The Invisible Mountain (48 page)
Salomé looked away, at the crowd of child-shoes. Her mother gripped her, wide awake, right there in the lamplight, and wept without making a sound. Years of unsaid words shook out in her mother’s convulsions, shook out the way dust shakes from a beaten rug, and Salomé felt that it was true—she somehow knew it—her mother had no hate for her, had never hated, and this shamed her but made her feel something else also, something nameless and sharp and hollowing; I can’t ever be the same woman I was or would have been, and if I am to live then I must kill her—now, here, sitting on this floor—must kill the woman I could have been and cannot be. Because there is another woman waiting that I can
still be, but am not yet, am just now becoming. She held her mother tightly and let her sob. Over her shoulder, she watched the oxfords, galoshes, tennies, Mary Janes hold their leaves and do nothing.
Mamá finally subsided. They leaned into each other. Time passed.
“Mamá.”
“Yes.”
“I’m tired.”
“You could rest—”
“I’m tired of secrets.”
“You can tell me anything.”
“I want to meet Zolá.”
Mamá stiffened. “To get your hair done?”
Salomé touched her mother’s gray locks. “You must love her very much.”
Mamá was silent.
“I hope she’s good to you.”
Very softly, almost inaudibly. Mamá said, “She is.”
Salomé traced slow arcs along her mother’s scalp.
Zolá was a graceful lady in her sixties. Her hair was sleek and white. Her apartment was a tableau of peach marble, mirrors, gold. She received Salomé with
mate
and a platter of
bizcochos
. Salomé sat down on a velvet sofa by a floor-to-ceiling window, where the eye could roam out over buildings to the river to the sky. She had never been so high up in her life.
“Thank you for coming to visit an old lady like me.” Zolá smiled. She wore pearls, bold makeup, and a periwinkle dress. “Go ahead. Ask me.”
“Ask what?”
“Whatever you like.”
“How did you meet my mother?”
“She didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
“Long ago, when we were children. We met again when she returned from Buenos Aires.”
“How long have you been … ?”
Salomé watched her hostess fill the gourd. “And do you lo—”
“Immensely.”
“Ah.”
“Who wouldn’t?”
Salomé smiled, almost parting her lips, almost forgetting her lost teeth. “I can’t imagine.”
Zolá handed her the
mate
. “I’m glad to meet you.”
Salomé drank.
“I’m glad to see you in one piece.”
She sucked until the gourd was empty, gurgling at the bottom of its leaves. She imagined her mother coming here over the years, while her daughter was imprisoned, to weep or kiss or rage at heavens that were a few flights closer to this space. Zolá’s home, the sanctuary. The brightest secret. Outside, the sun was shattering in its slow fall toward the water, shards of it catching on the waves. A gull rose from a rooftop and slanted into flight. “Am I in one piece?”
“You’re asking me?”
She handed the gourd back. “Why not?”
Zolá refilled the
mate
and drank. She lowered the gourd. She looked at Salomé. Her eyes were dark, almost painfully awake. For all the powder on this woman’s face, there was nothing masked about her eyes. “Would you let me wash your hair?”
In the basin, Salomé slowly surrendered her own weight. She was submerged in the scent of her mother, that sharpsweet emanation of hers, rose and almond, opulent, mysterious to her when she was a child. Two hands entered the water and touched her, lightly, sinuously, like fish. Like fish they dove through hair and reached her scalp, which was so naked and so pale, it was unbearable, this touch, it hurt, it was sweet, hurt sweetly, she loathed it, cringed from it, but when the fingers backed away she heard her own voice say
No, come back please
, and they did. She didn’t know what fell from her, into that water, what unseen crusts broke off and turned to foam or filth or barnacles, but she was naked with torn skin and a man laughed as he raped her; no, not true, she was not there, she was in Zolá’s home, and a voice came through the water,
Breathe
,
Salomé, breathe
. Such gentle hands. Now they rocked her head as if she were a baby who couldn’t lift it for herself. Roses. Almonds. They seeped into her scalp.
When it was over, Zolá wrapped her in a fresh, warm towel. “Don’t get up. Just relax.”
She lost track of time. When she opened her eyes, Zolá was reading on the sofa. The sun had fallen farther, and stared straight into the room.
Zolá looked up. “How are you?”
“I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“On the contrary. Why don’t you stay for dinner?”
“I have to be somewhere,” she lied.
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
“More than all right. I have no way to thank you.”
Zolá smiled. “That’s easy. Just come back.”
