“What exactly are we looking for?” asked Irene as her raw hands began to burn.
“I don’t know,” Francisco replied, and continued working in silence, for even the vibration of their voices made the rotted supports quiver.
They were nervous and apprehensive. They stole glances over their shoulders, peering into the blackness behind them, imagining watching eyes, stealthy shadows, whispers from the far side of the room. They heard the old timbers creak and, between their feet, the furtive scurrying of rodents. The air was close and heavy.
Irene tugged at a large rock with all her might. She worked it back and forth, loosened it, and it rolled free at her feet: the light of the flashlight revealed a dark gaping hole. Without thinking, she thrust her hand inside and at that instant felt a terrible scream rising from the pit of her stomach; the sound filled the chamber, ricocheting against the walls as a muffled and alien echo she did not recognize as her own voice. She flung herself against Francisco, who covered her with his body and pushed her against the wall just as a beam crashed from the ceiling. For a moment that seemed eternal, they stood embraced, eyes closed, almost without breathing, and when finally silence returned and the dust raised by the collapse of the beam had settled, they were able to rescue the flashlight and make sure that their exit had not been blocked. Still holding Irene, Francisco pointed the light to the spot where the rock had rolled free, and the first discovery of that cave of horrors leaped toward them. It was a human hand—or, rather, what remained of one.
Francisco pulled Irene outside and, holding her close, forced her to breathe great gulps of the pure night air. When she was able to stand without his help, he brought the thermos and poured her coffee. She was beside herself, speechless, trembling, unable to hold the cup. Francisco held it to her lips, as he would for an invalid; he stroked her hair and tried to calm her, telling her that they had found what they had come to find; surely the body was that of Evangelina Ranquileo, and even though it was gruesome, it couldn’t hurt them, it was only a dead body. Although the words had no meaning for her—she was still too shocked to recognize them as her own language—the cadence of his voice lulled her, consoling her slightly. Much later, when she was more herself, Francisco knew he must finish the job they had come to do.
“Wait here for me. I’m going back into the mine for a few minutes. Can you stay here alone?”
Irene nodded wordlessly, and, pulling up her legs like a boy, she buried her head between her knees, trying not to think, not to hear, not to see, not even to breathe, suspended in her unbearable anguish while Francisco, carrying the camera and with the kerchief tied over his face, returned to the tomb.
He pulled away rocks and brushed aside dirt until he had exposed the entire body of Evangelina Ranquileo Sánchez. He recognized her by the color of her hair. She was partially covered by a poncho; she was barefoot, and was dressed in something like petticoats or a nightgown. Her body was in such an advanced state of decomposition—putrefying in a broth in which maggots were feeding, fermenting in her own desolation—that he had to call on every ounce of his strength to control his nausea and get on with his work. He was a man with a great deal of self-control; he had had professional experience with cadavers and he had a strong stomach, but he had never seen anything like this before. The despicable place, the inescapable stench, and his mounting fear—all contributed to his undoing. He could not breathe. Hurriedly, he shot several photographs, not bothering about focus or distance, hastened by the bile that rose in his throat with each flash lighting the scene. He finished as quickly as humanly possible, and fled from that sepulcher.
In the fresh air he dropped the camera and flashlight and fell to the ground on his knees, head sunk to his chest, trying to relax and conquer his retching. The stench clung to his skin like a plague, and etched on his retinas was the image of Evangelina stewing in her last consternation. Irene had to help him to his feet.
“What do we do now?”
“Close the mine, then we’ll see,” he said as soon as he was able to reclaim his voice from the fiery claws gripping his chest.
They piled up the stones they had removed, and closed the entrance, stunned, nervous, working with frenzy; it was as if in sealing the mine they could erase its contents from their minds and turn time back to the moment before they had known the truth; as if they could again live innocently in a radiant reality, removed from that awful discovery. Francisco took Irene by the hand and led her to the ruined hut, the only visible refuge on the hill.
