Beyond the Ties of Blood (40 page)

“So have I.”

“And since I got back, you've been the one person who understands. I don't have to explain anything to you. Like the time I went to police headquarters, and you knew just what I was talking about.”

“So what's the problem, then?”

“Well, for one thing, when I went into exile you were just graduating from high school.”

“What difference does that make? You're not going to start up with that age stuff, are you? I get enough of it every day without you starting on me! Besides, with the work I've done, the people I've met, the testimonies I've taken, I'm not just any old kid you picked up off the street!”

“True. Like I said, you're the only one who understands. But I wonder how much of it is just that. The first time we felt close, in Boston, was when I told you about Manuel. The time in Santiago, when we started kissing up on the Cerro San Cristóbal, you were consoling me after my hallucination at police headquarters. Last night, it was after Angela and I cried together.”

“So?”

“I think we need to take it easy, figure out what's going on. I want to know how things feel when we're not dealing with torture or disappearance. Besides, in case you haven't yet done the math, I'm six years older than you.”

“Age is not about math. And neither is love.”

“I'd be careful about using that word. Things did not go well for me the last time I used it. Except I got Laura. And we can't forget about Laura.”

After lingering over coffee and bread, they hugged Angela good-bye and headed north to the beach resort of Pichilemu. Walking along the gritty, mud-colored sand, watching the surfers in wet suits lining up to ride the curl, drinking second-rate beer in beachfront bars with diagonal cracks through the tiles on the floor, Eugenia felt the knots in her back loosen one by one. They were in no hurry. They stayed in another ragged hotel, the sheets smelling of brine, for three days. Their lovemaking was quiet and tender, sometimes mirthful, no longer the voracious hunger of the first time. At sunset they walked the beach and watched the sun sink piece by piece, first red, then pink, then gold, until all that remained was a silver afterthought across the horizon. On the fourth night, as they sat drinking glasses of homemade raspberry liqueur on the veranda of their favorite restaurant, Ignacio leaned back in his chair.

“I was thinking,” he said, “that we might want to head further north tomorrow. We can spend New Year's at one of those quaint little places along the coast, and then we might drop by and visit my family. They're at the summer house in Algarrobo, near Valparaíso.”

Eugenia sat up straighter and looked at him with some alarm. “Visit your family? Are you sure?”

“Look, we've been through this before. But now it's different. No, don't say anything. I heard you when you said we have to take things slowly. But even though I've lived independently since I was sixteen and I'm not like a lot of Chilean men who live at home until they marry, and don't even learn how to make a bed or boil water …”

“You do remember what happened last time, when we went for lunch. And now, we arrive together, obviously traveling together …”

“But that's exactly the point. They need to know what's happening in my life. They're my family.”

“I don't think your mother's opinion will have changed in the meantime. She wants you close, you're the only unmarried son. I'm six years older than you, and besides, to be quite frank, I'm damaged goods!”

“Okay, look. Let's just see what happens. Let's head north, and we'll see how we feel after the New Year.”

When they headed north toward San Antonio, they wore their bond comfortably, like an old shirt grown soft from washing. Walking, they sought each other out instinctively, shoulders touching, hand seeking hand. Sitting, for a meal or in the car, a free hand would find a shoulder or a knee. They laughed together easily, on the same breath, or finished the other's sentence. They spent New Year's Eve in a small fishing village, dancing and drinking cheap wine at a local bar. By then, nothing seemed more natural than the right turn Ignacio took, off the coastal road late in the afternoon of their sixth day together, following the arrow to Algarrobo.

The house was up among the rocks, a long set of stairs zigzagging down from the veranda to the water's edge. Eugenia saw the family gathered on the porch from several blocks away, blotches of bright-colored summer clothes that hid and reappeared with each turn of the road. They arrived at the rear of the house, where a door to the kitchen stood open to allow in the early evening breeze. Four cars were already parked, two of them late-model station wagons suggesting the presence of children. They walked in, saying hello to the servants they met along the way.

“Hello!” Ignacio called as he got closer to the porch. “It's me! I brought Eugenia!”

Cecilia Letelier came out to greet them. She took Eugenia's hands between hers and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “Why Eugenia,” she said. “What a surprise. Traveling without your daughter, I see. So good to see you again.” The stiffness of her voice belied her words. “Nachito,” she said, turning to look at her son while still holding on to one of Eugenia's hands. “To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure? Can you stay a few days?” Without waiting for an answer, she led them out onto the porch. “Ignacio,” she said, “look who's here.”

Don
Ignacio gave Eugenia a tight hug. “Eugenia, so good to see you. How's that lovely daughter of yours?”

“She's fine,
don
Ignacio,” Eugenia said. “She's with my sister and my mother at our family's farm.”

“And where is that, my dear?”
doña
Cecilia asked.

“South of here, a bit inland from the coast at Bucalemu, near San Jacinto.”

“Yes, I know the area well, I have a dear childhood friend whose family has a place right near there. Why, after the agrarian reform, they—”

“Mamacita,” Ignacio interrupted quickly. “We need to finish the introductions. Eugenia,” he continued, taking her by the hand, “this is my sister Ceci, her husband Antonio, my brother Fermín, and his wife Soledad.”

Eugenia made the rounds, shaking hands and receiving pecks on the cheek.

“We were just sitting down to have a pisco sour,”
doña
Cecilia said after they had all settled back into the various pieces of wicker porch furniture. “Clemente!” she called toward the kitchen. “Bring out two more glasses for
el niño
Ignacio and his friend!”

They sat drinking pisco sours until the moon came up over the ocean, projecting its light in sheets across the surface of the water. As they continued to sit on the porch, the servants brought out a light supper of chicken and avocado sandwiches, followed by cups of consommé. Only when all the dishes were removed and snifters of cognac passed around did the family's attention turn fully to the new arrivals.

