The Disappearance of Irene Dos Santos (25 page)

“You are not really leaving me,” she said before he left. “You can be anywhere and with me at the same time. Here, I bought
you this journal for your birthday, but you can take it now to document your experiences along the way.” She had motioned
toward the bedside table, where a leather-bound A-4–size notebook lay. Deeply touched by her thoughtfulness, he had still
insisted that he didn’t really want to leave, that he was doing it for the money.

“I know that, mi amor,” she replied.

“Don’t worry, mijo,” encouraged his mother-in-law. “My husband won’t eat you for breakfast. His silence makes him seem much
grouchier than he is.” She patted his face. “Men have ways of connecting with their hearts, Carlos Alberto.”

This alleviated his anxiety to a great extent, for Carlos Alberto thinks Consuelo must know a great deal about men’s hearts
if she could capture and keep the heart of Ismael Martinez.

After three hours of driving, of which Ismael now does the most since he is the only one who knows the final destination,
they turn off the carretera onto a dirt road. After another forty-five minutes of bumping around, and just as Carlos Alberto
is about to protest the choice of road—a rough-cut path, really—the speed with which they are attempting it, and the effect
it is having on his back and hemorrhoidal ass, Ismael parks the car on the side of the road.

“I thought we were going to Chivacoa,” says Carlos Alberto.

“Maybe tomorrow,” says his father-in-law.

Without another word, Ismael gets out of the car, opens the rear door of the station wagon, which is now caked in mud, and
beckons for Carlos Alberto and Luz to collect some of the bags and follow him through a hole in the fence near the road.

After half an hour of trekking on a rough path through what Carlos Alberto thinks must be some kind of national preserve or
park, they arrive in front of the oddest dwelling he has ever seen. It is a sturdy circular structure with a conical roof,
built of manaca palm wood and temiche leaves, bound together by rope. An oil lamp is burning in the cutout window, which has
no glass.

A young mestizo boy—no more than ten or eleven years of age, perhaps younger—opens the door, his slight frame a silhouette
against light behind him. A few moments later, a Guajira woman of indeterminate age, wearing a fraying dress of equally indeterminate
color, appears at the boy’s side and places her arm protectively around his shoulders. A broad smile breaks out across her
face the moment she spots Ismael.

“Well, well, if it isn’t El Malandro himself,” she says. “It’s been a long time, viejo. Bienvenido.” Ismael embraces the woman
and tousles the boy’s unkempt hair, which looks like it could use a good wash. Clearly, this boy does not have older sisters,
thinks Carlos Alberto.

“Carlos Alberto, Luz,” says Ismael, “may I present to you my friends, Juanita Sanchez and her young grandson, Efraín.”

Together, the five partake of a simple but generous dinner consisting of black beans, plátano, and rice, set on a knobby wooden
table made of planks and cement blocks. The planks creak and wobble every time anyone shifts an elbow or passes a plate. During
the meal, Ismael and the old Indian woman speak in a language Carlos Alberto does not understand. But it is apparent the old
woman is upset by whatever Ismael is saying. Then the old woman apparently says something that upsets his father-in-law equally,
for afterward he does not speak and stares off into space with a dark expression.

Carlos Alberto, uncomfortable with the ensuing silence, turns to Luz, but then changes his mind about starting any conversation
with her, resigning himself instead to shoveling food mechanically into his mouth with a wooden spoon. When the meal is over,
Carlos Alberto sees that the boy Efraín, who has been perched on Ismael’s lap throughout the evening, has fallen asleep, his
head lolling against the older man’s shoulder, lips slightly parted in a half smile. The poor child will get a crick in his
neck if he sleeps in that position much longer, Carlos Alberto thinks. He catches Ismael’s eye and points to the boy. Ismael
carries Efraín to a hammock in the corner of the room and Luz follows, taking off her long sweater and gently covering the
boy. Then she climbs into the spare hammock and appears to fall asleep almost instantly. Funny, he would never have pegged
Luz as the maternal type.

“Efraín made an appearance today; he is very tired,” the old woman says in Spanish to Carlos Alberto. Carlos is about to ask
Juanita Sanchez what she means by appearance, when he is struck by the realization that Efraín is the boy shown in a sketch
on TV, the one they call El Niño. But before he can ask any questions, Ismael shoots him a warning glance. The old woman hands
Ismael two hammocks and two light blankets, and Ismael beckons to Carlos Alberto to follow him outside. Together they select
some sturdy trees between which to tie the hammocks. The hammocks are made of remarkably fine weave that feels almost like
silk.

