Of Love and Shadows (35 page)

Francisco and José Leal turned Irene's tapes over to the Cardinal. They knew that Irene would be identified and arrested as soon as the tapes reached the hands of the Military Tribunal. They had to get her to safety as quickly as possible.

“How many days do you need to get away?” the prelate asked.

“It will be a week before she can walk unassisted.”

So they made their agreement. The Cardinal had the tapes copied, and exactly one week later he distributed the copies to members of the press and delivered the originals to the prosecutor. By the time the government attempted to destroy the evidence, it was already too late; the interviews had been published in the newspapers and had spread around the world, giving rise to a wave of unanimous repudiation. Abroad, the General's name was ridiculed and his ambassadors were pelted with tomatoes and rotten eggs whenever they appeared in public. Intimidated by this outcry, the military court declared Lieutenant Juan de Dios Ramírez and the men of his command who had participated in the slaughter guilty of murder, based on their contradictory testimony, on laboratory evidence of the manner in which the deaths had occurred, and on Irene Beltrán's tapes. Irene was summoned repeatedly to testify as the Political Police carried out sweeping, though unsuccessful, searches for her.

Satisfaction over the sentences lasted only a few hours, until the guilty were set free, delivered by a decree of amnesty improvised at the last possible moment. Popular fury was translated into street demonstrations so riotous that not even the police shock troops and Army heavy equipment could control the people who poured into the streets. At the construction site of the monument to the Saviors of the Nation an enormous pig was released, costumed in cockades, a Presidential sash, a dress uniform cape, and a general's cap. The beast ran squealing through the throng, who spit on it, kicked it, and hurled insults at it before the eyes of irate soldiers who used every trick to intercept it in order to rescue the trampled sacred emblems; finally, amid screams, sticks, and howling sirens, they shot the beast. Nothing remained but the enormous humiliated carcass lying in a pool of black blood on which floated the insignia, the kepi, and the tyrant's cape.

Lieutenant Ramírez was promoted to the rank of captain. He went about with great self-satisfaction and with an unruffled conscience until the day he heard that in the south a ravenous, ragged, wild-eyed giant was seen from time to time who was rumored to be looking for his sister's murderer. No one there paid any attention to him; they considered him to be a madman. But the officer lost sleep thinking of the vengeance hanging over his head. There would be no peace for him as long as Pradelio Ranquileo drew a breath of life.

In a provincial garrison far removed from the capital, Gustavo Morante was closely following developments, gathering information, and laying his plans. When he had sufficient evidence of the illegal acts of the regime, he held secret conclaves with a number of his comrades-in-arms. He had lost his illusions, convinced now that the dictatorship was not a temporary stage on the road to progress but, rather, a final stage on the road to injustice. He could not bear any longer the repressive machinations he had served so loyally, believing them always to be in the best interests of the nation. Terror, far from securing order, as he had been taught in officers' training, had sown a hatred whose harvest would inevitably be greater violence. His years as a career officer had given him an intimate knowledge of the institution, and he decided to use that knowledge to overthrow the General. It was his opinion that this was a task appropriate for younger officers. And he believed that because of the failure of the economy, the increasing inequality among social classes, and the brutality of the system and corruption of high officials, other military men must harbor the same doubts as he—others, like himself, who wanted to cleanse the image of the armed forces and rescue it from the depths to which it had sunk. A less audacious and impassioned man could perhaps have achieved his objective, but Morante had such a compelling urgency to obey the dictates of his heart that he committed the error of underestimating the Intelligence Service, whose tentacles reached everywhere. He was arrested, and he survived seventy-two hours. Not even the experts could force him to divulge the names of others involved in the planned rebellion; he was stripped of his rank and at dawn his corpse was symbolically shot in the back as a lesson to others. In spite of every precaution, the story leaked out. When Francisco Leal learned what had happened, he felt respect for the Bridegroom of Death. With men like that in the ranks, there was still hope, he said to his father. Rebellion cannot be controlled forever. It will grow and spread through the barracks until there are not enough bullets to crush it. On that day, the soldiers will join the people in the street, and from shared grief and vanquished violence a new nation will emerge.

