In the Name of Salome (31 page)

It has occurred to Camila how silly love talk would sound to someone who is not a participant. But who would be listening? No doubt, that old ghost that her aunt Mon once showed her how to summon when she was a child: “In the name of the father, and of the son, and of Salomé, my mother.” But it is not just her mother, but her own father and brothers and aunts have gotten inside her head. Even at twenty-four, it is difficult to break this old habit of seeing herself through their eyes.

And now, those eyes are real: the eyes of her favorite brother, following her, trying to catch her at something—but what? She feels angry at this invasion of her privacy. Angry enough to find the first opportunity to retaliate by invading his.

H
E IS AT THE
doctor's for his final postoperative appointment. Then he intends to stop by the head offices of the
Journal
and deliver their letter. Normally, she would accompany him, but she begs off. She needs to finish typing her thesis and to write final exams for her classes.

She watches him from the front window and as soon as he is out of sight, she kneels beside the old trunk in which Pedro stores his manuscripts and packets of correspondence. Her brother is an inveterate writer: everything he thinks, knows, questions, Pedro writes down, mostly in long letters to Alfonso Reyes, who suffers from the same affliction. Whatever Pedro suspects, he will have written to Alfonso about it, and no doubt, Alfonso will mention the matter in his own replies.

The trunk also doubles as their coffee and typing table. Lifting the stacks of paper she notes the table of contents Pedro has typed out for the new edition of their mother's poems. Many of Camila's favorites are missing. “Personal poems,” Pedro calls them
as if that diminishes their value. At the center of her brother's personality there is a deep conservatism that astonishes her in a man who thinks of himself as rational and modern.

Inside the trunk, she is overwhelmed by what she finds: not just Pedro's correspondence but letters addressed from her mother to her father, a diary Pedro kept as a young boy with a biography of their mother's life, copies of a little newspaper that Pedro and Max used to publish as children with their mother listed as director, even a clipping from the Dominican papers she has seen before, reporting Fran's acquittal in the murder of a young man. It was judged to be self-defense, though, knowing her brother's violent temper, Camila is not sure she would have acquitted him.

She could spend hours reading these and no doubt uncovering many secrets in her family's past, but she must work quickly. The packet of letters from Alfonso is close to the top. Near the end of the third letter, she spots her name.

About this worrisome matter of Camila. It is best, Pedro, if you have ocular proof and then there will be no doubt in your mind and no arguments on her part to sway you from what you must do. You and I both know how Americans are much more free in their ways. And these young Yanks (believe me, I have seen them over here) feel much more license with a foreign woman of indeterminate race. Once you have the evidence, you must confront her and insist she break off the relation and immediately upon graduation send her back to the safety of your family.

What she feels, at first, is relief: her brother suspects her of a secret love affair with a
man
! As grievous as that would be, it is nothing compared to a liason with a woman. But the relief soon passes. In its wake she feels the sadness of the trust they have betrayed in each other. Why couldn't Pedro just ask her straight out
if she is interested in anyone? She recalls how he has been dropping hints, mentioning the name of this or that instructor. But so little is her interest in any of these young men that Camila has assumed Pedro's comments are merely part of the daily news they share when they both come home and talk long hours into the night with each other.

Several nights ago, in fact, Camila asked Pedro about a dim memory she had of their mother, which Pancho always claimed Camila had made up to avoid a childhood punishment.

“You didn't make it up,” Pedro assured her. “I'll always remember when Mamá gave me that poem, she made me vow to take good care of you. Mamá would never forgive me if any harm should come your way.” Pedro was looking pointedly at her.

She glanced away uneasily.

“Is there something wrong, Camila? You've seemed preoccupied.”

She had thought then of telling him then of her plans for the summer and fall, and even more pointedly, of her feelings for Marion. But without the face of love, as Marion might put it, any passion would seem creaturely and preposterous. Even her own beloved Pibín, if she did not love him, even he would seem slightly repugnant, with his animal sounds and smells, his grievances, the dark soft hair curling on the back of his hands.

