Bone Dance (6 page)

Thursday morning, we were drinking our usual strong coffee and munching sweet rolls liberally spread with
dulce de leche
when the phone rang. Mother answered.

“Yes. What? It can't be. He was here earlier this week. I don't understand. A prison riot? Shot.” She listened, said “Thank you” and replaced the phone on its cradle.

“You heard,” she said, her eyes wide and her face slack, as if all the supporting bones had disintegrated.

“Tell me.”

“He was shot by a prisoner who grabbed his gun.”

She sank down and buried her face in her hands. Then she lifted her head. Instead of tears, her eyes reflected pain and anger.

“How could they phone? When an officer is killed, they always send a senior officer to break the news. This phone call is a slap in the face, an insult, they've told us as if he was no more important than a dog run over in the street.”

There was fear and resignation in her voice and in her eyes.

“They killed him,” she said.

A week later, two days after Father's funeral, Mother and I again sat on the balcony. Mother, who normally rose every minute to deadhead flowers, water wilting plants or tie a tendril escaping from her jungle, did nothing. Instead, she hunched down in her chair with her hands lying quietly in her lap. I toyed with a strand of my hair, repeatedly twisting it around my finger and releasing it.

Looking down at the street below, I noticed a green Ford Falcon, the car the army always drove when they arrested people or picked them up for questioning, cruising slowly while the man in the passenger seat peered through his dark glasses at the apartments. In front of our building, the vehicle glided to a halt.

“Mother.” I reached over and grabbed her arm. “Mother, it's the army.”

She roused herself, and we watched two uniformed men leave the car. Seconds later, our buzzer sounded. The terror I saw in her eyes must have been reflected in mine.

It wasn't as if we'd committed any crime. In Argentina, the green Falcons had stopped at the homes and offices of thousands of people who, as far as their relatives and friends knew, had never said or done a subversive thing. Many men and women had never been heard from again.

“Thank God he didn't tell us anything,” Mother said in a tiny voice.

The buzzer demanded a response. With slow steps, Mother went to the intercom and let them in.

Two uniformed men, eyes blanked by dark glasses, strode into the room. Their aggressive body language and cruel turned-down mouths threatened and intimidated.

“Where are his papers?”

Mother, her thin hands trembling, pointed to the desk in the corner of the living room.

The taller one riffled through Father's meagre store of documents and threw two or three in his briefcase.

“Any more?”

Mother, beyond speech, shook her head; it probably wouldn't have mattered what she said, because they ignored us as they checked drawers and cupboards before they pulled books from shelves in the kitchen and living room.

“Father was an army officer. Why are you doing this?”

The short one, whose body odour repulsed me, stopped and sized me up before he snarled, “Some officer.”

“You.” He pointed at Mother. “You, come with us.”

Helpless to do anything, I grabbed and squeezed her emaciated hand and murmured, “It'll be okay, you'll be back soon.”

I was alone.

What should I do? On the one hand, I could go to police headquarters and demand that they release my mother, the widow of a recently deceased army officer. But, like her, I believed they'd deliberately killed my father. Would going to the police make it better or worse for Mother?

On the other hand, if I didn't go and show righteous indignation, would it confirm the army's obvious suspicion that not only were we aware he'd committed a crime but also knew the details? Furthermore, if I didn't insist on being told where they were detaining her, I wouldn't have the smallest chance of locating her, not that they were likely to tell me no matter what I did. The Generals believed in secrecy, rumour and terror.

Who to go to for advice? The answer—no one.

Families who hadn't had a visit from the Ford Falcons pretended nothing was happening.

Families who had often lived in limbo. I thought of my friend Alicia, whose whole family—father, mother and two brothers—had disappeared eight months ago. Alicia had tried every avenue to discover her family's whereabouts but learned nothing. Finally, as a last resort, one Thursday she went to the Plaza de Mayo and joined other women whose loved ones had vanished. Silently, they circled the obelisk in the centre of the square, each one wearing a white headscarf and carrying a placard with the photo and name or names of the disappeared. Las Madres de la Plaza Mayo.