* * *
It was a mild night. In the virginal light, the landscape faded into nothingness, the outlines of the hills and the great shadowy eucalyptus trees disappeared. The shack was barely visible in the soft darkness, rising from the ground like an extension of nature. In comparison with the mine, the interior seemed as welcoming as a nest. They lay down in a corner on the wild grass and stared up at the infinity of the starry sky lighted by a milky moon. Irene put her head on Francisco’s shoulder and released her distress in tears. He put his arms around her, and they lay there a long time—hours, perhaps—seeking solace in the quiet and the silence for what they had discovered, and strength for what they would have to bear. They rested together, listening to the faint murmur of leaves stirred by the breeze, the cries of nearby night birds, and the secret movement of rabbits in the meadow grass.
Little by little the weight pressing upon Francisco’s spirit began to lighten. He became aware of the beauty of the sky, the gentleness of the earth, the fresh smell of the fields, the feel of Irene against his body. He followed her contours in his mind, and felt the weight of her head on his arm, the curve of her hip against his, her curls caressing his neck, the subtle delicacy of her silk blouse, almost as fine as the texture of her skin. He remembered the day he had met her, how he had been dazzled by her smile. He had loved her from that moment, and the insanity of the events that had led them to this cavern was but an excuse to bring him finally to this precious instant when he had her for himself, close beside him, all her guards lowered, vulnerable. He felt a surge of compelling and overpowering desire. His breath caught in his throat and his heart raced in a frantic gallop. He forgot the tenacious fiancé; Beatriz Alcántara; his own uncertain future—all the obstacles that lay between them. Irene would be his because it had been written from the beginning of time.
Irene sensed the change in Francisco’s breathing, and raised her head to look at him. In the faint light of the moon each read the love in the other’s eyes. Irene’s warm proximity fell over Francisco like a mantle of mercy. He closed his eyes and drew her to him, seeking her lips, opening them in an absolute, promise-charged kiss, the synthesis of all hopes, a long, moist, warm kiss, a defiance of death, caress, fire, sigh, lament, sob of love. He probed her mouth, tasted her saliva, inhaled her breath, hoping to prolong that moment, battered by the hurricane of his emotions, certain that he had lived until then only for this miraculous night when he would plunge forever into the depths of intimacy with this woman. Irene, honey and shadow, Irene, peach, seafoam, the seashell of your ears, the perfume of your throat, the doves of your hands, Irene, feel this love, this passion consuming us in the same fire, dreaming you, awake, desiring you, asleep, my Irene. He did not know how much more he said to her, or what she whispered during the uninterrupted murmuring, the audible mountain stream, the river of moans and sighs of those who make love, loving.
In a flash of intuition Francisco realized that he must not yield to his impulse to hurl himself upon Irene, to tear off her clothes, ripping seams in the urgency of his delirium. He feared that the night, that life itself, would be too brief to quell this gale of passion. Slowly, and with a clumsiness caused by his trembling fingers, he undid, one by one, the buttons of her blouse and discovered the warm hollow beneath her arms, the curve of her shoulders, her small breasts and the hazelnut of her nipples, just as he had imagined them when she had leaned against him on the motorcycle,
when she bent beside him over the layout desk, when he held her in his embrace in an unforgettable kiss. Irene’s skin, blue in the moonlight, shivered at his touch. He lifted her to her feet and knelt before her, searching out the warmth hidden between her breasts, the fragrance of wood and almond and cinnamon; he untied her sandals and caressed her feet, small as a schoolgirl’s, familiar, innocent, and delicate, as he had known them in his dreams. He unzipped her slacks and pulled them down, revealing the smooth path of her belly, the shadow of her navel, the long line of her back, which he explored with feverish fingers, the firm thighs covered with a fine golden down. He looked upon her naked, outlined against infinity, and with his lips traced her roads, dug her tunnels, scaled her hills, wandered her valleys, drawing the indispensable maps of her geography. She knelt, too, and as her head moved, dark strands invisible in the blackness of night danced on his shoulders. When Francisco removed his clothes, they were like the first man and the first woman facing the original secret. There was no room for anything else; the ugliness of the world and the imminence of death were far away; nothing existed but the glow of their encounter.
