Widows

by Ariel Dorfman

  All of a sudden, like a slap that shakes you out of a daydream, without our having heard footsteps, there stood Serguei under the moonlight, waves and waves of moonlight, Serguei more alive than any memory of Dimitriou or the others, with his son asleep in his arms. For an instant the ghostly light shook our eyes and we couldn’t recognize him, couldn’t see how he handed the little one to Yanina, how he wavered slightly before the women. We’d all stood up. For an instant, Serguei didn’t know who to go up to. We were all identical, a single tormented, extended body. Then he opened his arms and silently went toward Grandma, but she didn’t move toward him. She even took a step back and Serguei stopped halfway across the shadows to be sure it was she who’d done that, and for the first time in hours someone said something, Grandma had to speak.

  “Did you sign anything?” that’s what she asked him, that, and several of us remembered the words of Grandma’s father, who had announced one night that the only thing he would never do was sign a piece of paper they’d put in front of him. Years ago he’d been through this. They’d taken him in and held him for months, and here we saw him, Karoulos Mylonas, able to survive, living proof, and afterwards, from a distance, it was much less terrible then what one might have imagined before it happened, and if at any time a document was brought to any of them, to any of us, his family, a document which had his signature where he’d confessed something, even something he’d really done, we were not to believe it, because his signature was like his shadow, he’d never give it to any man. They, the men, his son-in-law Michael and his three grandsons—Dimitriou, Serguei, and Themi—had understood, and we, the women who were standing back a little ways listening, took note of that although it was for the men. We said to ourselves that no one in this family, man or woman, not even children like Fidelia and Alexis, would give up a breath, it was understood. Not the scratch of a pencil, nothing.

  Although Grandma had skipped the question that every one of the thirty-six women waiting outside the office, everyone of us, had wanted to ask and the one that would begin tomorrow morning, and the one that Alexandra now, we waited for Serguei’s answer.

  Yanina stepped forward, her hair shining almost white in that impossible light. “Mama, he had nothing to do with all this politics. He never got involved in these things, you know that, Papa knew it and Dimitriou too and you yourself.”

  Grandma took another step back.

  “What did you sign?” she asked.

  “Mama, they took him away because he was from this family. The only thing he wanted was to live quietly.”

  Grandma looked at her tenderly, half smiling, a grimace of a smile. A look that said everything. It was good that a woman should always stand by her man, that was very good. She was pleased Serguei had found a girl so loyal, the right mother for his son. But Yanina had not grown up in this house, Yanina couldn’t understand. It wasn’t her fault, just a fact. There were things she couldn’t understand.

  But Yanina wasn’t going to keep still. She went up to Serguei with the baby in her arms, got as close to him as she could, gloriously green in the shadows.

  “What was he going to sign, Mama? What was he going to sign, if he couldn’t tell them anything? He had nothing to tell them. He wasn’t involved in anything. They hurt him, Mama, they hurt him and he wasn’t involved in anything, he didn’t know anything about anything, he didn’t have a single secret to hand over. What document was he going to—”

  Grandma interrupted with a gesture. She turned half around and went into the house. None of us followed. We didn’t know what to do. Cristina went forward to embrace Serguei, but he looked at her strangely and she stopped there, close to him, frozen, watching.

  “Tell her,” Yanina begged us. “Tell her it’s her son, he’s back, he’s back, and she—”

  “If they killed him,” said Alexandra suddenly. “Tell me Serguei, for the love of God, tell me. If you know something about Dimitriou …”

  That question, that one.

  Serguei went to the door and from there, before going in, he spoke for the first time. Another voice came out of him, not the one we’d anticipated, that we remembered from a year, two years ago.

  “They keep you with a blindfold over your eyes,” he said, “for five months. For five months they keep you like that. You don’t see anyone, you speak to no one, nobody speaks to you. I could hardly remember Yanina’s face.”

  And he went inside.

  Grandma had opened the trunk where we keep the clothes. She was dusting off things to wear, the same as the other time, the time she informed us we had to go down to the river, the whole family had to get ready, had to hold vigil over Michael, hurry. This time she didn’t say anything. She took out only her own clothes.

  “Mama,” said Serguei.

  Grandma went on as if nothing, no one. She pulled out a dress, her best one, the one she wore to baptisms, weddings, big parties, moving her head maybe to remember something, calling someone back. Then she folded it again, smoothed it out, and put it back in the trunk.

  “Yanina,” Grandma called over the shoulder of her son who was almost beside her. “Yanina, Serguei is tired. I think it would be good if you let him sleep. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

  We all went in and saw her taking out the clothes and rearranging them.

  “How can you be so hard, Sofia” said Hilda. “He’s your son. He’s the only one left alive.”

