The Grand Silence, 1929
An excerpt from Song of the Water Saints by Nelly Rosario on the novel’s 20th anniversary
Door of the Iglesia y Convento de La Mercedes, Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic. Photo: Janette at Colonial Zone
The Hispanic Theological Initiative is proud to present an excerpt from Song of the Water Saints (Pantheon, 2002) by Nelly Rosario on the novel’s 20th anniversary. As content editor for Open Plaza, Rosario has been a teacher and mentor to HTI member contributors. Her novel examines the impact of two U.S. military occupations and a 30-plus-year dictatorship on the intimate lives and dreams of three generations of Dominican women, spanning 1916 to 1999, from Santo Domingo to New York City. Winner of a PEN Open Book Award and shortlisted for a Hurston/Wright Legacy Award, Song of the Water Saints unfolds with what The Oregonian describes as “a physicality in the language that speaks of an angry, human spirituality and the struggle to be alive.”
Telling her daughter goodbye was more difficult.
Graciela took her to the riverbank, where she bought her a caramel sucker. ¿Why the trip to the riverbank? asked Mercedes, more vocal than she had ever been. Then she asked why they were going to Celeste's if Graciela was not going to the market. Graciela said it would only be for a bit, until she came back from church, and no, Mercedes could not go with her. But Mercedes asked again why they were going to Celeste's. ¿Why did Papá cry? ¿Why are your eyes so funny? ¿Why do I still need to stay at Celeste's when I'm already a señorita? ¿And why don't you ever tell me about Silvio?
A girl spreads her arms toward her and calls out Graeicla’s name. This is Graciela's lasting image of her daughter.
“The girl who chased me at Cotui (also double exposure),” ca. 1904-1905. Source: The Library of Congress
Graciela arrived on foot at the Colonial Quarter.
The quadrangle towers of the church of Nuestra Señora de la Mercedes had faithfully guided her like a constellation. Her knees had swollen tight, as had her hands and ankles. It had been a long walk from home, the sun bearing down on her, the hillside winds blowing dust in her ears…
I call you, Graciela, but you just let my voice echo. Too drunk on the silly path, too high on the weeds along the way. But know that you always walk toward the light, even when you sit along the road for a sip of water or to pick at the calluses on your feet. You will always walk.
The church's coolness this time was welcoming. Noon sun and a growing fever had flushed Graciela's skin. She removed her straw hat and made the sign of the cross, hoping the abrupt shift in temperature would not shock her face into paralysis. Colored blocks of sunlight burned into the darkness, illuminating pews, statues, and slices of floor. Graciela remembered that as a child she had ached to stand inside a block of light. Now she slipped toward the blue. Then the yellow. The red.
The statue of Christ bleeding was washed in a block of white light. On his head, the crown of thorns looked like diamonds. Fuchsia blood on his hands and feet, the only sign of his agony.
Across the church stood La Altagracia in a diorama, Joseph looking over her shoulder at their child. She was fair. Her open hands were pure, but her heart was aflame and entangled in a web of thorns. Graciela rubbed the statue's plaster heart, wondering whether Casimiro had finished the canoe she had left him building. A pain in her chest forced her to sit on the nearest pew. She closed her eyes, not knowing what to say in prayer; whether to beg forgiveness, or ask for help, or give thanks, or simply curse her pains. In the block of sunlight she fell fast asleep…
…always toward the light.
When she woke, the sunlight had shifted to the eastern side of the church. Graciela was bathed in cold sweat. Preparations were under way for evening Mass. A priest and a choirboy spoke in hushed tones by the altar as they put fresh flowers in vases. Occasionally, they looked over their shoulders at Graciela. Rising from the pew was difficult on account of her swollen joints.
–'Scuse me, Padre, ¿where is it I can find the nuns?
Her voice cracked the stillness of the church. Scratchy and loud, it was not the church voice of pious nuns who could dissolve holy toast neatly on their tongues and who could address a priest only when spoken to. Yet the priest conceded with a buenas tardes and exit here and turn there and you will find the convent and may the Lord guard you from all sins.
Santo Domingo, R.D. Calle de "La Mercedes" Dominican Republic [ca. 1900 to 1940]. Source: Library of Congress
A nun opened the door to the convent of Nuestra Señora de la Mercedes.
She peered past Graciela out to the street before addressing her.
–¿Buenas tardes? she said, more question than greeting.
–Buenas y tardes, Graciela said. –I am sick and have nowhere to go. ¿ls it possible for me to stay?
