The Disappearance of Irene Dos Santos (24 page)

“But, what is wrong, mi amor?” he asked her, the expression in her eyes wrenching his stomach with fear.

“You looked so small in the water,” Lily said, forcing a smile to blanched lips. And then, lying on the grass with the dew
seeping through the wool of the blanket, she lay her head upon his chest and told her about her dream in which she and her
friend Irene Dos Santos had gone for a swim in the lagoon too soon after lunch, developed cramps, and drowned. Since then,
Lily said, she was afraid of deep waters.

Early on in their relationship, there were occasions when Carlos Alberto considered the possibility that Lily may be “not
all there” in a charming, nonthreatening sort of way, and he had strongly suspected that Irene Dos Santos was just a figment
of her imagination. But this suspicion was laid to rest by his mother-in-law, Consuelo, who told him that Irene had been Lily’s
best friend in school. Apparently they had lost touch with one another at some stage during their school years, or so Consuelo
gave him to understand. Precisely when and how this occurred continues to elude him. Lily herself has never discussed it and
Consuelo, without his even noticing it, changes the subject whenever it comes up.

It occurs to Carlos Alberto that when women don’t want to answer a question at a particular point in time, they somehow manage
to make you forget you ever asked.

After a spirited discussion about the pros and cons of traveling to Sorte via Valencia or by the Nirgua mountain route, it
is finally decided that they will go through Valencia. When Luz asks whether she can accompany Carlos Alberto and Ismael,
he raises no objection, though he is not particularly keen on the idea. Luz can be such a pain in the ass. He thinks he knows
why she wants to go: Valencia is where her estranged husband, Miguel Rojas, lives. Well, if Luz fancies the application of
salt on her wounds, who is he to say no?

Ismael is quiet, as is Luz, who had insisted on driving. She steers Ismael’s prehistoric automobile on the autopista at a
speed that makes the hair on Carlos Alberto’s forearms stand on end, and drives nonstop to the outskirts of Valencia. There,
they have lunch and rest for an hour under the shade of an umbrella at an outdoor café. While Carlos Alberto is paying the
bill, Luz tries to phone Miguel at a booth across the road. When she returns, her eyes are red, and both Ismael and Carlos
Alberto discreetly pretend they haven’t noticed.

As they set off once again, the car rattles uncontrollably, and Carlos Alberto regrets not insisting on bringing his Range
Rover, given to him by his mother after his father could no longer drive. It was a sturdy vehicle, though somewhat battered
after being briefly commandeered by drug runners in broad daylight. “Get out of my car,” they had said, one of them pointing
a gun through the open window at Carlos Alberto’s crotch. The police had found it later, abandoned in the hills of El Hatillo,
one side riddled with bullet holes. Carlos Alberto thinks the bullet holes give the car character. In any case, who can afford
bodywork these days? It is still a comfortable ride.

The Lancer has to be at least twenty-five years old by his calculations. He can already feel the impact of the shot suspension
on his hemorrhoids. He voices his idea about stopping at a service station in Valencia. But Ismael and Luz exchange smiles
as though he has just made a joke, and Luz continues driving at breakneck speed.

Around two p.m., Ismael takes over the wheel. Again, the drive begins in silence. The old man stares straight ahead as though
there is no one in the car but himself. As for Luz, she is as reticent as the old man. Carlos Alberto begins to anticipate
with something bordering on dread several days of silence interspersed with grunts of acknowledgement on whether to turn left
or right at a particular juncture, or which truck stop to eat at. He is distracted from this train of thought as they enter
the valley of Maraca.

Recently swept by a thundershower, the valley is at its lushest, reminding Carlos Alberto of why it is known among indigenous
painters for its unique palette of greens and golds. Sugarcane in the fields is high. The breezes have diminished and a relentless
humidity seems to press the air out of his lungs. Carlos Alberto hopes they will find rooms with air-conditioning in either
San Felipe or Chivacoa, for he can afford the best as long as TVista is paying. They stop briefly at a small supply store
along the highway. Like shopkeepers all over the country, this one, too, has become adept at disguising the holes on his shelves.
When Ismael asks for a bag of wheat flour, the owner shakes his head.

