In the Time of Butterflies (19 page)

“You are right, señorita. Look at me. I never had a chance.” She holds out her empty hands, then looking at her eldest, she adds, “I want better for my girls.”

I reach for her hand, and then it seems natural to continue the gesture and give her the hug I’ve refused Papa all month.

Luckily, the rain lets up for our drive to the capital. When we get there, we stop at each of the three hotels Don Antonio de la Maza wrote down. If no official charge has been made, Papá won’t be jailed but put under house arrest at one of these hotels. When we’re told at the final stop, Presidente, that no Enrique Mirabal has been registered, Mamá looks as if she is ready to cry. It’s late, and the palace offices will be closed, so we decide to get a room for the night.

“We have a special weekly rate,” the man offers. He is thin with a long, sad face.

I look over at Mamá to see what she thinks, but as usual, she doesn’t say a word in public. In fact, this afternoon with Don Antonio was the first time I ever saw Mama stand up for herself, or actually, for me and Papa. “We don’t know if we’ll need it for a whole week,” I tell the man. “We’re not sure if my father is being charged or not.”

He looks from me to my mother and back to me. “Get the weekly rate,” he suggests in a quiet voice. “I’ll return the difference if you stay a shorter time.”

The young man must know these cases are never quickly resolved. I write out the registration card, pressing down hard as he commands. The writing must go through all four copies, he explains.

One for the police, one for Internal Control, one for Military Intelligence, and one last one the young man sends along, not sure where it goes.

A day made in hell, sitting in one or another office of National Police Headquarters. Only the steady pounding of rain on the roof is gratifying, sounding as if old Huracán were beating on the building for all the crimes engineered inside.

We end up at the Office of Missing Persons to report what is now being described as the disappearance of Enrique Mirabal. The place is packed. Most people have been here hours before the office opened to get a good place in line. As the day wears on, I overhear case after case being described at the interrogation desk. It’s enough to make me sick. Every so often, I go stand by the window and dab rainwater on my face. But this is the kind of headache that isn’t going to go away.

Finally, towards the end of the day, we are the next in line. The petition right before ours is being filed by an elderly man reporting a missing son, one of his thirteen. I help him fill out his form since he isn’t any good at his letters, he explains.

“You are the father of thirteen sons?” I ask in disbelief.

“Sí, señora,”
the old man nods proudly. At the tip of my tongue is the question I burn to ask him, “How many different mothers?” But his troubles make all other considerations fall away. We get to the part where he has to list all his children.

“What’s the oldest one’s name?” I ask, pencil poised to write.

“Pablo Antonio Almonte.”

I write out the full name, then it strikes me. “Isn’t this the name of the missing son, and you said he’s number three?”

In confidence, the old man tells me that he gave all thirteen sons the same name to try to outwit the regime. Whichever son is caught can swear he isn’t the brother they want!

I laugh at the ingenuity of my poor, trapped countryman. I put my own ingenuity to work, coming up with a dozen names from my reading, because, of course, I don’t want to give the sons any real Dominican names and get someone in trouble. The head officer has a time reading them. “Fausto? Dimitri? Pushkin? What kind of a name is that?” I’m summoned to help since the old man can’t read what I wrote. When I finish, the suspicious officer points to the old man, who is nodding away at the names I’ve read off. “You say them now.”

“My memory,” the old man complains. “There are too many.”

The officer narrows his eyes at him. “How do you call your sons, then?”

“Bueno, oficial,”
the cagey old man says, turning and turning his som brero in his hands, “I call them all,
mijo.” Son,
that’s what he calls them all.

I smile sweetly, and the decorated chest puffs out. He wants to get on to new game. “We’ll do what we can,
compay,”
he promises, stamping the form before him and readily accepting the “fee” of rolled-up pesos.

Now it’s our turn, but unfortunately, the head officer announces that the office is closing in five minutes. “We’ve waited so long,” I plead to my guard.

“Me, too, all my life to meet you, señorita. So don’t break my heart. Come back tomorrow.” He looks me up and down, flirting. This time I do not smile back.

I’ve shot myself in the foot is what I’ve done by helping out the old Don Juan. Prolonging his audience, I lost us ours today.

Mama sighs when I tell her that we have to come back tomorrow.
“Ay, m‘ijita
,” she says. “You’re going to fight everyone’s fight, aren’t you?”

“It’s all the same fight, Mamá,” I tell her.

