Of Love and Shadows (32 page)

That evening Gustavo Morante came to the hospital. He had read about Irene in the police reports in the newspaper; the item had been published, much delayed, along with a list of other bloody offenses attributed to common criminals. Only Beatriz Alcántara, however, clung to the official version of events, just as she believed that the search of her house was some strange mistake on the part of the police. The Captain, however, had no illusions. He requested permission to travel from his garrison to visit his former fiancée. He was dressed in civilian clothes, following the recommendation of the High Command: No uniforms in the street, we don't want to give the impression that this is an occupied nation. Morante knocked at the door of Irene's room and Francisco opened it, surprised to see him there. They took one another's measure, each probing the other's intentions, until a sigh from the patient drew them both precipitously to her side. Irene lay motionless on the high hospital bed, like a white marble maiden sculpted on her own sarcophagus. Only the living foliage of her hair emitted light. Her arms bore the marks of needles and tubes; she was breathing shallowly, her eyes tightly closed, the lids dark smudges. When Gustavo Morante gazed upon the woman he had loved for her vitality, reduced now to a poor lacerated body that looked as if it might evaporate into the surreal air of the sickroom, a shock of horror ran through him that left him weak and trembling.

“Is she going to live?” he whispered.

Francisco Leal had watched over her for several days and nights, and had become expert in reading the slightest sign of improvement; he counted her sighs, weighed her dreams, observed her fleeting expressions. He was euphoric because she was breathing without the aid of a machine and could move the tips of her fingers, but he realized that for the Captain—who had not been present when she was truly dying—the sight of her was a cruel blow. He forgot that his rival was an Army officer and saw him only as a man suffering for the woman he, too, loved.

“I want to know what happened,” Morante asked, dumbstruck, his head bowed with grief.

And Francisco Leal told him, not omitting their participation in the discovery of the bodies, hoping that Morante's love for Irene would supersede his loyalty to the uniform. The same day of the attempt on Irene's life, armed men had burst into her house and turned everything upside down, from mattresses, which they ripped open with knives, to jars of cosmetics and kitchen canisters they emptied onto the floor. They took with them her tape recorder, her agenda, her notebook, and her address book. Before they finished, they shot Cleo for good measure, leaving the dog in a pool of blood. Beatriz was not at home; at that very moment she was sitting in a hospital corridor outside the room where her daughter lay dying. Rosa had tried to stop the men, but received a rifle butt in her chest that had left her speechless and gasping for air; after they were gone, she gathered up the dog in her apron and cradled her so she would not die alone. The men took a quick look through The Will of God Manor, terrifying the residents and nurses, but did nothing when they realized that the frightened old people lived on the fringes of life and had nothing to do with politics. The following morning, the magazine offices were searched and everything in Irene Beltrán's desk was requisitioned, including the ribbon from her ancient typewriter and her discarded carbon paper. Francisco also told the Captain about Evangelina Ranquileo, the untimely death of Sergeant Rivera, the disappearance of Pradelio Ranquileo and most of the Flores family, the massacred farmers; he told him about Lieutenant Juan de Dios Ramírez, and everything else that came to his mind, shedding the discretion that for years he had worn almost like a second skin. He poured out the rage that had been dammed up so long by silence; he painted a different picture of the government—a picture Morante had not seen because he was not inside the barbed wire circle—not omitting the tortured, the dead, the wretched poor, the rich who were profiting from the nation as if it were just another business. The Captain, pale and silent, listened to words that at any other time he would not have allowed to be spoken in his presence.

Francisco's words exploded in Morante's head, along with others he had learned in military training. For the first time, he found himself on the side of the victims of the regime, not among those exercising absolute power, and he was hurt where he was most vulnerable: through his Irene, motionless between the sheets; seeing her so wan, his soul shivered like a bell tolling for the dead. He could not remember a moment in his life when he had not wanted her, and he had never loved her more than now that she was lost to him. He thought of their years growing up together, his plan to marry her and make her happy. Silently, he spoke to her, telling her all the things he had not had an opportunity to say. He reproached her for her lack of confidence; why hadn't she told
him
? He would have helped her; he would have opened the damned tomb with his own hands, not only to be beside her, but for the honor of the armed forces as well. Such crimes could not go unpunished or their society would go to the devil, and it would make no sense for them to have taken up arms against the previous government, accusing it of illegal acts, if they themselves were acting outside the law and common morality. There are only a few guilty of such misconduct, and they must be punished. The honor of the institution, though, is intact, Irene; in our ranks there are many men like me, men ready to fight for the truth, ready to dig through the rubble until all the filth is removed, even if they lose their lives doing it. You betrayed me, my dearest. Perhaps you never loved me as much as I loved you; maybe that's why you turned away from me without giving me a chance to prove that I am not a party to such barbarism. My hands are clean, I have always acted in good faith—you know me. I was at the South Pole during the coup. My work is computers, blackboards, confidential files, strategy; I have never fired a regulation weapon except in target practice. I thought the nation needed a respite from the politicians, and that we needed order and discipline if we were to eradicate poverty. How could I dream that the people would despise us? How many times have I told you, Irene, that the process itself is painful but the crisis will be surmounted? Although now I am not so sure. It may be that it is time for us to return to the barracks and to reinstate a democracy. Where was I that I did not see that? Why did you not tell me in time? You didn't have to be riddled with bullets to open my eyes—you didn't have to turn away, leave me with more love than I can bear, with my whole life ahead of me without you. Ever since you were a little girl you have wanted the truth. That's one reason I adore you so, and it's also why you are lying there now. So still. Dying.

Francisco had no idea how long the Captain stood watching Irene. The light faded from the window and the room sank softly into shadow, blurring the objects in the room and transforming Irene into a pale blotch on the bed. Morante was saying goodbye to her, convinced that he would never again love anyone as he did her, and gathering strength for the task ahead. He bent to kiss her parched lips, pausing in his caress, recording in his memory her tormented face, breathing the odor of medications on her skin, imagining the delicate form of her body, stroking her rebellious hair. The Bridegroom of Death left with dry eyes, a determined expression, and a resolute heart. He would love Irene the rest of his life, and he would never see her again.

“Do not leave her for a moment, or they will come and finish the job. I can do nothing to protect her. You must get her out of here and hide her” were his only words.

“All right,” Francisco replied.

Their handshake was prolonged and firm.

*  *  *

Irene's progress was extremely slow; it seemed at times she might never recover, and she suffered excruciating pain. Francisco assumed responsibility for all her bodily needs, as devoted in easing her pain as he had been in giving her pleasure. He never left her side during the day, and at night he lay on a sofa beside her bed. Normally he slept calmly, and deeply, but during that period his ear was as sharp as that of a night stalker. He was immediately awake if he noticed a change in her breathing, heard her stir or moan.

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.