Of Love and Shadows

by Isabel Allende

  Once he had some authority, Pradelio had overcome his horror of his sins, and had escaped the ghost of Evangelina—except during visits home. Then she stirred his blood again with her little-baby hugging and kissing, except she was not a baby now, she was a woman, and she acted like one. The day he had seen her arched backward, turning and twisting and moaning in a grotesque parody of the sexual act, all the torrid, almost forgotten torments came flooding back. He tried desperate measures to get her out of his mind: long ice-cold showers at dawn and chicken skin doused with vinegar, to see whether ice in his bones and fire in his gut would bring him to his senses. But nothing worked. That was when he had told everything to Lieutenant Juan de Dios Ramírez, bound to him by old and strong bonds.

  “I’ll take care of your problem, Ranquileo,” the officer promised after listening to his bizarre story. “I like for my men to tell me their worries. You did right to confide in me.”

  * * *

  The very same day of the debacle at the Ranquileo home, Lieutenant Ramírez sentenced Pradelio to solitary confinement. He gave no explanation. Pradelio spent several days on bread and water without knowing the reason for his punishment, although he supposed it had some connection with his sister’s indelicate behavior. When he thought about what happened, he couldn’t help smiling. He couldn’t believe that a skinny little girl who was about as big around as a worm, a kid who didn’t even have a woman’s breasts yet, just two plums poking out of her rib cage, could have lifted the lieutenant in the air and shaken him like a mop in front of all his men. Ranquileo thought he must have dreamed it; maybe he’d gone a little out of his head from hunger and loneliness and desperation, and that in fact it had never happened. But then he had to ask himself why he was in solitary. It was the first time anything like this had ever happened to him; not even during his military service had he suffered such humiliation. He had been a model recruit, and now for several years he had been a good policeman. Ranquileo, his lieutenant always told him, you were born to wear this uniform. You must always defend it and have faith in your superiors. And he always had. Lieutenant Ramírez had taught him to drive the company vehicles and had even made him his driver. Sometimes they went out together to drink a few beers and visit the whores in Los Riscos, just like good friends. That’s why he had dared to tell him about his sister’s attacks, about the stones raining on the roof tiles, the dancing cups, and the restless animals. He had told him everything, never dreaming that the lieutenant would take a dozen armed men to raid his parents’ house, or that Evangelina would make the lieutenant a laughingstock by dusting him around in the dirt of the patio.

  Ranquileo liked his job, he told Francisco and Irene. He was a simple man, and had never liked to make decisions; he would rather keep his mouth shut and follow orders, and was happier when he placed the responsibility for what he did in someone else’s hands. He stammered badly as he spoke, and his fingertips were bloody where he had chewed his nails down to the quick.

  “I never used to chew them,” he apologized.

