No Place for Heroes (6 page)

“Yes, I could have,” she barked back. “I could have known. I should have known.”

Everything had been evident from that afternoon in the park. The signs were there, exposed, a warning siren should have gone off in my head. Everything pointed to what Ramón was about to do, even Ramón. All one had to do was look and listen to realize it.

“I wandered from room to room like a madwoman,” Lorenza tells Mateo, “convinced there was nothing we could do. My head was a battered mess that repeated one thing over and over: There is nothing to do.”

Like a robot, and only because her mother insisted, she made the few phone calls that she could make, knowing beforehand that they would prove futile. She dialed the three or four numbers of the people who knew Forcás, though it was all too clear that he wouldn’t be hiding anywhere she could so easily find him. And of course those friends knew nothing. Ramón? The boy? No, they hadn’t seen them. They had no idea where they could be. It’s no use, Lorenza told her mother, who still pushed her to keep on trying. It was no use.

Ramón’s parents didn’t have a phone in Polvaredas, but she was able to reach one of the neighbors, who called them over. She heard the voice of Grandpa Pierre on the other end of the line, and could sense the old man’s excitement on hearing from his grandson, his son, and his daughter-in-law.

“How are you?” the old man asked. “When are you coming
to visit us? Grandma is down in the dumps. It’s been a long time since she has seen her grandson. Send some pictures, will you? Let me get Noëlle, the old coot has been complaining that you people don’t write, don’t keep us up-to-date. Let me get her, she’s going to be thrilled.”

Obviously, Grandpa Pierre and Grandma Noëlle did not have a clue about Forcás’s whereabouts. They could not even begin to suspect the calamity that had just occurred. Of course not. Forcás would have never chosen his parents’ house to hide Mateo. Now Lorenza had no one else to call. And because in Argentina they had never known anyone’s real name or their phone numbers, she had no way of getting in touch with their friends there.

“Wait, Lorenza, you’re skipping over some very important things. Tell me about the conversation with my grandparents. It must have been the last time you heard their voices.”

“Right. After that, we never talked again, nor did I hear anything about them.”

“So tell me about it, then. That was the last conversation.”

“I can’t remember, Mateo. After I realized that you weren’t with them, I wasn’t even listening.”

“Did you speak with both of them, or just my grandfather?”

“With both of them, first with him and then with her.”

“Did you tell them what had happened?”

“No.”

“But they must have asked for me and for Ramón.”

“I suppose I told them that you were fine and that Ramón wasn’t around, so I couldn’t put him on. Something like that.”

“And that was your farewell to them?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“So then Ramón took me from you, and you took my grandparents from me.”

“I didn’t know any better.”

“Me neither. Don’t worry, Lolé, you and I are a team.”

She could have prevented it and yet did not. She could have noticed, could have realized, and yet did not. She could have stopped it and yet did not. The mocking refrain haunted Lorenza back then. She could have her son in her arms, and she didn’t. Her thoughts got all tripped up on that fact and couldn’t move on, a cat with raggedy paws and its head on backward, a cat without a head, without paws. It drove her mad to realize, at such a late point, the devious rituals in which she had been inducted, the trap that Forcás had set for her to make her both responsible and complicit, a trap that only someone like her, who refused to see the obvious, would have fallen into.

At seven, she contacted the publisher of her magazine, an influential man who might be able to help her. She made a great effort detailing to him exactly what had happened in a most coherent manner; and through him they gained access to confidential information from several airlines, which gave them access to the passenger lists of flights that had left Bogotá during the last twenty-four hours. It was a futile task,
however, since she knew that Ramón would have used false names.

Flights where? they asked Lorenza. Flights to anywhere. Domestic or international? Domestic and international, it could be any of them, or none of them. It was also possible that he had not left Colombia, or even left Bogotá, although the likeliest scenario was that Ramón had taken Mateo to Argentina, where he knew the land like the back of his hand. It was rather obvious. He wasn’t going to take off to France, or Australia, with a small child in tow, almost no money in his pocket, and ignorant of the language. He had probably returned to Argentina, but he also could have gone anywhere else.

The head of security at the airport did not think they had boarded a plane and escaped by air. And he tried to reassure Lorenza that no one, not even the father of a child, could take such child out of the country without the express written permission of the mother, a notarized letter from her authorizing the minor’s trip. But nothing was easier for Forcás than falsifying a letter of permission. That would not have been an impediment. The only thing that was evident to Lorenza was that there was so little she could do. There’s no going back, she had told Ramón in the park. She herself had uttered her sentence, there’s no going back, without understanding the weight of its full meaning. Never again, Ramón’s letter said. Never again would Lorenza have her son. Never again. In what corner of the world could she start looking for him, if he and his father could be anywhere at this point? Existing
as if in another time, their fingerprints rubbed off, their lives recast.

Her small child was lost in the immense world, out of her reach. Her son, Mateo, had become a droplet in the ocean. Her son had been snatched from her. What the dictatorship’s henchmen had not been able to do to her, Forcás had just accomplished.

Since it was Saturday, most of the offices were closed, but hour after hour of that entire day, with her mother perennially at her side, Lorenza was in contact with a lawyer and a government official, the former having the grace to meet her in his own apartment and the latter at his country house. Not that she believed anything would come of her efforts, on the contrary. She knew with certainty that those superficial gestures would yield no results. Ramón must have already gone under and was now moving below the surface.