Irene had not loved like this; she had not known surrender without barriers, fear, or reserve; she did not remember having felt such pleasure, such profound communication, such mutual exchange. Marveling, she discovered the new and surprising form of her lover’s body: his heat, his savor, his aroma; she explored him, conquering him inch by inch, covering him with newly invented caresses. Never had she experienced such joy in the fiesta of the senses: take me, possess me, receive me, because in this way I take you, possess you, receive you. She buried her head in Francisco’s chest, breathing in the warmth of his skin, but gently he held her away from him to look at her. The black mirror of her eyes returned his image, made beautiful in their love. Step by step they began the stages of an immortal rite. She opened to him, and he abandoned himself, sinking into her most private gardens; each anticipated the other’s rhythm, advancing toward the same moment. Francisco smiled in total happiness: he had found the woman he had been pursuing since his adolescent fantasies, had sought in every body through the years: his friend, his sister, his lover, his companion. Slowly, without haste, in the peace of the night, he dwelled in her, pausing at the threshold of each sensation, greeting pleasure, possessing at the same time he surrendered himself. Then, when he felt her body vibrate like a delicate instrument, and a deep sigh issued from her lips to give breath to his own, a formidable dam burst in his groin, and the force of that shuddering torrent swept over Irene, washing her into gentle seas.
They lay closely and tranquilly embraced, letting the fullness of love flow over them, breathing and throbbing in unison until that intimacy renewed desire. She felt him grow within her, and sought his lips. Witnessed only by the sky, scratched by pebbles, coated with the dust and dried leaves that clung to their skin in the riot of love, driven by an unquenchable ardor, an unrestrained passion, they tumbled in play beneath the moon until their souls escaped in their sighs and sweat and they died, finally, in one another’s arms, lips touching, dreaming the same dream.
They awakened at the first morning light and chattering of sparrows, giddy from the meeting of their bodies and the complicity of their souls. Then they remembered the corpse in the mine and were catapulted into reality. With the arrogance of mutual love, but still trembling and awestruck, they dressed, climbed on the motorcycle, and set off for the Ranquileo home.
* * *
Bent over a wooden trough, a woman stood washing clothes, scrubbing the stubborn spots with a hog-bristle brush. Standing on a plank to protect her broad feet from the mud, she worked energetically, her large hands scrubbing, wringing, then piling the clothes in a pail, to be rinsed later in the running water of the irrigation ditch. At this hour, the children were in school and she was alone. Summer was in the air: ripening fruit, a profusion of flowers, suffocating siestas, and white butterflies fluttering everywhere like handkerchiefs blown on the wind. Flocks of birds had invaded the fields, joining their song to the uninterrupted drone of bees and flies. Digna noticed none of these things; she was up to her elbows in wash water, oblivious to anything not a part of her labor. The roar of the motorcycle and chorus of barking caught her ear, and she looked up. She saw the journalist and her constant companion, the man with the camera, walking toward her through the patio, ignoring the snarling dogs. She dried her hands on her apron and went to meet them, unsmiling, because even before she was close enough to see their eyes, she had guessed their bad news. Irene Beltrán put her arms around Digna in a timid embrace, the only gesture of condolence she could think of. Digna instantly understood. No tears rose to her eyes, so long accustomed to pain. She bit her lips in a grimace, and a hoarse sob escaped her throat before she could contain it. She coughed to hide such weakness and, pushing back a lock of hair from her forehead, she motioned them to follow her into the house. They sat in silence at the table for several moments, until Irene summoned the words to speak.
“I think we found her . . .” she whispered.
And she told Digna what they had seen in the mine, skipping over the gruesome details, and offering the shadow of a hope that the remains might be those of a different person. Digna rejected that possibility, however, because for many days now she had been waiting for proof of her daughter’s death. She had known Evangelina was dead by the grief that had weighed on her heart ever since the night they had taken her away; and from the knowledge acquired through long years of living under the dictatorship.
“The ones they take away never come back,” she said.
“But this has nothing to do with politics, señora. This is a civil crime,” Francisco protested.
“It’s all the same. Lieutenant Ramírez killed her, and he’s the law. What can I do?”
