Of Love and Shadows

by Isabel Allende

  Later, Francisco would smile when he remembered that moment, because even as the circle of terror closed in around them, his overwhelming desire had been to take Irene in his arms. Forgetting the dead who were beginning to spring out of the ground like weeds, and his fear that he and Irene would either be arrested or murdered, he could think of only one thing: his eagerness to make love. More important than charting the morass they were groping their way through, he wanted to find a comfortable place where they could take their pleasure; more powerful than his fatigue, the heat, and his thirst was his urgent need to hold Irene in his arms, to engulf her, breathe her, feel her under his skin—possess her right there beneath the trees by the roadside, in full view of anyone happening by. Irene, however, had more sensible ideas. You must have a fever, she said as he tried to get her to lie down beside him. She tugged at his sleeve and pulled him to his feet, led him to the motorcycle, and prevailed on him to leave; she climbed on behind him and, hugging his waist, breathed peremptory commands and loving words into his ear, until the jolting of the machine and the white light of the sun overhead calmed her lover’s impetuous passion and restored his habitual calm. And once again they were on their way to the Los Riscos mine.

  * * *

  It was night by the time Irene and Francisco reached the house of the Leals. Hilda was just taking a potato omelet from the stove, and the strong aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the kitchen. After the printing press had been removed, the true proportions of the room became apparent for the first time, and everyone could appreciate its charm: the marble-topped wooden furniture, the old-fashioned icebox and, in the middle of the room, the table of a thousand uses, the place where the family gathered. In winter it was warm and cozy; light and heat from the kerosene stove, the oven, and the iron reflected off the sewing machine, the radio, and the television. It was Francisco’s favorite place in the world. His happiest childhood memories were centered on this room where he had played, studied, talked for hours over the telephone with some sweetheart with schoolgirl curls, while his mother, still young and very beautiful, went about her chores humming a tune from her faraway Spain. The fragrance of the fresh herbs and spices she used for seasoning stews and fried potato cakes always lingered on the air, the mouthwatering harmony of sprigs of rosemary, bay leaves, garlic cloves, and onions melding with the more subtle fragrance of cinnamon, clove, vanilla, anise, and chocolate used in baking breads and cakes.

  That night Hilda had brewed several cups of real coffee, a gift from Irene Beltrán. This was an occasion that called for the small porcelain cups from the collection in the cupboard, all different and each as delicate as a sigh. The aroma from the coffeepot was the first thing that greeted Irene and Francisco as they opened the door, and it led them to the center of the house.

  Francisco once again felt wrapped in that warm ambience, as he had when he was a thin, sickly child, the victim of the rough games of cruel and stronger boys. When he was only a few months old, he had been operated on for a congenital leg malformation. His mother had been the pillar of those early years: he lived in the shadow of her skirts; she nursed him longer than was usual; she carried him on her back, or in her arms, straddling him on her hip like an appendage of her body, until his bones healed completely and he could stand on his own feet. He came home from school every day dragging his heavy book bag and anticipating the calm, welcoming smile of his mother, waiting for him in the kitchen with a snack. That memory had left its indelible mark, and throughout his life, whenever he needed to recapture the security he had known as a boy, he reconstructed in his mind, in precise detail, the room that was the symbol of maternal love. That night, when he saw his mother turning the omelet in the frying pan and quietly humming, Francisco felt the same sensation. His father was sitting beneath the ceiling light, bent over his notebooks, correcting examinations.

  The Leals were startled by the appearance of Irene and their son, the wrinkled and dirty clothing, their drawn faces, and their indefinable expressions.

  “What has happened?” the Professor exclaimed.

  “We found a clandestine grave. There are a lot of bodies,” Francisco replied.

  “The fuck . . . !” his father burst out, the first time he had ever cursed in his wife’s presence.

  Hilda, completely ignoring her husband’s vulgarity, clapped the kitchen towel to her mouth, her blue eyes wide with fright. She could only stammer, “Blessed Virgin, Mother of God!”

  “We think they’re victims of the police,” said Irene.

  “Desaparecidos?”

  “Could be,” said Francisco, shaking a few rolls of film onto the table from his backpack. “I have photographs. . . .”

  Hilda crossed herself automatically. Irene, at the very limits of her strength, sank into a chair as Professor Leal strode about the room, unable in all his extensive and exalted vocabulary to find words to fit the occasion. Although he was given to grandiloquence, this news had left him speechless.

