Beyond the Ties of Blood

by Florencia Mallon

  They looked at each other, not sure of what to say. “Well,” Ignacio ventured, “at least something to eat. We saw the sign about your dining room.”

  The woman laughed softly. “Yes, that’s an old sign. We used to have a dining room, with a cook and a waitress and everything. Business has been a little slow recently and I had to let them go last year. But wait,” she continued, as they made moves to leave. “I could cook you up something. I was checking my traps earlier and found a couple of fresh locos. I also have some clams that a fisherman brought by earlier today and was about to make a soup. And there’s always bread, and a bottle or two of red wine. You interested?”

  “I think you had her at the word locos,” Ignacio answered, putting his arm around Eugenia’s shoulders. “It sounds great.”

  They watched the sunset from the picture windows in the dog-eared dining room. Angela kept up a conversation through the window that connected them to the kitchen. As they opened a first bottle of Cabernet, she headed off to the kitchen to begin preparing dinner, promising she would explain how she had ended up the owner of the Pensión Bucalemu.

  “I’m a product of my time,” she said, a stained white chef’s apron tied around her waist. “I was one of those young rebels in the sixties. I was born on the German side of the Alsace border, but ran away from home and rode the trains to Paris. Then one day, during the student movement, you know, May 1968? I met this beautiful young Chilean boy and fell in love. We came back to Chile and spent that next summer surfing together along the coast here. In Pichilemu there was no one else back then.”

  She stopped talking for a moment to pay attention to her soup, beating the locos with a wide stick she took out of the cupboard. “You have to be very careful with these things,” she explained. “If you don’t beat them long enough before cooking, they get as tough as leather.” She turned back to stir the soup once again, putting in some herbs and salt, then placed the locos in boiling water. The round, slightly tangy fragrance of seafood made their mouths water.

  She took several tomatoes and a purple onion out of a large basket on the counter, then reached for some sprigs of cilantro to complete the ingredients for a tomato salad. “Anyway,” she continued as she began slicing up the tomatoes and the onion, “we were very happy here. For several years we surfed most of the time, and worked in the tourist hotels during the summers. At the beginning of the seventies, you know, there were a lot of young people coming south, and times were good.” She finished cutting the salad and reached up into one of the cupboards over the counter, bringing down a bottle of olive oil. After dribbling some of its contents across the top of the tomatoes and adding a pinch of sea salt from a bowl on the sideboard, she walked to the other side of the kitchen and opened a drawer. She rummaged around for a while among the various large kitchen utensils.

  “Things changed in the spring of 1973,” she said, her head still down, eyes staring into the drawer. “Why is it I can never find those damn salad tongs? I know they’re here, in plain sight!” She reached a hand into the back and pulled out the offending item. The slam of the drawer was so loud that it made Eugenia jump.

  “Damn onions,” Angela muttered, swiping at her eyes. For a moment she busied herself tossing the salad, then drained the locos. “They still need to cool down a bit more,” she said, coming back to retrieve her glass of wine. “And the soup needs another fifteen, maybe twenty minutes.”

  “So how’d you end up with the pensión?” Eugenia asked when Angela joined them.

  For a moment Angela looked out at the shimmering remains of sunlight that were playing along the horizon, a bluish, then greyish reminder of where the sun had disappeared only a few minutes before. She stood up and went to the cabinet to retrieve a second bottle of Cabernet. She reached over and flicked on a lamp. The room glimmered, saffron-like. She took the corkscrew out of the pocket of her apron and opened the new bottle. Then she walked back and refilled their empty glasses.

  “You have to understand that the coup wasn’t the same here as it was in Santiago,” she said, sitting down. “Why, if we’d actually counted up the members of all the political parties here, we wouldn’t have used all the fingers on one hand.” She stopped for a moment, and when she continued her voice was muddy and rutted. “But it didn’t matter. They still rounded them up, all the young men with long hair.”