Salomé descended fifteen floors and walked to La Rambla. There was gold in the light on the sidewalk, fleeting gold, the kind that would be swallowed by the dusk any moment. She traced it with broad steps.
She went back to Zolá the following week. She wanted to be cut. Zolá received her with open arms, a warm basin, and ready scissors. Snip, snip, the tufts of her, worn ones, split ones, fell to the floor. After her first cut, she went to Orlando’s house and wept for seven hours (he didn’t ask her anything, he dried her face with his palm, his shirt, his towel, he enfolded her, he smelled of forest floor). She woke up the following afternoon, at 4 p.m., exhausted, thick-limbed, rearing slowly out of a deep fog.
She went to her second cut with pen and paper ready in her purse. Afterward, she went to the bench at Parque Rodó she used to share with Tinto, but could not sit there because a young couple sat entwined. Their thrill at each other’s touch was palpable. She kept her distance, resisting the urge to run up to them and say, We did that too, we did, but not in full view of the sun, we did it under the cover of night, we had so many things to hide, I’m sorry, am I interrupting? Of course she’d be interrupting. They were young, they could not imagine and did not want to imagine a couple who had found refuge on that same bench over twenty years ago. Instead, she went to the fountain and sat down facing it. The
water rose and fell and whispered in a liquid language she could not interpret. She stared at the green crowns of the trees. Pen and paper sat still in her hands for a long time, until finally she wrote to La Familia Cassella y Volkova:
Thank you, so good to hear, I’d love to accept your invitation, perhaps next year
.
After the third cut, she drank a whole bottle of red wine, alone in her room, watching the oak outside her window cradle the cold moon. At two in the morning, when she was sure everybody was asleep, she went to the hall and picked up the phone. She dialed. The rings were long and foreign.
Her brother picked up first. “Hello?”
“Roberto. It’s Salomé.”
“What?” He sounded alarmed, across the distance. “What time is it over there?”
“I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“Of course not. We just finished dinner.”
“Good.”
“Everything’s fine?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. No deaths in the family.”
“Oh. Good.”
“I want to talk to you about Victoria.”
Crackling silence.
“I want to tell her.”
More silence.
“Roberto?”
“I’m here. This is expensive. Let me call you right back.”
She hung up. She waited. The hall was full of shadows; through her bedroom door she saw her window and, through that, farther away, the oak. She saw herself, in bed, at seven years old, gazing at that oak, deciding to break her first rule. The phone screeched. She picked up quickly. “Roberto.”
“Yes. Flor’s on the line too.”
“
Hola
, Salomé,” Flor said, shortly, or perhaps it was the static, hard to tell.
“
Hola
, Flor. How are you?”
“So,” Roberto said, “you’ve thought about this?”
“Obviously.”
“Look, I’m just—”
“Sorry, Roberto, sorry. Don’t hang up.”
“I won’t. Don’t be ridiculous.”
Salomé tried to picture them, in their pretty house, the dinner dishes stacked up in the sink, ready to wash, now poised on separate phones, on tasteful chairs, casting glances at each other across the room. She saw her brother in his old Donald Duck pajamas.
He asked, “Why now?”
Salomé closed her eyes. “Because she’s old enough. Because I owe it to her. Because I finally can.” They were quiet. She waited. “Are you still there?”
“We’re here,” Flor said.
Salomé bit her lip.
“It’s not like we haven’t thought about this,” Flor said.
“Ah.”
“Only we wanted to tell her.”
Salomé waited for her to add,
because we’re her parents
.
“Give us a moment,” Roberto said.
“Of course,” said Salomé. She heard the rustle of phones being put down. Somewhere, thousands of miles away, a married couple walked off to the kitchen or the back porch or the hall, to whisper, to deliberate, to think. The phone line crackled into her ear. Her sweat slicked the receiver. She marveled at the realities of distance, the way her brother’s voice could reach her while her brother himself stood in a house far away, in a place she couldn’t fathom but that he’d claimed as his and where he’d raised his daughter, her daughter, what a twisted family tree, spliced and splayed all over the world. She stared out, through her bedroom, through the window, at the oak tree, with its branches curving upward, just a few leaves left.
Five minutes passed. Six. Seven. She thought of hanging up. She thought of the cost of each second of silence. Then rustle, rustle, and they both were back.
Roberto spoke first. “Salomé?”
“Yes?”
“Thanks for waiting.”
“Yes.”
“Look,” he said, “don’t do it in a phone call.”
“Please,” Flor said. “The connections are horrible. You sound like you’re in an electric generator.”