  Irene and Francisco told them what had happened. They had reached the Los Riscos mine in midafternoon, tired and hungry, but prepared to investigate it thoroughly, clinging to the hope that once they had resolved the matter, they would be free to return to their normal lives and to love one another in peace. In the full light of day there was nothing sinister about the site, but the memory of Evangelina caused them to approach the mine with reluctance. Francisco wanted to go in alone, but Irene was determined to overcome her revulsion and help him open up the second passage; she wanted to get it over with and be out of there as quickly as possible. They easily removed the rubble and stones at the mine entrance; they ripped Irene’s kerchief into two pieces, tying the halves over their faces to protect them against the overpowering stench, and crawled into the main chamber. It was not necessary to turn on the flashlight. The sun poured through the opening, illuminating in its diffuse rays the body of Evangelina Ranquileo. Francisco arranged the poncho over the body to spare Irene that horror.

  Irene had to lean against the wall to keep her equilibrium; her legs seemed to be made of rubber. She tried to put her mind on her garden at home when the forget-me-nots were blooming over the grave of the baby-that-fell-through-the-skylight, or on baskets of fresh ripe fruit on market day. Francisco pleaded with her to go outside, but she succeeded in overcoming her nausea and, picking up a piece of iron from the ground, attacked the thin layer of cement that sealed the tunnel. Francisco joined her with his pick. The mortar must have been mixed by an inexpert hand, because with every blow it crumbled into fine particles. In addition to the stench, the air was fouled by a dense cloud of dust and cement, but they did not retreat; each stroke of the tools made them increasingly certain something was waiting for them behind that barrier, a truth hidden for a very long time. Ten minutes later, they unearthed a few shreds of cloth and some bones. It was a man’s ribcage, still clothed in a light-colored shirt and heavy blue sweater. While they waited for the dust to settle, they turned on the flashlight and examined the bones to determine beyond any doubt that they were human in origin. They had to dig only a little farther to find a skull; it rolled to their feet with a clump of hair still rooted in the forehead. Irene could not stomach any more, and she stumbled from the mine while Francisco kept digging mindlessly, like a silent machine. As new remains continued to emerge, he realized that they had discovered a tomb filled with corpses, and, judging from the state of the remains, they had probably been buried for some time. Parts of bodies erupted from the earth, along with tatters of clothing stained with a dark, oily substance. Before he left the tunnel, Francisco took his photographs with complete calm and precision, moving as if he were in a dream; he had passed the bounds of amazement. The extraordinary had come to seem natural, and he even found a certain logic in the situation; it was as if the violence had been there forever, waiting for him. Those dead bodies bursting from the earth, with fleshless hands and bullet holes in their skulls, had waited a long time, c
easelessly calling to him, but it was only now he had ears to hear. He found himself talking aloud, apologizing for his delay, feeling that he had failed in the rendezvous. Irene’s voice calling from outside the mine brought him back to reality. He left part of his soul behind.

  Between them, they closed the entrance, leaving it just as it had looked when they found it. For some minutes they gulped the pure, fresh air, gripping each other’s hands and listening to the racing of their hearts. Their agitated breathing and trembling bodies informed them that they were at least alive. The sun was sinking behind the hills, and as they climbed on the motorcycle and rode off toward the city, the sky was turning the color of crude oil.

  “And now what do we do?” was Professor Leal’s question when they had completed their story.

  For a long time they debated the best method to deal with the problem, obviously rejecting the idea of seeking help from the law, which would have been tantamount to placing their necks in a noose. They conjectured that Pradelio Ranquileo had known his sister was in the mine because he had used it to hide other crimes. If they advised the authorities, that would assure Irene and Francisco’s disappearance within a matter of hours, and the Los Riscos mine would be covered with a few new shovelfuls of earth. “Justice” was an almost forgotten term, no longer mentioned because, like the word “liberty,” it had subversive overtones. Though the military enjoyed impunity in all its activities, at times it created inconveniences for the government itself, since each branch of the armed forces had its own security system, and the Political Police, which was the highest power in the State, was independent of any controls. The professional zeal of these various agencies often produced lamentable errors and gross inefficiency. Not infrequently, two or more groups squabbled over who had the right to interrogate the same prisoner, for different reasons, or agents who had infiltrated an agency failed to recognize one another and ended up killing each other.

  “Oh, dear God! Whatever made you go into that mine?” Hilda sighed.

