The Almanac of the Dead: A Novel (53 page)

Menardo had not been able to contact Alegría until the night after Iliana’s funeral. Alegría seemed not to understand anything he said to her on the phone. Alegría sounded drunk. She had just returned from Cancun and was exhausted from the traveling. Her flight had been late. Alegría could only echo Menardo’s words: “Accident,” “found dead,” “broken neck,” “buried today.” The shock of the news of Iliana’s death did not touch her, but instead thudded against the layer of numbness Alegría wore like a strange skin. At Cancun she had not been able to break free of the crushing waves of exhaustion and sleep. The sun flashed off the white sand and water as if the molten metals of the planet had never cooled, but had only coalesced into polished surfaces, mirrors upon mirrors. She had ordered meals in her bungalow, but found despite how ripe the fruits might appear or how fragrant the watercress or
parsley, they had little flavor, as if they had been picked too soon, still green, and had been forced to ripen. She knew the waiters and help at the resort were gossiping about her. She had registered under her parents’ home address in Caracas. She knew the resort staff expected a man to arrive shortly and join her. When no man had appeared and the young woman slept away the days, the resort staff had deduced the end of a love affair.

Alegría had intended to call her parents after she had rested and thought things out. But the prospect of planning her next move caused her eyelids to feel heavy and evaporated all her strength. She had tried to fight this lethargy first with strong coffee and then with tiny white pills, but the effort had only left her nauseous. Alegría had felt time leaking away with the tides. Her father would telephone the firm asking for her. He might already know. She did not think she had the strength to hold the phone receiver. She was forced to let it all go, just like that.

The funeral had been unpleasant. Iliana’s parents were old-fashioned and were horrified Menardo had sent the body to the mortuary, which they considered barbaric and a sin. They followed Church dogmas so old most of the priests had not heard of them. Her parents had always known Iliana’s marriage to Menardo would bring her to a bad end. Only an inferior creature would have chosen to build a new house in a jungle area exposed to so many dangers. Iliana’s parents didn’t care that the local inquiry and special investigative officers had ruled the death accidental. The coroner’s officer noted that while the marble staircase was by far one of the most stunning focal points of this most modern and beautiful mansion, still the stairs themselves had been made with a peculiar design. From discussions with the workmen, investigators determined the stairs had been cut and polished in an unusual manner. The officer did not know what the desired visual effect might have been, but the practical result was the close spacing of the stairs took no account of a person’s natural stride. The police investigator noted he had spent the morning at the death scene and had even asked a maid and a gardener to walk up and down the stairs. He himself had repeated the procedure over ten times. All of them, the report noted, had experienced some difficulty, and the maid had nearly fallen, because of the slippery surface; however an adult might negotiate the steps, the foot seemed to land on the edge of an adjacent step.

It is the husband’s right to dictate all funeral arrangements. Menardo
found himself relishing this last act as son-in-law and husband. Menardo had wanted to use the mortuary for many reasons. What he had argued with his inlaws was that after autopsy, only morticians had the skills to make the body once again presentable. But he also wanted to avoid the “old customs”—the open coffin in the main hall, a steady stream of visitors, mostly members of her clan, the very people who had opposed him and a few who had continued to snub him at weddings and baptisms. Iliana’s mother had fainted, but Menardo thought Iliana looked as good as could be expected after the fall. Bruises from the fall were covered under layers of powder. The only fault Menardo found had been with the eyebrows, which Iliana had always penciled with a thin line of reddish color. The mortuary had given Iliana fat, black eyebrows.

It was difficult for Menardo to remember he was a widower and officially in mourning. Of course he was sorry Iliana was dead; she had not been sick or old. She might have enjoyed many more years. But then, on the other hand, everyone had to die sometime. There were no children, and Iliana had never cared for her nieces or nephews. Her parents were elderly and in failing health, but they had all the others to fret at and complain to. She had gone suddenly and, the coroner had said, “painlessly.” Menardo wondered a little bit about that, but of course the first blow to the head or snapping of the neck or spinal column caused loss of all sensation. Menardo knew he was expected to make some show of grief for the benefit of Iliana’s family. But now that she was gone, he kept feeling a spitefulness that he was almost ashamed of. Iliana was gone and it mattered little whether he kept the in-laws anymore. As for his own family, none of them came. Menardo’s ties with them had nearly dissolved.

Menardo took a last look at Iliana, and he did not see anyone he’d ever known. He tried to remember tender moments, those days in the courtship when he had actually anticipated the evening all the day before. Menardo had the feeling he kept changing; he had become different people until little of the original person remained. Menardo could feel he was headed toward the headlines and history. The dawn of the new age Menardo had so often cited to the provincial businessmen had suddenly burst forth into the heat of the day. The high noon was approaching.

Menardo realized he had paused by the coffin somewhat longer than usual. Menardo pulled himself up straight and made a little bow
to Iliana, patting her crossed hands. He had not touched the dead before and was surprised at the nothingness he felt. Not woodenness or waxiness or cold—just nothingness. Death had made her hands a mere surface; already her body was becoming an illusion. Death had flattened her out. She had no more substance than a photograph. He almost wished they did not have to bury her. He almost wanted to watch, day by day, and to check from time to time on the progress of decay.

