Beyond the Ties of Blood (32 page)

“Laurita,
mi amor
, she didn't mean it. It's just that she—”

“I don't care. Even if I'm her only grandchild, there's a limit to what I can take.” Laura finished folding the sweater, put it in the bottom drawer of the dresser, and began removing things from her backpack. Eugenia sat down on the end of the bed.

“I know what you mean,” she said. “It's been so long that I'd almost forgotten how she can be sometimes.”

“It's like passive-aggressive! She starts off so sweet and nice, and then suddenly she just takes out this knife and slashes you! Even at the airport with Ignacio, so polite and all, and in a blink of an eye she's told him he's too young to be who he says he is, and then the thing with his mother's last name, what was up with that?”

Eugenia chuckled in spite of herself. “Yeah, that was priceless. Though there's no reason you would understand that, since you haven't lived here before and I didn't teach you to behave that way. It's all about lineage, Laurita. The top families in this country have been intermarrying for generations, passing around property and political connections. Someone like your grandma keeps track of that kind of stuff. Since Ignacio's father's name, Pérez, is very common, in order to place him in her status map she had to know his mother's last name.”

“Jeez. That sucks.”

“No kidding. But Ignacio really had her number, didn't he? He pushed all the right buttons. Master's degree outside the country, prestigious Santiago law firm. But the kicker, Laurita, and there's no reason you should know this either, was his mother's last name. Letelier is a very aristocratic family.”

Ignacio called the next morning shortly after breakfast. Eugenia took the call in her bathrobe.

“Have things calmed down a bit?” The warmth of his voice was even more relaxing than the hot steam of the shower.

“Well, not exactly. I think Laura slept well, and so did I, even though I took a nap in the afternoon yesterday. But my mother was still pretty wired at breakfast this morning.”

“I think it's understandable. She hasn't seen you since—”

“I know, I know. But I'm worried about Laura. She was so distant the last couple of weeks when we were packing up, and I think she's really upset about being taken away from her life in Boston. And my mama's so nervous around her, and keeps saying just the wrong thing. I feel like I'm in a suspense film, that it's only a matter of time until either she says something totally unforgivable, or Laura announces that she hates us and is going back to the United States. And that's when I lose my daughter forever.”

“I did notice how upset Laura was when you announced you were coming back to Chile. Let's give her a few days to get adjusted. In the meantime, it sounds like the two of you could use a break, and maybe your mama could, too. Why don't you and Laura come with me to my parents' house? I don't live with them anymore, but I often eat lunch there.”

“I'm not so sure that's a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“I don't know, it just seems … how often do you take single mothers and their daughters to lunch at your parents' house?”

“Never, which is exactly the point. I've been talking so much to them about you. I know they're eager to meet you.”

“I just feel strange, and Laura … I don't want to impose on …”

“Nonsense. I'll send Custodio around to pick you up at one.”

Ignacio's family lived on the other side of Providencia Avenue. Like in her mother's neighborhood, new stores and businesses were invading on all sides, leaving only a few residential blocks tucked in between the office buildings, boutiques, and restaurants that grew like weeds all around. Even the wrought-iron gate was similar.

After the maid had opened the gate and ushered them into the foyer, the first person to come out and greet them had to be his mother, Eugenia decided. She had dark, straight hair, and deep green eyes the color of the sea at night. Like most Chilean women of her social class, she did not look her age; although laugh lines gathered at her eyes when she smiled, there was not a single grey hair on her head.

“Mamacita, this is Eugenia Aldunate,” Ignacio said. “She's the witness in the Bronstein case I was telling you about. And this is her daughter, Laura. Eugenia and Laura, this is my mother, Cecilia Letelier.”

“Eugenia. May I call you Eugenia? So pleased to meet you, Ignacio has been talking so much about you. And Laura. What a beautiful young lady. I must say, Eugenia, you look much too young to have such a grown-up daughter. Please come into the living room and sit down,” she continued, taking Eugenia by the elbow and moving everyone toward the French doors to her right. “We were just sitting down to have a pisco sour. Clemente!” she called toward the kitchen. “Bring out two more glasses for
el niño
Ignacio and his friend! Laura,” she added, “would you like juice? Or perhaps a Coca Cola? Clemente!” she called again, not waiting for Laura's answer. “Bring a Coca Cola for the young lady!”

Ignacio's father rose from his dark velvet chair and came forward to greet them as they entered the room. As was customary in Chilean families, his name was also Ignacio. His thinning grey hair was combed straight back in the old style Eugenia remembered from her childhood, and his brown eyes were surrounded by lines both strong and tender. During the greetings she noticed that he paid careful attention to Laura.

“So Eugenia, what did you do in Boston?” Ignacio's father asked once they had all been served their drinks.

“I taught journalism at a local college,
don
Ignacio.”

“That's very interesting,” Ignacio's mother said. “I didn't know you were a journalist. Would I have seen your byline in any of Santiago's papers?”

“Not really. I learned the trade in exile.”

“Oh.”
Doña
Cecilia's voice seemed a little flat. “Did you start out in Boston?”

“No, Mexico City. I specialized in human-rights reporting.”

“So you have that in common with Ignacio,” his father said.

They lingered over their pisco sours and plates
of quesillo
, a fresh curd cheese with a flavor that unlocked memories of grandparents and long tile hallways. The house itself, the faded elegance of its stucco exterior and polished mahogany floors, also felt familiar. When they were called to the table, the combination of the linen tablecloth, discreetly worn along the edges, with crystal goblets, antique china, and recently polished silverware and silver serving platters, reminded Eugenia of her own family's quiet and self-confident pedigree. Because they were who they were, she realized, they did not have to replace the tablecloth.

