The Heiress of Water: A Novel Read online

  THE HEIRESS of WATER

  A NOVEL

  Sandra Rodriguez Barron

  FOR BOB AND PATRICK

  Contents

  A NOTE TO THE READER

  part ONE

  chapter 1 BIVALVES

  chapter 2 THE GENTLEMAN

  chapter 3 LA DUÑA

  chapter 4 WHOLE BELLY CLAMS

  chapter 5 JIMMY BRAY

  chapter 6 A SHARK TOOTH

  chapter 7 A MAYAN CURSE

  chapter 8 RED, WHITE, AND BLUE

  part TWO

  chapter 9 THE FIRST DOSE

  chapter 10 UNDULATIONS

  chapter 11 EL CADEJO

  chapter 12 THE CHANNEL

  chapter 13 PALE PINK LIPS

  chapter 14 MILK DUCTS

  chapter 15 CRUEL SUMMER

  chapter 16 AGUARDIENTE

  chapter 17 ROSARY BIRTH

  part THREE

  chapter 18 STITCHING THE SEA

  chapter 19 EMERGING

  chapter 20 THE GIFT

  chapter 21 WHITE WHEELS TURNING

  chapter 22 THE PATRIARCH

  READING GROUP GUIDE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  A NOTE TO THE READER

  The tropical oceans contain over five hundred different species of cone snails. Conus prey upon other marine organisms by firing venoms that can induce paralysis or death in seconds. Some species are so lethal that they can kill a human adult in a matter of hours.

  In recent years, scientists have discovered that cone venom has extraordinary pharmacological qualities. Each species of cone snail contains an arsenal of peptides (small protein fragments) that exhibit powerful, highly selective activity on nerves. By blocking the passage of electrically charged particles in and out of cells, the toxins effectively shut down messages between the brain and muscles. Recently, the FDA approved a laboratory-made equivalent of the compound found in the venom of the Australian Conus magus, a painkiller a hundred to a thousand times more powerful than morphine. Equally as important is its staying power: since it’s not a narcotic, the body can’t develop immunity to its effects. Other cone toxin combinations are being studied to address more elusive conditions such as mental illness, neurodegenerative diseases, and traumatic head injury.

  The development of cone venom as medicine is clearly in its infancy and faces many obstacles. For starters, some venom combinations have plagued trial subjects with adverse side effects. The risks in introducing cone venom into subjects who have suffered a head trauma has made experimentation in this area exceedingly difficult. Still, several biopharmaceutical companies around the world have fast-tracked their plans to decode the healing potential of Conus toxins.

  In addition to their vast promise as a source of new drugs, cones are valued by collectors for their beautiful, elaborately patterned shells.

  Three species described in this novel—Conus furiosus, Conus exelmaris, and Hexaplex bulbosa—are fictional.

  I SHALL THROW AWAY THIS THING THAT I have found as one throws away a cigarette stub. This seashell has served me, suggesting by turns what I am, what I know, and what I do not know. … Just as Hamlet, picking up a skull in the rich earth and bringing it close to his living face, finds a gruesome image of himself … this little, hollow, spiral-shaped calcareous body summons up a number of thoughts, all inconclusive. …

  PAUL VALÉRY, Sea Shells

  part ONE

  chapter 1 BIVALVES

  EL SALVADOR, 1981

  Alma Borrero Winters believed that everything in life begins and ends with the ocean. “The ocean is the expression of God on earth” she told her daughter, as she pushed open a set of wrought-iron gates. She shaded her eyes and strode onto Negrarena, a desolate expanse of black sand that spilled into the Pacific Ocean in the distance. She turned and clasped Monica’s small hand. “Take a deep breath. Go on, smell it. Breathe deep.”

  Monica happily obeyed, filling her lungs with the rich smells of the sea. “Something’s different today.”

  “You can smell that?”

  Monica nodded.

  “The currents are combing over the fields of seaweed from the west,” Alma said, turning to look down at Monica. “I’m impressed.”

