XXX – A Grammar of Mourning in France

Jayet, Luce - PortraitWhat is a family? The question has been on my mind for the past few months as I research and write on these close and distant relatives — figures ranging from my own mother, with whom I speak on the phone every evening, and, say, Fefa, my great-grand aunt whom I knew a little in Cuba, to Fanny G. Vidaud, who was Fefa’s third cousin or my second great-grandfather Alberto’s second cousin… Let’s face it, this family thing includes perfect strangers. The twigs in the family tree are so expansive that sometimes it seems as if they were growing in altogether different and far-flung woods. The Vidaud tree grows in Brooklyn as strongly as it does in Pau or in Guantánamo, but is it still one and the same tree? Can the arts of genealogical botany encompass all of us in any meaningful way? The fact, such as it is, remains that Fanny, for instance, and I do share a common ancestor, but what to make of it? As I recounted earlier, five French brothers went to Saint-Domingue during the Reign of Terror, and two of them, François Vidaud du Dognon de Boischadaigne (a.k.a. François No. 7) and Pierre Vidaud du Dognon de Pomerait (a.k.a. Pierre No. 10), were married and had children on this side of the Atlantic. The story, of course, is far more tangled and full of gaps than the sentence I just wrote would suggest. As it turns out, it seems that both brothers may have returned to France, yet later found themselves in Cuba, and suddenly they were back in France or… Be that as it may, Fanny, who descends from Pierre, and I, who descend from François, may be said to share some remarkable leaves in the book of botany. Through the work of other arboreal researchers who have posted their findings online, I can tell you that two of Fanny’s sixteen second great-grandparents and two of my two-hundred and fifty-six (yikes!) fifth great-grandparents are one and the same couple. His name is André Martial Vidaud and hers is Luce Jayet de Beaupré. (That’s her picture posted here and, truth be said, I detect a certain air de famille with both Fanny and me.) According to M. Vallantin Dulac‘s “Généalogie de la famille Vidaud du Dognon,” André Martial was “chevalier, comte du Dognon, seigneur du Carrier, de La Dourville, etc.,” and Luce was the daughter of Barthélemy Jayet, seigneur des Bauries, identified as “un des commensaux du roi,” by which are meant some prestigious things related to dining with the king… As the reader can see, the Blogger is crafting some elective affinities here; I’m strangely fond of Fanny, so I’m willfully sending a drone into the sky to take a global picture of our distant forests and, hopefully, perhaps even a quick snapshot of our gnarly common trunk.

Vidaud de Pomerait, Comte du Dignon - Faire-partThere are indeed documents from the past in which many of these figures I’ve been invoking are made to perform a collective act whereby one can confirm, if not the existence of a family, at least a familial make-up. A death in the family, so to speak, may trigger such an act. Consider the mournful faire-part posted here. On 20 October 1907, in Pau, Pierre Paul Vidaud de Pomerait, the comte du Dugnon, passed away at the age of 81. As the two final lines state, the Count was someone’s husband, father, father-in-law, brother, brother-in-law, uncle, first cousin, or yet another kind of cousin. If one reads the faire-part closely, one notices that it consists of just one sentence — one long sentence consisting of more than two-hundred and fifty words, elegantly punctuated by semicolons. What’s more, in a stunning feat of grammar, these multitudinous relatives, whose names occupy most of the faire-part, are the seemingly endless compound subject of the little single verb ont — “they have.” In fact, the subject of the sentence — the family members reunited here — contains sixty-three proper names, and that’s not even including “leurs enfants” (an untold number of children), plus a few other surnames thrown in vaguely at the end. The predicate of the sentence invokes a circumspect tale of universal mourning — an act of carefully orchestrated sympathy and mourning. All who are mentioned — this Monsieur, and that Madame, their proliferating “enfants” — “ont l’honneur de vous faire part de la perte douloureuse qu’ils viennent d’éprouver en la personne de Monsieur Vidaud Pomerait, Comte du Dugnon.” All of these variously interlocked names have the honor of sharing the painful loss that they have just suffered in the person of the Count.