“Wheat flour has all but disappeared from the shelves for two months now,” he explains. “The little that gets into the state
is being delivered directly to bakeries and pasta makers. Not much baking is done at home these days.”

Ismael selects a bag of white cornmeal instead, which looks to Carlos Alberto as though it may have already exceeded its shelf
life. This, he supposes, means that wherever Ismael is taking them first will involve cooking. He hopes he will not be expected
to pull his weight in that department, since the only thing he can cook is steak, and the chances of obtaining good-quality
meat on the road are unlikely. Luz purchases several packs of cigarettes and some mints. Carlos Alberto is suddenly aware
that he has left home without his shaving kit. He buys shaving cream and a pack of disposable razors at a price that seems
to him monstrous, double the price of such a purchase in the city. Ismael adds some rope and loose-leaf Indian tobacco to
the supplies. Carlos Alberto observes the selection of the tobacco with some puzzlement; as far as he knows, Ismael is neither
a smoker nor a chewer of tobacco. When their purchases are complete, the shopkeeper invites them out back to a tarpaulin-covered
patio for a drink of rum on ice. They accept.

“For a time, one thing we could still be thankful for was that the crazy love of crime besotting the country had not struck
the Western province with the same intensity as in the capital,” says the man, whose name, they have learned, is Mario Antonio
Perez, Papy to his friends. “No longer,” he continues, shaking his head mournfully, “what with this business of the rebels
taking over some of the big cattle ranches and El Presidente turning a blind eye. That’s what started it. Land reform. Now
they all think they live in Cuba and that everything belongs to everyone. The situation is bad, and we expect it to get worse.
One of the big supermarkets a block from my home was attacked at payroll last month by a bunch of indios. And just the other
night, somebody tried to steal the metal nameplate of my apartment building to resell for scrap metal. He was heard at two
a.m. by one of my neighbors, who got his gun and caught the guy. Big scandal in the street, people running around half naked,
a couple of shots in the air for good measure, and after a few hours a police car finally came and took the thief. We couldn’t
find the sign, though we scoured the area.” He shakes his head and sighs. “But look at me, giving such bad tidings to visitors!
Pay no attention. Where exactly are you headed?”

Carlos Alberto says they are en route to Sorte.

“Paying a visit to the Lady and El Niño, are you? I doubt even they can help us now. If you are passing through San Felipe,
take care; car vigilantes propagate the latest racket there. You cannot park anywhere in the town without coming back to your
car and finding a little cardboard on your windshield that claims your car is being attended. Some derelict Guajiro kid just
pops out of nowhere to remove the card as you get into your car and of course you are expected to give him some money. My
advice is, don’t refuse, unless you want trouble. The street kids move in gangs.” He continues for sometime in this vein,
perfectly content to be the only one talking. Finally, he says, “Well, time for me to get back home, or the wife will have
something to say about it. Good luck to you.”

Luz says she wants to use the bathroom, but Carlos Alberto thinks she probably wants to make another phone call to her ex.

Finishing their drinks and thanking Papy, Ismael and Carlos Alberto climb back into the car, now hot-boxed from almost an
hour in the full afternoon sun, and wait for Luz. As he fastens his seat belt, Carlos Alberto feels a wave of longing for
those left behind, none of whom are ever at a loss for words.