  They walked in silence, their rubber sandals slapping at their heels. When they were halfway across the expanse of sand, Alma noticed that Monica was trying to conceal something in one of her hands, and Alma leaned back to see what it was. Monica veered away but her mother grabbed hold of her arm. “What are you hiding?”

  Monica handed over a small “in memoriam” card. They had been distributed at her grandfather’s novenario, the nine Catholic masses of mourning, now a full month past. On one side of the card was a pale, pastel-colored image of a bearded deity sitting on a cloud suspended by winged cherubs. On the flip side of the card was a black-and-white photo of Alma’s father and a short biography of his life.

  Adolfo Borrero had died peacefully of a heart attack, and hundreds of people had attended the vigil for the repose of his soul—family, friends, the elite of Salvadoran society, domestic staff and workers from the Borrero plantations and from Borr-Lac, their dairy plant. All nine of his masses at La Divina Providencia parish had been filled well beyond the grand church’s capacity with mourners and the curious. On several occasions, Monica had heard people comment that her grandfather would have made a great president. “He would have cleaned out the communists once and for all,” an elderly man lamented as he stood in front of the coffin. Alma’s response had been, “Then El Salvador must be pretty desperate for a hero.”

  Everything Alma despised about the society she had been born into was somehow contained in the traditional prayer cards that her mother had dutifully ordered for the service. Monica, on the other hand, treasured them with equal ferocity. “I know you miss Abuelo,” Alma said. “But don’t reduce your memories of him—or your vision of God—to this ridiculous card,” she said, holding it up.

  “Everyone else does,” Monica protested, her face reddening as she turned away from her mother. “And nobody else believes in all that crazy ocean stuff but you.”

  Alma opened her eyes wide. “And you.”

  Monica shrugged.

  Alma flicked the face of the card with two fingers. “This depiction of God sitting on a cloud, bearing a striking resemblance to Santa Claus, is an insult to your intelligence.” And with that she ripped the card in half, then turned it sideways and tore it again. “God is so much more than this silly illustration.” Alma held up the scraps. “Think of it, Monica. How can infinity have a form? And to give him a human form, of all ridiculous things.” She lowered her voice to a whisper, which annoyed Monica, since they were completely alone on a private beach surrounded by a thousand acres of farmland. “God has no memory, no shape, no conscience. … He just is.” Alma lifted her eyelids, revealing a pair of black irises reflective and impenetrable as polished granite. She placed one hand under her daughter’s chin, swiveling Monica’s face toward the expanse of water.

  “He just is. Like the ocean just is,” Monica parroted, rolling her eyes and imitating her mother’s overly dramatic whisper.

  “Good,” Alma said, giving Monica’s ponytail a tug. Since neither of them had pockets, Alma stuffed the scraps of the prayer card into the left triangle of her striped-blue-and- green Brazilian bikini top. Monica experienced a vague discomfort at the idea that both her late grandfather and the Almighty Father were inside her mother’s swimwear.

  On this particular day, Alma and Monica had chosen to walk on the rugged side of the coast. Their starting point—the sprawli
ng Borrero retreat named Villa Caracol—was halfway between the placid, smooth black-sand beaches of the northern coast and the pockmarked moonscape of the southern coast. The beach and the thousand acres of farmland that surrounded it was collectively known as Negrarena. Most of the Borreros and their guests invariably favored the smooth beach, but the south was a special place for Alma and Monica to explore. It was a beachcomber’s dream, with its lava-rock tide pools teeming with marine life. Monica was glad to shift the subject away from religion. Growing excited as she eyed a nearby tidepool, she said, “Mami, I can name all the creatures in the tide pool.”

  They crouched down together.

  Monica began. ”Moluscos. Common names … concha de abanico … casco de burro … almeja piedra … ostra común …. All of these are bivalves,” she said, accustomed to switching without awareness between Spanish and English like her parents. ”Bi,” she explained, “because their shells have two halves.” She held up two small fingers to illustrate the concept. She continued to show off, recalling the exact varieties of two lonely strands of seaweed; the species of starfish, sea urchins, barnacles, and crabs. Only once did Alma have to mouth a name to help her out. When Monica finished, Alma clapped. “!Excelente!”