  He was much happier in his rough military life than he had been at home. He didn’t want to go back to the country. He had found a life in the armed forces, a destiny, a new family. He had the strength of an ox when it came to standing his shift, or going on wild sprees, or doing nights of guard duty. He was a good comrade, ready to share his rations with a hungrier man, or his poncho with one who was colder. He never took offense at his comrades’ clumsy jokes or lost his good nature; he smiled happily when they kidded him about being the size of a Percheron, and hung like one as well. They laughed at his eagerness to do his job, his reverent respect for the sacred military institution, his dream of being a hero and giving his life for the flag. Suddenly all that had collapsed. He had no idea why he was in the cell, or how much time had gone by. His only contact with the outside world were the few words whispered by the man who brought him his food. Once or twice the guard had given him cigarettes, and he’d promised to bring a cowboy novel or some sports magazines, although there wasn’t any light to read them by. During those days, he had learned to exist on whispers, on hopes, on little tricks to make the time go by. He tried to sharpen all his senses, to feel he was a part of what was going on outside his cell; even so, there were moments he felt so alone he thought he had died. He listened to the sounds outside; he knew when the guard changed; he counted the vehicles entering and leaving the compound; he tuned his ear to recognize voices and steps distorted by distance. He tried to sleep, to shorten the hours, but inactivity and anxiety robbed him of sleep. A smaller man could have stretched and exercised in that confined space, but for Ranquileo the cell was a straitjacket. Lice from his mattress nested in his hair and rapidly multiplied. He clawed at the nits in his armpits and groin until he was bleeding. He had a bucket for a toilet, and when it was full the stench became his worst torture. He decided that Lieutenant Ramírez was putting him to the test. Maybe he wanted to confirm his endurance and his mettle before he entrusted some special mission to him; that’s why Pradelio had not used his right to appeal during the first three days of confinement. He tried to stay calm, not to give in, not to sob or yell as most of the men in solitary did. He wanted to put his best foot forward, to show his physical and moral strength, so his officer would be impressed with him; he wanted to prove that he would not break even under the most extreme conditions. He tried to walk around his cell to stretch his muscles and avoid leg cramps, but it was impossible because his head touched the ceiling and when he opened both arms he touched the walls. In the past they had confined as many as six prisoners in that cell, but only for a few days, never for as long as Pradelio had been there; besides, they weren’t ordinary criminals, they were enemies of the nation—Soviet agents and traitors—Lieutenant Ramírez had left no doubt on that point. Pradelio was a man used to exercise and fresh air, and the forced immobility of his body also affected his mind; he got dizzy, he forgot names and places, he saw monsters in the shadows. To keep from going mad, he sang to himself. He liked to sing, although normally he was too shy. Evangelina liked to listen to him sing; she would lie quietly with her eyes closed, as if she were hearing the voices of sirens: Sing me some more . . . sing me some more. . . . While he was a prisoner, he had more than enough time to think about her, to remember everything about her, about the pact of forbidden desire they had shared since they were children. He gave his imagination free rein, and imposed his sister’s face on the memory of his wildest sexual excesses. It was Evangelina who opened to him like a ripe red watermelon, juicy and warm; she who sweated that clinging, fishy odor; she who bit him, scratched him, sucked him, moaning with shame and pleasure. It was into her compassionate flesh that he plunged until he stopped breathing and turned into a sponge, a jellyfish, a starfish at the bottom of the sea. For hours he stroked himself, evoking Evangelina’s ghost, but there were always too many hours left over. Inside those walls time was frozen in an eternal instant. Sometimes he reached the limits of his endurance and thought that if he banged his head against the wall until his blood trickled under the door and alerted the guard, maybe they would at least transfer him to the infirmary. One evening, when he was at the point of doing just that, Sergeant Faustino Rivera appeared. He opened the slit in the iron door and passed Pradelio cigarettes and matches and chocolate.

  “The boys send their greetings. They’re going to buy you candles and some magazines to help pass the time. They’re worried about you, and want to talk with the lieutenant to see if he won’t get you out of here.”

  “Why am I here?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe because of your sister.”

  “Everything’s all fucked up, Sergeant.”

  “It looks that way. Your mother came to ask about you, and about Evangelina, too.”

  “Evangelina? What is the matter with Evangelina?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “What happened to my sister!” screamed Pradelio, rattling the door li
ke a crazy man.

  “I don’t know anything. Don’t yell like that, because if they find me here I’ll pay for it good, Ranquileo. Don’t give up hope, now, I’m your kin and I’m going to help you. I’ll come back soon,” said the sergeant, and hurried away.

  Ranquileo dropped to the floor of his cell, and for hours every man who walked through the yard heard a man’s wails that he would not soon forget.

  Ranquileo’s friends organized a committee to go to Lieutenant Ramírez on his behalf, but nothing came of it. The men became restive; there was whispering in the latrines, in the corridors, in the armory, but Lieutenant Juan de Dios Ramírez ignored it. Then Sergeant Rivera, the boldest among them, decided to take things into his own hands. A day or two later, taking advantage of the complicity of darkness and the temporary absence of Lieutenant Ramírez, he approached the solitary confinement cell. The guard on duty saw him coming, instantly guessed his intention, and helped by pretending to be asleep, because he, too, thought Ranquileo’s punishment was unjust. Not even troubling to be quiet or avoid being seen, the sergeant took the key hanging from a nail on the wall and walked to the iron door. He freed Ranquileo from his cell, gave him clothes and a service revolver with six bullets, led him to the kitchen, and with his own hands served him a double ration of food. Then he gave Ranquileo a little money his friends had collected, and drove him as far as he dared in the Headquarters jeep. Everyone who saw them looked the other way; they did not want to know any of the details. A man has a right to avenge his sister, they said.

