That week they removed the intravenous feeding tubes and she drank a cup of broth. Francisco fed it to her, spoonful by spoonful, his heart in his mouth. When she saw his anxiety, Irene smiled as she had not done in a long time, the flirtatious smile that had captivated him the moment he met her. Crazed with joy, he leaped through the hospital corridors, rushed outside, zigzagged through the streams of traffic, and flung himself onto the grass in the park. All the emotions he had held back for days erupted, and he laughed and wept unashamedly before the astonished eyes of the nannies and old men strolling in the warm sun. That was where his mother came and found him, to share his joy. Hilda had spent many hours knitting silently by Irene’s bedside, gradually adjusting to the idea that her youngest son, too, would be going away; life could never again be the same for him, or for the woman he loved. For his part, Professor Leal brought his classical records to fill Irene’s room with music and restore her joy in living. He visited her every day, and sat and told her happy stories, never mentioning the Spanish Civil War, his experiences in the concentration camp, the severity of exile, or other painful subjects. His affection for her stretched so far that he could even tolerate Beatriz Alcántara without losing his good humor.
Soon Irene was walking a few steps, supported by Francisco. Her paleness was a measure of her pain, but she had requested that they lower the dosage of painkillers because she needed to think clearly and recover her interest in the world around her.
Francisco came to know Irene as well as he knew himself. Through sleepless nights they told each other the stories of their lives. There was no memory from the past, no dream of the present, no plan for the future that they did not share. They surrendered all their secrets; going beyond the physical, they abandoned their souls to one another. He sponged her, rubbed her with cologne, brushed the tangles from her unruly curls, moved her to change her sheets, fed her, anticipated her every need. He welcomed every small act, every gesture, every glance that made her his. Never did he perceive even a flicker of prudishness; without reservation, she gave to him her tormented, afflicted body. She needed him as she needed air and light; she claimed him; it seemed normal to her that he was by her side day and night. When he left her room, she lay staring at the door, waiting for his return. When she was racked with pain, she reached for his hand and whispered his name, seeking his comfort. She yielded her entire being, creating an indissoluble bond that helped them endure the fear that hovered over their lives like an evil presence.
As soon as Irene was allowed to receive visitors, all her friends at the magazine came to see her. The astrologer, swathed in a theatrical tunic, her black locks sweeping her shoulders, came carrying as a gift a mysterious flask.
“Rub her from head to foot with this balm. It is an infallible remedy for weakness,” she recommended.
It was useless to argue that Irene’s prostration had been caused by bullets, not debility. The astrologer insisted on blaming the zodiac: Scorpio attracts death. It was similarly pointless to remind her that Scorpio was not Irene’s sign.
Journalists, editors, artists, and beauty queens came to visit the patient; the cleaning lady came, bearing a few teabags and a packet of sugar. She had never been in a private hospital and had thought it proper to help by bringing some kind of food, believing that the patients were hungry, as they were in the hospitals for the poor.
“Oh, this is the way to die, Señorita Irene,” she exclaimed, dazzled by the bright, sunny room, the flowers, and the television.
All the ambulatory residents of The Will of God Manor, accompanied by their nurses, took turns coming to see Irene. In her absence, they felt as if a light had gone out of their lives, and they languished, waiting for their treats, their letters, their jokes. Everyone had heard of her misfortune but some immediately forgot, because their ephemeral memories could not contain bad news. Josefina Bianchi was the only one who understood precisely what had happened. She insisted on coming often to the hospital, always bringing some small gift for Irene: a flower from the garden, an ancient shawl from her trunks, a poem written in her elegant English hand. She would appear in a cloud of pale chiffon, or in old lace, diaphanous as a ghost from another era, leaving the scent of roses on the air. Surprised, doctors and nurses would interrupt their duties to watch her pass by.
The day after Irene was shot, before the news was published in the papers, the word reached Mario’s ears through secret channels. He promptly appeared to offer his assistance. He was the first to notice that the hospital was being watched. Day and night an automobile with dark window glass was parked across the street, and secret-police agents were loitering around the entrances, unmistakable in their new disguises of blue jeans, sport shirts, and imitation-leather jackets that could not conceal the bulge of their pistols. In spite of the presence of these agents, Francisco attributed the attempt to a paramilitary group, or even to Lieutenant Ramírez himself, because if the order to eliminate Irene had been official, the agents would simply have stormed in and kicked down the doors to the operating room itself to finish her off. This surreptitious surveillance, however, indicated that they could not really afford the luxury of raising a commotion but felt it prudent to wait for an opportune moment to finish the job. Mario had acquired experience in such matters during the course of his clandestine activities, and he was busy working out an escape plan for Irene to be undertaken as soon as she could get around on her own.
Meanwhile, Beatriz Alcántara swore that the machinegun fire that had come so close to ending her daughter’s life was meant for someone else.
“This has something to do with the underworld,” she said. “They intended to kill some thug, but their bullets hit Irene.”
