In the Time of Butterflies (48 page)

The name Delia held up for us to see was unknown to us, a Dr. Pedro Viñas. When we got home, we asked Mama, who went through a whole family tree of Viñas, only to declare she didn’t know this particular one. We grew suspicious, for a stranger in our midst probably meant a SIM plant with a fabricated name. But Don Bernardo banished our doubts. Dr. Pedro Vinas was a urologist in Santiago, a very good one, who had attended Doña Belén several times. I called up and made an appointment for early next week. The woman’s voice on the other end spoke to me as if I were a young child. “What is the little problem we’re having?”

I had to think what a urologist was for. The only doctors I knew were Delia, Dr. Lavandier, and the doctor in Monte Cristi who had delivered my babies. “Just a little problem,” I said, stalling.

“Oh, that,” she said. And gave me a time.

Permission from Peña was next. That was not going to be easy. The morning after our unauthorized detour, he appeared at the house. We could tell by the bang of his car door that we were in for it.

For a full minute he shouted threats and obscenities at us. I sat on my hands as if they were extensions of my mouth. It took all my self-control not to order him and his filthy mouth out of our house.

Finally Peña calmed down enough to ask us what we had been up to. He was looking straight at me, for I was usually the one to do the talking.

But we had already settled it among us. I was to keep my mouth shut, and Patria, his favorite, was to do the explaining. “We had to see the doctor about a private matter.”

“¿Qué mierda privado?”
Peña’s face was so red, it looked ready to explode.

Patria blushed at the obscenity. “We had to consult about some women’s problems.”

“Why didn’t you just ask my permission?” Pena was softening. By now, Patria had got him to sit down in a rocker and at least accept a glass of guanábana juice—good for the nerves, Mama always said. “I wouldn’t keep you from medical care. But you know very well”—he looked straight at me—“that Delia Santos is on the political list. The rules clearly state, no contact with politicals.”

“We weren’t seeing her in her political capacity,” I protested. Patria coughed a reminder of our agreement. But once I got started, it was hard to shut me up. “In fact, Captain, I’m glad to hear that you wouldn’t stand in the way of our medical care—”

“Yes,” Patria swiftly cut in. “You have been very kind to us.” I could feel her eyes scouring me.

“I have been referred to Dr. Viñas in Santiago—”

“And you would be very grateful for the captain’s leniency in allowing you to go,” Patria reminded me, embedding my request in her scold.

Patria and Mate dropped me off in front of the small house on their way to El Gallo. A black Volkswagen was already parked across the street. It was hard to believe this was a doctor’s office, but the sign in the window insisted. The lawn was overgrown, not in that neglected way that makes a place look shabby, but with nice abandon, as if to say, there’s room in this house for everything, even a lot of grass.

How Patria had managed this was beyond me. Mama always said Patria’s sweetness could move mountains, and monsters, obviously. Not only had she gotten Pena to grant me permission for this visit, she had also secured a pass for herself and Mate to go shopping for supplies in the meanwhile. Our little dressmaking business was doing well. We were already working on November’s orders and here it was only the middle of October. We couldn’t sleep nights, so we sewed. Sometimes Patria started a rosary, and we all joined in, stitching and praying so as not to let our minds roam.

The genial little man who met me at the door seemed more like an uncle than a professional man or, Lord knows, a revolutionary. “We’re having a little problem,” he chuckled. Some chickens had gotten into the office from his house next door, and the maid was chasing them out with a broom. Dr. Viñas entered into the fun, teasing the maid to the delight of several small children who seemed to be his. He had gotten hold of some eggs and kept pulling them out of unlikely places, the children’s ears, his own underarms, the boiler for his syringes. “Look what the hens left me,” he said each time. His children screamed with delight.

Finally, the hens were out of view and the children were sent along with the maid to tell their Mamita to bring over a
cafecito
for the señorita. The diminutives were killing me. Lord, I thought, so this is what we’ve come to. But the minute Dr. Viñas closed the door of his consulting room, he was a different man, intent, serious, down to business. He seemed to know exactly who I was and why I had come.

“This is an honor,” he said, motioning for me to sit down. He turned on the raspy air conditioner—the place was not bugged, he was pretty sure—but just in case. We spoke in whispers.

“The boys,” I began, “we believe they’re all about to be killed.” I heard myself strangely demoting our men to the more helpless boys. Another diminutive—and from me.

Dr. Viñas sighed. “We tried our best. The problem was getting the ingredients for the picnic—” He looked at my face for a moment to see if I understood. “We were all set to go, the whole party assembled. But the gringos pulled out on their promise of pineapples. Some of the boys went ahead anyway.” He made a gesture of broadcasting pamphlets.

“Why did the gringos pull out?” I wanted to know.

“They got cold feet. Afraid we’re all communists. They say they don’t want another Fidel. They’d rather have a dozen Trujillos.”