The person of the Count, alas, lacks a full proper name, but the faire-part itself, it must be said, is the pinnacle of propriety. As one of our French distant cousins mentioned in an email to one of my Miami not-so-distant cousins not long ago, families back then were “très protocolaires.” The person of the Count, I repeat, is an octogenarian body casting a last autumnal glimmer over a vast number of figures performing the action of a common verb.

But who are these figures? The first three paragraphs — if those initial phrases can be called that — invoke the six members of the Count’s immediate family. Madame Vidaud de Pomerait, the Comtesse du Dugnon, was at first a mystery to me because, according to M. Vallantin Dulac’s “Généalogie,” the Count was a widower, his second wife having died by 1889. I wondered whether there could be an unaccounted-for third wife, but as it turns out, another genealogy inverts the order of the Count’s two marriages. It appears that his second (not first) wife was Delphine Chagneau, whom the Count married in Bordeaux in 1874, after the death of Claire Louisa Gallot Delesalle, his first wife and the mother of his two sons, in 1868. Listed next in the faire-part, the Baron and the Baronne Paul du Dugnon are the Count’s oldest son, Paul Joseph, who will now be the Comte du Dugnon until his death in 1913, and his wife, Herminie Ubelhart Lemgruber, who, according to Vallantin Dulac, was born in Rio de Janeiro into “une riche famille de banquiers brésiliens” and lived on 36, avenue du Bois-de-Boulogne, rechristened avenue Foch after the Great War. The Baron Louis du Dugnon is Louis Edmond Henri Vidaud du Dognon de Pomerait, the Count’s youngest son and a widower; like his older brother, he too would die not that long thereafter, on 17 October 1914, killed by shrapnel — “un éclat d’obus” — at the onset of the war near the Pas-de-Calais. Two children, Claire (after her paternal grandmother?) and Jean du Dugnon, are listed next. They are Paul Joseph and Herminie’s children; according, again, to Vallantin Dulac, Rosa Paule Claire would go to live in Brazil, while Jean Marie Paul, only fourteen upon his grandfather’s death, would become the comte du Dugnon after his father died. Jean himself did not have any descendants; more on him, the childless count, I hope, in an upcoming entry.

The Count is then mourned by two widowed sisters and two widowed sisters-in-law, in that order. Their biographies and those of their dead husbands tell the transatlantic story of the Vidauds. Madame John Durand is Marie Anne Méloë Vidaud du Dognon de Pomerait, born in Gradignan, near Bordeaux, and married to a man from Brooklyn; I still don’t know what John Durand’s relationship to Étienne Octave Vidaud (Fanny’s father and the Count’s and Marie Anne Méloë’s late brother) might have been, but his name suggests deeper ties between the Vidauds and the United States than I was aware of. Madame Henri Lafont (not Lafond) is Marie Joséphine Vidaud du Dognon de Pomerait; she was born in Santiago de Cuba, where she married Henri Lafont, who was later a doctor in Pau, where he died in 1905. Madame Ernest Vidaud du Dognon de Pomerait is Marie Bernadac, whom we have seen before wearing a formidable headdress; her husband, also a doctor like Henri Lafont, is the rather handsome man whose face I tried to read several months ago in a belated and improvised act of physiognomy. Madame Émile Vidaud du Dognon de Pomerait is Mariana de Arce, born in Santiago de Cuba. Émile too was born there, but lived in France before returning to his hometown.