  Monica concluded, in the manner of a miniature research assistant, by asserting that this particular tide pool didn’t contain anything out of the ordinary, a circumstance that she was expected to report to her mother. “Nothing unusual,” she said. “But one day, we’ll find the Conus furiosus, even if it’s the last one in the world. We’ll find it, Mami, you’ll see.”

  The idea of finding a living specimen of the rare—perhaps extinct—Central American Conus species elicited a slow, dreamy grin from Alma. Her fingers made their way into Monica’s hair, tugging at the elastic band and unleashing a cascade of black coils, a miniversion of her own. “If you see a cone shell, do not touch it, Monica, no exceptions. The venom of some cones could stop your heart in less time than it takes to realize what stung you. And even a sting from one of the milder ones can really hurt.”

  “But, but, what if …?”

  Alma put one hand up. “Don’t play the hero. If you see something that might be a furiosus, you come to find me.”

  Monica gazed into the tide pool and imagined the Conus furiosus, or “cone of fury.” The few remaining indigenous people in El Salvador had described it as a cone-shaped seashell the length of an adult’s index finger that could be polished to show its chestnut base and its blood-colored splashes around the tip. Alma often referred to the eighty-year-old specimen in their glass display case as her “Ferrari.” It had been added to the family collection back in the days when Monica’s great-grandfather, Dr. Reinaldo Mármol, used the venom as a painkiller for his patients. In those days, many of the Indios distrusted modern pharmaceuticals, preferring the natural medicines that they had been using for centuries. Monica had heard her mother lecture on the subject at universities in the United States and Europe, reading from the yellowed pages of great-grandfather Marmol’s medical journal. On the last page of the journal, the doctor concluded that, indeed, the Conus furiosus venom had extraordinary potential to alleviate pain. He also documented that some older Indians had witnessed other, more fantastic uses, such as the improvement of vision and a reduction of the symptoms of dementia; although of these he seemed a bit more skeptical.

  The Conus furiosus species had been elusive even in the time of Monica’s great-granddaddy, and although their empty casings still occasionally washed up onshore, not a single live one had been found in over fifty years. The reason, as in many cases of extinction, was unknown, but most likely had something to do with a change in their habitat. Alma had been told by local fisheries and by environmental experts that in all likelihood the species had completely vanished, yet she remained undeterred in her determination to find a live one.

  About a quarter mile into their walk they came upon an enormous and conspicuous mass, unmoving in the shallow surf. They rushed toward it, kicking up sea foam and water. It was a sea turtle, the size of an overturned oil barrel.

  “Is it going to lay eggs?” Monica asked excitedly.

  “It’s dead, sweetie.” Alma walked around it and ran her fingers over the flat, salt-dried eyes of the turtle while Monica stood back and held her nose.

  ”Uyyy…. Mami, get away from it,” she begged in a nasal voice.

  “What kind of turtle is it, mija?” Alma quizzed her daughter.

  “Olive ridley,” Monica said coolly.

  “Nope. Too big.”

  Monica smiled and rolled up her eyes, suddenly forgetting about the odor seeping from the carcass. “It’s a green sea turtle, only it’s the black variety.”

  “Exactly. You can tell because it has a single set of scales in front of the eyes. Other turtles have two.”

  They both crouched down and examined the turtle’s face. “Do you think she …,” Monica began.

  As a passing wave lifted the turtle, Alma slid both hands under the carapace and managed to flip it over onto its back. “It’s a he,” she corrected, pointing at the turtle’s middle. “See how his belly plate curves in? The concave shape allows him to mount the female’s carapace during mating without sliding off.”

  Monica peered in and nodded, running her finger over the slick, rocklike surface of the turtle’s belly before her mother returned it to its former upright position. “Do you think he has that sad face because he knew he was dying?”