“You're daydreaming, son!” was Professor Leal's reply. “Even if there are military men like that Morante, the essence of the armed forces will never change. Militarism has already caused too much harm to humanity. It should be abolished!”

*  *  *

At last Irene Beltrán was well enough to move about. José Leal obtained false passports for her and for Francisco, to which they affixed photographs of their new faces. They were unrecognizable: Irene's hair was short, and dyed, and contact lenses had changed the color of her eyes; Francisco was wearing a heavy mustache and eyeglasses. After their initial difficulty in recognizing each other, they became used to their disguises and forgot the faces they had fallen in love with. Francisco was surprised to find himself trying to remember the color of Irene's hair, which had so fascinated him. And now the moment had come for them to leave behind their familiar world to become a part of the enormous wave of nomads that characterized their age: expatriates, émigrés, exiles, refugees.

On the eve of their departure, the three Leals came to tell the fugitives goodbye. Mario closed himself in his kitchen for hours, and would not allow anyone to help with the dinner preparations. He put his best tablecloth on the table and arranged flowers and fruit in an attempt to mitigate slightly the tragedy in which they were so inextricably enmeshed. He selected discreet music, lighted candles, set wine to cool, feigning a euphoria he was far from feeling. But it was impossible to avoid the subject of the imminent parting, and of the dangers that awaited the couple the moment they stepped outside this haven.

“After you get across the border, children, I think you should go to our house in Teruel,” Hilda Leal said suddenly, to everyone's surprise, for it had been thought that the house was one of the memories erased by her amnesia.

She had forgotten nothing. She described the enormous shadow of the massif of Albarracín outlined against the evening sky, not unlike the mountains that stretched the length of her adopted country; the naked vineyards, sad and twisted in winter but storing up sap for the explosion of grapes in the summer; the dry, precipitous landscape ringed by mountains; the house that one day she had left forever to follow her man to war: the noble, rough dwelling of stone, wood, and red roof tiles, the small wrought-iron-covered windows, the high mantelpiece over which Mudéjar plates were set into the wall, like eyes observing down through the years. She remembered with precision the smell of woodsmoke when the fire was lighted in the evening, the fragrance of the jasmine and mint beneath the window, the coolness of the well water, the large linen chest, the woolen blankets on the beds. A long silence followed her recollections, as if she had been transported in spirit to her former hearth.

“The house still belongs to us, and it is waiting for you,” she said finally, with those words erasing time and distance.

Francisco reflected on the capricious fate that had obliged his parents to abandon their home and go into exile—only for him, many years later and for the same reasons, to reclaim it. He imagined himself unlocking the door with the same turn of the wrist his mother had used to lock it almost half a century before, and he felt as if during that time his family had wandered in a great circle. His father guessed what he was thinking, and spoke of what it had meant to them to leave their own land and seek new horizons: the courage that was needed to confront suffering; how they had fallen, and gathered strength, and risen again, time after time, while learning to adapt and survive among strangers. Everyplace they had stopped, they had made a home with vigor and determination, even if only for a week or a month, because nothing wears down inner strength as quickly as living from day to day.

“All you will have is the present. Waste no energy crying over yesterday or dreaming of tomorrow. Nostalgia is fatiguing and destructive, it is the vice of the expatriate. You must put down roots as if they were forever, you
must
have a sense of permanence,” concluded Professor Leal, and his son remembered that the elderly actress had said the same.

The Professor drew Francisco aside. His eyes were griefstricken and he was trembling as he embraced his son. He took a small object from his pocket and shyly handed it to Francisco: it was his slide rule, his only treasure, a symbol of the impotence and desolation he felt at this separation.

“It is just a keepsake, son. It won't help you to make calculations about life,” he said hoarsely.

And, in truth, that was how he felt. Reaching the end of his life, he knew the futility of calculations. He could never have imagined that one day he would find himself, weary and sad, with one son in the grave, another in exile, his grandchildren lost to him in some remote village, and José, his only remaining son, in constant jeopardy from the Political Police. Francisco thought of the residents of The Will of God Manor and bent to kiss his father's forehead, wishing with every ounce of his being that he could twist the designs of fate so his parents would not have to be alone when they died.

