The Disappearance of Irene Dos Santos (23 page)

So captivated was Carlos Alberto by this girl that when he returned to his room that night, images of her continued to flash
through his mind. Even after several glasses of rum, even after he fell asleep, she continued to haunt him, appearing suddenly,
unbidden, in his dreams and evaporating just as quickly.

On the second day of his vacation in Colonia Tovar, he awoke early. He shaved and dressed with lightning speed and rushed
out into the misty morning, slipping and sliding through the damp cobblestone lanes to the grounds of the Fritz. Perhaps,
he thought, he would be able to catch sight of her at breakfast. He found an inconspicuous corner table in the small wood-paneled
restaurant the hotel management ran for its guests. When he ordered coffee, the waiter asked him which room he was staying
in, and he was forced to confess that he was not a guest of the Fritz. The waiter’s face took on a pained and offended expression.

“This restaurant is for guests only, Señor,” he informed Carlos Alberto.

Carlos Alberto assured him that he was there to ascertain whether this was the hotel he wanted to stay in, that the quality
of the coffee was very important to him in determining where he would stay. From his manner, Carlos Alberto doubted the waiter
believed him—this was a family hotel, and Carlos Alberto was clearly a young man all on his own. It may have been the desperation
in Carlos Alberto’s voice that made the waiter decide to serve him a coffee. It was a much more expensive coffee than one
obtainable at any kiosk in the lanes of Colonia Tovar. But it was worth it. For, a few minutes later, Lily entered the room,
even more fresh and beautiful than he remembered. He remained with her—well not
with
her, but with her in view—throughout most of the day. It was a rather uneventful day, during which Lily made only one foray
into the town, to purchase a cuckoo clock, for which the artisans of the colony are famous. It did occur to him that the real
cuckoo was himself, or at least that is what his friend Ricardo would say when he returned to the city and recounted what
he had been up to. But at that moment Carlos Alberto was ecstatic in his madness, and he could hardly wait to fall into bed
so he could dream of the girl with the brown-black hair and rosebud toes. But again, he could not fall asleep without the
aid of plentiful cups of rum.

The next morning was Easter Sunday. He wanted to attend the eight a.m. Mass at the chapel on the square because he thought
he might see his fantasy girl there and perhaps be able to make her acquaintance. He stumbled, hungover, from the lumpy bed
at the Viejo Aleman and made his way to the bathroom, where a leprous visage confronted him in the mirror above the washbasin.
Could this be his face? He remembered having applied Coppertone sunblock at some point during the previous day. Clearly, the
application had been uneven. And now his face was covered with alternately beet red and creamy white patches. This did not
bode well for romance. He briefly considered makeup. Certainly, he had had enough experience with its application during his
childhood. But there would probably be no shops open on Easter Sunday. He compromised with the Panama hat his father had given
him, pulling it down low over his forehead, where the worst bits of seared flesh were localized. His sisters had always assured
him that he was handsome in a roguish way. Now he looked like a gangster, but this was a distinct improvement over the unedited
version.

After the Mass, the congregation spilled into the square. Carlos Alberto was relieved to notice that the object of his affection
and heightened desire was without familial encumbrance. He was in the process of summoning enough nerve to approach her when
he heard her cry out, her mouth making a surprised and exquisite circle of pain. She had twisted her ankle on the uneven cobblestones
of the church square. Carlos Alberto sprinted to her assistance, solicitously guiding her back to her hotel, insisting that
she put her weight on him as they went. She said she didn’t know how to thank him. He responded by saying that he was completely
lost in Colonia Tovar and didn’t know where to eat, and that if she was feeling better by evening, perhaps she could accompany
him to a decent restaurant. To his delight, she agreed.

As soon as he had her captive in a corner booth at the restaurant quaintly known as El pequeño Alemán, he wanted to come clean.
Without prologue, he admitted to her that he had stalked her for three days since his arrival at Colonia Tovar. He confessed
to her how he had completely humiliated and demeaned himself by lying and pretending to be lost, too ignorant to find a restaurant
where he could get a meal and a cup of coffee, even though there was one on every street corner, all of which were fairly
good. He said his friend Ricardo was a third-year medical student specializing in obstetrics who had a different woman on
his arm each month, and was his love guru. He said Ricardo had told him that women love men who are lost, and that he had
decided he had nothing to lose. As soon as he said all this, he regretted it; he was sure the girl would think him psychotic,
or worse, pitiful—the biggest pendejo she had ever met. He became quiet, staring glumly into his untouched marroncito, as
if his salvation resided in a demitasse.

“Well, it worked,” she said simply, and began chattering away about the first time she had visited Colonia Tovar when she
was thirteen with her school friend Irene Dos Santos. He didn’t know it at the time, so easy was her banter, but she told
him later that whenever she is nervous, re-creating her childhood has the salubrious effect of a tranquilizer.