Vidaud, Pierre HenriNext on the list of mourners are the Count’s nephews and nieces, plus the children of these, as well as some in-laws. First are the children of Étienne-Octave, the Count’s eight nephews and nieces born in Brooklyn: Robert, plus wife and children; Édouard, or Edward, a bachelor; three sisters married to men surnamed Van Nostrand, Clarke and Hunter; and three unmarried sisters, including Fanny, who — unlike her siblings, probably — must have met the Count and his immediate family on her European trips. Then comes John Durand, Marie Anne Méloë’s husband, followed by his son, Maurice, plus the latter’s wife and son. Suddenly there appear the rather mysterious Colonel et Madame Ulpiano Sánchez-Echavarría. Their name invokes the realm of operetta, but she happens to be Emilia Vidaud Arce, daughter of Émile Vidaud du Dognon de Pomerait and Mariana de Arce, and he a Teniente Coronel de Infantería, according to the Anuario militar de España, who fought for Spain during Cuba’s War on Independence. Then comes a solitary Mademoiselle Aguirre, who must be, following M. Vallantin Dulac, a certain Lola, the daughter of the Count’s sister, Fanny, who in turn was born in Santiago de Cuba and married one Elías Aguirre; Lola would die in Pau, but I don’t know why or when she moved there. (Our Brooklyn-born Fanny must have been named after her late aunt.) But one figure that stands out, simply because of the number of words attached to his name, is “le Capitaine d’Artillerie Henri Lafont, officier d’ordonnances du Général commandant la 14e division d’Infanterie.” Like his mother, Marie Joséphine Vidaud du Dognon de Pomerait, Pierre Henri was born in Santiago de Cuba, but died far from there, in Romania, on 29 November 1918, only less than three weeks after the Armistice. There is much about him on the Web. We know that he lived at 9, rue Montpensier, in Pau; that he had chestnut hair, gray eyes and a dimpled chin; that he died from an illness acquired on the front… The phrase “mort pour la France” often appears next to his name, and his name also appears on a plaque at the Invalides in Paris. I have also found his picture, reposted here, on several genealogical websites. It’s a melancholy countenance, that of General Lafont. I’m not sure how old he was when he arrived in France, and I wonder whether he had any memories of Cuba when, far from Pau, in the city of Iași, in eastern Romania across the border from present-day Moldavia, he knew he was dying.

The next paragraph, which is also quite long, starts with various figures whose names are only vaguely familiar to me. But their connection to the Count can be ascertained by googling and clicking with a measure of intelligence and sang-froid. Yes, you must be alert not to lose your way in the forking paths, and yes, you must be willing to trespass in other people’s woods and climb their trees. Take, for instance, Monsieur et Madame de Masfrand. Who could they be? As it turns out, she is one Marie Henriette Clara Durand, who married Léopold de Masfrand, and her parents are Jean-Michel Durand and Marie Marthe Théophile Vidaud du Dognon de Pomerait (ah! who?), who in turn is the deceased sister of Pierre Vidaud du Dognon de Pomerait, the Count’s father — which, if my botany doesn’t fail me, makes Madame de Masfrand the Count’s first cousin, right? That Marie Anne Méloë, the Count’s sister, is married to John Durand (or is it Duran?) of Brooklyn only serves to further entwine the windblown twigs. In the end, what matters more than absolute clarity is that all are reunited in the act of mourning and the faire-part’s grammatical subject.

And then, in mid-paragraph, the faire-part invokes the various descendants, many living in Cuba, of François No. 7 and his two sons, Adelson and Adolphe. Marking Adelson’s primogeniture, his four daughters are listed first: the Mesdemoiselles Clémence and Louise Vidaud du Dognon de Pomerait, both unmarried; Madame de Carlos Lecumberri, whose name was Josefa, and whose husband was a lieutenant-coronel for Spain who appears to have died in Cuba’s War of Independence; and Madame Lucciardi, Suzanne, whose husband, Eugène Lucciardi, was a French diplomat stationed in La Paz, Santiago de Cuba, Sydney and Prague. (I shall come back to some of these characters in the future.) And then, finally, almost last and not quite least, are Adolphe’s two sons and five daughters: Alberto, plus his wife and children; Severo, the eternal bachelor; María, with her husband, Rafael Llopart i Ferret, children and grandchildren in Catalonia; Juana Amelia, also in Catalonia, whose husband, Rafael Calbetó i Sambeat, had already died; Carlota, who I believe may have lived with one of her married sisters; Magdalena, a pianist, who spent time in France and Spain (where she studied with Enrique Granados) before returning to Guantánamo; and Matilde, the youngest, married to Fulgencio Gonzales-Rodiles and the mother of María Magdalena, nicknamed Nunú, the notebook writer.

