Of Love and Shadows (13 page)

At every stage of his career, Gustavo had been stationed in provincial garrisons, but he traveled to the capital to see Irene whenever he could. During those periods, she never communicated with Francisco, even if there was urgent work at the magazine. She disappeared with her fiancé, dancing in dark discothèques, holding hands in theaters and on long walks, dissipating their passions in circumspect hotels where they could satisfy their longing. Irene's absences put Francisco in a black mood. He would lock himself in his room, listening to his favorite symphonies and wallowing in his melancholy. One day, unable to bite his tongue, he committed the folly of asking Irene the extent of her intimacy with the Bridegroom of Death. She laughed until she cried. You surely don't think I'm a virgin at my age! she replied, depriving him even of doubt. Shortly afterward, Gustavo Morante was assigned for several months to a school for officers in Panama. His contact with Irene was limited to passionate letters, long-distance telephone calls, and gifts sent on military aircraft. Thus the all-enveloping ghost of that tenacious lover was responsible for Francisco's spending the night with Irene like a brother. Whenever he remembered it, he clapped his hand to his forehead, amazed at his behavior.

One evening, he and Irene had stayed late at the office to work on an article. They had gathered their information, and needed to organize it for the following day. The hours flew by and they did not notice as the employees left and lights were turned off in the other offices. They went out and bought a bottle of wine and something to eat. Since they enjoyed listening to music as they worked, they put a concerto on the record player and, with the flutes and violins, time went by without regard for the clock. It was very late when they finished, and only then did they become aware of the silence and darkness of the night through the open windows. They saw no sign of life; below them spread a deserted city; it was like science fiction, as if some cataclysm had erased every trace of humanity. Even the air seemed opaque, dead. Curfew, they murmured in unison, realizing they were trapped, for no one was allowed to move through the streets at that hour. Francisco blessed the good fortune that would allow him more time with Irene. She thought how worried her mother and Rosa would be, and ran to the telephone to explain. They drank the rest of the wine, listened twice more to the concerto, and talked of a thousand things; then, since they were both exhausted, Irene suggested they try to get some rest on the sofa.

The fifth-floor lavatory was a large room with multiple functions; it served as a dressing room for the models; as a make-up room, because of an especially well-lighted mirror; and even as a coffee shop, thanks to a hot plate for heating water. It was the only private and intimate spot on the floor. In one corner sat an old divan, a relic of days gone by. It was a huge piece of furniture upholstered in magenta brocade; rusty springs poked through the multiple wounds, in stark contrast to its turn-of-the-century dignity. It was a place to pamper headaches, to cry over love affairs and other, lesser sorrows, or merely to take a break when the pressures of work grew too strong. There a secretary had nearly bled to death after a botched abortion; there Mario's assistants had declared their passion; and there Mario himself had surprised the two of them, trouserless on the stained purplish tapestry. It was on that divan that Irene and Francisco pulled up their coats and lay down to sleep. Irene fell asleep immediately, but Francisco lay awake until morning, tormented by conflicting emotions. He did not wish to become involved in an earthshaking relationship with a woman from the other side of the fence. He felt irresistibly drawn to Irene, however; in her presence all his emotions were heightened and he was unavoidably happy. Irene both amused and fascinated him. Beneath her apparent capriciousness—unwitting, sometimes candid—he found her basically without blemish, like the heart of a fruit waiting to ripen. He also thought about Gustavo Morante and his role in Irene's destiny. Francisco feared that Irene would reject him, and that he would lose even her friendship. Words once spoken cannot be erased. Later, recalling his emotions during that unforgettable night, he reached the conclusion that he had not dared hint of his love because it was obvious that Irene did not share his anxiety. She slept tranquilly in his arms, without a suspicion of how deeply she affected him. To her, theirs was a platonic friendship, without sexual attraction, and he chose not to violate it, hoping that love would softly grow in her, as it had in him. He felt her beside him on the sofa, breathing peacefully in her sleep, her long hair like a dark arabesque covering her face and shoulders. He lay absolutely still, controlling even his breathing to conceal his throbbing and terrible agitation. On the one hand, he wanted to throw himself upon her and ravish her, regretting having accepted that tacit pact of comradeship that had bound him for months. On the other hand, he recognized the need to control an emotion that could divert him from the goals that governed the present stage of his life. Cramped from tension and anguish, but willing to prolong the moment forever, he lay by her side until he heard the first street sounds and saw the light of dawn at the window. Irene wakened with a start, and for a moment could not remember where she was; then she leaped up, splashed cold water on her face, and hurried home, leaving Francisco feeling like an orphan. Ever since that day, Irene had told anyone who wanted to listen that they had slept together, which, Francisco mused, even in the literal sense of the expression was regrettably untrue.