Roberto said, “We’re wondering whether you’d write her a letter. Write whatever you want in it. We’ll be there when she reads it. It’s the closest thing to telling her together.”
Salomé leaned against the wall. It was cool against her back.
“Salomé?” Roberto said. “Are you there?”
“Yes.”
“Is that all right?”
“Yes. It’s great.
Gracias
.”
“
De nada
.”
“It might take me a while. To write it.”
“Fine,” her brother said.
“That’s fine,” Flor said.
The three of them listened to the static.
“It’s late for you,” Roberto said. “Maybe you should go to bed.”
“Okay,
hermano
. Good night, Flor.”
“Good night, Salomé.”
“Good night, Roberto.”
“Good night.”
The letter was much harder to write than she’d imagined. One wrong word, it seemed, could ruin the whole endeavor. The right words, however, could perhaps perform a miracle—close a circle that was torn open years ago; perhaps could even close deeper, older circles, ones she herself had barely glimpsed. She started the letter dozens of times, over and over, seeking its tone, its opening, its voice. At times she forgot who she was writing for.
Dear Victoria
, she wrote,
I hope you can forgive me
.
Dear Victoria, here’s the terrible truth
.
Dear Victoria, here’s the shocking truth
.
Dear Victoria, here’s the truth
.
Dear Victoria, what is truth? And who decides what’s shocking? Some days I’m shocked to be alive. But that’s not what I wanted to tell you, so
Dear Victoria, you must wonder who I am
.
Dear Victoria, I’m your mother, it sounds strange—let me explain
.
Dear Victoria, I love you God I love you, I know you’re going to hate me. I’ve already spent far too much time hating myself—it gets me nowhere—and it gets too heavy to carry and so, sometimes, I just put it down—I actually do it—it sounds insanely simple, but it’s not—but wait, wait, that’s not for this letter
—
Dear Victoria, your conception was not pretty but you still deserve to know
.
Dear Victoria, I’m sorry. Your conception was a distended brutal nightmare that still shakes me to the core. But you’re the best thing that ever came out of me—isn’t that a paradox? Will you know the word “paradox” in Spanish? Are you using a dictionary to read this? You’ll never read this, I won’t let you, this draft is a disaster
.
Dear Victoria, please read this whole letter, please don’t throw it away
.
Dear Victoria, I’m writing in case roots matter to you
.
Dear Victoria, roots are essential. We begin long before we’re born
.
Dear Victoria, don’t let the lies about roots get to you. People have a great deal to say on the subject, but your roots don’t define who you are. Don’t let anyone ever tell you what to think. Jesus, now there I went, telling you what to think
.
Dear Victoria, look, I stayed in prison thirteen years so I could bear you
.
Dear Victoria, your violet tree kept me alive—do you remember it? Why would you? It was perfect, marvelous, so full of colors. I dreamed and breathed and swayed inside your colors
.
Dear Victoria, I have something to say, I don’t know how to say it
.
Dear Victoria, please believe me, I’m not writing this to wreck your life—I’ve done enough wrecking and I’m ready to do something else—I really
am—like build, hope, make things, listen, wander, wonder, see—above all, see
.
Dear Victoria, what’s your favorite color? Did you ever get that mo -torcycle?
Dear Victoria, I’m sorry I’ve let so much time pass. Deeply sorry
.
Dear Victoria, I want to get to know you, I’m not sure how to do that. I wonder what it means to know another person. I wonder what it means to know yourself. Here I am, approaching forty, with no idea what it means to know yourself, something you’d think would be so simple, Socrates was concise about it long ago, yet here we are, modern humans, circling like lost dogs, unable to find what’s inside us. Maybe not you. Maybe you know yourself, and I want to know you, Victoria, more than anything
.
Dear Victoria, I wish I’d known you as a child
.
Dear Victoria, couldn’t you be five years old again? Just for a day?
Dear Victoria, what is happening to me with these letters? What are you doing to me, for me? I find words I didn’t know I’d written. I find pages between my sheets in the mornings, crumpled by my sleep. When I write, I get tangled in thoughts of you. There are so many of them, thoughts, thoughts, they all cry out and rush toward the page, a mob that roars with every sound you can imagine, stampeding all at once. I fear that you won’t hear them clearly. I fear that you won’t understand
.
Dear Victoria, at your age I was sleeping on rifles. I hope you’re not
.
Dear Victoria, I wouldn’t blame you for burning this letter. I hope you don’t
.
Dear Victoria
,
Dear Victoria
,
Dear Victoria
.
Through winter, through spring, all the way to hot December, the pages filled box after box.