Wrinkles gathered on the nun's forehead. From her grasp on the doorknob, Graciela knew her concern was more about following rules than helping an ailing person at the door. The nun peeked down the street again, then ushered Graciela inside.
–Wait here, please. I must consult with the Superior. This is not a public inn, her voice clicked in the darkness. She motioned for Graciela to sit in the small lobby and disappeared down a hall.
Somber portraits of harsh-looking women in wimples and habits hung in the lobby. Books behind protective glass lined an entire wall. A small table displaying a collection of miniature crucifix sculptures made Graciela wish she had brought her hatbox along. Occasionally, other nuns walked by, and with a simple nod; acknowledged Graciela. Their black habits brushed the floor they walked. ¿How would she stand the heat had she to wear so much cloth on her head and around her neck and chin? Graciela came to the convent not to give her life to the Lord, but because it was the only safe place she thought she could go to be free from the cage of her day-to-day. She hoped to recover from her mysterious ailment, eat better, perhaps even learn the letters. Those veils must be part of the torture of getting closer to God, she thought, and hoped that her stay would not require her to surrender to such a demanding relationship.
The convent was ancient. High ceilings reminded those who entered that they were mere insects of God. Each floor had a balcony facing the street, a secret treat for holy women who had to be chaperoned outside of the convent and were forbidden to mention any man's name but Christ's. Adobe walls bounced the daily sound of bells around the patio, which the nuns kept perpetually in bloom and fragrant. Such charm–a product of creativity and fastidious cleanliness–did not betray the paltry amount of money the church allocated to the convent. Because the church had temporarily stopped funding the small school for children, the nuns had turned their disappointment and extra time to study, prayer, household duties, and other labors.
The first nun returned just as Graciela was tenuously approaching the world globe on a shelf by the books.
–The Superior will see you. She is very busy, so do not waste her time with foolishness, she whispered.
Graciela followed her down the hall. After a sudden tum, she saw again a life-size Jesus; this time he grimaced in all his bloody agony. In the corner of the adjacent room an emaciated woman sat behind a desk.
–¿What ails you, creature? the Superior asked Graciela. Her vestments were of a lighter hue than the other nuns'. She was far tinier than Graciela had expected, yet she seemed a force not to be fooled with.
–I don't know, Señora–
–You are to call me Madre. I am no one's señora, except the Lord's, the Superior's voice cut in.
–I'm feverish, and these rashes…Graciela held out her palms like La Virgen de la Altagracia.
–... and you've asked to stay here, I’m told. Understand that though we are Ladies of Mercy, this is neither a clinic nor an inn, the Superior answered.
–We have not the funds to open our doors to so many of the suffering–and I am sure you come without dowry. Our school has recently been suspended at the expense of the Jesuits. ¿Where is your family, may I ask?
–I don't have a family, Madre. Graciela massaged the meat of her palms. She hoped telling lies in a convent would not further jeopardize her health, but she had already come too far to be turned away.
–I've come here alone and sick, as you see. If I am a cause of trouble here then I'll leave. God squeezes but he doesn't choke, Graciela said.
The Superior smiled slightly.
–Words of wisdom to keep this place alive, she addressed the other nun. With a deep breath she summoned the nun closer and whispered a few words into her ear. Then she turned to Graciela.
–Many women come here to give their lives to the Lord. It is not an easy life, they find. We have many rules here. Saying yes to the way of the cross is harder than anyone imagines. And we live simply.
Graciela was not to appear in public. She was not to start a conversation and would demonstrate her virtue with silence and humility. If she felt she must engage in conversation, she was not to prolong it. She would confine any discussion to work and nothing else. She should never be idle. She would bear her cross like all the other nuns, though she was neither a novice nor a postulant, but a guest who must ask permission for everything. Convent life was built on three legs: poverty, chastity, and obedience. Graciela must put her flesh to death, so that her love becomes solely focused on God's will. Through prayer and the rosary she could overcome the demands of the body, kill its urges. She must accept the constant presence of only three persons in her life: God, Christ, and the Blessed Virgin Mary. If ever she should feel the onset of loneliness or despair, it could only be because she is no longer expressing love the way that she must.
Therefore, she must not make friends.
Cloister of the Iglesia de Nuestra Señora de las Mercedes, December 1983. Source: El Caribe
It was Sol Elisa who had first opened the door for her.