I could feel dread rising in my chest. The men were not going to be saved after all. My old prison cough started up. Dr. Viñas reached for a thermos and poured me iced water in a glass cup that had measurement marks on the side. When my coughing had subsided, he went on, “The gringos are flirting with another group now.”

That was hopeful news. “The MPDs?”

Dr. Viñas laughed, and briefly I saw the family doctor inside this toughened revolutionary. “No, they’re idealists, too, and all of us idealists are dirty communists. These are people the gringos feel are safer. Some of Trujillo’s old cronies who are tired of the old man. Their only ideology is, well, you know.” He patted his pockets.

“Then why do you say there’s hope?”

“Let them bring down the old man, and then we’ll take over.” Dr. Viñas grinned, his fat little cheeks lifting his glasses.

“It’s not what we planned,” I reminded him.

“One must have a left hand,” he said, showing me his left hand.

I found I was wringing both of my hands, swallowing to keep the tickle in my throat from erupting into another coughing fit. “Isn’t there anything we can do?”

He nodded, one sure, deep nod. “What you can do is keep our hopes up. You’re an example, you know. The whole country looks to you.”

When I made a face, he frowned. “I’m quite serious,” he said.

There was a knock at the door. We both jumped.

“Amorcito,”
a sweet voice called, “I have your little
cafecito
here.”

And the world of diminutives closed in again on us.

For Manolo, I lifted out the bad news like a fish bone, and gave him the promising tidbit—that the gringos were working with a group to slaughter the goat for the picnic.

Manolo had not heard this. His face tensed up. “I don’t like it. The gringos will take over the revolution.”

They’ll take over the country, I thought to myself. I didn’t say it out loud. No use depressing him any more than he already was. And at this point I didn’t care enough. I was so desperate for Trujillo to be gone. Like Vinas said, we could fix the future later.

“Tell Viñas—” Manolo began.

I rolled my eyes to indicate the guard approaching behind him. Out loud, I went on, “The children miss you so much. The other day I asked them what they wanted for Benefactor’s Day, and they said, ‘Bring Papi home!’ Manolo?” He was not listening, I could tell. His eyes had a faraway look I recognized from my own days in this horrible place.

I touched his face to bring him back. “Mi amor, just remember, soon, soon... Monte Cristi.” I hummed the song.

“No singing,” the guard announced. He had stopped in front of us.

“Sorry, soldier.” I recognized Good Hair under the brim of his cap. I nodded at him, but his eyes were cold and flat, as if he did not know me. “We were just saying goodbye.”

Today our interview was shorter than usual, since I was sharing my twenty minutes with Manolo’s mother, who had driven down from Monte Cristi. Just before I came upstairs, we spoke briefly in the warden’s office. She had a surprise she promised to tell me later.

I waited alone in the car with the radio on low. (No music allowed.) Just being in the prison yard was bringing back waves of that old panic. To distract myself, I fiddled with the radio dials, hoping Rufino would get back soon so I’d have someone to talk to. He was making the rounds, distributing the cigarettes and pesos we always brought the guards to encourage them to treat our prisoners right.

The visitors started filing past the checkpoint at the big exit door. Suddenly, Doña Fefita appeared, weeping, Mate and Patria on either side of her. My heart sank, remembering how depressed Manolo had been today.

I hurried up to them. “What’s wrong?”

Mate and Patria shrugged—they didn’t know—and before Doña Fefita could say, the guards shouted for us to move along.

We were not allowed to “congregate” in the prison yard, but down the road we stopped both cars. Doña Fefita began crying again as she recounted what had happened. She had arranged to buy the little house Manolo and I had lived in. But instead of being pleased, Manolo had snapped at her. Didn’t she know that the only way he was going to come home was in a box?

This made my legs go weak beneath me. But I couldn’t let my own devastation show. “Now Doña Fefita, he’s just worn out. That place—” I cast a glance over her shoulder.

My sisters joined in with their reassurances. “We’ve got to keep our spirits up for the men.” But when our eyes met, it was not a look of optimism that we exchanged.

Doña Fefita finally calmed down. “So, should I buy it, Minerva? Should I?”

It was hard for me to go against Manolo’s wishes. We had always decided things together. “Maybe... you should wait.”

She heard the hesitation in my voice and went on, more determined. “I’ll take it upon myself. I want you to have a place to go to when this is all over.”

She had put my feeling in words exactly. A place to go to when this is all over.

But her generosity was not allowed. A very short time later, I received notice to remove our possessions from the premises. The SIM were opening a new office in Monte Cristi.

And so Dedé and I set out in the pickup on Monday morning to do as we were bid. Rufino was our driver, since Jaimito, short-handed, couldn’t take time off from the cacao harvest. He had not wanted Dedé to accompany me either, but she said she could not allow me to dismantle my house alone. We planned to be back Wednesday afternoon, in time for me to go with Mate and Patria to La Victoria the next day. Ah, the busy life of house arrest! Peña had immediately granted me permission for the trip to Monte Cristi. After all, as head of the Northern SIM, he knew exactly why my old house needed to be vacated. He was probably the mastermind.