“Sleep well,” says Ismael. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Carlos Alberto has never spent the night in a hammock. But that isn’t what keeps him awake. Neither is it because this is
the first time he has slept apart from Lily since they were married. It is because he is bursting with questions for Ismael,
who, astonishingly, has brought them straight to the source of their quest. Here he had been worried that he was embarking
on a mission that might cost him his job at the university, that he might well be risking everything on a potentially futile
pursuit that would bring in little money beyond expenses from the television producers in the end. The old Guajira must be
using the boy somehow to capitalize on the excitement about the statue, that much he has surmised, though he has yet to come
up with an explanation for how she has conjured up the El Niño apparitions. But what he really wants to know is how Ismael
is connected with these squatters in the middle of the forest. Without a doubt, Lily’s father is full of surprises—a real
aventurero! And what about Luz—Luz had behaved as though living in a shack in some forest was the most natural thing in the
world. Who would ever have thought that Luz could go even a day without the beauty parlor and her telenovelas? No doubt, Luz
was fitting into the adventure far better than expected, far better, in fact, than
he
was. She hadn’t used the outdoor facilities before she went to bed. He wonders how she will react to the discovery that she
will have to piss and shit in the woods for the duration of their stay here.

Poor pollination or insufficient watering can cause malformation in passiflora edulis. Attacks from pests can cause scarring.

W
hen she was five, Luz announced that she wanted to be a gypsy dancer when she grew up. She arrived at this conclusion after
her mother’s East Indian friend from Trinidad, José Naipaul, took her to see a flamenco show. Afterward, at home in their
one-bedroom apartment, she had demonstrated to her mother and brothers how a real dancer danced. With astonishing ease, her
little feet replicated the stacatto steps of an accomplished flamenco dancer, while her fingers clicked away at invisible
castanets.

“You must have been a dancer in your past life!” exclaimed José Naipaul, clapping wildly when she finished, and her mother
had grabbed her in her arms and kissed her many times all over her face.

She had always been able to bring a smile to her mother’s face when she danced. “You’ve got both Andalusia and Carib in your
blood,” Marta would say. But whenever her mother thought too much of her father, not even Luz’s dancing could lighten her
mood.

Even now, Luz loves to dance, especially salsa and merengue. When the music begins, she feels electrified, as though there
is a lightning rod that begins at the top of her head and ends at her toes, illuminating and energizing her core.

Brava! Brava!
Miguel Rojas would shout, when they were first married, spinning her triumphantly across the floor as her skirts flew up
above her thighs. On the dance floor, Luz is a goddess and she knows it. Dancing is the only thing she is positive she can
do better than Lily.

Competition with Lily has been the monkey on Luz’s back for most of her life. Nothing really bad ever happens to Lily; it
has always been enough for her to look lovely and fragile, for everyone to rally around her. This is the way it has been as
long as Luz can remember. Granted, Lily might have hurt or lost her baby after the fall, which would have been horrible. But,
Luz wonders, if the situation were reversed, and it were Luz’s baby, Luz who needed comforting and mollycoddling, would everyone
come running? Would Lily? Luz has her doubts.

Lily certainly hadn’t come to her defense that time at the Hotel Macuto, had she? No, she had been so concerned about saving
her own skin and the skin of her kleptomaniac friend, Irene Dos Santos.
You can’t tell anybody, please, Lucecita, I beg you,
Lily had said, while Irene stood by, wary and silent like a cat, her small, bottle-green eyes hooded by dark lashes. It makes
her positively ill to think of the way Lily always would get that cajoling, sugary sweetness in her voice when she wanted
Luz to tow the line.

For a long time, even though the sheer force of her jealousy sometimes made it hard for her to breathe, Luz could not resist
the desire to be loved by Lily. But Lily had never loved Luz that way, not the way she loved Irene, like a sister and confidant,
a coconspirator in their exclusive adolescent club of discovery. Even afterward, even after Luz had presented her with the
evidence that Irene was not a good friend, Lily had never turned to Luz. And when Irene drowned in Maquiritare, had Lily reached
toward Luz? No, not even then. On the contrary, she had increased her distance. And for this, Luz has never quite forgiven
her.