Vidaud Caignet, Alberto & Felicia Trutié GautierWhat remains of all these names? The Count died more than a century ago, so the likelihood that anyone still alive knew him, or knew any of the various other figures mentioned here, is little. Fortunately, the children — those enfants mentioned over and over again — and even grandchildren are a different matter. Consider the phrase “Monsieur and Madame Albert Vidaud du Dognon de Pomerait et leurs enfants.” Those names and nouns invoke my second great-grandfather, Alberto Vidaud Caignet, who owned (or not) La Reunión; his wife, Felicia Trutié Gautier, about whom I know little. This is their picture here, sitting on some veranda. They had four boys and three girls, and those children, all long dead by now, included Alberto Vidaud Trutié, whose grandchildren and great-grandchildren I’m just beginning to meet online; María Vidaud Trutié, or Maluya, my great-grandmother, whose picture I posted earlier; and Josefa Felicia Vidaud Trutié, our beloved Fefa, who took care of me and whose memory is still alive on both coasts of these United States, if not in Cuba itself. Those children lived in a provincial city in a newly independent republic in the Americas and, by an act of grammar, they, now young men and women, crossed the Atlantic and became subjects in the death of an old man — a nobleman yet, like in some uncanny fairy tale — who lived in another provincial city in a far older republic that once upon a time had been the mightiest kingdom in Europe, and… The rest, I’m afraid, is blogging, by which I mean imagining things, making up stories.

If every story has a narrator and a narratee, as a distinguished Frenchman once put it, inquiring minds may want to know who tells the tale told in the faire-part and to whom it is addressed. I don’t know who authored the announcement of the Count’s death, but the their-person voice in the text fashions itself as omniscient. It knows all in the family and their degree of proximity to the Count’s person. It speaks to a figure succinctly identified as “vous” — a “you” to whom the multiple names that make up the subject of the sentence communicate the news of a painful loss. As fossilized as its formulaic language may sound, the faire-part still speaks to me. But if I identify with the “you” to whom the sad news is told, I may well assume I’m not a member of the family, if only because I was born decades later. Yet, even as I undertake the announcement of the Count’s death to you, whoever you may be, I become its new narrator, perhaps even a new subject in this ancient grammar of mourning. Strangely, belatedly, I too become a melancholy figure not unlike any other member of the family, whatever we may mean by family.

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XXVI – A Death in the Family

Vidaud Caignet, Severo - SitgesIt happened in 1918, but we only found out this afternoon. One of my cousins in Miami discovered the clip on the web. The report in the Baluart de Sitges — dated 9 November, just two days before the Armistice — is succinct: “Through recent news from the island of Cuba, we learn of the death in Santiago of the distinguished gentleman Don Sever Vidaud, brother-in-law of our esteemed compatriot Don Rafel Llopart Ferret.” We know him better as Severo or Sévère, but here he is Sever, a Catalan permutation. His sisters, María and Juana Amelia, had both married men from Catalonia and moved to Barcelona and Sitges with them when they returned to their homeland. Rafael Llopart i Ferret, María’s husband, was an important man who had made much money in Cuba and whose son, Rafael Llopart i Vidaud, had been president of the Futbol Club Barcelona for a year. The death of his brother-in-law in Cuba — surely more distant than ever because of the Great War — was news. We know that Severo traveled frequently to Europe, going to Paris every year, according to Nunú’s notebook, where he would attend the races at the Hippodrome de Longchamp. His legend is still alive in Barcelona. Not long ago I received an email from a descendant of Juana Amelia describing him as “todo un personaje,” adding this: “Creo que era soltero y administraba la plantación cerca de Guantánamo. Tengo entendido que recogía el dinero de la plantación de caña de azúcar y se venía a París, y hasta que no se gastaba todo el dinero no regresaba a Cuba. Amaba profundamente la buena vida.” It was a coffee, not a sugarcane, plantation, and it was closer to Santiago de Cuba than Guantánamo, but much of the rest — his love of Paris and “the good life” (really!) — resounds with stories of Severo we too have heard on this side of the Atlantic. He may have been a bachelor — a fact confirmed by Nunú and several faire-parts published in France upon the death of cousins, in which he is listed as a mourner — but he appears to have treasured the theory and practice of love, and he did have several children. He cherished his nephews and nieces too, as Nunú remembers, paying for their education and such things as subscriptions to French magazines. And through it all, he remains an elusive ghost, an empty vessel into which we poured much that wasn’t true. At one point we thought he was a medical student in Paris, and we also thought that he died trying to save another man after a shipwreck… Though he’s not my direct ancestor, I can’t think of any other of my Cuban Gauls I’d rather resemble.

