Chapter 1: The Convent
That afternoon in April 1896 had been especially oppressive that the Sisters of Convento de Margarita moved their classes to the gardens. The girls’ muffled laughter flitted through the windows, momentarily disrupting the quiet that enveloped the deserted hallways.
By this time, Maria Trinidad Buenavista’s mind swelled with worry as her eyes darted at the golden pocket watch. Its yellowish hands pointed at the numbers that indicated it was already past three. She dashed through the narrow hallways, the click clack sound of her wooden clogs–or bakya, as what they’re called–overlapped with the children’s muted chatter.
It was unlikely for a lady to arrive late at meetings, but the Head Sister insisted that she stay for one last novena. Trinidad could only sigh, pushing back the annoyance that had started to build at the back of her mind. She rounded a corner, her long skirt creating a swish sound as she moved briskly.
Approaching the kitchen, her nose caught the familiar aroma of garlic, onion, and fish sauce. The thought of someone cooking arroz caldo, or rice porridge made with chicken and ginger, sent her stomach grumbling. But the unease in her gut weighed more than the hunger building in her stomach. After ensuring that no one was around, Trinidad eagerly pushed open the huge mahogany door and stepped inside the kitchen.
Her eyes immediately landed on the disorder that lay before her; scattered vegetables and spices on the makeshift table, used plates on the sink, and the hot temperature that had the Sisters asking whether the devil himself had taken refuge in such a small space intensified the uncomfortable feeling. But that was only an exaggerated way of saying the low ceiling should be reconstructed before anyone collapsed from the heat.
Trinidad usually avoided this part of the convent but not today. There, near the blazing stove, stood Rosa wrapped in her grubby apron and refusing to acknowledge her arrival. Trinidad circled her arms around Rosa’s slender waist and automatically kissed the back of her neck. She smelled of smoke, garlic, and streak of sweat, evidence of her long exposure to the stove, but Trinidad liked her natural scent just fine.
“Forgive me, mi amor,” Trinidad purred. “Hermana Florencia wouldn’t let me go. Don’t be mad, por favor.”
Rosa’s incessant stirring was the only response to her pleas. The wooden ladle scraped against the pot, creating a sloshing sound from the porridge. Trinidad’s heart hammered as she waited for Rosa to say something.
“I’ve heard Mang Carlito has the calesa ready for you,” Rosa said after a while. “It won’t be long now.”
Trinidad pressed her body to the lady but Rosa peeled away. Her cold demeanor aggravated the void building inside Trinidad’s chest. “Rosa, let’s not separate with anger in our hearts.” She had expected a quiet resignation, maybe even sadness, but not this simmering hatred. After all, they both knew the relationship wouldn’t last forever. She was only sent to the convent to study Spanish, Latin, and the Catholic Doctrine, and Rosa had been the convent’s kitchen girl for as long as she could remember.
The lazy bun resting on Rosa’s head and the sweat glistening in her beautiful brown skin briefly distracted her as she moved to catch Rosa’s elusive gaze.
“The children will finish their classes soon,” Rosa said, meeting her eyes head-on. “You should go.”
Despite the eagle-like stare and the frown sitting on her face, Trinidad heard a crack in Rosa’s voice. Trinidad wanted to say something, perhaps give an assurance or anything that the lady would want to hear, but she pursed her lips together.
When she first approached Rosa, Trinidad was someone who seemed to always know what to say. In fact, when she confessed to her about a love that shouldn’t have been, neither of the consequences and the responsibility of admitting such love ever crossed her mind. Despite the fact that Rosa had warned her of the dangers of the tempting sapphic love, one that came with plotting repercussions to those who succumb to the temptation and branding them as women who were sick in the head, Trinidad continued to pull her into the abyss. Their rendezvous in the garden and the sinful touches brought so much pleasure and allowed them to reach the peak of their carnality. Rosa ultimately corrupted herself so she could call Trinidad hers, only to be left behind in the end.
It was unspeakable and ruthless of Trinidad but the inevitable remained; she just couldn’t save the relationship anymore. Apologies sat on her mouth but the words wouldn’t come.
“Don’t worry about me,” Rosa eventually said, her eyes now glassy with tears. “I’ll be fine on my own. Your family’s waiting for you in San Felipe.”
Trinidad reached out for her but Rosa had already turned away, ultimately severing the last strand of their connection.
Later that afternoon, Trinidad sat in a two-wheeled, horse-drawn carriage called a calesa. Her heavy clothes clung uncomfortably in her body. Her mind still swam on the latest conversation she had with Rosa, and the more she thought about it, the deeper she sank into self-loathing and guilt.
Trinidad heaved a sigh as she observed the bustling metropolis, the calesa creaking as Mang Carlito hoisted all her belongings. Children loitered the street, laughing at the mechanical movements of the patrolling Guardia Civil, and ladies in their baro’t saya moved gracefully with woven baskets, filled with fish and vegetables, in their hands.
“Do not forget to say your prayers, Trinidad,” said Hermana Florencia, pulling her back to the present.
“And when you marry, don’t forget to visit us,” chirped another Sister.
“Your mother is a devoted follower of Marianismo,” Hermana Florencia added. “I’m sure you will uphold the same Catholic code every woman is meant to live by.”
“Indeed!” Hermana Luisita chirped, nodding eagerly, her headdress bobbing with each motion. “Remember, child—it’s modesty, chastity, and devotion to family that make a young woman successful in marriage.”
Trinidad pressed her lips together, her fingers drifting over the delicate embroidery of her skirt. Marriage—the word alone made her stomach twist, but how could she tell them that?
Just then, a movement by the window caught her eye. A tear-streaked face stood by, her gaze heavy with pain and everything left unsaid. For a moment, the two ladies stared at each other, neither daring to move, as of stretching time between them. Trinidad wanted to jump from the calesa and wrap her arms around Rosa’s delicate body, but she stopped herself. Then, just as quickly, Rosa turned away and vanished.
“Que Dios te bendiga, hija” (May God bless you, my child), the Sisters said in unison. “We will miss you around here.”
Trinidad exhaled a sigh. There was nothing she could do now.
“Goodbye, Hermana Florencia, Hermana Luisa, Hermana Luisita. Gracias (thank you) for taking care of me.”
The calesa groaned as its wooden wheels rolled over the uneven cobblestone, the rhythmic creaks mingling with the Sisters’ murmured prayers for safe travels. The journey ahead would take two days, yet Trinidad’s thoughts remained tangled in the past.
She would miss the quiet prayers at dawn, the familiar bustle of Ciudad Margarita—but most of all, she would miss Rosa. Their stolen moments, whispered secrets, and forbidden touches now belonged to memory, forever etched in the hidden corners of her heart.
Today, she was going home. And with that, she had to leave behind not just the woman who had first made her heart burn with passion, but also a part of herself she would never fully regain.