She spent days telephoning her friends to tell them her version of events. She did not want anyone to have the wrong impression about her daughter. In passing, she also told them the news of her husband, who, after years of searching, and great personal torment for her, had been located by detectives on a remote island. When Eusebio Beltrán, bored with the enormous mansion, his wife’s nagging, the unnegotiable sheep, and his creditors’ pressures, had walked away that evening, he had wandered for only a brief while before he realized that he had a number of good years before him and it was not too late to begin again. Following the impulses of his adventurous spirit, he arrived in the Caribbean with very little money in his pocket, a new, flashy pseudonym, and his head swimming with wonderful ideas. For a while he had lived like a beachcomber, at times fearing he would be consumed by the fever of oblivion. Nevertheless, his keen nose for detecting a fortune had made him a wealthy man, thanks to his machine for harvesting coconuts. That harebrained apparatus, designed with so little scientific knowledge, had captured the attention of a local millionaire. Shortly thereafter, those tropical lands were filled with coconut-knockers shaking palm trees with their articulated tentacles, and Beltrán could again give himself over to the disturbing luxuries that he was addicted to and that only money could buy. He was happy. He was living with a girl thirty years younger than himself, dark-skinned and fat-bottomed and always ready for pleasure and laughter.
“Legally, that scoundrel is still my husband and I’m going to take him for every cent he’s got—that’s what good lawyers are for,” Beatriz vowed to her friends. She was more concerned about getting her claws into her elusive enemy than she was about her daughter’s health. She was particularly satisfied that she had proved Eusebio Beltrán to be a shameless rogue and not a leftist at all, as some slanderous friends had insisted.
Since Beatriz read only agreeable news, she had no idea of what was happening to the country. She did not know that the remains in Los Riscos mine had, through dental records and other characteristic marks, been identified as those of the local farmers who had been arrested by Lieutenant Ramírez shortly after the military coup, and of one Evangelina Ranquileo, who had been said to work minor miracles. Beatriz was oblivious to the public outcry that, in sp
ite of censorship, swept the nation and traveled around the globe, once again making front-page news of the desaparecidos under Latin-American dictatorships. And she was the only person who, when she again heard pots and pans clanging, thought it was in support of the military leaders, as it had been during the previous government. She could not understand that this form of protest was being directed against the very ones who had invented it. When she heard that a group of jurists were backing the families of the dead in a complaint against Lieutenant Ramírez and his men for the crimes of unlawful search, kidnapping, coercion, and proven homicide, she pointed to the Cardinal as the person responsible for such monstrous accusations and declared that the Pope ought to defrock him, because the Church should confine its activities to spiritual matters, and not concern itself with the sordid affairs of this world.
“They’re accusing that poor lieutenant of the murders, Rosa, but no one stops to remember that he helped liberate us from Communism,” Beatriz had commented that morning in the kitchen.
“Sooner or later, the chickens will come home to roost,” replied Rosa, imperturbable, gazing through the window at the flowering forget-me-nots.
* * *
Lieutenant Juan de Dios Ramírez was brought before the bench along with several men from his command. The atrocity at Los Riscos was again on the front pages, because for the first time since the military coup, members of the armed forces had been summoned to appear in court. A sigh of relief ran the length and breadth of the nation; people imagined a crack in the monolithic power structure, and dreamed of an end to the dictatorship. Meanwhile, the General, unconcerned, laid the cornerstone for a monument to the Saviors of the Nation, and no glimpse of his intentions penetrated the black lenses of his glasses. He did not reply to the cautious questions posed by reporters, and made a contemptuous gesture if the subject was broached in his presence. Fifteen bodies in a mine did not merit such an uproar, and when other accusations began to surface and new horrors were discovered—common graves in cemeteries, in ditches along the roads, bodies in bags washed up on the coast, ashes, skeletons, human remains, even bodies of infants with a bullet between their eyes, guilty of having suckled at their mothers’ breast exotic doctrines harmful to national sovereignty and to the supreme values of family, property, and tradition—he shrugged his shoulders calmly, because the Nation comes first, and let History be my judge.
“And what shall we do about the storm that’s brewing, General, sir?”
“What we always do, Colonel,” he replied from his sauna three floors belowground.
Lieutenant Ramírez’s statement at the trial was published under banner headlines, and had an invigorating effect on Irene Beltrán’s will to live and fight.