She shook her head, no. She had nothing to confess to him yet.

T
HEY SIT ACROSS FROM
Olmsted, who is cracking his big pink knuckles like a nervous schoolboy. Periodically, he scoops up his dachshund, an odd little animal with a body of pulled taffy and the unlikely name of Doña Lola. Doña Lola accompanies him everywhere—a droll pair: a large, diffident-looking man and the shortest dog in the world. Brother and sister have been asked to the chairman's office to discuss their rebuttal letter printed in the
Journal
that has caused a ripple of unpleasant reaction from the administration.

“I am behind you both, I hope you know that,” Olmsted is saying. He scratches at his fine, colorless hair. The friction makes it stand on end, a prickly halo.

“We have nothing to apologize for.” Pedro has drawn himself up in his chair. It pains Camila to see him in such a state of readiness, as if any minute now he will dash out the door and make a run for the border. What border, she wonders? They are surrounded by the United States. “Lies were put in our mouths,” Pedro adds.

“The apology should come from the paper,” the chairman agrees. He stands and walks to the window, Doña Lola at his heels. The click of the dog's nails on the wood floor is unnerving. “But let's face it. There's a war going on. Patriotism is the law of the land, and any breath of a criticism . . .” His voice trails off. Perhaps he has seen something out the window on the campus green that keeps him from continuing.

Though the fact has not been mentioned, Camila knows what is on the line, the degrees they are both scheduled to receive in a week. She herself would only be sacrificing a year of work, but Pedro, in fact, has been here two years, and he is due to receive his doctorate in Spanish.

“What do you advise?” Camila asks.

“You both might write a letter, explaining that you intended no disrespect to this great nation, et cetera, et cetera.” Olmsted sighs and lifts his arms, then lets them drop. Now more than ever, he looks like a walrus, stranded, landlocked, waving his flippers desperately.

Camila has pulled out her notebook and is jotting down the chairman's phrases.

“We will write no such letter,” Pedro stands and crosses his arms, ready for martyrdom. Doña Lola growls at the sudden movement, but Olmsted reaches down and calms her with a stroke of his big hand against the sleek, sausagelike body. “If the
school decides not to award us our degrees, we will protest that action,” Pedro declares.

Looking up at him, Camila notices how much her brother resembles their father. The same stubbornness that has made Papancho unbearable at times. She says nothing. It is useless to try to reason with an Henríquez man who has dug his heels in moral ground.

“I am not worried about your degrees,” Olmsted says. He stops a moment and surveys them both, as if he is about to hatch a plot and wants to be sure of their loyalty. “But as you know, Miss Henríquez, I've offered you a job this fall.” He nods toward Camila, who can feel her brother's eyes fixed on her face as if to say, You knew this all along and did not tell me!

“And as for you, Pedro,” Olmsted continues, “with so many of our colleagues going off to the front, I am prepared to offer you a two-year contract with a considerable raise in salary. But, of course, both offers must be approved by the administration—”

“I have already made plans,” Pedro cuts him off. This is an outright lie, as Camila knows. Pedro has made a decision about leaving, but he has no plans. Spain is out of the question. Mexico is still reeling from civil war and American intervention. Their own country is occupied, and so is their neighbor Haiti. Puerto Rico is now owned by the United States, and Cuba is headed for the same compromised situation. Where can they go that isn't enemy territory anymore?

An audible sigh escapes from the chairman's mouth, accompanied by a slumping of the shoulders—the performed emotion of a veteran professor who needs to project his disappointment to the class. Doña Lola ears have perked up, on the alert for trouble. The chairman turns to Camila. “I suppose then, Miss Henríquez, that you won't be back either.”

She takes a deep breath, but her voice still comes out as a whisper. “I have decided to accept your offer,” she tells the sad, walrus face.

She picks up her book and rises to meet her brother's furious gaze.