Perhaps because news of his death reached me on this rather gray afternoon in Los Angeles, or perhaps because of my elective affinities for this gentleman from far away and long ago, I was rather sad when I learned what I had known all along, namely that he was dead. But I wasn’t the only person to report the uncanny belated feeling. One of my cousins wrote on our Facebook page, “This first and solid record of his passing — like a death foretold — reaches me with a strange mixture of sadness and surprise.” To which I replied, “I too feel a little sad, maybe because in the Vidaud tribe no one seems to have enjoyed life as much as Severo. The war is also part of this sense of melancholy. By 1918, crossing the Atlantic, which he had done so many times, wasn’t possible” To which yet another cousin, the discoverer of the Sitges clip, had this to say: “It feels weird to finally have a range that limits the years of his adventures. I could imagine him as an eternal traveler, the same through the ages.” Indeed, Severo/Sévère was no longer who he was.

But what is this all about? Whence all this mourning and melancholia? Five thousand people just died in an earthquake Nepal, and I only have tears for a dead ancestor? Is this yet another proof of the selfishness of family ties? Or is something else going on? Could this be wistfulness? Could this be a realization that the man, digitally invisible heretofore, is not dead at all, but quietly coming back?

(To E.D. and D.V., my newly found cousins.)

XI – The Blogger in Berlin

Mies, 1What, are you saying that the Cuban Gauls, besides Barcelona and Brooklyn and Bordeaux, settled in Berlin too? As a matter of fact, yes, I’m saying that. One of us, a descendant of Adolphe Vidaud and Charlotte Caignet, is a resident of this capital. From what I know, he is a most interesting person — a linguist, a free spirit, a man who I suspect has led a fascinating life and deserves more than just a quick telephone call or a short entry in a silly little blog. But let the story of the Berlin Vidaud wait for a better time, and let the Blogger focus instead on his own brief sojourn in this city, where he’s writing these lines. This is indeed a quick trip, yet once again I decided to devote time to photographing the Neue Nationalgalerie. I visited it twice, even though that meant skipping other places I’ve never been too. The Neue may not be most beautiful building in the world, but, then again, maybe it is. Besides, the original version of this gorgeous glass-and-steel machine, so open, so calm, was designed by Mies van der Rohe for Santiago de Cuba. Yet it ended up being erected on this side of the Atlantic instead. What, are you saying that Germany stole a building from Cuba? As a matter of fact, no, I’m not saying that. Having been raised by her French-Cuban grandparents, my grandmother did not love Germany; its maleficent emperor had annexed Alsace and Lorraine in 1871 and terrified everyone with their submarines during World War I — all things I heard when I was growing up. But that’s all ancient history now. It has nothing to do with the little story about the German-American master I’m telling here. In the late 1950s, Mies was commissioned to design the new headquarters of Bacardí in Santiago, but the Revolution and its upheavals put an end to what I believe would have been a perfect mid-century cocktail of rum and architecture. Bacardí had been founded in the city in 1862 by Facundo Bacardí Massó, a native of Sitges, like Rafael Llopart i Ferret, who married María Vidaud Caignet; his own son, Emilio Bacardí Moreau, would play an important role in local and national history, as the graphic novel by Warren Ellis and Michael Allred glowingly recounts. But now the entire company would go into Exile. Mies too had left his native country, but in the 1960s the Berlin Senate invited him back to design a new building in the city. The architect recast the Bacardí design — not exactly what I’d call stealing — into the fabulous Neue. There it stands now, across the street from the Ibero-Amerikanisches Institut, not far from Potsdamer Platz, coolly in the center of things. But for me the Neue Nationalgalerie is first and foremost a kind of specter — or, to put it à la manière allemande, a foreghost of sorts, a solid and sentient organism through which a stillborn creature from fragile Cuba was born and lives on. There’s nothing farther from Santiago’s tropical placidity than Berlin’s ice-cold winds — the temperature has hovered around 0º C. for most of our stay, and it’s not even winter yet. But Mies’ lovely geometry, even under steely skies, is a clear reminder that a far-flung Caribbean island, even outside of its famous capital, was almost modern before it became…