  “You did the correct thing. Now we must find a way to get you out of this,” the Professor replied.

  “The only idea that occurs to me is to report it in the press,” Irene suggested, referring to the few opposition newspapers still being published.

  “I’ll go to them tomorrow with the photographs,” Francisco said decisively.

  “You won’t get very far. They will kill you at the first street corner,” Professor Leal assured him.

  Nonetheless, they all agreed that Irene’s was not such a far-fetched idea. The best solution was to shout the news from the rooftops, to send it echoing around the world, awakening consciences and shaking the very foundations of the nation. Then Hilda, drawing on her incontestable common sense, reminded them that the Church was the only entity left standing; every other organization had been broken up and swept away by governmental repression. If they had the backing of the Church, there was a chance they might accomplish the impossible: unseal the mine without losing their lives in the process. They decided to place their secret in the Cardinal’s hands.

  Francisco ordered a taxi to take Irene to her house before curfew; she did not have enough strength to ride behind him on the motorcycle. Francisco, who had to develop the film, was much later getting to bed. He slept badly, tossing and turning in anguish, seeing in the shadows the face of Evangelina framed by yellowed bones clacking like castanets. He cried out in his dreams and awakened to see Hilda standing by his bedside.

  “I made you some linden tea, son. Drink it.”

  “I think I need something stronger. . . .”

  “Just be quiet and do what I tell you, that’s what a mother is for,” she ordered, smiling.

  Francisco sat up in bed, blowing on the tea to cool it, and began to sip it slowly while his mother observed him through narrowed eyes.

  “Why are you staring at me like that, Mama?”

  “You didn’t tell me everything that happened yesterday. You and Irene made love, didn’t you?”

  “Dammit, Mama. Do you have to know everything?”

  “I have a right to know.”

  “I’m too old to tell you everything I do,” Francisco said, laughing.

  “Look. I want to warn you that Irene is a decent young woman. Your intentions had better be honorable or you’ll have to answer to me. Is that clear? And now drink your tea, and if you have a clear conscience, you’ll sleep like a baby,” Hilda concluded, pulling up his covers.

  Francisco watched his mother leave the room, setting the door ajar so she could hear him if he called her; he felt the same tenderness he had known as a child when she sat on his bed and patted him gently until he fell asleep. Many years had gone by since then, but she still treated him with the same impertinent solicitude, ignoring the fact he was a grown man who often had to shave twice a day, who had a doctorate in psychology, and who could have lifted her off the ground with one hand. He teased her, but did nothing to change the habit of that uninhibited affection. He felt he was especially privileged, and he intended to enjoy it as long as he could. Their relationship, begun in the womb and strengthened by recognition of their mutual defects and virtues, was a precious gift they both hoped would last beyond life itself. The rest of the night Francisco slept soundly, and when he awoke he did not remember his dreams. He took a long, hot shower, ate his breakfast, draining the last of the imported coffee, and, with the photographs in his backpack, left for his brother’s neighborhood.

  José Leal, when not working as a plumber with blowtorch or monkey wrench, was kept busy with countless activities in the poor community where he had chosen to live in accordance with his incurable passion for serving his fellow man. He lived in a large, densely populated neighborhood that was invisible from the road, hidden behind walls and a row of poplar trees with naked branches stretching toward the sky—a place where not even vegetation thrived. Behind that discreet screen lay dirt streets and torrid heat in summer; mud and rain in winter; shacks constructed from discarded materials; garbage; clotheslines; dogfights. Idle men passed their hours in little groups on street corners, while children played with bits of junk and women struggled to prevent bad from deteriorating into worse. It was a world of deprivation and penury in which the only consolation was solidarity. Here no one dies of hunger, José said, in explanation of the communal stewpots, because before that last desperate step is taken, someone holds out a helping hand. Neighbors formed groups and contributed whatever each could scavenge for the soup shared by all. Distant relatives moved in with those who at least had a roof over their heads. In the soup kitchens the Church had set up for the children, a daily ration of food was apportioned to the youngest. Even after many years, the priest’s heart still melted when he saw the freshly bathed and combed children standing in line for their turn to enter the shed where rows of aluminum plates of food waited on huge tables, while their brothers and sisters, too old now to be fed by charity, loitered around, hoping for scraps. Two or three women cooked the food the priests obtained by means of pleas and spiritual threats. Besides serving the food, the women watched to see that the children ate all their portions, because many hid food and bread to take home to a family that had nothing to put in the cooking pot but a few vegetables picked up on the rubbish heap behind the market and a bone that more than once had been boiled to lend a hint of flavor to the broth.