A bit to his own surprise, Carlos Alberto doesn’t feel stupid while telling this story to his unborn child. And while he certainly
does
not
believe in Maria Lionza, a small secret part of him almost wishes he did.

“Incidentally, you never told me why you were so nervous that day at the restaurant,” Carlos Alberto murmurs, later, just
before falling asleep on the floor next to his wife’s makeshift bed in the living room.

“Because I knew I was going to sleep with you,” Lily says.

The first time they had made love, it had been unplanned, and Carlos Alberto had been afraid. He was so large and she was
so small. He thought he might hurt her and she wouldn’t want him again. But by the time this thought had completed itself,
his body had taken charge and he was already pushing impatiently against a resilient barrier. Lily’s eyes had been squeezed
shut, her eyelashes wet, her breathing uneven. She cried out, but clenched him to herself, locking her legs around his back.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he gasped, his mind mortified, his senses bursting with delight. He sobbed as he plunged deeper and
deeper, straining to reach the pinnacle, unable to pull back, to relinquish pleasure even at the cost of her pain. He felt
himself a beast.

Afterward it had been Lily who was the consoler. She held his head against her breast, puffing pensively on an Astor, while
the blood seeped into the sheets, and said, “If it had been up to my friend Irene, that barrier would have been broken a long
time ago. My darling, I’m so glad I waited for you.”

And with those words he became her slave. Months later, when she could not conceive, she said they should tell her mother.
He had been appalled. “How can you discuss this most intimate thing with your mother?” he asked.

“My mother taught me that secrets are sicknesses,” she replied. “When I need help and advice, I consult my mother. I can tell
my mother anything.”

“Anything?”

“Yes, mi amor. Anything and everything. You must get accustomed to that. In my family, we are constantly in each other’s business.”

Before long, Carlos Alberto himself was telling Consuelo everything, the words gushing from his lips like water from a broken
tap. It wasn’t so much that Consuelo had all the answers, it was just that he was finally voicing his questions. Questions
had never been encouraged in his own family. In the Quintanilla household, only obedience and silent stoicism had been rewarded.

Dr. Jorge Quintanilla sold his home in Tamanaco and bought one in the hills of the Western province a few months after he
retired from the cardiology department at Los Aves. But, almost before he’d had time to experience the freedom, and perhaps
the boredom, of retirement, a sudden and massive stroke knocked him senseless on the golf green, and now he lay immobile in
one of the beautifully appointed guest rooms, surrounded by medicine bottles and tubes, his eyes half open but unmoving, recognizing
no one and no thing. He had turned into his own worst nightmare, for there can be nothing more galling to a doctor than for
the doctor to become the patient.

They had already been married a year before Carlos Alberto took Lily to his parents’ home. They arrived in time for lunch,
a boisterous affair including his mother, his sisters, their spouses and children, during which, as usual, everyone spoke
at once. Carlos Alberto was somewhat apprehensive about how Lily, an only child, would tolerate it. But she sat at the table,
turning her head this way and that, trying to catch with her small ears all the words flying randomly around the dining room,
smiling with delight. Later, they went to look in on his father. Carlos Alberto stood in the doorway watching his father’s
chest rise and fall.
Asshole.

Unlike himself, who continued to stand rigid in the doorway, Lily was not revolted and not afraid to approach the shell of
a man that had once been his father. She had bent down and kissed him lightly on the forehead. And Carlos Alberto thought
how proud and relieved Jorge Quintanilla would have been, had he been able to see Lily, irrefutable proof that in spite of
the choice to pursue a career in what he had oft referred to as “pansy work”—teaching and writing documentary film—his son
was, after all, a man. For the first time, Carlos Alberto felt something bordering on pity for his father, an expert on hearts,
who knew not his own.

The next day, they boarded the teleférico, which whisked them up to 3,500 meters in a matter of minutes. Beyond stood the
snow-capped Pico Bolívar, swathed in clouds. They held hands and were quiet on the way back down. The crisp smell of snow
had given them a sudden urge for ice cream. And so, upon their return to the town, they stopped by Helados Tibisay, famous
for its unusual flavors, where they surrendered to their childish fancy. Lily tried the celery, while Carlos Alberto opted
for black beans. From there, they drove to Los Frijoles, their hotel, and spent the next three days making love, interspersed
with bouts of holding their noses and blowing till their ears popped, in an attempt to relieve the pressure from the high
altitude.

On the fourth day they walked all the way to Laguna Victoria, carrying a small but well-stocked picnic basket and a blanket.
Lily did not swim, but she said she would not mind if Carlos Alberto wanted to take a dip. Carlos Alberto swam with strong,
smooth strokes, feeling the water ripple over his back, oblivious to the fact that as his figure gradually diminished from
his wife’s perspective, she was becoming extremely agitated. When he turned back, she was waving her blue and green silk scarf
in the air, and when he reached the shore, her eyes were rimmed in red and the features of her face taut with an anguish he
could not fathom.