Cuban Embassy - BerlinWhat did it become? As part of a new scholarly project, yesterday morning I took the U-Bahn to an old diplomatic quarter in what used to be East Berlin. I went to the Cuban embassy and took many pictures, including the image you see here in which the red spot splashed behind the last letters of Republik is the ghostly figuration of my winter cap. After German reunification, Mexico built a beautiful, if arguably pretentious, embassy in the prestigious Tiergarten diplomatic quarter, near the five Nordic embassies and not far from the historic piles of Italy and Japan, Berlin’s old pals. But little Cuba is still in its old gray and austere DDR sector in the company of Moldova, Eritrea, and Bosnia and Herzegovina — an island too small both for its capitalist aspirations and lofty socialist dreams. But what do I know? I left Cuba at the age of three more than fifty years ago, and I’ve never been back. In fact, if asked, I think I’d rather live almost anywhere than in my native Santiago, for reasons too long to go into now. Suffice it to say that the German spelling of Cuba with a K, as in Kafka, strikes me as uncannily letter-perfect. When I travel, bright signs of Cuba (edible, potable, smokeable, danceable) seem to materialize everywhere — a hopping restaurant on a side street in Leipzig, a dark cigar bar in downtown Vancouver, daiquiris and mojitos gleefully advertised along the Mid-Level Escalators in Hong Kong. The Blogger would rather have any of those ephemeral simulacra, or his improbable stories of the long-dead Vidauds, over the real thing.

VIII – The Triangle

How to view that old portrait?  How to regard it?  Was it even Jean-Baptiste Gué?  We know it depicts a figure identified as an architect from Cap-Français. But was this our fourth great-grandfather, the man whose daughter would marry the first Vidaud in Cuba, our François V. du D. de B.? A few days after my post, Mari made an interesting discovery. On a site called “Les colons de Saint-Domingue (1789)” compiled by Oliver Gliech, a historian of Haiti and the French Revolution in Berlin, there’s an entry for our man Gué, and next to his name are the letters “FM,” which stand for “Franc-maçon/Freemason.” Our architect, then, could also very well have been the master of a masonic lodge, thereby increasing the probability that the canvas in Montreal could indeed be the portrait of Jean-Baptiste Gué.

But how to view that old portrait, how to regard the story of slavery that was unfolding even as Malepart de Beaucourt was applying oil on canvas in 1787? Why not simply leave all this behind and move on, like survivors do, often quite literally? The gray Atlantic was one busy waterway, with constant traffic between Europe and the Americas and human migration from one shore to another. Jean-Baptiste was a native of Brittany, but at least four of his seven children, all of whom were born in Saint-Domingue, appear to have left the colony soon after their father’s death, “returning”to France and settling mostly in Bordeaux. Pierre claims to have written his father’s tragic history at his family’s request “afin d’en perpétuer le souvenir parmi nos enfants.” But did he really want the next generation of children to dwell perpetually on that story inscribed with multiple forms of violence and inhumanity? Wouldn’t one want to say good-bye to all that?

Vidaud Caignet, MaríaFor an amateur genealogist such as this Blogger, there is in fact nothing easier than to move on. The past has passed, and the family tree is as vast and rich as the forest primeval. If you feel burdened by the umbrous weight of a certain branch, you look for a lighter twig to behold and hold on to. I shall return to Gué’s children and their lives in France, but let’s, for a moment, contemplate María Vidaud Caignet, the distinguished lady seen here, a picture of sartorial property and domestic sovereignty. She was the sister of Alberto Vidaud, my grandmother’s grandfather, which makes her the great-daughter of our freemason architect of Cap-Français. Born in Santiago de Cuba circa 1850, she married Rafael Llopart i Ferret, who in turn had been born in 1847 in Sitges, then a small village in Catalonia. As a young man, Llopart i Ferret migrated to Cuba, where he became a prosperous businessman. He lived in Guantánamo, serving as mayor in the 1880s and devoting his attention to public health, as the Viquipèdia entry, my source, recounts. It appears he traveled back and forth the Atlantic several times; for instance, he represented the provincial government at the Exposició Universal de Barcelona in 1888. But by 1890, Llopart i Ferret, now a rich indiano, was back for good in Catalonia with his Cuban wife. In Barcelona, he owned a “botiga d’ultramarins i colonials” named — what else? — La Tropical, located on the rambla de Canaletes. At one of his properties in Sitges, the composer Enric Morera i Viura wrote and dedicated to him the opera Empòrium, which premiered at the Gran Teatre del Liceu in 1906. A grand transatlantic life, it seems, that of Llopart i Ferret! But not as long as that of his wife María, who died in January 1944 at the age of 93. Think of this: back in Cuba’s Oriente she lived through the Guerra de los Diez Años against Spain, and then in Spain, she, an octogenarian, survived the horrors of the Spanish Civil War. Her obituary in La Vanguardia mentions her burial in the Cementerio del Sudoeste, on Montjuïc; after such a long life, she must have wanted to rest in peace.