Early next morning, we wake up to a banging at our room door. Four heavily armed guards inform me that I am to be taken to headquarters for questioning. I try to calm Mama, but my own hands are shaking so bad I can’t button up my dress.

At the door, Mama informs the guards that if I go, she goes, too. But these are a meaner breed than the ones up north. When she tries to follow me out, a guard blocks her way with a thrust of his bayonet.

“No need for that,” I say, lifting the bayonet. I reach over and kiss my mother’s hand.
“Mamá, la bendición,”
I say, the way I used to as a child before going off to school.

By now, Mamá is sobbing.
“Dios te bendiga,”
she sniffles, then reminds me, “Watch your you-know-what!” I realize she no longer means just my mouth.

I am back at the National Police Headquarters, an office we did not see yesterday. The room is breezy and light, a top floor. Someone in charge.

A courtly, white-haired man comes forward from behind his desk. “Welcome,” he says, as if I were here for a social call.

He introduces himself, General Federico Fiallo. And then indicates someone behind me I did not notice when I walked in. I don’t know how I could have missed him. He is as close to a toad as a man can look. A heavy-set mulatto with mirrored dark glasses that flash my own scared look back at my face.

“Don Anselmo Paulino,” the general introduces him. Everyone knows about Magic Eye. He lost an eye in a knife fight, but his remaining good eye magically sees what everyone else misses. In the last few years, he’s risen to be Trujillo’s right-hand man by the dirty “security” work he’s willing to do.

My empty stomach is churning with dread. I steel myself, recalling face after suffering face I saw yesterday just downstairs. “What do you want with me?”

The general smiles in a kindly way. “I’m keeping you standing, señorita,” he apologizes, ignoring my question. The kindness gives way a moment when he snaps his fingers and curtly admonishes the
guardias
for not putting out chairs for his guests. Once the toad and I are seated, the general turns back to his desk. “You must look on me as your protector. Young ladies are the flowers of our country.”

He opens the file before him. From where I sit, I can see the pink registration slip from the hotel. Then a number of sheets of paper I recognize as Lío’s letters from my purse.

“I am here to ask you some questions about a young man I believe you are acquainted with.” He looks squarely at me. “Virgilio Morales.”

I feel ready—as I wasn’t before—to risk the truth. “Yes, I know Virgilio Morales.”

Magic Eye is at the edge of his chair, the veins on his neck showing. “You lied to El Jefe. You claimed you didn’t know him, didn’t you?”

“Now, now, Don Anselmo,” the elderly general soothes. “We don’t want to scare the young lady, now do we?”

But Magic Eye doesn’t observe such fine distinctions. “Answer me,” he orders. He has lit a cigar. Smoke pours from his nostrils like a dark nosebleed.

“Yes, I denied knowing him. I was afraid”—again I choose my words carefully—“of displeasing El Jefe.” It is just short of an apology. All I will give.

General Fiallo and Paulino exchange a significant glance. I wonder how there can be any communication between those ancient milky eyes and those dark glasses.

The general picks up a page from the folder and peruses it. “What is the nature of your relationship with Virgilio Morales, Senorita Minerva?”

“We were friends.”

“Come, come,” he says, coaxing me as if I were a stubborn child. “These are love letters.” He holds up a sheaf of papers.
Dios mío,
has everyone in this country been reading my mail except me?

“But you must believe me, we were just friends. If I’d been in love with him, I would have left the country as he wanted me to.”

“True,” the general concedes. He looks over at Magic Eye, who is stubbing his cigar on the sole of his boot.

“Were you not aware, Senorita Minerva, that Virgilio Morales is an enemy of state?” Magic Eye intervenes. He has put the extinguished cigar back in his mouth.

“I wasn’t involved in any treasonous activity if that’s what you’re asking. He was just a friend, like I said.”

“And you are not in communication with him now?” Magic Eye again is taking over the interview. The general raises a perturbed eyebrow. After all this is his breezy office, his top floor, his pretty prisoner.

The truth is that I did write to Lio after I found his letters. But Mario couldn’t deliver my note as no one really knows to this day where Lio is. “No, I am not in communication with Virgilio Morales.” I address my remark to the general even though the question came from Magic Eye.

“That’s what I like to hear.” The general turns to Magic Eye. “We have another little matter to discuss, Don Anselmo. Not relating to security.” He smiles politely, dismissing him. Magic Eye flashes his dark glasses at the general a second, then stands, and sidles to the door. I notice he has never given his back to us.