said you are always to be treated with every consideration. He is obeying the new law. The world needs his heir. He belongs to history. And, therefore, to none of us."

"Mentiras," Bienvenida says. Lies. The word like a glob of spit on his face. Such a shock from the lips of the former first lady. "Wait here," she commands. Already she feels stronger.

SHE ENTERS THE BRIGHT ROOM. THE SUN IS POURING IN LIKE THE PICTURE IN HER OLD CATECHISM BOOK. The dove descending in a ray of light. Blessed am I among women.

October 6, 1935

Illustrious and beloved Generalissimo,

I write to congratulate you!

She can imagine how, when he begins reading, he will think she is referring to the news she has just been given: his marriage to the whore who has ensnared him. But no! She will be restored, a step ahead of sorrow, and gaining.

I have the pleasure of delivering the most happy news. I am with child and now safely past the three months' mark that has always been my debacle. Dr. Marion has referred me to Dr. Vincent, who has examined me and expects a happy delivery.

By April of next year we will have our first child! History and honor! Neither will be cheated.

Your excelsa matrona and loving Bienvenida.

SHE IS SO IMMERSED IN WRITING that she is surprised when she looks up to find Dr. Marion at the door. He is dressed in his impeccable white uniform, his skin powdered, his mustache trimmed. He holds out a hand for her to join him.

"Madame." That soft, enigmatic smile. "What are you drawing?"

She rises, folding the letter. "My happiness."

Julia Alvarez is a writer-in-residence at Middlebury College in Vermont. Her most recent book of nonfiction is Once Upon a Quinceañera: Coming of Age in the USA, and her latest novel is Saving the World. She can be reached via susan@susanbergholz.com.