  Dragging himself along by night, and lying low in the fields by day, Pradelio Ranquileo was free almost a week before daring to seek help; he could imagine the lieutenant’s rage when he discovered the escape, and he knew the guardsmen could not disobey their orders to move heaven and earth to find him. Hulking in the shadows, he waited until impatience and hunger finally drove him home. Sergeant Rivera had been there and had told everything to Digna, so there was no need to talk about that. Vengeance is a man’s business. When he said goodbye, Rivera had asked him to go look for his sister, but he really meant, go avenge her. Pradelio was sure of that. As he was sure that she was dead. He had no proof, but he knew his superior officer well enough to imagine.

  “I’ll pay for doing what I must do, because when I come down from this mountain, I’m a dead man,” he told Francisco and Irene.

  “Why?”

  “Because I know a military secret.”

  “If you want our help, you’ll have to tell us.”

  “I’ll never tell.”

  Pradelio was highly agitated; he was sweating and gnawing at his fingernails; his eyes were wild, and he was rubbing his face with his hands as if to erase horrible memories. It was obvious that he had left a lot unsaid, but his lips were sealed by loyalty. Once he stammered that it would be better to die and get it over with, because there was no way out for him. Irene tried to calm him: he must not give up hope; they would find some way to help him, they simply needed a little time. Francisco had sensed several omissions in his story, and instinctively mistrusted him, but he kept running through the possibilities in his mind, trying to think of some way to save Ranquileo’s life.

  “If Lieutenant Ramírez killed my sister, I know where he hid her body,” Pradelio blurted at the last moment. “You know that abandoned mine in Los Riscos?”

  He stopped abruptly, regretting what he had said; by the expression on his face and the tone of his voice, however, Francisco knew he was not talking of a probability, but of a certainty. He had given them their clue.

  It was midafternoon by the time they said goodbye and began their descent, leaving behind a beaten Ranquileo muttering about death. Going down the mountain was as difficult as the climb had been, especially for Irene, who shuddered every time she looked into the ravine, but she did not stop until they reached the place where they had left the horses. There she breathed a sigh of relief, and when she gazed up toward the cordillera, it seemed impossible that they had climbed those sheer cliffs now blending into the color of the sky.

  “That’s all we can do today. I’ll come back later with some tools to see what’s in that mine,” said Francisco.

  “And I’ll come with you,” said Irene.

  They looked at each other and knew that each was committed to follow to the end an adventure that could lead them to death, and beyond.

  * * *

  Beatriz, heels clicking, walked arrogantly across the polished airport floor, following the porter with her blue suitcases. She was wearing a low-cut, tomato-colored linen dress and her thick hair was in a bun at her neck because she had lacked the energy for a more elegant style. A large baroque pearl in each earlobe highlighted her burnt-sugar skin and the gleam of her dark eyes brightened by a new sense of well-being. Several hours of an uncomfortable flight with a Galician nun for a seatmate had not obliterated the happiness of her latest rendezvous with Michel. She felt like a new woman, rejuvenated and sexy. She walked with the insolence of a woman who knows she is beautiful. Men’s eyes turned as she passed, and no one could have guessed her true age. She could still wear a low-cut dress without fear of sagging breasts or flabby arms; her legs were trim and the line of her back proud. Sea air had lent happiness to her face, brushing out fine wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. Only her hands, spotted and veined in spite of all her magic creams, betrayed the passing of the years. She was satisfied with her body. She considered it her handiwork, not nature’s; it was the end product of enormous willpower, of years of diet, exercise, massage, yoga, and the advances of cosmetology. In her suitcases she carried little bottles of oil for her breasts, collagen for her throat, hormone lotions and creams for her skin, placental extract and mink oil for her hair, capsules of royal jelly and pollen of eternal youth, machines, sponges, and horsehair brushes to tone the elasticity of her skin. It’s a losing battle, Mama, age is implacable, and there’s nothing you can do but delay it for a little while. Is it worth all that effort? When Beatriz lay on the warm sands of some tropical beach wearing nothing but one tiny triangle of cloth, and compared herself with women twenty years younger, she smiled with pride. Oh, yes, daughter, it’s worth it. When she walked into a room and could feel the air charged with envy and desire, she knew then that her efforts had been rewarded. But it was especially in Michel’s arms that she was secure in the knowledge that her body was a valuable commodity; it was he who gave her her greatest pleasure.