She guided Graciela to a small room under a flight of stairs in the back of the house. The room was furnished with only a bed and a nightstand. In addition to a washbasin and bar of soap, a small statue of La Virgen de la Altagracia sat on top of the nightstand. Her face, once delicately detailed, was chipped. She was a faceless woman with her arms spread.
–Sol Candida's old room, Sol Elisa said, without elaborating. The change in her normal routine and a lingering connection to the outside had straightened out her brow.
–¿Where is Sol Candida now? Graciela asked.
–Gone. She was not an appropriate servant of the Lord.
Graciela awoke always in darkness, when the first nun up for dawn vigil initiated the creaking of the stairs above. How she wished to shake the feeling of being walked on by moving the bed from under the slanted ceiling, but there was no other way to situate the bed in the tiny, claustrophobic room.
Within a few days Graciela was shaken into the rigid routines of the convent. Though only a guest, she still had to adhere to the life of the nuns. Every night she removed the drab dress she had been given in the same manner, folded it on her chair, also making sure that her sandals lay in the form of a cross at the foot of her bed. It was a hard and cold bed, made colder by the little bit of hair left on her head. On her first day, Graciela's thick mass of braids had been shorn and offered to La Virgen de la Altagracia. The Mother Superior had made Graciela discard her kerchief, as there were no combs or mirrors for grooming. Caught glancing at her reflection on a polished brass surface, the Superior had scolded her. –This is no place for vanities. You must destroy your ego and prepare yourself for eternal life.
Graciela's day was divided between the chapel, the kitchen, the workroom, and the garden. At four A.M., a bell, and then the creaking just inches from her face woke her for early vigil. Already she knew which cracks in her door eased in the first thin strips of candlelight from the seven candles of the hallway altar. Upon strict orders of the Superior, she had less than five minutes to wash her face in the basin, dress, and head to the·kitchen, where she was to bake the breakfast breads and brew the coffee. The nuns would come in after vigil with contained hunger. All were polite, acknowledging her presence without a word. Then she had to begin peeling and chopping the vegetables for the noontime and evening soups, which she was not allowed to season. By the third day, hunger had begun to twist inside of her, especially at night. ¿How could she live without sugar, without salt, without conversation or laughter? And then, between her kitchen duties, she had more work: helping the nuns make church vestments for the priests, as well as washing piles of laundry for both the convent and the priests. Salvation through prayer, seclusion, and mortification. But Sol Elisa, in an effort to defend her own life, told Graciela that through this suffering, the loved ones who are already in Purgatory will be sooner delivered to heaven.
The author at the former Iglesia de Las Mercedes Convent, today the Biblioteca Vetilio Alfau Durán, library of the Dominican Academy of History. Santo Domingo, Dom. Rep., 27 March 2022. Photo courtesy of Nelly Rosario
Despite the Superior's disapproval, Sol Elisa found that Graciela frequently possessed her to break the Grand Silence. Whether out weeding in the garden or washing down the floors of the chapel, Sol Elisa found ways to whisper. She herself had been delivered to the convent as a child in the time of the Occupation. At seven years old, soldiers had come into her home asking for her grandfather, a known gavillero who had organized major anti-yanqui battles in the hills. When Elisa's grandmother denied having seen him all day, the child innocently piped up that she had run into him earlier that afternoon at the home of So-and-so. For Elisa, the ten years she had spent at the convent were less a sentence than a gift to her murdered grandfather.
–I waited on a long line to get born. Pushed the weaker souls aside, Graciela whispered back. –Mai had four little devils, one after another. All of them died after she laid them. Then I came. I had to be big in this life. That's what the elders said. Mai never said nothin' like that. Wished I was a boy to make Pai happy. You're uglier than a running monkey, she used to say if she thought I was too happy. My younger brother could burn down a village if he wanted. The elders warned Mai, Try to make something of that girl.
Send her to the nuns to learn to read the Bible.
Excerpted from the chapter "Christ's Harem" from SONG OF THE WATER SAINTS: A NOVEL by Nelly Rosario, copyright © 2002 by Nelly Rosario. Used by permission of Pantheon Books, an imprint of the Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved. The images in this feature are curated by HTI Open Plaza.
“Like a Caribbean Scheherazade, Rosario casts a spell on her readers with this saga of three generations of Dominican women whose yearning becomes our own. What they want and what we get reading Song of the Water Saints is a sense of luminous world, complex and layered, full of passion and adventure.”
—Julia Alvarez, author of In the Time of the Butterflies
