Bolivar’s Heart

I was introduced to this story on a May afternoon in Cuzco, the first of two meetings with Antonio, as we sat on a bench facing the Cathedral of the Plaza de Armas, also called the Plaza of Tears by the Quechua people. Pedestrians streamed around while I chewed coca leaves to alleviate the severe headaches that hit me as soon as I arrived four days ago. My hotel was located behind the Cathedral and offered more privacy, but I deferred to the instructions of my good friend and colleague, David Levin, who had orchestrated the meeting with Antonio’s approval. A public place like the Plaza was necessary, maybe uncomfortable for him, but appropriate for what we wanted to accomplish. Settling into the questions in my head, I realized that Antonio was interested in Bolívar’s story for the same reasons I was. The truths buried in myths, folktales, missing letters and official documents, destroyed intentionally and unintentionally, would shed light on who Bolívar really was. Bolívar empowered us with his example and eloquence yet was viewed as the agent of some kind of cosmic death in our continent that no one has understood in a rational way. As a native Venezuelan, I was always inspired by Bolívar’s ability to see things connected beyond the boundaries of the physical world. He ignored the symptoms of a powerless people, enticing us to become a confederation of nations, an unrecognizable reality that challenged our will. This emperor without a crown, as he was called by some, wasn’t reckless, though. He understood that the future called for a different state of being. He wrote, “My enemies and my foolish friends have talked so much about this crown that I will be expelled from Colombia and America. They refuse to believe that I detest power as greatly as I love glory. Glory does not imply command, but the practice of great virtue. I wanted freedom and fame; I have achieved both. What else can I wish?" He died at the age of forty-seven years in Santa Marta, Colombia. Born Bolívar José Antonio de la Santísima Trinidad in Caracas, Venezuela, this man was calling us to open ourselves to a profound experience in a play whose characters were screaming for authenticity. My search for the true Bolívar crossed time-space boundaries and brought events, memories, and people in different countries together, in one voice, part real, part absurd, but challenging, eliciting a tremendous amount of digging, all necessary, but nothing that equaled what Antonio could contribute. Antonio was a present-day example of Bolívar’s spirit, a radical thinker, akin to a wave that was about to break at the end of a very dark tunnel, best described by Bolívar when he said, “The nations I have founded will, after prolonged and bitter agony, go into an eclipse, but will later merge into states of one great Republic, America." Breaking the silence, Antonio said, “For many months I’ve been looking for a Dominican priest who has important information about Bolívar’s heart. Unfortunately, this information was hidden by Rome.” “Sounds like a novel about secret societies and codes,” I said. “Bolívar is followed by many competing stories. In one, he was poisoned by the Colombians, in another he was ambushed and assassinated by the United States, and so forth.” He frowned. “Some people want to turn it into something like that, but that isn’t my story.” I nodded. “Bolívar tried to build a community of values to unite the continent. These values were abducted by ruthless people.” “So, why are you writing this book?” he asked. “Few norteamericanos are interested in this story. That’s why I care.” He remained silent. I added, “The word ‘American’ isn’t an empty word. Every American occupies a position of responsibility towards each other. What happens in the southern part of this continent could easily happen in North America. We’re all connected in spite of the evidence that principles and values get repeatedly hijacked. That’s why your story should be told.” “We say that if we aren’t connected with the local reality, we’re disengaged from the living world.” His face swung from enthusiasm to sadness. “Actually,” he continued, “that’s what happened to Bolívar’s letter. The Dominican priest has a copy. It was signed by Bolívar and witnessed by Alexandre Prospère Révérend, his de facto physician, and it states that Bolívar’s heart should be buried here in Cuzco. Révérend apparently followed Bolívar’s instructions. The heart was placed in the coffer now located in the Cathedral of Santa Marta. However, the letter was hidden or lost, and nothing was done to transfer the coffer to Cuzco.” I frowned. “It’s strange that Révérend didn’t leave a paper trail of his own because he certainly left behind a mountain of notes,” I said. I had done research on the subject, so I continued, “There’s a strong document trail about Bolívar’s last days. For example, four hours after he died, his body was transferred to a rustic table in the rear open hallway of the Quinta. An autopsy was performed by Révérend. The autopsy revealed that horseback riding caused kidney stones and a calloused derriére. His kidneys, heart and brain were in good condition, and the top two-thirds of his right lung and left lung were destroyed. According to Révérend, he died of a serious cold, and complications thereof. Bolívar didn’t like doctors. He always self-medicated until Révérend intervened. By then, it was too late. Révérend’s notes omit that Bolívar’s heart was separated and placed in a receptable.” “Révérend was probably aware,” Antonio countered, “of the ancient Egyptian belief that every human heart appreciates the intelligence of the soul. The Egyptians never destroyed the heart. That argument aside, his letter was consistent with Bolívar’s deep, emotional connection with the Andean indigenous people, which, in Révérend’s view, had to be preserved. He may have separated it but trusted the church authorities of Santa Marta to bring the heart to Cuzco.” “Well, we know that he was a very meticulous man,” I answered. “Révérend’s autopsy report includes an off-hand comment about a letter Bolívar wrote in which he said, ‘To accept a crown would be to taint my glory; instead, I prefer the precious title of First Citizen of Colombia,’ a letter that was never published in order to protect the identity of those who proposed the idea of a crown.” He shook his head. “I don’t know whether Révérend kept the letter or gave it to someone else, but the copy of the letter that my friend saw appeared legitimate. Instead, the coffer stayed in Santa Marta when Bolívar’s bones were transferred to Caracas twelve years afterwards.” “The Dominican told you that?” “No. A historian from Santa Marta told me that. He saw a copy of that letter.” “Go on.” “According to the historian, Bolívar’s heart was kept in a coffer of lead and silver and delivered to the Bishop when Bolívar died in 1830. At that time, he was buried in the aisle facing the altar of San José of the Cathedral but the coffer was separated from those remains. When an earthquake hit Santa Marta in 1834, his coffin was spit out from the ground and that’s when his remains were moved to the central aisle in front of the main altar.” “Closer to the coffer?” “Yes. According to local lore, the coffer was placed in the altar. Church authorities interpreted the earthquake to mean that God wanted Bolívar in front of the main altar.” “Maybe Bolívar was the one who wanted their attention. Maybe it was because his heart had not been moved to Cuzco.” He nodded. “The inventory taken of his remains when they were given to Venezuela in 1842 mentions a receptacle containing his heart. By then, the heart was dust. The inventory duly notes that the coffer would remain in Colombia.” “The coffer lost its importance. It was empty.” He added, “Nonetheless, the coffer was saved in 1860 during a fire.