From the day Carlos Alberto married Lily, though he has been polite, Ismael has barely spoken a word to him, which makes it
exceedingly difficult for Carlos Alberto to discern whether or not his father-in-law likes him. So he is pleasantly surprised
when, turning back onto the road to San Felipe, Ismael suddenly becomes a fountain of speech, embarking with gusto on a story
about a road trip three years earlier. It was to the Indian settlements in the Delta, where he had gone on behalf of the Department
for the Preservation of Parks, Forests and Protected Areas to investigate reports of unauthorized cutting of mangroves. Unofficially,
he had gone to study the music and instruments of the Warao. His own face is illuminated as he describes the journey through
the Delta, then another to Pemon country, the magnificence of the Tepuys, imposingly high mesas of up to 3,000 meters. Carlos
Alberto watches, fascinated, as Ismael’s craggy features, the deep wrinkles that make folds in his face, smoothen as he speaks.
As they moved farther away from the city, Ismael begins to sing softly, almost under his breath, in a language Carlos Alberto
had never heard:

Ihi kabo arotu ihi

Ihi tata arotu

Hi nasaribuna tane

Domo tuyu tuyuna

Hi nanoarate ine

“What is that language?” Carlos Alberto asks.

“It is Warao,” says Ismael.

“What does it mean?” he asks.

“‘You are the lord of the skies, you are the lord of beyond, your voice is like the tigana bird, I call your name many times.’”

It is an astonishing transformation. And Carlos Alberto thinks to himself, Here is a man who belongs to the wild places.

Carlos Alberto knows that his father-in-law, a genetic blend of Spanish and Que, is quite famous for his cuatro playing and
timeless ballad compositions, though his fame has never translated into financial security. He is aware that Ismael in his
younger days had worked with the Indian underground organization, Passiflora Edulis, so named in honor of the legendary Spanish
Civil War heroine Dolores Ibarruri, also known as La Pasionaria, who remained in exile in the Soviet Union. The P.E. (for
the members were notoriously obsessed with secrecy and only referred to it by its initials until it had served its purpose
and was disbanded) had joined the Junta Patriótica to overthrow El Colonel. Carlos Alberto even knows that Ismael had spent
time in the unspeakable secret prison of the regime as a dangerous dissident for writing a song that had ignited the fire
of resistance in the hearts of the people, and that he had been released only on the day of the uprising that sent El Colonel
fleeing for his life. While conducting research on that brutal period in history, he discovered that Ismael is considered
a kind of folk hero in some of the least expected circles. He had wanted to interview his father-in-law and record him singing
his own music as part of a documentary, but when he brought it up, Ismael had declined crustily and without amplification.

Carlos Alberto thinks his father would have got on well enough with Ismael, who is definitely not a pansy by any social or
cultural standard one may choose to apply. While he is by no means a heavyweight, he is tough and wiry, with a certain feral
look in his eye. Other men would think ten times before opposing him. Because of his economy with words, he sometimes appears
almost taciturn. Nevertheless, women fall for him, even at his age, which is seventy-five. Just the other day, Carlos Alberto
accompanied him to the automercado to pick up a case of beer. The cashier, a sumptuous creature with sensuality oozing from
her very pores, ignored Carlos Alberto completely and began flirting with Ismael, as if he were Antonio Banderas. Ismael did
nothing, as far as Carlos Alberto could see, to encourage the girl. In fact, he was rather gruff. Yet she appeared most reluctant
to conclude the business at hand—that of ringing up the purchase—and went on chattering and blushing like a romantic schoolgirl.

From all reports, Ismael was an accomplished seducer in his youth. Carlos Alberto has even heard that Simón, another famous
composer of ballads, had written at least one song with the exploits of Ismael in mind. It is quite possible. Not only does
Ismael have a way with women, he is at ease around them. And yet he is, without question, completely devoted to his family.
The thought that he and his father-in-law have at least this in common gives him the courage to start up a conversation.

“What made you decide to get married?” he asks.

“I met Consuelo,” says Ismael, grinning.

“And what made you settle down in Tamanaco?”

“I promised Consuelo when she was pregnant with Lily.” Ismael begins to hum “Caballo viejo” quietly to himself, and that is
the end of that. The subject is closed. Luz sits staring out of the window, smoking a cigarette and twirling a lock of her
frosty blond hair, humming fragments of the melody with Ismael. Then both bellow out the words of the chorus in harmony at
the top of their lungs. Carlos Alberto thinks that Luz and Ismael are unlikely, but perfectly suited, traveling companions.
He misses Lily.