Doña Lola rises, too, barking excitedly.

P
EDRO IS PACING
. Given the size of the efficiency, he does not have far to go before he has turned around to face her. “Papancho entrusted you to my care.”

She says nothing, holding her hands to keep them from shaking. She could say any number of things. That she is twenty-four years old. She has her own life to live. That she now has a job, a way to take care of herself.

Their degrees have been approved. They heard earlier this morning from Olmsted. The chairman also handed Camila her new contract. “To sign at your convenience.” Camila slipped the envelope in her bag to avoid a confrontation with her brother in public. They have already had several scenes since she accepted the offer in Olmsted's office. Every time he starts up with his arguments, Camila merely responds, “I will certainly take your feelings into consideration, Pedro.” She cannot call him Pibín when she is so angry at him.

As for a letter of explanation to the papers, it has proved to be unnecessary. Olmsted got around the whole matter by inviting a friendly reporter from the competing paper, the
Minneapolis Tribune
, over to his house to meet Camila and Pedro. The reporter asked them a few questions and wrote up a heartwarming article about these two bright emissaries from south of the border. Pedro was quoted correctly as saying, “I don't like to compare countries, which one is better, which one is more right. I am interested in people, in individuals.” Camila's appearance in print was brief and uncontroversial as always. “His lovely sister nodded in agreement.”

If that reporter could see us now, Camila is thinking, as her
brother halts directly in front of her, frowning. “I am not going to leave you here by yourself.”

“But I am not staying here by myself. I'm spending the summer with Marion and her family.”

Pedro's mouth drops in surprise. His nose has healed and only a slight puffiness around the eyes recalls the pain and trouble of a few weeks ago. “You don't know who these people are,” Pedro begins.

“Her parents have sent a kind invitation. Mr. Reed is a manager of the North American Life Insurance Company.” She offers this detail as proof of the respectability of Marion's family, but of course, that is not the point.

She heads for her alcove to retrieve the letter of invitation. With her back turned, she feels brave enough to add, “In the fall, I will be moving with Marion and some friends into our own apartment. So you see, I will not be alone.” She finds the letter where she has kept it, hidden out of sight for weeks, under her mattress, where her aunt Ramona told her Salomé used to store her packet of poems.

When she next turns around, Pedro is sitting in the chair she has vacated, as if brought down by the shock of all this news. But in actual fact, he does not seem shocked anymore or even angry, just weary. It is a lot to take in, she thinks, a little sister growing up, finally.

T
HAT NIGHT, SHE IS
late going out for her customary walk. Pedro and she sit in the living room, sipping tea, and talking. They have turned a corner in their standoff, and now Pedro is considering accepting Olmsted's offer and staying two more years.

“Pibín,” she says, touching his hand, “it will be fine if you decide to go, really.” Her anger has receded, and she feels only tenderness toward him. She has never been able to hold a grudge for
long. Inevitably, she ends up seeing the other person's point of view. It is a habit she has developed from reading too many books, perhaps, or from always having those voices in her head telling her what to do. She remembers how Pedro described her in one of his letters to Alfonso. “My sister has a perfect character.” (She felt a pang of guilt reading this in the midst of her snooping.) “She lives by continual little realignments that look to all the world like indecisiveness. But they are, I believe, the quivering of her moral compass toward its true north—which I think she believes is our mother, but is really her own soul. She is strong but without violence.”

She did not recognize herself in the description but loved her brother's effort to see her with such respect. Often, she has wondered if destiny has not played a trick and given her a perfect companion as a brother instead of a lover.

“Maybe it is I who will miss you too much if we are apart,” Pedro notes. She is not sure she believes this. Pedro has always been the solitary wanderer.

As they talk, he rests his feet on the trunk she can no longer look at without feeling ashamed. Once or twice during their conversation, she has been on the point of confessing to him. But let him have his ocular evidence, as Alfonso has advised. Spare herself the mortification of trying to explain what she herself does not understand.