  Her mother shook her head. “Animals aren’t sad about dying, ever. They know, somewhere in their tiny brains, that to live, eat, and die is a privilege. Their will is to simply participate in nature’s design. And that, my dear, is the simplest, most basic wisdom there is in the universe.” She pointed at the sky. “See those birds? They’re going to pick the flesh off this turtle. The tide will return what’s left to the sea, and the marine life will finish it off.”

  Monica looked at the turtle’s opaque eyes and thought of her grandfather. “What will happen to Abuelo, then?”

  “The worms and mites will eat him until he’s nothing but a pile of salt. Then, the salt will drain into the ground and the rain will wash him back into the ocean. His minerals will be recycled into something else—perhaps a mango on land.”

  Monica giggled, tickled by the absurdity of hundreds of people mourning a man who was now a tropical fruit, happily gorging on sunshine and rainwater, dangling in the wind high above the red-barrel-tiled houses of San Salvador.

  “Have no doubt that your beloved Abuelo will participate again,” Alma assured her. “Hopefully he’ll be a far humbler creature the next time around.” She lovingly stroked the ridges of the dead turtle’s shell. “The ocean’s job is to repossess matter that is no longer functional. It’s the sea, and its ability to turn itself into rain, that scrubs the whole world clean.” Alma gave the turtle a great push with one foot, and it rose with the surf and hovered a few seconds before rolling back toward them. They both shrieked and ran in opposite directions. A burst of stench followed Monica until she gagged. She turned her face away and filled her lungs with fresh, salty air and ran back toward her mother. Alma turned, leaned over, and Monica hopped onto her back, wrapping her bony legs around her mother’s waist. She curled her toes up in delight at their little adventure and peered over her mother’s shoulder as Alma finished the job of sending the noble beast’s carcass off to reconfiguration as a brand-new turtle or a grandfather or a mango. At one point during their walk, Monica said something that made them both laugh. It was then that Monica recognized, for the first time in her life, the subtle yet extraordinary phenomenon that was her mother’s soul. Bewildered, Monica looked from her mother to the water and back: unbelievably, the sound that had burst from Alma’s insides was identical to the music that water makes as it folds onto itself.

  FOUR YEARS LATER, when Monica was twelve, a visit to Negrarena marked her passage into womanhood. Unlike her friends’ mothers, who were squeamish about the subject, A
lma had explained menstruation with the same scientific detachment with which she explained the feeding habits of jellyfish. Fascinated by this new development in her life, Monica frolicked in the water and imagined herself as pretty and shapely as her famously beautiful mother. She was trying to dwell in these pleasant thoughts and not look up toward the beach, where a man who was not her father was rubbing suntan oil across her mother’s shoulders.

  Monica kept half of her face submerged in the water like an alligator, her big green eyes, inherited from her American father, fixed on the horizon. She was fighting the current, which seemed intent on turning her body around to face the beach. Monica looked up in time to see her mother untie her bikini straps and allow Maximiliano Campos full access to her curved, smooth back.

  Max was a tall, bearded man with unusual, pumpkin-colored eyes and pockmarks on his temples. He was a country doctor, a leader of El Salvador’s communist revolution, and Alma’s oldest friend. Max’s mother had been Alma’s beloved nanny, and the two had arrived at the Borrero estate when Alma was a newborn and Max was two. Alma told Monica that Abuelo had forbidden her to remain friends with Max in the years after her debut—her quinceañera. Eventually, she had defied her parents by rekindling her friendship with Max, and the relationship had been a source of tension for as long as Monica could remember. If only Monica’s father knew how much time Alma and Max had been spending together over the last six months … he would probably spend more time with his wife and less time chasing news stories.

  Monica got out of the water and walked over to the blanket. Sensing that her presence would help neutralize the atmosphere, she asked Max to move over. She placed herself between them, curling up against her mother. It worked, because Max looked annoyed and sat back. As if in protest, he began to talk about politics. His monologues about communism were always met with respectful silence. Alma usually kept her eyes fixed on her beloved sea and just listened.