  “Dimitriou’s going to come back,” said Alexandra. “I know he’s not dead. Serguei, isn’t it true your brother’s going to come back?”

  “They split us up the next day,” Serguei said, turning his back. “I haven’t seen him since.”

  Serguei wasn’t even speaking to her, simply repeating again and again the same story to any woman who asked him the same question. He was someplace else, not used to the idea that this was his own house, that he was facing his mother kneeling beside the trunk, his wife and child near him, his brother’s wife asking the questions he’d been hearing all afternoon, that he’d have to answer again tomorrow and the next day and all the years to come.

  “If something had happened to him, I’d know it,” said Alexandra. “Yanina, I’d know it here inside. Yanina!”

  Grandma had finished packing a little bundle of clothes she’d chosen. Now she got up and went to the table where the photos were. She took the one of her father, then of her husband, finally of Dimitriou, and placed them on top of the clothes at her feet. She looked at Serguei’s photo. She turned her head to contemplate Serguei himself who was standing there, still without having moved, and put that photo with the others. As if that son were also a memory, someone who had to be kept in mind along with the rest of the men in the family.

  Grandma went over to Yanina and took the bag out of her hands. She saw there was almost nothing left inside, some chunks of bread, a bit of cold meat. She looked for some cheese on the table, some more bread. “Fidelia, tomorrow you’ll fetch me some eggs. Boil them and bring them to me, dear.”

  She took her packet and went toward the door. Before going out, she turned and pointed a finger in her sister’s direction.

  “Hilda’s the one in charge. Until Alexis or I come back.”

  None of us wanted to look at Serguei.

  “Where are you going, Mama?” asked Cristina, although we all knew the answer.

  I didn’t want to listen, the words that Fidelia and Alexandra had been afraid of since Grandma told Yanina to take off her mourning dress, we didn’t want to be there to hear what Grandma had been preparing for all afternoon, from the instant Serguei came through the door of the school.

  “Where am I going?” Grandma looked at Cristina surprised. “To the river, to the river, where else would I be going?”

  “To the river?”

  “Yes,” she said, “to the river. I’m going to wait for my son.”

  chapter six

  ix

  “You can begin now,” said the captain. “I’m very interested to
know the details of your journey.”

  Everything had gone, said the orderly, just as the captain had wanted. The invitation was delivered. Philip Kastoria would come to the dinner. Only a little problem had arisen at the beginning.

  “A little problem?”

  Yes, sir. When they arrived, the orderly noticed that the guard at the main gate was a new person. He had commented on this to Cecilia. Of course, the guard didn’t recognize him and had declared he had strict orders not to admit anyone. He would see to it that the letter was delivered.

  “And what did you do?”

  If the captain would permit him a comment, above all he had felt satisfied that the guards were properly fulfilling their duty of protecting the family and property of Philip Kastoria. But those orders had nothing to do with him, the new guard simply didn’t know him. It was enough for the orderly to explain to the man who he was, since the guard had naturally heard of him, for everything to be straightened out. He’d opened the gate and accompanied him to the house. If the captain didn’t mind him saying so, yes, he’d found that guard, and another with whom he’d had the chance to exchange a few words, a bit nervous. The groundless rumors had gotten even as far as them.

  “Fine. And did you go to the house alone or did you take your girl friend along?”

  No, sir. She’d stayed waiting in the jeep.

  “And how long did your conversation with Mr. Kastoria last?” Three hours.

  When Emmanuel climbed back into the jeep, she didn’t want to complain or ask him anything right away. He didn’t say anything either, despite the fact that it was baking hot inside. The hours in the sun had scorched the driver’s seat, and the steering wheel was practically untouchable. Still, he started the motor and turned the jeep around for the return trip. Before accelerating, he raised his hand in salute to the two guards watching them, rifles in hand, behind the main gate. Beyond them, the tall, blond, broad figure of Kastoria amiably waved good-bye. Emmanuel kicked at the accelerator and the vehicle leaped forward, roaring. A cool breeze blew in. Only when they’d passed the first curve, when the entry gate and the three men were out of sight, did he say to her, “You could have gotten out and sat in the shade, couldn’t you?”

  “You told me to stay here, so I did.” She waited for him to respond, but since he added nothing, she asked, “What did you talk about?”

  His voice sounded rough, like one of those infinitely dusty hills alongside the road. “Nothing. Men’s business. Things that wouldn’t interest you.”

  “Business of yours and I wouldn’t be interested? How do you know?”

  He didn’t take his eyes off the road. Nothing in his voice changed when he said, “Because you’re a woman, and women don’t know anything about politics. That’s why.”

  “Three hours,” the captain repeated. “So Mr. Kastoria was there?”

  Yes, sir. He had found him with his brother and his wife having tea in one of the salons. Would the captain like a detailed account of the conversation?

  “Tell me everything.”

