Of Love and Shadows (26 page)

In spite of the exhilaration of their burgeoning love, Irene could not forget the vision of the mine.

“How did Pradelio know where his sister's body was?” she kept asking.

Actually, Francisco had not thought about that, nor did this seem the moment to do so. He was completely drained, and all he wanted in the world was to sleep a few minutes and get over his dizziness, but Irene did not let him rest. Sitting with legs crossed like an Indian fakir, she spoke rapidly, leaping from idea to idea, as she always did. If they knew the answer to
how
Pradelio knew, she said, they would have the key to some very fundamental mysteries. While Francisco's strength slowly returned, and he tried to clear his head to think rationally, Irene steered her way through the problem, raising questions and looking for answers, until she concluded emphatically that Pradelio Ranquileo knew about the Los Riscos mine because he had been there with Lieutenant Juan de Dios Ramírez. They must have used the mine to hide something. Pradelio knew it was safe, and had conjectured that his superior officer would go there if he needed such a place again.

“I don't understand,” said Francisco, with the face of an awakened sleepwalker.

“It's very simple. We'll go to the mine and dig into the other tunnel. We may be surprised at what we find.”

Later, Francisco would smile when he remembered that moment, because even as the circle of terror closed in around them, his overwhelming desire had been to take Irene in his arms. Forgetting the dead who were beginning to spring out of the ground like weeds, and his fear that he and Irene would either be arrested or murdered, he could think of only one thing: his eagerness to make love. More important than charting the morass they were groping their way through, he wanted to find a comfortable place where they could take their pleasure; more powerful than his fatigue, the heat, and his thirst was his urgent need to hold Irene in his arms, to engulf her, breathe her, feel her under his skin—possess her right there beneath the trees by the roadside, in full view of anyone happening by. Irene, however, had more sensible ideas. You must have a fever, she said as he tried to get her to lie down beside him. She tugged at his sleeve and pulled him to his feet, led him to the motorcycle, and prevailed on him to leave; she climbed on behind him and, hugging his waist, breathed peremptory commands and loving words into his ear, until the jolting of the machine and the white light of the sun overhead calmed her lover's impetuous passion and restored his habitual calm. And once again they were on their way to the Los Riscos mine.

*  *  *

It was night by the time Irene and Francisco reached the house of the Leals. Hilda was just taking a potato omelet from the stove, and the strong aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the kitchen. After the printing press had been removed, the true proportions of the room became apparent for the first time, and everyone could appreciate its charm: the marble-topped wooden furniture, the old-fashioned icebox and, in the middle of the room, the table of a thousand uses, the place where the family gathered. In winter it was warm and cozy; light and heat from the kerosene stove, the oven, and the iron reflected off the sewing machine, the radio, and the television. It was Francisco's favorite place in the world. His happiest childhood memories were centered on this room where he had played, studied, talked for hours over the telephone with some sweetheart with schoolgirl curls, while his mother, still young and very beautiful, went about her chores humming a tune from her faraway Spain. The fragrance of the fresh herbs and spices she used for seasoning stews and fried potato cakes always lingered on the air, the mouthwatering harmony of sprigs of rosemary, bay leaves, garlic cloves, and onions melding with the more subtle fragrance of cinnamon, clove, vanilla, anise, and chocolate used in baking breads and cakes.

That night Hilda had brewed several cups of real coffee, a gift from Irene Beltrán. This was an occasion that called for the small porcelain cups from the collection in the cupboard, all different and each as delicate as a sigh. The aroma from the coffeepot was the first thing that greeted Irene and Francisco as they opened the door, and it led them to the center of the house.