Seeing his guests so disheartened, Mario decided to serve dinner. They stood around the table, eyes moist, hands shaking, and lifted their glasses in a toast.

“I offer a toast to Irene and Francisco. May good fortune go with you, my children,” said Professor Leal.

“And my toast is that your love will grow with every passing day,” Hilda added, unable to look at them without revealing her anguish.

For a while everyone made an effort to be festive; they praised the delicious food and expressed their gratitude for the many kindnesses of their noble friend, but soon despondency spread like a shadow that covered them all. In the dining room there was no sound but the clinking of silverware and glass.

Hilda, sitting beside her most beloved son, could not take her eyes from him, imprinting his features forever in her memory: his gaze, the fine wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, the slim, long-fingered hands. Although her knife and fork were in her hands, her food remained untouched. Stern when it came to her own grief, she held back her tears, but could not hide her suffering. Francisco put his arm around his mother's shoulders, and kissed her temple, as shaken as she.

“If anything should happen to you, son, I couldn't bear it,” Hilda whispered into his ear.

“Nothing is going to happen, Mama. Don't worry.”

“When will we see you again?”

“Soon, I'm sure. And until then we will be together in spirit, as we always have been. . . .”

Dinner ended in silence. Then they sat in the living room, staring at one another, smiling without joy, until the approaching curfew forced the moment of farewell. Francisco led his parents to the door. At that hour the street was empty, quiet, shuttered; there was no light in neighboring windows, and their voices and footsteps resounded dully in the desolate air like an ominous omen. They would have to hurry if they were to reach home in time. Tense, beyond words, they embraced for one last time. Father and son clasped each other for a long moment filled with unspoken promises and guidance. Then Francisco felt his mother in his arms, tiny and fragile, her adored face unseen against his chest, her tears at last overflowing, her slender hands convulsively stroking the cloth of his jacket, clinging like a desperate child. It was José who gently forced them apart, made his mother turn and walk away without looking back. Francisco watched the figures of his parents, hesitant, vulnerable, bowed, grow smaller in the distance. In contrast to his parents, his brother seemed solid and resolute, a man who recognized his risks and accepted his destiny. When they turned the corner, a harsh sob of farewell escaped Francisco's breast, and the tears he had held back during that terrible evening rushed to his eyes. He sank to the threshold, his face buried in his hands, crushed by ineffable sadness. There Irene found him and sat by his side in silence.

*  *  *

Over the years Francisco Leal had never bothered to count the numbers of desperate people he had helped. In the beginning he had acted alone, but gradually a group of totally committed friends formed around him, united by the goal of aiding those in trouble, hiding them whenever possible or using various routes to help them escape across the border. At first these activities were simply humanitarian and, in a way, unavoidable labor, but with time that labor had become a passion. Francisco threaded his way through danger with mixed emotions, a combination of rage and fierce joy. He knew the gambler's vertigo, that constant tempting of fate, but not even in moments of greatest daring did he abandon caution, because he knew that he would pay for any rash act with his life. Every move was planned down to the last detail, and he always tried to insure that an operation would be carried out without any surprises. This had allowed him to survive on the edge of the abyss longer than others who played the same game. The Political Police had no inkling that his small organization even existed. His brother José and Mario often worked with him. The priest had been detained on several occasions, although he had been questioned only in regard to his activities on behalf of the Vicariate and the working-class neighborhood in which he lived, where his cries for justice and courage in confronting authority were notorious. Mario, for his part, had the perfect cover. The Colonels' wives flocked to his beauty salon, and frequently a bulletproof limousine came for him and drove him to the underground palace where the First Lady waited in the glitter and ostentation of her chambers. Mario advised her in the choice of her wardrobe and her jewels; he created new hairstyles to accentuate the hauteur of power; he offered his advice on the Italian raffia, Pharaonic marble, and cut-glass chandeliers imported to ornament the mansion. All the most important people attended Mario's receptions, and behind the coromandel screens in his antique shop, negotiations were carried out with youths blessed with gifts for forbidden pleasures. The Political Police followed their orders not to interfere in his smuggling, his trafficking, his pipelines for discreet vices, never imagining how the distinguished stylist was pulling the wool over their eyes.