Because my father was in the army, I'd never imagined I'd be in Alicia's position. And it was too soon to say I was; occasionally those taken for questioning did come home. No, for the moment I'd do nothing, I'd wait and keep a vigil for Mother.

Whatever reason they'd murdered my father had to be the same reason that had brought the army to our apartment. And, whatever it was had been terribly important to Father. I didn't have much time—they might come for me at any second. I had to figure out what he'd meant by his cryptic reference to the tiger, and I couldn't wait for the Generals to lose power.

While my mind twisted and turned, searching for clues, I wandered to the living room and began to replace the books on the shelves. As I picked up a photo album, it occurred to me that the snapshots might give me a hint. Perched on the blue plush couch, I opened the book.

The snaps of Mother and Father in the early years before Father lost his business and enlisted in the army broke my heart. Younger than I was now, their optimism and joy jumped off the page. After my birth, the photos continued to reflect a happy life, particularly those taken with my grandparents at the
beach and the zoo.

The zoo. The tigers at the zoo—a vague memory of terror. Why? It came to me. I'd been frightened by the intensity of a tiger's gaze and screamed that he wanted to eat me. At night, I'd been afraid to sleep in case the tiger crept in and gobbled me up. My father had bought me a toy tiger, but it hadn't banished my fear, and he'd done something else; what had it been?

No other photographs solved the puzzle. Maybe the box of children's books and toys stashed in my closet would trigger a memory. I scrambled deep in the cupboard and hauled out a cardboard carton bulging with mementos. The removal of the first layer of treasured books reminded me of the evenings when Father had read to me. Tears blurred my eyes.

Cuentos de Hadas de Grimm
, how those fairy stories had thrilled me. And Jorge el Curioso, that little monkey's curiosity had landed him in such trouble. The sight of
Negrito Sambo
, worn, tattered and circled with an elastic, as if to hold loosened pages inside produced a vivid flashback—this book had helped overcome my fear. I'd loved
Little Black Sambo
because the tigers chased each other round and round the tree until they metamorphosed into butter.

Pure, unadulterated fear. This was what he'd meant. Inside the book I'd find the answer; find the cause of his death.

The door buzzer. A long sustained buzz—the green Falcon had returned.

Frantically, I piled the books in the box with
Negrito Sambo
tucked in the middle. As I shoved the carton in the cupboard I prayed that the elastic wouldn't break; that the officers wouldn't open the book; that they wouldn't be interested in my childhood treasures.

Saying nothing, the same two men pushed past me. I stood irresolute, unsure of where to go or what to do.

In the living room, the two of them once again pawed through the chaos they'd created and tossed more books from the bookcases. Then the shorter one entered my room and the other one went to my parents'.

“Come in here.” An order from the short one who smelled of garlic and dirty underwear. He pointed to the shoeboxes of file cards on my desk. “What are those?”

“I'm at the university. It's information for my thesis on nineteenth century immigration.”

Because of his reflecting sunglasses, I couldn't see his eyes, but by his little smirk and his theatrical pause before he upended the boxes and watched the cards cascade to the floor, I knew he revelled in his abuse of power. Of course I didn't protest—I didn't want to do or say anything to draw attention to me or my room.

He hauled everything out of my cupboard and dumped clothes, old textbooks and the box of children's toys and books.

I stopped breathing.

If he looked at me, would he know? Was
Little Black Sambo
pulsing on my forehead in neon lights? Could he read my fear in the sweat beading my forehead and running between my shoulder blades?

After a cursory glance at the worn, much-loved books, the Teddy bear with a button replacing an eye and the battered dolls, he ignored my childish keepsakes. I breathed. The taste of bile filled my mouth. I wanted to rush to the bathroom and vomit.

They found nothing.

After they'd gone, I was sick repeatedly and then, weak-kneed and faint, I staggered to my bed, threw myself down and sobbed myself to the verge of hysteria before I rolled over
and said, “enough”. Time to face up to fear.