Her sister and brother-in-law did whatever they could, and the magazine assigned an investigative team to the case. But by that evening, they still were empty-handed. There was no trace of the boy or of Forcás. Hours had passed and they were still right where they had begun. Everyone they had consulted had advised that she should immediately report the kidnapping of her son to the Argentinean authorities, so that they could garner public support for the case. Her family had the contacts to do it, starting with one of her father’s old friends who had been ambassador to Argentina and who offered himself to make the gesture before the military junta.

“No,” Lorenza said, “no, no, no, no. I will not cross that
line. Those criminals don’t find children, they make them disappear. No.”

Although the decision might appear incomprehensible and abhorrent: No. Betray Forcás to the dictatorship? No. She couldn’t go there. She wasn’t going to ally herself with her enemies to chase the man who had once been her closest ally. She would not let the position they had put her in drag her through that degree of depravity. Should she look for her son relying on criminals who had abducted hundreds of kids, children of female prisoners they had executed? Not even the loss of her son would force her to cross that line.

“Very nice, Mother,” Mateo said disdainfully, and the resentment trembled in his voice. “Congratulations, very much like you, your political convictions always before anything else.”

“Wait a second, Mateo, just wait a second, and listen to what I’m saying.”

“I don’t want to know any more,” he said, leaving the room, walking quickly down the hallway and just reaching the elevator as his mother caught up to him.

“You’re not going anywhere,” she said, blocking his way. “You’re staying right here and listening to me. You wanted to hear the story, right? Now you’re going to let me finish. Come on, let’s go back to the room. Would you like an ice-cold Coke, to cool off a bit?

Mateo did not reply but followed her, and once inside the room, filled a glass to the rim with ice and poured himself a ginger ale from the minibar.

“Good, now look me in the eyes,” his mother told him. “There was also something else to consider, Mateo, something of a very practical nature. Think, Mateo. What could it be?”

Mateo drank his ginger ale sip by sip and then took his time chewing on the ice.

“They would have never found him,” he said finally.

“Exactly, that was the practical consideration, it would not have helped us. If the dictator’s henchmen had not been able to round up Forcás for all those years, they weren’t going to do it then. Asking them for help was not only a repulsive and grotesque thing to do, but in the end it would have been a colossal mistake. I risked everything if I played that hand. I was desperate, but not so blind that I didn’t see these things.”

L
ORENZA WANTED TO
take advantage of what was left of the beautiful sunny afternoon. Mateo had not even showered, so content in those pajamas, which almost had a life of their own by now, the same pair of socks that he had nearly worn out on the hotel carpet. He finally went to shower, taking forever, and when he reappeared in the bedroom, amid clouds of steam and cologne, he looked very handsome and dazzling, like new.

He came out crooning the Who’s “Pinball Wizard,” with razor nicks on his face, minty breath, his hair washed with jojoba shampoo, conditioned and rinsed and slicked with a
double dose of gel, a clean shirt, black fitted Levi’s, a pair of custom-made Clarks shoes instead of his usual ratty Converses, a confident smile, and a sudden interest to go out and get to know Buenos Aires.

He had been struck by relentless hunger pangs and he wanted to jump into the first diner they passed, but Lorenza convinced him to wait until they reached La Biela, a bar in the heart of the Recoleta neighborhood, next to a splendid park that she knew well from family outings in Buenos Aires when she was a teenager.

They chose a table by the window to watch the passersby, and Mateo, who seemed to have decided to act according to the mores of a man of the world now, pulled the chair back for his mother. Then he put on his best adult voice and in a tone suitable for ordering a double whiskey at the bar, asked the waiter for two glasses of milk.

“Do you want both of them at the same time?”

“Yes, please, if it’s not a problem.”

“Wow, kiddo, sleek!” Lorenza lauded him.

On the sidewalk, a family passed by with a puppy, a Bernese mountain dog, on a leash, a spongy and irresistible ball of bouncing and nuzzling fur, with a pretty black head and white snout. Mateo, who was a dog lover, got up from the table, went out on the street, and asked the owners the name of such a handsome creature and if he could pet it, and he stayed with them for a while. He returned eager to tell his mother that the puppy was named Bear, but she jumped in first and with a big smile announced that she had ordered two
plates of roasted pork loin with pineapple, which had been one of her father’s favorite dishes.

“You mean you ordered pork loin with pineapple for you,” Mateo said, emphasizing the “for you.”

“For both of us, you’re going to love it. My papa loved it. What a pleasure it will be to eat the same dish he always ordered when we used to come here.”

“But you know I hate pineapple and pork gives me a stomachache.” Mateo’s disappointment seemed unfathomable.

“No, no, you’ll like this dish, I promise. As soon as you taste it you’ll agree, just see.”

“Don’t do that, Mother. I wanted to order something else. When are you going to stop making decisions for me?” The radiant expression had completely disappeared and his confident air had evaporated. He sunk in his chair and began to anxiously twirl a loose lock, forgetting about the great care with which he had fixed his hair. Lorenza tried to apologize but immediately realized that it was too late, that no one could break through the absorbed silence that had overtaken her son. No one except the waiter, who approached the table to hand them the menus again because they had sold out of pork loin.

“Everything else is available,” he offered. “But we’re out of that.”

“Thank God,” Lorenza said, and asked for a ham and cheese sandwich, a salad, and tea. Mateo took the menu disinterestedly, but sat up in his chair. He grew more cheerful as
he read through the list of pastas, and after considering all the choices, he decided on
fettuccine alla panna
, which he devoured as soon as they put it in front of him and which quickly restored his spirits.

“So you came here with your papa?” he said, suggesting to his mother that he was ready to consider a truce. “Did you ever come with Forcás?”