Francisco once again felt wrapped in that warm ambience, as he had when he was a thin, sickly child, the victim of the rough games of cruel and stronger boys. When he was only a few months old, he had been operated on for a congenital leg malformation. His mother had been the pillar of those early years: he lived in the shadow of her skirts; she nursed him longer than was usual; she carried him on her back, or in her arms, straddling him on her hip like an appendage of her body, until his bones healed completely and he could stand on his own feet. He came home from school every day dragging his heavy book bag and anticipating the calm, welcoming smile of his mother, waiting for him in the kitchen with a snack. That memory had left its indelible mark, and throughout his life, whenever he needed to recapture the security he had known as a boy, he reconstructed in his mind, in precise detail, the room that was the symbol of maternal love. That night, when he saw his mother turning the omelet in the frying pan and quietly humming, Francisco felt the same sensation. His father was sitting beneath the ceiling light, bent over his notebooks, correcting examinations.

The Leals were startled by the appearance of Irene and their son, the wrinkled and dirty clothing, their drawn faces, and their indefinable expressions.

“What has happened?” the Professor exclaimed.

“We found a clandestine grave. There are a
lot
of bodies,” Francisco replied.

“The fuck . . . !” his father burst out, the first time he had ever cursed in his wife's presence.

Hilda, completely ignoring her husband's vulgarity, clapped the kitchen towel to her mouth, her blue eyes wide with fright. She could only stammer, “Blessed Virgin, Mother of God!”

“We think they're victims of the police,” said Irene.

“
Desaparecidos
?”

“Could be,” said Francisco, shaking a few rolls of film onto the table from his backpack. “I have photographs. . . .”

Hilda crossed herself automatically. Irene, at the very limits of her strength, sank into a chair as Professor Leal strode about the room, unable in all his extensive and exalted vocabulary to find words to fit the occasion. Although he was given to grandiloquence, this news had left him speechless.

Irene and Francisco told them what had happened. They had reached the Los Riscos mine in midafternoon, tired and hungry, but prepared to investigate it thoroughly, clinging to the hope that once they had resolved the matter, they would be free to return to their normal lives and to love one another in peace. In the full light of day there was nothing sinister about the site, but the memory of Evangelina caused them to approach the mine with reluctance. Francisco wanted to go in alone, but Irene was determined to overcome her revulsion and help him open up the second passage; she wanted to get it over with and be out of there as quickly as possible. They easily removed the rubble and stones at the mine entrance; they ripped Irene's kerchief into two pieces, tying the halves over their faces to protect them against the overpowering stench, and crawled into the main chamber. It was not necessary to turn on the flashlight. The sun poured through the opening, illuminating in its diffuse rays the body of Evangelina Ranquileo. Francisco arranged the poncho over the body to spare Irene that horror.

Irene had to lean against the wall to keep her equilibrium; her legs seemed to be made of rubber. She tried to put her mind on her garden at home when the forget-me-nots were blooming over the grave of the baby-that-fell-through-the-skylight, or on baskets of fresh ripe fruit on market day. Francisco pleaded with her to go outside, but she succeeded in overcoming her nausea and, picking up a piece of iron from the ground, attacked the thin layer of cement that sealed the tunnel. Francisco joined her with his pick. The mortar must have been mixed by an inexpert hand, because with every blow it crumbled into fine particles. In addition to the stench, the air was fouled by a dense cloud of dust and cement, but they did not retreat; each stroke of the tools made them increasingly certain something was waiting for them behind that barrier, a truth hidden for a very long time. Ten minutes later, they unearthed a few shreds of cloth and some bones. It was a man's ribcage, still clothed in a light-colored shirt and heavy blue sweater. While they waited for the dust to settle, they turned on the flashlight and examined the bones to determine beyond any doubt that they were human in origin. They had to dig only a little farther to find a skull; it rolled to their feet with a clump of hair still rooted in the forehead. Irene could not stomach any more, and she stumbled from the mine while Francisco kept digging mindlessly, like a silent machine. As new remains continued to emerge, he realized that they had discovered a tomb filled with corpses, and, judging from the state of the remains, they had probably been buried for some time. Parts of bodies erupted from the earth, along with tatters of clothing stained with a dark, oily substance. Before he left the tunnel, Francisco took his photographs with complete calm and precision, moving as if he were in a dream; he had passed the bounds of amazement. The extraordinary had come to seem natural, and he even found a certain logic in the situation; it was as if the violence had been there forever, waiting for him. Those dead bodies bursting from the earth, with fleshless hands and bullet holes in their skulls, had waited a long time, ceaselessly calling to him, but it was only now he had ears to hear. He found himself talking aloud, apologizing for his delay, feeling that he had failed in the rendezvous. Irene's voice calling from outside the mine brought him back to reality. He left part of his soul behind.