I picked up
Little Black Sambo
and slipped the elastic off. The original contents had been removed and replaced with pages cut to fit inside and stapled to the cover. Lists of names and dates penned in my father's meticulous handwriting filled the pages.

Inside the cover he'd folded and secured an envelope addressed to me.

My darling Paula, I am writing this to you and not to your mother because I want to protect her from the shock of discovering what I've done. Please use this information to give a little bit of peace to the families involved
.

I will burn in hell for the terrible work I've had to do here in the prison, but by keeping this record I hope to ease the pain for those who do not know
.

The women whose names are listed were killed here. The guards raped many of them repeatedly until they were pregnant. The babies were taken and given to military families. I have written the gender and date of birth of each baby underneath its mother's name and I have made as complete a record as I could
.

If you are reading this, I am dead but I want you and your mother to remember how much I loved you and how I wish I hadn't joined the army or been stationed to work in the prison
.

Your loving father
.

My face must have appeared as boneless as my mother's face had when she'd heard about Father's death.

The contents of the letter explained his physical and mental disintegration. And I was as sure as I'd ever been about anything that he'd been killed because another guard or a
superior officer suspected what he'd been doing. I thanked God that he hadn't revealed the hiding place to my mother and that I hadn't mentioned his reference to tigers. I prayed that ignorance would protect her.

Terror threatened to immobilize me, but I refused to allow it. I had an obligation to Father, an obligation to pass on to the mothers of the Plaza de Mayo the information he'd given his life to collect.

Today was Tuesday. Where should I hide the book until Thursday? There was no time to waste. The police habitually turned up repeatedly seeking more information or terrorizing you into confessions of wrongdoing.

With the book clutched in my hand, I rushed to the kitchen, tore a strip of aluminum foil from the roll, wrapped the book and sealed the edges with cellophane tape. On the balcony I grabbed Mother's trowel, dug a hole along the side of the largest potted plant, a fig tree, inserted the package and buried it. I detached six or seven leaves from the plant and spread them to cover the disturbed soil.

The buzzer sounded; they had returned.

“Your mother says you have a locker. Show us.”

Oh, God. Had they tortured her? Or had it been a routine question? Where was she? How would I locate her?

Apparently, they didn't find anything in the locker, but back in the apartment they continued their search. I was shaking and hoped most people did this, whether they had anything to hide or not. Planted in the middle of the living room, I watched them.

The smelly one strode into my bedroom, where he kicked the file cards into even greater disarray and smiled at the mess. He bent down, picked up
Grimm's Fairy Tales
, thumbed through it and tossed it on the floor. I stared, mesmerized, as
he chose two of my favourite dolls, wrenched their heads off, held them upside down and shook them. Finally, he drew a knife from his pocket and faced me as he eviscerated my dear old Teddy. Stuffing leaked out as he tossed the disembowelled bear on the floor.

Finished with the books and toys, he pulled the covers off the bed, slashed the mattress and flipped it on top of the stew of books, toys and file cards. Back in the living room, the two men smashed five of Mother's treasured Royal Doulton figurines, slashed the cushions on the sofa, flipped the chairs and slit the fabric covering the bottoms.

The balcony was next.

All I could think about was the buried aluminum-wrapped package; the grenade with the power to destroy.

Systematically, the smelly officer destroyed Mother's tranquil oasis. He chose randomly; tipping two geraniums out of their jardinieres—leaving three untouched; pulling one climbing vine off the trellis—ignoring the other; upending Mother's basket of gardening tools—passing up the opportunity to smash a shelf stacked with terra cotta pots.

I couldn't avoid thinking about the fig tree; in fact, I could think of nothing else. Resolutely I fixed my gaze on the building opposite and considered how ironic it was that tigers running around a tree had comforted, while buried tigers terrified me. Distracted when he dropped a hanging basket of fuschia on the floor, I turned. Noticing me staring, he tramped in the spilled dirt before he stomped into the living room. The balcony was a shambles; the fig tree untouched.