*  *  *

Sunday awoke. The light was oppressive, the air sultry and heavy, like a preview of summer. There is little progress in violence, and the same methods have been used to butcher hogs since the times of the barbarians. Irene thought of this as a picturesque ritual, because she had never seen so much as a hen killed, and barely recognized a pig in its natural state. She went with the purpose of getting an article for her magazine, so enthusiastic about the project that she never mentioned the subject of Evangelina and her boisterous attacks; it was as if she had forgotten them. Francisco felt that they were traveling through unfamiliar territory. Spring had erupted since the previous week; green had taken command of the fields; acacias were in flower—those enchanted trees whose branches from a distance seem to be covered with bees, yellow blossoms that make your head spin with their impossible fragrance as you draw near; hawthorns and mulberries were alive with birds, and the very air vibrated with the humming of insects. When they reached the Ranquileos' house, the job at hand was under way. The Ranquileos themselves, and their visitors, were busy around a bonfire, and children were running around shouting, laughing, and coughing from the smoke; the dogs were happily and impatiently circling the caldrons, sensing the spoils of the feast. The Ranquileos greeted the new arrivals with every sign of courtesy, but Irene noticed a touch of sadness in their faces. Beneath the cordial exterior she perceived distress, but there was no opportunity to inquire about it, or to comment to Francisco, because at that precise moment the hog was being dragged in. It was an enormous animal that had been fattened especially for the family's consumption; all the others were raised to be sold. An expert had selected this pig when it was only a few days old, putting his hand down its throat to verify that it was free of tapeworms, thus guaranteeing the quality of the meat. This pig was fed on grains and vegetables, unlike the other pigs that were given scraps. Isolated, captive, and immobilized, the animal had awaited its fate, adding fat to fat, its hams growing juicy and tender. Today was the first time the beast had traveled the two hundred meters separating its pen from the sacrificial altar, stumbling along on its hopelessly short legs, blinded in the light, deaf with terror. Irene could not imagine how they would be able to kill this mountain of flesh that weighed as much as three husky men.

Beside the bonfire a makeshift table had been fashioned from thick planks set across two barrels. Hipólito Ranquileo was awaiting the hog with an upraised ax; when the animal was before him, he struck a hard blow to its head with the blunt end of the tool, and the hog fell to the ground stunned—not sufficiently stunned, unfortunately, to prevent its screams from echoing through the hills; the dogs' muzzles twitched, and they panted with impatience. Several men bound the hog's feet and with great difficulty lifted it onto the table. This was the moment for the expert. He was a man born with a gift for the kill, a rare skill almost never given to women. He could reach the heart with a single thrust, even with his eyes closed, for he was guided not by anatomical knowledge but an executioner's intuition. He had traveled a long distance, especially invited to sacrifice the animal, because if it was not done skillfully, the pig's dying screams would shatter the nerves of everyone in the neighborhood. The expert took an enormous bone-handled knife with a sharp steel blade, lifted it high with both hands like an Aztec priest, and brought it down in the hog's neck, unhesitatingly plunging it into the center of life. The hog bawled despairingly as a gout of warm blood gushed from the wound, spattering everyone nearby and forming a pool that was immediately lapped up by the dogs. Digna brought a pail to catch the blood, and within seconds it was filled. A sweetish odor of blood and fear floated on the air.

