The Invisible Mountain (25 page)

Roberto looked away, delicately. Eva’s breasts tingled, full of milk; she saw herself pulling the doctor across the coffee table, past the roses, into her chest, as she might a child who’d scraped his knee on the pavement. “Doctor, it’s all right.”

“No, it’s not at all.” He stared down at his hands. “I’m ashamed to tell you that I stayed. But the boy needed five doctors. If I left, he’d have none. So I started to clean his body. It took all night. Halfway, I heard the officers outside the door. The first one wanted to kill the
joven
and call it a traffic accident. The second one was undecided. They spoke as if he were an old rag to dispose of. I thought I might be sick, right on the concrete floor.

“At that point, of course, I should have left. I should have refused to come back, ever. But instead I thought, What will they do to me? What will they do to the boy? God, I was such a coward.” Dr. Caribe stared over Eva’s shoulder as though the concrete-and-iron room were just behind her. “The boy became my life. All my waking hours were with him. When I slept, he filled my dreams. In my dreams he’d turn, sometimes, into my son—they’re roughly the same age. Well. In four days he regained consciousness. The officers bandaged his eyes so he couldn’t see me. They gave me a pseudonym to use in his presence. They wanted to move him from the prison, but he was still too fragile. It took five more days to stabilize him for transport.

“We took him to a suburban house. A secret place used by the police to … do whatever things they do. They set it up for his convalescence. As his face healed, he reminded me more and more of my son. He never spoke to me, except to ask for food or water or help shifting positions on the bed he was handcuffed to. He had been warned not to talk, of course, by the police. We both had. But still, I was tortured by the thought that he despised me. That he saw me as one of them. I wanted to explain myself, I wanted to run. Instead I did as I was told.

“The next morning, I saw the
Democracia
and almost dropped my
mate
on the floor. That’s how I learned the boy’s name.” He held up the clipping. “Ernesto Bravo.”

Eva’s breasts hurt, they were too full, they raged against their compress. “I don’t understand.”

Dr. Caribe shook the cut page. “Bravo couldn’t have attacked the police. He was under my care. He was framed.”

Eva leaned against the sofa, trying not to swallow anything—not spit, not air, not what filled the space between them. The French peasants were ridiculous on their wallpaper, prancing as if there were nothing wrong with their golden tree. Ridiculous, yet she longed to be like them, to keep on dancing, hold on to what was bright and polished and well worth burning up one’s life for. But something else, a lesion, had opened in her home. A doctor crumbles beside white roses; a young man is brutalized beyond recognition; peasants dance around a painted tree whose real trunk, trapped inside, is dying.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

His voice was small, the knee-scraped boy. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Antonio.” Roberto leaned forward. “Put it behind you.”

“I can’t. I’ve betrayed everything—my profession, my conscience. Even my wife, who wonders why I never sleep. If I don’t do something to right this wrong, this could destroy me.”

Eva took in his haggard face and believed him.

Roberto looked wary. “What would you do?”

“I’ve got to tell people. Besides you. I need advice on how to do it.”

“No.” Roberto’s body almost raised from the sofa cushions. “You’d endanger your job, your family—everything.”

“I know.”

Eva burned for her guest, for his sorrow, for the young Ernesto Bravo, for the mouth of her baby, sleeping upstairs in a pink crib. “What if you wrote a letter and let it land in the right places?”

“Eva—” Roberto said, a hint of iron in his voice.

“Anonymously,” she added. Roberto stared in open warning. She pretended not to notice.

“It’s just as well,” Roberto said. “You could write tomes about this and still not change what happened.” His hands pressed together tightly; Eva felt the low emanation of his fear. “The last thing Argentina needs is another good man in exile.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“By the way.” Roberto swept the air with his hand, wiping it clean. “I read your paper on leprosy. It’s fascinating.”

The conversation moved, changed, grew fraught with medical terms Eva did not understand. She shifted restlessly; time to unwrap; time to go to Salomé.