Irene and Francisco, too, suspected the officer. They believed that he had arrested Evangelina to repay to some degree the humiliation he had suffered at her hands in the presence of so many witnesses. He may have intended only to hold her for a day or two, but he had been too rough, not taking into account his prisoner’s frailness. And then, when he saw how much damage he had inflicted, he had changed his mind and decided to finish the job and hide her body in the mine; later he had falsified the Duty Log to protect himself in case of an investigation. But these were mere speculations. They had a long way to go before getting to the bottom of the secret. While Irene and Francisco washed up in the ditch, Digna Ranquileo prepared their breakfast. She concealed her sadness in the ritual of stirring the fire, boiling water, and setting out cups and plates. She was always embarrassed by any show of emotion.
When they smelled warm bread, Irene and Francisco realized how hungry they were; they had not tasted food since the previous day. They lingered over their breakfast. They gazed at one another in new recognition; they smiled, recalling their recent fiesta of love; their hands touched in mutual promise. In spite of the tragedy they found themselves involved in, they were suffused with an egotistical peace; it was as if they had fit together the last pieces of the puzzle of their lives, and finally could see their destinies. They felt safe from all evil, sheltered by the enchantment of their new love.
“Shouldn’t we tell Pradelio, so he won’t keep looking for his sister?” Irene asked.
“I’ll go. You wait for me here. That way you can get a little rest, and keep Señora Digna company,” said Francisco.
After he had eaten, he kissed Irene, and left on his motorcycle. He remembered the road and drove directly to the place they had left the horses when they had come the first time with Jacinto. He parked his motorcycle beneath the trees and continued his climb on foot. He was counting on his sense of direction to lead him to the hideout without too many detours, but soon he realized it was not to be that easy, because the whole look of the country had changed. The first heat of the year had beat down on the mountainside, drying up the vegetation and anticipating the summer’s drought. Eve
rything looked bleached and faded. Francisco did not recognize any of the landmarks he had fixed in his memory; he let himself be guided by instinct. Halfway in his climb, he stopped in distress, certain he had lost his way; he seemed to be passing the same place again and again. If it were not for the fact that he was constantly climbing, he would have sworn he was going in circles. He was exhausted from the accumulated tension of the last days and the horror of the night in the mine. Whenever possible, Francisco was a man who avoided putting his nerves to the test by acting on impulse. In his undercover work he had to take risks and was often exposed to danger, but he preferred to make meticulous plans and then try to stick to them. He did not like surprises. Now, however, he could see no point in making plans; his whole life was turning upside down. He was used to the feeling of violence in the air, floating like some insidious gas that a mere spark could ignite into an inextinguishable holocaust; like so many in that situation, however, he never thought about danger. He tried to live a normal life. But in the solitude of this mountain, he knew that he had crossed an invisible frontier and entered a new and terrible dimension.
As noon approached, the heat poured down like lava. There was no merciful shade to offer him shelter. He took advantage of an outcropping of rock, and sat down to rest a moment, hoping to restore the normal rhythm of his heart. Shit, if he was going to fold right here, he might as well turn back. But he wiped the sweat from his face and went on, climbing at a slower and slower pace, taking longer rests. Finally he came to a meager, cloudy stream trickling down between the rocks, and breathed a sigh of relief; he was sure that the trail of water would lead him to the hideout of Pradelio Ranquileo. He wet his neck and face, feeling the sun burning into his skin. He climbed the last yards, found the source of the stream, and looked for the cave in the brush, calling Pradelio at the top of his lungs. No one replied. The earth was dry and cracked; the scrub was covered with a dust that had turned the landscape the color of dried clay. Pushing aside some branches, he found the opening to the cave; he did not need to go in to know it was empty. He examined the surrounding area for traces of the fugitive, and came to the conclusion that Pradelio must have left several days before; there were no vestiges of food, or tracks on the windswept ground. Inside the cave he found empty tin cans and a few cowboy books with yellowed and greasy pages, the only indication that anyone had been there recently. Everything Evangelina’s brother had left behind was carefully arranged, as would be expected of a person accustomed to military discipline. Francisco reviewed those pitiful belongings, searching for some sign, some message. There was no evidence of violence, and he decided that Pradelio had not been taken by soldiers; almost certainly, he had managed to leave in time; he may have gone down to the valley and tried to get out of the area; he may have taken his chances crossing the cordillera, in an attempt to reach the border.