  José lived in a wooden shack similar to many others, although his was larger because it also served as an office to minister to the temporal and spiritual needs of his disconsolate flock. Francisco, along with a lawyer and a doctor, took his turn treating the inhabitants in their disputes, illnesses, and depressions; all of them frequently felt totally useless, knowing there were no solutions to the mass of tragic problems confronting their patients.

  Francisco found his brother ready to go out, dressed in his workman’s overalls and carrying the heavy bag containing his plumber’s tools. After making
sure that they were alone, Francisco opened his pack. While the priest, turning paler and paler, looked at the photographs, Francisco told him the story, beginning with Evangelina Ranquileo and her attacks of saintliness—José had known something of this when he helped them look for her in the Morgue—and ending at the moment when the remains in the photographs lay at their feet in the mine. Francisco omitted nothing but the name of Irene Beltrán, in order to keep her safe from any possible consequences.

  José Leal listened to the end, then sat in an attitude of silent meditation, staring at the floor. His brother guessed that he was struggling to gain control of his emotions. When he was young, any form of abuse, injustice, or evil had sent a searing electric current through him, blinding him with rage. His years in the priesthood and a gradual mellowing of his character had given him the strength to control these fits of anger and—with the methodical discipline of humility—to accept the world as an imperfect work where God puts souls to the test. Finally he looked up. His face was once again serene and his voice sounded calm.

  “I will speak with the Cardinal,” he said.

  * * *

  “May God watch over us in the battle we are about to undertake,” said the Cardinal.

  “Amen,” seconded José Leal.

  Once more the prelate reviewed the photographs, holding them gingerly with his fingertips, studying the stained and ragged clothing, the empty eye sockets, the rigid hands. To anyone who did not know him, the Cardinal was always a surprise. At a distance performing his public duties, on the television screen, or officiating at mass in the Cathedral in his gold-and-silver-embroidered vestments and surrounded by his court of acolytes, the Cardinal looked slim and elegant. In fact, he was a short, muscular man with a farmer’s large hands, who spoke very little, and almost always in a brusque tone—more from shyness than discourtesy. Although he was notoriously taciturn in the presence of women and at social gatherings, he displayed little reticence while performing his responsibilities. He had few close friends, for experience had taught him that to one in his position, reserve is an indispensable virtue. Those few persons who had penetrated his inner circle testified that he had the affable nature typical of country people. Indeed, he had come from a large provincial family. Of his parents’ home, he treasured the memory of splendid noon meals, of the enormous table where he sat with a dozen brothers and sisters, of the wines bottled in their patio and stored for years in wine cellars. He had never lost his taste for succulent vegetable soups, corn cakes, chicken stews, highly spiced seafood chowder, and, above all, homemade desserts. The nuns responsible for maintaining the Cardinal’s residence took great pains to copy his mother’s recipes and send to his dining table the dishes he had enjoyed as a boy. Although José Leal did not claim to be the Cardinal’s friend, he knew him through his work in the Vicariate, where often they worked side by side, united in their compassionate desire to bring human solidarity where divine love seemed to be lacking. In the Cardinal’s presence, José always relived the faint bewilderment he had felt at their first meeting, for in his mind he carried the image of a man of distinguished bearing quite different from this stocky old man who looked more like a villager than a Prince of the Church. José felt a deep admiration for the prelate but he was careful not to show it, because his superior would not tolerate any form of flattery. Long before the rest of the country was aware of the true dimensions of the man, José Leal had seen proof of the courage, good will, and astuteness that the Cardinal would later demonstrate in dealing with the dictatorship. Neither the campaign of hostilities, nor priests and nuns in prison, nor warnings from Rome could deflect him from his purpose. This leader of the Church took upon his own shoulders the burden of defending the victims of the new order, placing his formidable organization at the service of the persecuted. If the situation became dangerous, he changed his strategy, backed by two thousand years of prudence and acquaintance with power. He avoided open confrontation between the representatives of the Church and those of the General. On occasion he gave the impression of retreat, but soon it was apparent that this was merely an emergency tactical maneuver. He did not deviate one iota from his task of sheltering widows and orphans, ministering to prisoners, keeping count of the dead, and substituting charity for justice if that became necessary. For these and many other reasons, José considered him to be their only hope in unearthing the secret of Los Riscos.