At that moment Francisco realized that Irene was no longer by his side and, turning to look for her, he found her lying motionless on the ground. The others saw her, too, and a roar of laughter celebrated her fainting spell. Francisco bent over her and shook her until she opened her eyes. I want to leave, she begged as soon as she recovered her voice, but Francisco insisted on staying until the end. That's why they had come. He intimated that she should either learn to control her nerves or get a different job. Losing her composure could become a habit, he said, and he reminded her of the haunted house where the mere creaking of a door was enough to cause her to turn pale and collapse in his arms. He kept teasing Irene until the moans from the pig ceased, and when she was sure that it was truly dead, she was able to get to her feet.

The ritual continued. Boiling water was poured over the carcass and the skin was scraped with an iron tool, leaving the pig as shiny, rosy, and clean as a newborn babe; next they split open the belly, cleaned out the viscera, and cut the sides of bacon before the fascinated eyes of the children and the blood-soaked dogs. In the irrigation ditch, the women washed meters and meters of intestines that would later be stuffed to make blood sausage, and to revive Irene they brought her a cup of the broth from the kettle where the entrails were being boiled. She hesitated before accepting that dark-clotted vampires' soup, but took it not to offend her hosts. It turned out to be delicious, and had evident therapeutic properties, because after a few minutes she recovered her good spirits and the color came back to her cheeks. She and Francisco spent the rest of the day taking photographs, eating, and drinking wine from carafes, while the lard was being rendered into great tin drums. Crisped bacon floating in the fat was strained out and served with bread. The liver and heart were also cooked and offered to the invited guests. By dusk everyone was nodding: the men from alcohol, the women from exhaustion, the children from sleep, and the dogs from being gorged for the first time in their lives. It was then that Irene and Francisco remembered they had not seen Evangelina all day.

“Where's Evangelina?” Francisco asked Digna Ranquileo. She looked down without answering.

“And your son who's the soldier—what is his name?” Irene inquired, beginning to realize that something unusual had happened.

“Pradelio del Carmen Ranquileo,” the mother replied, and her cup trembled in her hand.

Irene took the woman's arm and led her gently to a quiet corner of the patio that was by now swathed in shadows. Francisco started to come with them, but Irene motioned him to stay behind, certain that if she was alone with Digna they could establish a solid female complicity. They sat down facing one another in two rush chairs. In the dim twilight, Digna Ranquileo saw a pale face devoured by strange eyes outlined in black pencil, hair flying in the breeze, clothes rescued from another era, and armloads of clanking bracelets. Digna knew that in spite of the apparent abyss separating them, she could tell Irene the truth, because in essence they were sisters—as, finally, most women are.

The previous Sunday night, when everyone in the house was asleep, Lieutenant Juan de Dios Ramírez had returned with his subaltern, the one who had exposed Francisco's film.

“The sergeant's name is Faustino Rivera. He's the son of my good friend Manuel Rivera, the one with the harelip,” Digna explained to Irene.

Rivera had stood at the threshold holding the dogs at bay while the lieutenant entered their bedroom, weapon in hand, kicking the furniture and hurling threats. He lined up the family, still not completely awake, against the wall, and then dragged Evangelina to his jeep. The last her parents saw of her was the flash of a white petticoat in the darkness as the men forced her into the vehicle. For a while the parents could hear her cries, calling to them. They waited until dawn, their hearts in their mouths, and when they heard the first rooster crow, rode to the Headquarters. After a long wait they were ushered in to see the corporal of the guard, who told them that their daughter had spent the night in a cell, but would be freed early that morning. They asked about Pradelio, and were informed that he had been transferred to a different military command.

“Since that minute, we haven't heard anything about the girl or any news about Pradelio,” said Digna.

They had looked for Evangelina in town; one by one they had visited all the farms in the region; they stopped buses on the highway and asked the drivers whether they had seen her; they asked the Protestant pastor, the parish priest, the healer, the midwife, anyone they came across, but no one could give them a clue. They had gone in every direction, from the river to the mountaintops, without finding her; the wind had carried her name down ravines and roads, but after five days of useless searching they understood that she had been swallowed up by violence. Then, dressed in their mourning, they went to the house of the Floreses to tell them the sad news. They went feeling humiliated, because Evangelina had known only misfortune in their home, and it would have been better for her had she been raised by her real mother.