“Excuse me,” she said, and headed to the stairs.

Salomé Ernestina Santos slept in her crib, her hand a tiny fist, pacifier covering her mouth. Eva pulled the pacifier out and Salomé opened her eyes, cried, and reached toward her mother. She bared her breasts. The little mouth was warm and fierce. Her fist loosened and grasped her mother’s skin. There it was, the hotsweet pulling, her power to pour something that was needed. She tried not to think of Ernesto Bravo, twice broken, or of the woman who’d once fed him with her body; she tried not to think of the Peróns, with their pink palace, their shine shine shine over the radio, their dispensations of hope, their printed lies, the intricate equation of their existence, complex, indecipherable, Einsteinian in its paradoxes; she tried not to think of herself, tomorrow and the next day and the next, moving through her life with this secret in her gut, a respectable woman, safe and tidy, with her jewels and crystal cups and damask drapes, letting other people bleed on concrete floors. She disgusted herself already. She tightened her grip on Salomé; the baby writhed and sucked. She could have told her daughter many things, was readying herself to say them,
this is who I really am, breast bared, feeding you, longing to be brave, large, angry, to believe the man who said it’s all possible
, but baby and mother opened their mouths at the same time, and Salomé released the nipple, smacking her lips. Eva nestled her daughter back in the crib, settling for a lullaby, “
arrorró mi niña, arrorró mi sol,
” and the baby slept.

“You’re leaving already?” Eva spread her palms to show her disappointment.

“It’s not exactly tea time.”

“But still! Let me at least accompany you to the door. Roberto.” She touched her husband’s arm. “You must be exhausted. Why don’t you head to bed?”

He did, and minutes later, just as the doctor stepped out into the rain, Eva whispered, “Come back in the morning, when Roberto’s at work. I’ll help you.”

Dr. Caribe squinted at her. Rain beat at his umbrella. “How?”

She leaned forward and drops caught in the edges of her hair. “With the words.”

It didn’t take long. In three days Roberto burst into the drawing room.

“Eva!”

She looked up from her notebook, where she’d just written,
You burn and
. His face was close to hers, mouth hard, brow pressed, a hunted animal.

“What’s wrong?”

“You tell me, Eva. What you did with Antonio.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“That night. The things he told us. There’s a mimeograph circulating among politicians. Today it was leaked to the press.”

Eva set her notebook on the coffee table. “What makes you think I had anything to do with it?”

Roberto glared. “Look me in the eyes and tell me you didn’t.”

“Surely it was anonymous.”

“You have no idea what they’re capable of.” His eyes were wild, the eyes of a caged jaguar.
You’re almost an old man
, she thought. “I got a mysterious call today, suggesting we leave the country. Now tell me, dear wife, why would I get a call like that?”

His eyes bored into her. She willed herself not to look away, not to ask how that could be, how they could know.

“You helped him, Eva. Against my will.”

It happened quickly—hands at her shoulders, a rough shake in her skull, and suddenly she was pushed against French wallpaper and a man who was her husband shouted—“What—have—you—done?”—and his hands were at her neck, she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t breathe, she didn’t need to breathe because she floated from herself, out into the air and if she could only find that fissure—

He let her go. She leaned against the wall. Pain throbbed in a necklace around her throat. Roberto stood a few paces away, his back to her. She could read in the slouch of his shoulders that he was sorry. The living room framed him with its antique table, velvet curtains, plush rug hand-woven in Persia.
He loves me
. She recited the words to herself.

“We’re leaving,” he said. “Tomorrow. Get the children ready. Eva. You know …”

“I do.”

He stood still for a moment, then left without looking back.

