Author Interview

Saving the Writer (With Lots of Helpers)

A Short Note from the Author

The seed of Saving the World sprouted in a footnote. Researching the history of the Dominican Republic for an earlier novel, I learned that in 1804 when the island of Hispaniola was in the midst of revolution, smallpox broke out. A footnote mentioned a missed opportunity. In February 1804, Dr. Francisco Xavier Balmis arrived in nearby Puerto Rico with his Royal Spanish Expedition bound on its mission to save the world with the smallpox vaccine. The carriers were orphan boys—this was before the days of refrigeration—twenty-two of them, all under the age of nine. But because the Spanish colony on Hispaniola was embattled and unsafe, Don Francisco’s expedition did not stop there.

Why had I never heard of this attempt to rid the world of a deadly disease? Though the Spanish crown’s motives were praised as noble, I could not stop thinking of those twenty-two boys. Must civilization always ride on the backs of those least able to defend themselves? Little boys! Orphans!

From then on, I tried to find out more about this smallpox expedition.

The best bit of information I found was that a woman had accompanied the expedition: the “rectoress” of the orphanage, Isabel Sendales y Gómez, went along to take care of the little boys. I knew this was a story I had to tell. What I didn’t know was that I was about to embark on my own expedition around the world—mostly electronically—to find out all I needed to know to tell this story.

It’s amazing how tolerant people are of writers with wacky requests. First, I needed to experience the feel of a rolling vessel, salt and wind in my hair, that sinking feeling when the land drops out of view. After all, Isabel had spent months crossing several oceans.

A local acquaintance has a daughter-in-law who teaches in one of those semesters at sea programs. During Caribbean stops, she has her students read my novel In the Time of the Butterflies. Which is how I made it on board—courtesy of Dee O’Regan—Spirit of Massachusetts, where I experienced seasickness firsthand, an ailment I passed on to poor Isabel and her little boys.

The tall-ship sailing world turned out to be a small one. Through Dee, I was put in touch with Joan Druett, author of Hen Frigates, a wonderful book on seafaring women. Joan proceeded to educate me with reading lists and expert answers to my questions. “The best way to go is to track your post and distinguish your problems,” she began one e-mail. In another, uncharacteristically stumped, she referred my question to Nick Burningham. “Genuflect when you read that name,” she said. “He’s currently in the Oman building models of Arab boats for the sultan.” In the Oman! It occurred to me to ask, “And where are you, Joan?” “Down Under,” came the reply.

I decided to do a bit of actual travel myself. Retracing Isabel’s journey, I headed to La Coruña, the port city from which the expedition set sail. I climbed the 234 steps of the Tower of Hercules. The oldest functioning lighthouse in the world, it had beamed a good-bye to the rectoress and her boys. Though the celebration of the expedition’s bicentennial (1803–2003) would not open until later that year, I collected the names of several experts to contact.

One of them, Catherine Mark, was this writer’s true fairy godmother. An American, she lives in Madrid and works at Centro Nacional de Biotecnología. She seems to have collected everything ever written about the expedition and is the hub of a worldwide assortment of Balmis aficionados informally known as “The Balmaniacs.” As my planned novel expanded to include a contemporary story and another scourge (AIDS), Catherine was ready with studies and statistics. Some days half a dozen e-mails would go back and forth, not all of them full of information. Sometimes it was long-time-a-coming advice on how to deal with that censoring presence that can afflict a writer midnovel and a person midlife:

So I have to be the one to explain the facts of life to you (sigh). Sit up straight, uncross your knees, and pay attention: at the age of fifty-whatever, it is now time to get rid of that little nun who’s been sitting on your shoulder and talking into your ear for the last four decades. Thank her for keeping you out of trouble in your wild-oats years (though I bet she didn’t), and let her fly away (your back isn’t what it was, and she really is too heavy).

Sometimes it was a name and contact. (José Rigau in Puerto Rico “knows everything about that portion of the expedition.” Ditto for Tom Colvin on the Philippine and Mexican portions. Also Michael Smith in Oklahoma, Susana Ramírez in Madrid . . .) Soon, I was shuttling around the world in cyberspace, coming “home” to the story with information I needed.

When I finally put the finished manuscript in the mail, I was stricken by the writer’s version of empty-nest syndrome. I sent Catherine a forlorn e-mail. She was having none of that. No way I was done, she flashed back. I was one of the carriers now. Again, Catherine’s right. I’ll be telling this story for the rest of my life.