The commanding officer of Los Riscos Headquarters swore before the court that shortly after the coup the owner of Los Aromos had accused the Flores family of constituting a threat to national security because of their affiliation with a leftist group. They were activists who were planning an attack against Headquarters. For this reason, Your Excellency, I proceeded to arrest them. I incarcerated five members of that family, and nine additional persons, for crimes ranging from possession of firearms to use of marijuana. I was guided in making the arrests by a list I found in the possession of Antonio Flores. I had also found a map of Headquarters, evidence of their plot. We questioned these men in accordance with our usual procedures, and obtained their confessions: they had received terrorist training from foreign agents who had infiltrated the nation by sea, but they could not provide any details of that training and their statements were filled with contradictions—you know how these people are, Your Excellency. It was after midnight by the time we finished with them, and I ordered them sent to a stadium in the capital, which in those days was still being used as a detention camp. At the last minute, one of the prisoners asked to speak with me, and that was how I found out that the suspects had committed the treasonous act of hiding arms in an abandoned mine. I loaded the suspects into a truck and drove to the place he had described. When the road became impassable, we all got out of the truck and continued on foot. We had the activists manacled and under close guard. As we advanced through the darkness, we were suddenly attacked from different directions by gunfire. I had no alternative but to order my men to defend themselves. I cannot give you many details about the attackers because of the darkness. I can only report that there was a heavy exchange of fire lasting for several minutes, at the end of which the rain of bullets ceased and I was able to reorganize my troops. We began the search for the prisoners, expecting to find they had escaped, but we found them scattered around the area, all dead. It is impossible to determine whether they died as the result of our bullets or those of our attackers. After due consideration, I decided on a cautious course of action, hoping to avoid retaliation against my men and their families. We hid the bodies in the mine, and sealed the entrance with rubble, stones, and dirt. We did not use mortar, and I cannot comment on that point. Once the entrance was closed, we all swore we would not repeat what had occurred. I accept my responsibility as the leader of the patrol, and I want to make clear that there were no wounded among the personnel under my charge, except for minor scratches obtained in moving through the rough terrain. I ordered the surrounding area to be searched for the attackers, but we found no trace of them, or of their spent cartridges. I admit having obscured the truth when I wrote in my report that the prisoners had been sent to the capital, but I repeat that I did it to protect my men from future retaliation. Fourteen persons died that night. I have been surprised to learn that there has also been mention of a female citizen allegedly named Evangelina Ranquileo Sánchez. She was detained at Los Riscos Headquarters for some hours, but she was released, as recorded in the Duty Log. This is all the light I can shed on the matter, Your Honor.
This version of the events produced the same incredulity in the court as in public opinion. Considering that it was impossible to accept the story without making himself look ridiculous, the judge disqualified himself and the case was transferred to a military court. From her convalescent bed, Irene Beltrán saw her hopes slowly fading that the guilty would be punished, and she asked Francisco to go immediately to The Will of God Manor.
“Take this note to Josefina Bianchi,” she instructed him. “She is holding something important for me, and if it wasn’t taken in the search, she will give it to you.”
Francisco had no intention of leaving Irene alone, and when she pressed him, he told her that they were under surveillance. He had kept it from her in order not to frighten her, but now he realized that she already knew, because she showed no sign of surprise. In her heart, Irene had accepted death as a real possibility as well as the fact that they would be fortunate to escape with their lives. Only when Hilda and Professor Leal came to replace him at Irene’s bedside did Francisco leave to call on the elderly actress.
Rosa greeted him, moving gingerly because of her three broken ribs. She looked thinner, and tired. She led Francisco through the garden where, in passing, she pointed to the fresh earth that marked the place she had buried Cleo, beside the grave of the baby-that-fell-through-the-skylight.
Josefina Bianchi, dressed in a morning gown with full, lace-edged sleeves, was reclining in her room amid a nest of cushions. An exquisite mantilla was thrown around her shoulders, and a ribbon pulled her white hair into a chignon. Within arm’s reach lay a baroque silver mirror and a crowded tray: bottles and jars, face powders, sable makeup brushes, creams of every seraphic hue, swan’s-down blusher brushes, bone and tortoiseshell hairpins. Josefina was applying her makeup, a delicate task she had undertaken daily for over sixty years, without missing a single day. In the bright early-morning light, her face stood out like a Japanese mask on which a trembling hand had stamped the purple line of her lips. Her eyelids quivered, blue, green, silver over the pearly-white powdered base. For a brief moment, absorbed in her dream, perhaps standing in the wings on opening night a
nd waiting for the curtain to rise, the actress did not recognize Francisco. Eyes lost in the past flickered, and slowly she returned to the present. She smiled, and her face was rejuvenated by two perfect rows of false teeth.
During the months since he had met Irene, Francisco had learned a great deal about the peculiarities of the aged, and had discovered that affection is the only key to communicating with them, because reason is a labyrinth in which they too easily lose their way. He sat on the edge of the bed, and patted Josefina Bianchi’s hand, adjusting himself to her own personal rhythm. It was useless to hurry her. She recalled the days of her great success, when the loges were filled with her admirers and baskets of flowers overflowed her dressing room, when she had traveled the continent in tumultuous tours, and five porters had been needed to carry her luggage to various ships and trains.
“What has happened, my child? Where are the wine, the kisses, the laughter? Where are all the men who loved me? The crowds who applauded me?”
“They’re all right here, Josefina, in your memory.”
“I may be old, but I’m not an idiot. I know I am alone.”
She noticed Francisco’s camera case and wanted to pose for him, to leave a souvenir behind after she died. She adorned herself with rhinestone necklaces, velvet bows, mauve veils, her feather fan, and a smile from a past century. She held the pose for some minutes, but tired quickly, closed her eyes, and lay back, breathing with difficulty.
“When is Irene coming back?”
“I don’t know. She sent you this note. She says you are keeping something for her.”