“Eugenia,” Ceci said, “my mother had mentioned to me that you have a teenage daughter. You look so young, I can't imagine—”

“Ceci,” Ignacio interrupted, “Eugenia's daughter Laura is sixteen, and she's a really lovely young lady. As you can imagine, it was really difficult bringing her up in exile. Eugenia has done a marvelous job, I have to say.”

“Being in exile for such a long time must have been so hard,” Ignacio's brother Fermín said after a short silence. “How did you—”

This time Ignacio's father interrupted. “You know what,” he said. “Eugenia must be tired after a long day on the road. Perhaps we shouldn't go immediately to such heavy topics. We were hoping to see you again, Eugenia. We really enjoyed your visit when you had lunch with us in Santiago. But next time, you must bring Laura. Here in Algarrobo I can show her some wonderful places along the shore, in the crannies between the large boulders, where you can find the most beautiful shells.”

“Papito,” Ignacio said, “I didn't know you were still collecting shells. Why, the last time I looked in your study the shelves were absolutely crammed. Where are you putting the new ones?”

“Ay, Nachito, don't get me started,”
doña
Cecilia complained, “I've been telling him that it's time to throw some of them out, but he's like a little boy when it comes to those things!”

Everyone laughed at that, and began teasing
don
Ignacio about his child-like attachment to collecting. The conversation then shifted to more mundane topics, and once the cognac was consumed and the moon moved further up in the sky, Ignacio's mother got up.

“I'll go make sure the rooms on the first floor have been prepared,” she said. “I hope you don't mind sleeping in a twin bed, Eugenia. Unfortunately it's all we have left, with the house as full as it is. Luckily, with Ceci's nanny on vacation in her village in the south, there are two rooms open on the ground floor. Ignacio, do you know if Clemente got your suitcases out of the car?” After saying their good-nights, they followed her out into the hall.

“Ah, good, I see your bags are in the correct rooms and the beds have been made. You also have clean towels. Ignacio, can you show Eugenia where the bathroom is and how the shower works? Good. Well, I guess that's it then.” She gave them both pecks on the cheek. “Welcome, Eugenia, it's good to see you again. I'm always happy when Nachito brings his friends to the house. Sleep well.” Her summer sandals flopped briskly against her heels as she made her way up the stairs.

They stood alone in the hall for a few minutes. “You didn't have to defend me from your sister's comment,” Eugenia said softly. “I can take care of myself.”

“I know that. It's just that I don't understand why they have to harp on Laura, and on you looking so young all the time.”

“I told you before we came about your mother's feelings. I'm not surprised that Ceci has been brought up to speed on it.”

“Well, it's none of their business,” Ignacio answered, taking Eugenia's hand and bringing her close, kissing her lightly on the lips. “Once everyone is in their rooms and a little time has passed, I'll come over,” he whispered.

Eugenia pulled away and shook her head. “No, Ignacio. By bringing me here, I think you made it their business. And your mother made it perfectly clear that each of us was to sleep alone.”

“Well, too bad.”

“I prefer we not make a scene.”

One last quick kiss on the mouth, and they closed the doors to their assigned rooms.

Laura spent the first couple of mornings after her mother left strolling in the open-air patio in the middle of the large country house, drinking in the sun and the scent of wild roses, or sitting on a bench in one of the four covered passageways that framed the garden on all sides. She savored the snatches of conversation as her grandmother and aunt walked in and out. It was always around the noon hour that Grandma Isabel emerged from the kitchen, robe saturated with flour and the fragrances of promised treats. After planning the large afternoon meal, she would issue one last warning to María and Irene and walk back through the hall to take her daily shower. Once she had gotten out and dried herself, she signaled it was all right to enter by opening the door to her dressing room just a crack, but it was understood that only her daughter was allowed in. The lavender fragrance of her body powder and cologne mixed with the wild roses and the smell of fresh sun.

On the third day, Irene took Laura out horseback riding. They left early, packing a picnic lunch, and did not return until almost dinnertime. They galloped in the hills, along trails shaded by eucalyptus trees, their long, slim leaves redolent with spice under the horses' hooves. They ate lunch by the side of a gentle stream, its clear waters full of young trout. Later, when they stopped to rest in the tall, dry grasses higher up on the slopes looking out across the valley, Laura felt something stir deep within.

“I don't know what it is,
tía
,” she said, “but I feel a bond with this land. I've never been here before, but it feels familiar.”

“People say the blood speaks, Laurita. Maybe that's what it is. Your mama and I grew up with this land, coming every year. Maybe, somehow, that got passed down to you.”

The feeling of rootedness stayed with her, even when they got back to the house and Grandma Isabel was fretting about being left alone for the whole day.

“I hope you don't pick up your aunt's old habits, Laurita,” Grandma said at dinner. “When she was little and her papa was still around, the two of them went out almost every day. I never saw them.”

“Well, Mamita,” Irene teased. “Certain things must run in the blood.”

That night, Laura had the dream for the first time. She was walking on the same trail where she'd galloped with her aunt. It started off as a warm, sunny day, but then a fog came down, thick as spoiled milk, turning everything a haggard shade of grey. As she struggled to find her way, a man loomed up from the shadows. He was not very tall, perhaps a head taller than she, and his clothes were a drab olive green. Blocking her way, he stared at her with large black eyes from under thick dark eyebrows that met in the middle. His eyes were so black, they had no pupils. As she tried to push past him on the path, he reached out a massive square paw and clutched her arm. “You've finally come back,” he breathed, giving off a sour, humid smell. And she found she could not escape.