  Michel was her secret luxury, the reaffirmation of her self-esteem, the source of her deepest vanity. He was young enough to be her son: tall, with a torero’s broad shoulders and narrow hips, sun-bleached hair, blue eyes, charming accent, and all the necessary knowledge at the hour for love. Leisure, sports, and lack of responsibility kept an eternal smile on his face and gifted him with a playful disposition. He was a vegetarian who neither drank nor smoked; he made no pretense at any intellectual interests but found his delight in outdoor sports and amorous adventures. Gentle, tender, uncomplicated, and always good-humored, he lived in another dimension, like an angel mistakenly fallen to earth. Ingeniously, he arranged his life so that it was an eternal vacation. He and Beatriz had met on a beach beneath swaying palm trees, and when in the darkness of the hotel ballroom he first took her in his arms to dance, they both knew that a greater intimacy was inevitable. That same night Beatriz opened her door to him, feeling like a teenager. She was nervous, fearing that he might discover tiny signs of age that had escaped her stern eye, but Michel gave her little time to worry. He turned on the lights, so he could know her in every detail; he kissed her with expert lips and removed her adornments—baroque pearls, diamond rings, ivory bracelets—leaving her naked and vulnerable. At that moment she sighed with contentment, because in her lover’s eyes she found the confirmation of her beauty. She forgot the hurrying years, the wear and tear of the struggle, her boredom with other men. She and Michel shared a happy relationship, and never dreamed of callin
g it love.

  Michel’s company was so stimulating that when Beatriz was with him she forgot all her worries. His kisses had the uncanny ability to erase the elderly occupants of The Will of God Manor, her daughter’s bizarre behavior, and her financial difficulties. Beside him, there was only the present. She smelled his young animal smell, his clean breath, the sweat of his smooth skin, the salty trace of sea in his hair. She ran her hands over his body, the wiry hair on his chest, the smoothness of his recently shaved cheeks; she felt the strength of his embrace, the renewed thrust of his sex. No one had ever made love to her like this. Her relations with her husband had been clouded with stored-up bitterness and unintentional rejection, and her occasional lovers were older men who made up for lack of vigor with pretense. She tried not to think of their thinning hair, their soft bodies, their pernicious smell of tobacco and liquor, their striving penises, their niggardly gifts, their useless promises. Michel never lied. He never said, I love you; he said, I like you, I feel good when I’m with you, I want to make love to you. He was a marvel in bed, eager to give her pleasure, to satisfy her whims, to arouse new desires.

  Michel represented the hidden and, at the same time, the brightest side of her life. She could not possibly share her secret; no one would have understood her passion for a man so much younger than she. She could imagine her friends’ comments: Beatriz has lost her head over some boy, a foreigner; of course he will exploit her and take all her money; at her age, she should be ashamed. No one would believe the tenderness and shared laughter, the friendship; he never asked for anything, and would not accept her gifts. They met twice a year, anywhere on the globe, for a few perfect days. She returned with her body gratified and her soul refreshed. Again she took up the reins of her work, resumed her duties, and returned to the elegant relationships with her perennial suitors—widowers, divorced men, unfaithful husbands, endemic seducers who showered her with their attentions without touching her heart.