Between them, they closed the entrance, leaving it just as it had looked when they found it. For some minutes they gulped the pure, fresh air, gripping each other's hands and listening to the racing of their hearts. Their agitated breathing and trembling bodies informed them that they were at least alive. The sun was sinking behind the hills, and as they climbed on the motorcycle and rode off toward the city, the sky was turning the color of crude oil.

“And now what do we do?” was Professor Leal's question when they had completed their story.

For a long time they debated the best method to deal with the problem, obviously rejecting the idea of seeking help from the law, which would have been tantamount to placing their necks in a noose. They conjectured that Pradelio Ranquileo had known his sister was in the mine because he had used it to hide other crimes. If they advised the authorities, that would assure Irene and Francisco's disappearance within a matter of hours, and the Los Riscos mine would be covered with a few new shovelfuls of earth. “Justice” was an almost forgotten term, no longer mentioned because, like the word “liberty,” it had subversive overtones. Though the military enjoyed impunity in all its activities, at times it created inconveniences for the government itself, since each branch of the armed forces had its own security system, and the Political Police, which was the highest power in the State, was independent of any controls. The professional zeal of these various agencies often produced lamentable errors and gross inefficiency. Not infrequently, two or more groups squabbled over who had the right to interrogate the same prisoner, for different reasons, or agents who had infiltrated an agency failed to recognize one another and ended up killing each other.

“Oh, dear God! Whatever made you go into that mine?” Hilda sighed.

“You did the correct thing. Now we must find a way to get you out of this,” the Professor replied.

“The only idea that occurs to me is to report it in the press,” Irene suggested, referring to the few opposition newspapers still being published.

“I'll go to them tomorrow with the photographs,” Francisco said decisively.

“You won't get very far. They will kill you at the first street corner,” Professor Leal assured him.

Nonetheless, they all agreed that Irene's was not such a far-fetched idea. The best solution was to shout the news from the rooftops, to send it echoing around the world, awakening consciences and shaking the very foundations of the nation. Then Hilda, drawing on her incontestable common sense, reminded them that the Church was the only entity left standing; every other organization had been broken up and swept away by governmental repression. If they had the backing of the Church, there was a chance they might accomplish the impossible: unseal the mine without losing their lives in the process. They decided to place their secret in the Cardinal's hands.

Francisco ordered a taxi to take Irene to her house before curfew; she did not have enough strength to ride behind him on the motorcycle. Francisco, who had to develop the film, was much later getting to bed. He slept badly, tossing and turning in anguish, seeing in the shadows the face of Evangelina framed by yellowed bones clacking like castanets. He cried out in his dreams and awakened to see Hilda standing by his bedside.

“I made you some linden tea, son. Drink it.”

“I think I need something stronger. . . .”

“Just be quiet and do what I tell you, that's what a mother is for,” she ordered, smiling.

Francisco sat up in bed, blowing on the tea to cool it, and began to sip it slowly while his mother observed him through narrowed eyes.

“Why are you staring at me like that, Mama?”

“You didn't tell me everything that happened yesterday. You and Irene made love, didn't you?”

“Dammit, Mama. Do you have to know everything?”

“I have a right to know.”

“I'm too old to tell you everything I do,” Francisco said, laughing.

“Look. I want to warn you that Irene is a decent young woman. Your intentions had better be honorable or you'll have to answer to me. Is that clear? And now drink your tea, and if you have a clear conscience, you'll sleep like a baby,” Hilda concluded, pulling up his covers.