PERHAPS IT WAS NOT the normal thing so soon after a wife’s death, but Menardo was succeeding brilliantly with the new business deal General J. had set up, and Alegría had finally agreed to marry him. Still, change was everywhere from that time on. Sometimes Menardo told himself these changes were his fate, and it was only with Iliana gone that his eyes had cleared enough to see. Iliana had always kept him so tightly tangled in the world of club luncheons and dinner dances Menardo had not noticed the shiftings or the rise of the river. Now there were more “incidents.” Tuxtla had always had its share of petty crime and murder among the Indians. But not a week after Iliana was buried, Menardo found himself back at the funeral home, this time for rosary of the eldest daughter of the bank president. The girl had been walking on the main street in downtown Tuxtla. A bomb had exploded in an alleyway across the street. The girl had been killed by a piece of roof tile knocked loose by the explosion. At the funeral-home chapel, Menardo tried to get a good look at the dead girl. While all the others prayed aloud softly, Menardo leaned hard against the polished wood of the front pew, clicking his rosary loudly so none would suspect he was studying the corpse, not praying. She had not been a pretty girl. She had a beak nose and black moles on her neck and cheeks. Death had changed her skin color very little. All the banker’s daughters had cultivated skin white as milk. Menardo could not determine much by looking at the dead girl. He knew he would have to touch her as he had touched Iliana. Even after the rosary was finished he stayed on his knees with head bowed, waiting for the others to leave. All he wanted was to touch the
dead girl’s hand, but he did not want anyone to see. Because they would not understand it was something he needed to do in order to clarify his thinking. Menardo had even spoken to Tacho about the matter.

Tacho’s expression never changed as he listened to the boss. The black, piercing eyes in the rearview mirror studied Menardo and made him self-conscious. Menardo had inquired what the Indians did when there was a death. “The usual things like the white people do. And then . . .” Tacho let his voice trail off, as if the boss would not want to hear more than that. The eyes in the rearview mirror kept watch.

“No,” Menardo said, “tell me more. What I wonder about is . . .” But Menardo could not say it. Not even to this Indian who had no idea of propriety, of which questions might be asked and which could not. Tacho said no more, and Menardo had decided it was not worth the trouble to ask him again. Tacho was waiting outside the funeral home for him. Menardo looked around quickly to see if there were any windows Tacho might be able to peek through. Menardo checked to be sure no funeral-home employees were nearby.

Menardo’s throat was dry with excitement. He could feel a tingling down both legs, which he blamed on the hour he’d been kneeling. As he walked toward the coffin, he dropped the rosary beads into the pocket of his suit coat. He could justify what he was about to do only because it was necessary. Once he had done it, he would be free of it and would never have to concern himself again with these thoughts. This was all a result of Iliana’s death. It was not his fault. Menardo held his hand above hers, working himself up to touch the dead girl’s hand. He extended his right forefinger slowly, as if approaching a reptile which might startle. Menardo could smell his own sweat. It had the odor of fright he recognized from that morning he had rushed through the doors of the new house to find medics, police, and servants milling at the foot of the stairs.

He was not sure he was actually touching her hand, but when he pushed, the corpse’s left arm had shifted, leaving the right hand alone on her chest with a pink rosary threaded through the fingers. The movement of the left arm horrified Menardo. Everything was supposed to be in its place and remain there. It had frightened him so badly he could not remember
what
he had felt with his forefinger. He had not been able to distinguish her flesh from his own. What embarrassment! He would have to try to fix the left arm before any mortuary employees appeared. Menardo took a deep breath. The odor of candle wax and gardenias made him light-headed. He took the left arm by the wrist, but
this time there was no mistaking it. He could see he was touching the dead girl, but the arm felt as if it were an extension of himself, a strange growth on the ends of his thumb and his fingers. He let the arm drop again, took his own right hand into his left, and squeezed each finger. There was nothing wrong with his fingers. He looked at the dead girl again. He had to hurry. His hand was shaking so badly now he could barely rearrange the rosary in the hands. He lifted the arm by the white chiffon and guided it back to its place on top of the right hand and the rosary.

Menardo could see the red glow of Tacho’s cigarette. Tacho was leaning against the side of the car staring up at the sky. It was a moonless night and clouds were scattered over the stars. Menardo was relieved Tacho would not be able to see his face clearly. He was sure his face must be the color of ashes. Menardo rolled down both windows in the backseat so he would not have to smell his own sweat. But Tacho had already picked up his scent. Tacho’s eyes stayed in the rearview mirror watching him all the way to the house. Suddenly Menardo felt an anger almost bursting his chest. Menardo was angry the bomb had killed the young girl. He was angry at the stupid fall Iliana had taken, a fall that she could as well have taken two months sooner, before she had made her poisonous phone calls to Mexico City. Menardo was angry at Alegría, paralyzed in her apartment in Mexico City, refusing to allow him to see her. Alegría insisted they observe some rules of decorum before their marriage, since Iliana had died in a freak accident. Luckily, Iliana had done the design of the steps herself. It had been Iliana who had insisted the marble be highly polished. Alegría had argued for a more subtle effect.