Paulina Under the Sun of August

By Darcia Moretti and Dr. Darcia Moretti

In a heat castigated town with women carrying parasols to protect themselves from the sun, Mr. Vartun, an old man, ruminates about his past. What human being should not think about his past without realizing the strange games of life that build up depression - situations from the past intermingle with those who surround him in the present, including his daughter, Paulina who, with her white parasol, intrigues him and finally reveals more about herself that meets the eye.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465352842

Darcia Moretti

Darcia Moretti es una autora Cubana Americana. Fue ganadora de un premio literario auspiciado por la Universidad de Miami por su novel Los Ojos del Paraso. Ha publicado en ingles Paulina under the Sun of August. La autora vive en Jacksonville, FL.

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CHAPTER ONE

Paulina’s Skin And

Our Neighbor Solomon

IF THE WOMEN carry parasols on their way to work, there is a very simple explanation for it that is obvious to all. The sun burns and especially at midday when the girls return to work, the heat is insupportable.

I take my siesta while Camelia succumbs to the tawdry spell of television in the afternoon. At that hour, the house is in silence and on the upper floor by the open balcony that brings me a pleasant breeze, I stay in bed; I sweat, I doze and I dream. Silence leads to reflection and it is here that I brood over Paulina’s parasol.

It is frightening to think that Paulina keeps three more parasols in her closet—a stock for which she bargained with Madame Marteau. It was because of that parasol that I went to take a look at the Frenchwoman; we had a very interesting chat. She is a fine, witty and flirtatious woman.

No one in the city has a white parasol but Paulina. I have made my own careful investigations of these and other matters. For example, I have gone to La Soledad Park which is always crowded and festive, and I have seen the women there with parasols of various colors. They twirl them gracefully over their shoulders. Only Paulina has a white parasol.

I do not know why I am assailed with weariness and melancholy when I see her walk through the streets—dressed in black—vainly seeking the shade with her parasol held stiffly over her head. Madame Marteau had dressed all her employees in black. This does not please me at all. Black is a lugubrious color.

Madame Marteau exclaimed:

Oh, no, Mr. Vartun, black is sobriety and elegance.

But Madame, in this burning heat!

Precisely, Mr. Vartun.

I beg your pardon. I do not understand.

Because everyone rejects black in this climate, we wear it. Haven’t you heard that Madame Marteau’s shop is the most original? Pardon me, Mr. Vartun, but originality is the spice of life!

Does Madame Marteau know that Paulina detests her white skin? Does Madame Marteau know that when she was a little girl, she used to come home from school in tears because the boys called her cold milk? Does she have any idea of how the golden brown little girls used to stroll in front of her, taunting her with the repulsiveness of her white skin? Does Madame Marteau know that because of the color of that skin, I have investigated my own antecedents, and I have put absurd ideas into my own head?

. . . and only Paulina has a white parasol.

Parasols twirl by at all hours here. It is a common sight to see the housewives at the market with their packages on one arm, and a parasol on the other. Many times I have run to the assistance of some woman I did not know to protect her from losing an eye to a parasol’s ribs.

The men have resigned themselves to the sun. They don’t even wear hats. There are some old men with berets, but they look slightly foolish, and none of the young people would dare to imitate them.

One must have an idea of what our city is like in order to understand the problems of the parasols. We are buried under the mountains, trapped inside an oven. So that we may have our fill of the sight of our own slavery, we have a famous overlook outside the town.

The air in the city is humid and dense. One must go to the outskirts of the city and risk one’s life on poorly paved and dangerous roads, only to arrive, panting atop hundreds of steps at our overlook.

And all of that to see the impoverished, buried city and its pitifully blinking lights, while mountains green with foliage or bare as terracotta tower on all sides. This landscape has provoked incidents, some of which incite even my memory to rebellion.

When I was in love with Camelia, I suggested to her that we climb up to the lookout. It was afternoon; the sky was brilliant. At that time, Camelia, with her romantic air, was the most desirable creature in the world.

So Camelia expressed herself, she who was so languid and unexpressive:

My God! There is nothing in the world like these mountains!"

I was at her side, panting, applauding; I was enraptured.

No, there are no other mountains like these in all the world.

I spoke in this way because I was drugged with love and had lost my senses.

Papa! We went to the lookout, Camilia said, as soon as she set foot in the house, there is nothing in the whole world like this place. It is the most beautiful place in the whole world!

Her father, who knew only cows and calves, agreed.

Of course, dear. There is no place even remotely like this in all the world.

When my love had burned itself out, and disappointment or, as my friend, Solomon, likes to put it, the reality of the world, took over, I realized that we were ignorant primitives. These mountains are dry, small and useless, without comparison to the Andes or the Alps. We are nothing more than a hot, dusty town, buried among mediocre peaks.

To what can we ascribe the people’s passion for these mountains?

Nobody wants to know that there are other worlds, with more attractive people and landscape of devastating beauty.