They began with
empanadas
, the brine of the olives contrasting with the succulent sweetness of the raisins mixed in with the small chunks of beef. Then the maid brought in cold
locos
with mayonnaise, and the familiar tang of the abalone-like meat of the shellfish elicited a quiet moan at the back of Eugenia's throat.

“I didn't know you were so passionate about food,” Ignacio teased.

Eugenia laughed, her mood loosened by the wine. “Only about
locos
,” she said. “Laurita, have you tried them?” Laura took a bite, but did not like the taste.

“No problem,” Eugenia said. “It leaves more for me.”

The appetizers were followed by a tender pork loin roast with small golden potatoes, a Chilean salad of tomato, onion, and cilantro, and another bottle of rich, dark Cabernet. Then the maid passed around a tray of Chilean pastries, their sweet dough bursting with
dulce de leche
.

“I don't think I'll ever eat again,” Laura moaned as the adults finished up their coffee. “I don't think there's any danger of that, Laurita,” Eugenia laughed. “At your age, I suspect you'll change your mind by dinner.”

“Maybe you want to walk off the meal,” Ignacio's father suggested. “There's a lovely park near here that's usually abandoned, and the sun's coming out. So Laura, why don't you and I get a little fresh air?”

Ignacio decided to join Laura and his father on their walk. After seeing them off at the gate and admonishing them not to take too long, Ignacio's mother returned to the table and served Eugenia and herself snifters of cognac. By the time they were done, Eugenia had relaxed completely.

“Well, my dear, we don't need to go off on an ambitious excursion,” Ignacio's mother said. “But perhaps you'd like to join me outside in the garden. I would love to show you my roses. They're my pride and joy.”

They walked out onto the back patio through the tall French doors off the living room. The previous day's rain had washed away most of the smog, and the afternoon sun warmed Eugenia's shoulders. She took off her jacket and draped it over one of the patio chairs as the two of them stood looking out at the roses. It was a larger garden than Eugenia had expected, and the combination of pink, red, and apricot hues was breathtaking. Eugenia was especially drawn to one patch of flowers whose petals were light pink with darker edges.

“These are so beautiful,” she said, walking closer. She touched one of the blossoms lightly.

“Thank you,”
doña
Cecilia said, coming up beside her. “You know, when my grandchildren come visit, I tell them to be careful. I make up a story about a bug that lives inside the roses, a bug that loves to jump onto children and go live inside their ears.” She laughed softly. “I know it's probably not a good idea to lie to children, but it protects my garden.”

“How many grandchildren do you have?”

“Besides Ignacio, I have a daughter and a son. Both of them are married. My daughter has two children, a girl who's five and a boy who's three, and she's expecting again. My son's wife has one boy, two years old, and they are trying to have another. No luck yet. Ignacio's the only one who is still single.”

They stood silent for a few minutes.
Doña
Cecilia's last statement seem to hang in the air between them. “But talking about children,” she said, “how old is Laura?”

“She just turned sixteen.”

“That's about what I calculated. But you must have been a child when she was born.”

“Not really. I was twenty-two. I'm thirty-eight now.”

“You don't look it, my dear. Why, putting you next to Ignacio, no one would think …”

Doña
Cecilia let her sentence trail off, and the silence gathered around them once again. Eugenia leaned forward to smell one of the special light pink flowers with the dark edges.

“Wait here for just a minute,”
doña
Cecilia said. She returned with a pair of garden clippers and reached for the rose Eugenia had been admiring.

“Oh, no,” Eugenia protested, “please. I couldn't.”

“Don't worry, my dear,”
doña
Cecilia said as she clipped two blossoms, each one on a different stem of the large bush. “It actually helps to extend the blooming season when you cut some off. I'll put them in some water for now, then we can wrap them in a damp towel for you to take home.”

A few minutes later, with the two flowers in a small clear vase on the patio table, the women sat down on the chairs next to it and warmed themselves in the spring sun. Then
doña
Cecilia reached out and caressed one of the roses.

“You know, Eugenia,” she said softly, “this particular kind of rose is very special. It is absolutely beautiful in its prime. I have seen it attract bees and butterflies, almost in a frenzied kind of way. There is just something about it, something magnetic. But you know,” she continued, her voice dropping even lower and hardening ever so slightly, “once it begins to wither, the bees lose interest very, very quickly.”

Laura and the two Ignacios returned from the park laughing and joking, as if they had known each other all their lives. Eugenia was happy to see Laura in a good mood.

“I hardly have to ask if you had a good time,” she said, putting her arm around her daughter's shoulders.

“We had fun,” Ignacio's father said.

“Mamita,” Laura said, “you should see the park. You wouldn't believe there's anything there, and all of a sudden, it just opens up right in front of you! And there's this beautiful fountain in the middle! And Ignacio and I were talking music, and …”

“I promise we'll come back another time,” Ignacio said, looking at his watch. “Unfortunately I have to get back to the office. I'm already late, given all the paperwork I have to get off my desk today.”

During the short ride back to
doña
Isabel's house, Laura kept up her enthusiastic chatter, asking Ignacio where the best neighborhood music store was, discussing Chilean music with him. Ignacio recommended Víctor Jara, the singer-songwriter who had been killed in the National Stadium after the coup.