  Emmanuel took his eyes off the road for a second and shot her a sidelong glance. “I’d like to know just one thing. What’s bothering you? Because something’s the matter, something’s bothering you, that’s for sure.”

  “You already asked me that.”

  “I’m asking you again.”

  “You asked me hours ago.” She signaled absurdly toward the mountain road the jeep was going up, as if the question were there, waiting for them “And I don’t see how anything’s changed. Nothing’s bothering me, I already told you that.”

  “Okay, then nothing’s the matter. I’m glad.”

  “Maybe something’s bothering you? Let’s see if you tell me. What’s on your mind?”

  “You really want to know?”

  She smiled. “Yes, because you get so ugly when you’re worrying, your skin gets all wrinkled, here and here.” She caressed the skin around the corners of his mouth. “So if you tell me what you’re thinking about, then I’ll be able to know what it is just by looking at the wrinkles. You can’t have any secrets. I’m going to know them all, every last one.”

  “You really want to know?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was thinking about my home.”

  “Our home?”

  He chose not to respond. With one arm he pointed toward the hills that were beginning to lose their green, the breeze no longer so cool as they left the valley’s fertility. “Nothing’s changed, it’s incredible.” He eased off on the gas pedal going into a curve. “I used to come here, as a kid, miles and miles, just to see a festival of green like this. I knew I couldn’t come in. The owner wouldn’t allow it and my father wouldn’t have either. Even then it was all fenced off. Pity the kid who got caught in the orchards.”

  “Poor thing,” she said. “But you picked plenty of fruit, didn’t you?”

  “Not one apple. Don’t ask me why, but I felt that my duty, even then, was to protect the fruit, protect the owner’s property. From the other side of the wire, I scared the birds away, that’s what I did.”

  “You didn’t take any fruit? What did you come for, then?”

  “For the green. That’s what. It was enough to look at the house’s gardens from a distance, from a nearby hill. Even then I knew, I don’t know how, but I knew it in my bones like I know there’s God, like I know the two of us are here now, I looked at that green and calmed down, all my sadness and rage disappeared, I knew that some day I was going to have to get out of my house, out of my village. I knew that those rocks couldn’t keep me prisoner forever. I knew I’d do anything to get away. Absolutely anything.”

  “And did you know you were going to do it with me?”

  He looked at her now, amazed, tender. “You’re going to laugh, but yes. I knew that too.”

  “We could go by and see your house. It isn’t far from here, is it?”

  “From the owner’s house it’s six hours on foot … but in the jeep we could do it in less than an hour.”

  “Six hours, on foot?”

  “Every Sunday. I didn’t care what they’d do to me when I got back. Every Sunday, before anybody was up, I was already on my way. Later my father would beat me. He gave it to me good. I got home at dusk and there he was, waiting. My sister told me once that Sundays, the first thing he’d do was go to my bed to see if I’d done it again, and then he’d sit there, by the door, all day, waiting for me to come back. Every Sunday. But it was worth it.”

  “Let’s go,” she said. “It’s not late. I’d like so much to visit the house you were born in.”

  Emmanuel pressed down on the gas and the rough sound of the motor almost drowned out his reply, which came out in a kind of vicious whisper. “What for? There’s nothing to see. A house like any other. Like yours in Longa. A shitty house.”

  “The place where you were born can’t be the way you say it is. Come on, let’s go.”

  “No. In a few years, maybe.”

  “When we come back from the city?”

  “When we come back from the city?” he said, doubtfully. “Sure, maybe then.”

  Her voice sweetened. “You know what I’d like? I’d like to have known you when you were little. Really little.”

  “What for?” but Emmanuel smiled, the hostility draining from his body. For an instant, they both felt how his hand settled on her skirt, the thigh beneath. She took it in hers. He withdrew it reluctantly and set it back on the wheel.

  “To take care of you, protect you. You cried, didn’t you?”

  “I never cried,” he said abruptly. “Not even when I was born. If I told you … My mama says I yelled plenty but never a tear. I don’t have any water in me. Nothing’s ever been able to get a drop out of me. I think that’s what made my old man so furious. Maybe that’s why he hit me so hard.”

  “Poor little love.”

  “Poor? No way. I deserved it. I knew I wasn’t supposed to make those trips. I had to pay the price. Nothing’
s free in this life. If they don’t hand you the bill today, you’ll get it tomorrow. You can count on that. If some kid of mine got mixed up with my enemies, I’d do the same thing.”

  “You’d do that to a child of ours?”

  He suddenly hit the brakes. There was a little turnout at the side of the road, at the edge of a precipice. He shut off the motor and twisted around in the seat to face her. Behind her, the valley was dancing, green and rich, the leafy exuberance contrasted with that brown face, her dark, sad, sparkling eyes.