The next night, at 2 a.m., Eva gazed out of the car window at the waters of the Río de la Plata. Dark. Still. Yielding to the curved bellies of boats at dock. Behind her, she heard the scuffle of men at their trunk, pulling out suitcases full of clothes, cash, photographs, reams of unpublished poems, her covert box of baby shoes (outgrown, essential, relics she could not leave or throw away). Salomé lay dreaming in her arms. Robertito leaned sleepily against her, clutching his stuffed bunny, Papagonia. She filled herself with his delicate scent: sweet talcum and tart hair oil. If only she could keep him this way, soft and three and fragrant, somehow defy the speeding laws of time. His intelligence amazed her; today, he had launched inexhaustible questions about where they were going (“to the country I came from”) and for how long (“oh, you’ll see”). Her husband sat at the other end of the backseat, staring out at his city. He had spent the whole drive in silence. Just as well. Eva adjusted the scarf at her neck to ensure that the bruises stayed hidden.

A boat pulled up to the port. The car door opened and a hooded man hustled her onto the boat. She set a foot gingerly inside. Water glimmered darkly all around her.
Cierre. Cielo. Cerrado. Siempre
. Lock. Sky. Closed. Always.

The hooded boatmen launched them onto the quiet river. Nothing but water could be seen ahead, but Eva knew there would be land because she’d lived there, she had walked and breathed it, six years ago it had been home. Montevideo. City of echoes. City of too many shoes. City of corner butcher shops, green herbs crowding the kitchen, the simple heat of Mami’s stews. Gliding back, encased in night, for the first time in fifteen years she prayed: for her son, Roberto, and for Salomé; for her marriage, laden with new and unnamed weight; for Dr. Caribe and his family, somewhere also crossing into exile; for Ernesto Bravo and his mother and for Evita and Juan Perón and the Argentina that loved and feared them, Argentina so enchanted and haunted and severe; she prayed for Uruguay, for Mamá, her brothers, their children and wives, all the poets at La Diablita, Coco with her letters and her missing son, Andrés; she prayed for the waves to keep chanting at La Rambla and for Uruguayan wool to keep spinning on its wheels; for her father, yes, she prayed for her father and even for Pietro,
sí
, oh God who art in heaven or wherever you may hide, for Pietro too, since this was the only place where she could do it, here between shores, between homes, on this river that ran between worlds.

Hours later, through the darkness, across the long black water, the apricot lights of Montevideo began to glow.

Monte. Vide. Eu. I see a mountain, a captain said four centuries ago, spying a low hill from his boat, approaching a river that would not have any silver. City of misnomers. City of small things. City redolent of leather, fresh wool, saline evening breeze.

Things weren’t the same, returning. The city hadn’t changed; it was she who had to adjust her eyes—adjust all senses—to a different light, get used to spectres, get used to things so small and calm. No giant boulevards, no mad blare at the core of Montevideo. Even the cars sounded less tense. Their new apartment was in La Ciudad Vieja, right on Avenida San Salvador. The wrought-iron balcony gazed over ornate buildings, a cobbled lane, old trees swaying their leaves, and La Diablita. Six years ago, before Buenos Aires, living in this neighborhood would have seemed the height of glamour. Inside, the bed was sturdy, if not lush; the carpets clean, if not red; the curtains quaint, if not fine. She would creep from bed (gently, so as not to rustle Roberto’s sleep) and tiptoe to the balcony in slippers and a fur coat. In that safe roost, she’d smoke and sit and stare at the red door as it swung open and closed for customers. The door itself remembered, throbbed and called her; surely if she crossed the street and touched it all the nights of work and longing would rush back to her and show her who she was. That throb kept her awake for hours, cigarette after cigarette burning its slow ash toward her hand.

Returning wouldn’t be returning until she went to Punta Carretas. She couldn’t go to the house where she’d grown up. She could not see Papá. She thought about it, tried to picture it, tried to drum up things that she could say, but her pictures always ended up at Tomás’ wedding, his laugh with Pietro, a
pascualina
pie dropped to the floor. That
pascualina
pie was thick and rotten and could easily infiltrate her body. She feared she might not rise from bed, not kiss her children, not keep from killing someone if she swallowed it again. A stalemate was a stalemate and was better than a war. But Mamá. She had to see Mamá.