Llopart i Vidaud, Rafael - 2My mother tells me that, “back” in Cuba, Fefa — Josefa Felicia Vidaud Trutié, her great-aunt — often talked about her cousins the Lloparts and Vidauds, who lived in Barcelona. She remembered them fondly and had many photographs of them. Perhaps they had even spent time together at La Reunión? One of Fefa’s cousins was Rafael Llopart i Vidaud, the man seen here. He was born in Guantánamo in 1875, so he was an adolescent when his parents, Rafael and María, settled permanently in Catalonia. His Viquipèdia entry describes him as the “fill de l’enriquit indiano sitgetà Rafael Llopart i Ferret.” (Ah, those newly rich indianos whose gawdy architectural tastes changed the face of Sitges and many other coastal towns!) But the younger Rafael had his own remarkable accomplishments. He was one of the founders of Martí, Llopart i Trenchs S.A., a textile manufacturer, and in 1919 he was one of the engines behind the Exposició Nacional de Clavells, the carnation exhibit linked to the Corpus Christi celebration in Sitges. In 1930, Alfonso XIII and Victoria Eugenia de Battenberg visited the exhibition, and Rafael, a gardener and a botanist, deploying carnations he had grown himself, decorated the royal platform with a sign that read “Floreal a Sus Majestades” — an inscription not devoid of a measure of irony for those of us for whom the word “floréal” is first and foremost the name of a springtime month in the calendar of the French Revolution, an event that led, of course, to regal beheadings. But I digress. Rafael’s ascension to everlasting digital glory happened between 1915 to 1916, when he presided over the Futbol Club Barcelona. Indeed, the Barça website describes his appointment as “l’inici d’una etapa de pau i consens al si del Club,” a period of peace and consensus marred only by a refereeing controversy at a game against Real Madrid (really!) during the Campionat d’Espanya. Despite widespread support, Rafael Llopart resigned the presidency. Maybe that’s when the idea of the carnation show came up. I wonder what botanical conversation he and E.L. Ekman might have had if they had ever met.

Carnations, the opera, sportsmanship, a royal encounter — such are the charms of a certain Mediterranean bourgeoisie far removed from the cold and brutal Atlantic. I have no idea what the life of María Vidaud Caignet was like in the metropolis, but there must be letters somewhere that might someday be read in order to recover a sense of her thoughts and affects. Did she think much of the island of Cuba? Did she miss her relatives there and speak fondly of them? Did she ever give a thought to the slaves she must have known as late as the 1880s? And did she know much about the life of her maternal grandfather, one François Caignet, presumably the same François Caignet of Saint-Domingue who, according to the Louisiana Slave Records, in June 1815, in the city of New Orleans, sold a twenty-four-year-old woman named Rosalie as a slave for 500 dollars, and also sold a boy named Casimir, Rosalie’s four-year-old son, as a slave for 550 dollars? Such, I’m afraid, are the awful triangulations of the Atlantic Ocean that suddenly pop up on the well-lit screens of ancestry.com. Knowing this tale of Africa in the Americas, how should we regard María Vidaud Caignet’s lovely portrait? How should I regard a mindless snapshot I have of a little white boy with Martha, his black nanny, taken in Santiago de Cuba circa 1961? When should one declare the past officially dead, or is the past an everlasting thing?