A cousin of Camelia’s—an intelligent enough man—was transferred to an office in the capital. It disturbed him greatly. He came to see us. He was in a black mood. He walked back and forth impatiently, throwing a reproachful look at me because he remembered that I had been born in the capital, and that I was a stranger here.

I’m not going to bury my life in a jungle of asphalt! Not me! Why do I have to leave here if I’m happy! Where are there such majestic mountains? Where?

He didn’t even let me open my mouth. Camelia, who was listening, agreed with him while she swallowed bonbons. As soon as he left, she said:

You acted badly, Eusebio… You wanted to talk to him about marvels, and it just made him crazy.

When I tried to defend myself, she paid no attention, but looked at her bonbon in surprise.

"And how come this one has a cherry and the other doesn’t? she asked, baffled.

Solomon, who never seems to notice what is going on around him, as buried as he is in his books, has begun to dream of Paulina’s white parasol.

That parasol disturbs him as much as it does me because, in his dream, Paulina was walking through the street. A neighbor woman threw a jug full of tomato juice at her from the balcony, staining the parasol red.

My God! I said, That parasol is affecting even Solomon’s psyche.

Have you ever seen a white parasol? I asked Solomon.

Naturally, Solomon has been all over the world—his words, therefore, are those of an expert:

Of course, my friend, but never in the tropics. At the beginning of the century, when there were coachmen and long skirts, and the sexes were well-defined, the women of Paris who went to Versailles or the Bois of Bolognas would carry white parasols, adorned with lace—very coquettish. That’s what they’re for—coquetry.

But here there’s no coquetry.

No, it’s strange.

What’s strange?

Paulina’s white parasol.

If that parasol demands attention, it is due principally to race, the style of life and the oppressive sun. One must stand in the middle of the city and look around oneself very carefully in order to appreciate the originality which Madame Marteau has brought us.

The city is divided in two, cut in half by a thick, muddy river, over which a walkway has been built. In a burst of tropical art, the walkway is called the Platform of the Lost Steps, although no steps could be lost there because they lead directly to the east or west of the city.

They call the east the lower part and there is a certain tone of disdain in the voice when one asks,

What are you going to do down in the east?

While it may seem that our world has been divided into heaven and hell, which is an oversimplification. I, myself, often go to the east, to the markets, the carpenter’s shop, the coffee houses and the plazas. I know that life there is lived flamboyantly in the streets and that the people sing and laugh without a care. The games of the children can be heard everywhere.

Even the sky seems imbued with an exuberant joy on the east side of the city. The sun shines voluptuously, bronzing with its care the torsos of the blacks—because this is the world of the blacks.

It is neither hygienic nor tranquil. The streets are full of life and noise. There is always a party going on. The people are poor, but their generosity is truly incredible. The crimes—and there are many—are crimes of passion.

The judges enjoy their love’s story blood. When love becomes frenzy, who is safe? Emotions get rampant in every field of life, and then we are punished.

Mercado is a good-natured judge, always prepared to understand human weaknesses, but he is not that way with the blacks from the east. He treated them harshly.

We talked about this once. He though me naïve.

You don’t understand, Vartun, they are ignorant. They’re ruled by primitive superstitions, they live in concubinage and they keep their razors handy to attack.

Oh, no, they are peaceful and noble. They’ve never attacked me, and I don’t know anybody else who…

No, they’re tamed enough in that way but they have a mafia of passions among themselves. The women have babies without a pause, and they have the impudence to sing. Isn’t that crazy?

But singing means they are sensible and gay.

Oh, you are naïve, my dear friend.

Is the discrimination very subtle? I don’t have an answer for things that are foreign to my nature. I have lived enough to know that we all share a bundle of sadness and difficulties in the adventure of living and that makes us all brothers in hell or paradise.

Solomon says that this reaction doesn’t surprise him. Ever since Magda died he has had two cats who had imparted great wisdom to him. At first, it was difficult for me to believe Solomon, for whose learning I have always had the greatest respect—but a worker cat and an aristocrat!

One must see for oneself how those two cats hate each other. The aristocrat, who comes for the Tibet, leaves the food on his plate and the worker attacks it, devouring even the scraps. The aristocrat refuses to share his bed with the worker and refuses to perform the basic necessities in his presence. Solomon had to take him to a veterinarian to be treated for chronic constipation. The veterinarian suggested that they do their business in different places, but the worker cat rejected his box and occupied the one belonging to his enemy. The enemy surrendered, though he stared at his adversary with utter disdain. Solomon thinks the worker is jealous of the aristocrat. There is a hate-filled battle going on between them.

What can we hope for from human beings? Solomon asked me.

He convinced me. I hope for nothing, but when I have an opportunity, I go to the east to fill myself with erotic fervor, with music and with color.

In the western paradise, all the houses look the same with sober white facades and balconies—one behind the other—in a monotonous row.

Down below, the blacks have used all their ingenuity to give the houses colors which Camelia considers vulgar but which make the blood run passionately. There are red, green and yellow houses. It is a game of color that has an esoteric significance for them. They speak of it in a very casual manner.

Go to the red house to look for water.

The old lady from the green house has died.

It is undeniable that the west is very elegant and refined. The neighborhoods are respectable and clean. No one plays flute or sings in the street. It is a tiresome elegance and the whole city seems like a suburb—except in the center—where there are cafes, hotels, businesses, parks and some ugly newly-constructed buildings, and some others that are old and crumbling.

Madame Marteau’s shop is the most attractive of all the businesses. Her display windows are sensational; only the local aristocracy enters there.

Madame Marteau has seven employees and not one is as tall, fleshy and white as Paulina. No one, to be sure, has a white parasol. I would like to know these girls better—talk to them—to ask them what they think of her parasol. I wonder, because if the four parasols were acquired as a gift from Mme. Marteau, why did she not do the same with the other girls?

I am afraid that they were offered and refused. They feared attracting ridicule or attention. A white parasol is useless in this climate. It is exposed to filth and to read stains, as in Solomon’s dream.

Did the girls reject her? Do they laugh at her when they are off by themselves? Why do I have this feeling of pity for Paulina that I never felt for my other two daughters?

Unfortunately, Paulina’s only friend, who worked with her in Madame Marteau’s shop, is no longer here. She went to the capital with her brother. She was tired of the exceptional mountains, the sun, and the hopeless isolation. Of course, she never said anything against the city, but the day she came to say goodbye, her eyes were shining and she sighed often.

Camelia took those sighs to be the expression of the sorrow she felt at separating herself from her friends, from her origin and from the mountain peaks that encircle the lookout; but, the girl vibrated with joy.

I regretted having interested myself in this creature almost at the moment of her departure, which coincided with my retirement. Before that, I hadn’t had time for anything. I was exhausted every night. Magda was still alive and my mind had no incentive while Solomon was a prisoner.

Gloria, Paulina’s friend, was modest and timid. She and Paulina would chatter together in her room, behind closed doors. One time, they came out of the room together and I heard Gloria tell her:

You’re wasting your time.

You don’t understand a thing.

Why had one reproached the other with wasting time, and why had the other accused her of no understanding?

Paulina was keeping secrets. I tried to scrutinize her face. She had inherited Camelia’s lethargy—that lack of expression that had once seduced me greatly.

One day when Gloria came, sighing and sad to say goodbye, I once again heard a snippet of dialogue.

I hope some day you wake up from your dream, Paulina. It’s not worth it.

You don’t understand a thing.

You always say that, but I do understand. I understand well enough to know that you are dreaming. Why don’t you face reality? It’s a dream, Paulina.

No, it’s real!

What father wouldn’t become disconcerted hearing something like this? I felt like taking part in what was going on to find out about the vain dream and lend a helping hand if I could. Such things might be taken lightly by an active father, as I used to be for so long, but when you have nothing to do but walk from room to room, constantly running into your daughter or our wife, it bothers you that there is some mystery inside the four walls that you don’t know about.

In the last analysis, I feel I am in Camelia and Paulina’s life too much. They both have their ordered worlds. I am a stranger who used to come home only to bathe, eat and sleep, and suddenly, I have installed myself in the house all the time, meddling in one thing or another—out of place. Perhaps I am interrupting the customs of the house?

I often feel lost inside these four walls. I don’t know what to do with my time. This may be the reason I conducted an investigation of Paulina’s skin and my ancestors. The outcome was depressing and stupid. I reached the point where I suspected Solomon. If he only knew it!

Camelia has always blamed me for that white skin of Paulina’s—that cold milk—as her schoolmates used to call it. She said it came from my side of the family. I protested without knowing why, but the thing bothered me.

Camelia has skin the color of ivory and roses; it wouldn’t be foolish to say that the legacy came from her side, but Paulina’s skin is as colorless as a blank sheet of paper; she stops just short of being albino. The sun bothers her. She cannot go to the beach. She covers herself to her neck.

Next to any person, Paulina looks like an alien, descended from snowy mountains or fallen from the moon. The black dress provides an astonishing contrast, and wearing any other color is forbidden her. Read makes her look so gaudy that she disturbs the sight. Pink gives her a childish look that borders on the ridiculous. Even a light, refreshing blue adds to her bulk; you can’t tell if there’s an elephant or a giraffe inside those folds.

It must be terrible for a woman not to be able to take advantage of the variety of colors that are so necessary—and so charming—in the tropics.

Perhaps that was the reason why Mme. Marteau dressed her girls in black. The Frenchwoman likes Paulina, in spite of having burdened her with that white parasol. But of what can she be accused? All signs indicate that Paulina loves her white parasol, that she chose it, that no one influenced her taste and that she is, in some manner, punishing her skin.

I dedicated myself, in my undying idleness, to finding out about my ancestors. I didn’t get very far. When my grandfather and my father were alive, I was a young rake who enjoyed only women, friends and parties. The world of my ancestors meant nothing to me. I never felt the least curiosity about my origins. I existed, and I enjoyed myself, and what more can you ask from life?

As far