  By the time they finished dinner, they’d also polished off three bottles of Cabernet between them. There was something about Chilean wine, Eugenia thought dizzily, maybe especially the Cabernet. It made people feel like they’d known each other all their lives. Camilo, Angela’s lover, had been picked up by the military police about a week after the coup, and even though she’d looked for him, gone to the local police outpost repeatedly over the next few weeks, he was never heard from again. The owner of the Pensión Bucalemu, a grizzled, long-haired man from further south, had also disappeared. In order to comfort his wife, for whom she had worked several summers, Angela moved into one of the upstairs rooms. People stopped traveling and business declined. One day in the early summer after the coup, when no one had appeared or even called to inquire about a room, the owner said she was leaving. I’m going back to my family in the north, she said. I just can’t live here anymore. Some nights I hear him, or see his ghost in the moonlight that plays across the water. I can’t stand it. The place is yours.

  Of course they ended up spending the night. After Eugenia had hugged Angela, told her that she, too, had been arrested and her lover disappeared, they had cried together over the last remaining drops of wine. Then Angela had made up a room for them, fresh sheets on a double bed and a balcony overlooking the beach. By the time they’d brought up their bags and said good night, Eugenia felt like an entire layer of her skin had been pulled back, exposing nerve ends and raw flesh. She walked out on the balcony when Angela closed the door. A sliver of moon had risen, casting faint reflections across the dark water.

  “If you want, I can sleep in the chair,” he said. She could feel the light brushing of his breath along her ear. A tingle went down her back.

  “I feel strange,” she said, “and I don’t think it’s the wine.”

  “I know what you mean,” he said, running a hand up and down her right arm, over the long sleeve she always wore. The tingle moved from her back to her shoulder in response. “It seems everywhere you go in this country, someone’s got a story. And most of them won’t get to the Commission. I didn’t have the heart to suggest she report Camilo. And I suspect his family hasn’t reported him, either.”

  She felt his lips touch the side of her neck, then move down to her shoulder. A burning feeling under her lungs made it hard to breathe. She turned and he kissed her full on the mouth, tasting of wine and cilantro. As he unbuttoned her blouse they moved back, away from the window and onto the bed.

  He slowly peeled the blouse off her arms, and when he saw the purple marks there he ran a tender finger over them and kissed them, murmuring comfort. He took his time, lingering over each one. By the time he was done, she had melted, opening up to him completely.

  When she awoke, the timid light of early morning was spreading across the recently abandoned pillow next to her head. He was standing out on the balcony, a jacket pulled on over his bare torso in an attempt to stave off the briny chill of the sea breeze.

  “Did you sleep well?” she asked. He came back to her side, taking her in his arms. He smelled of salt and fish, with a lingering undercurrent of sex. As he began taking off his jacket, kissing her strong on the lips, she pulled back.

  “Wait a minute,” she said. “I’m not even awake yet. I need a cup of coffee.”

  He stood up and walked over to his bag lying open on the floor. Taking off his jacket, he put on a fresh shirt instead. He reached over and untangled his belt from among her clothes, threading it through the loops of his open jeans, then zipping and buckling them in place.

  “I’m ready for the coffee, if that’s what it will take,” he
said.

  Eugenia felt a chill from the breeze and pulled the covers over her breasts. “I think we need to take it easy,” she said.

  “That’s exactly what we’re doing,” he said. “We’re not in any rush. A few days on the road, nothing to worry about.”

  “You know that’s not what I mean,” she said.

  “But you also know that, ever since I held you in the armchair in your Boston apartment, there’s been something between us.”

  “Maybe that’s the problem. I’m not sure what happened in Boston.”

  “Come on, Eugenia, we were both there!”

  “I know. But I’m not sure what it was, even though I felt it, you felt it and, to be honest, I’ve thought about it a lot since then.”

  “So have I.”

  “And since I got back, you’ve been the one person who understands. I don’t have to explain anything to you. Like the time I went to police headquarters, and you knew just what I was talking about.”

  “So what’s the problem, then?”

  “Well, for one thing, when I went into exile you were just graduating from high school.”

  “What difference does that make? You’re not going to start up with that age stuff, are you? I get enough of it every day without you starting on me! Besides, with the work I’ve done, the people I’ve met, the testimonies I’ve taken, I’m not just any old kid you picked up off the street!”

  “True. Like I said, you’re the only one who understands. But I wonder how much of it is just that. The first time we felt close, in Boston, was when I told you about Manuel. The time in Santiago, when we started kissing up on the Cerro San Cristóbal, you were consoling me after my hallucination at police headquarters. Last night, it was after Angela and I cried together.”

  “So?”

  “I think we need to take it easy, figure out what’s going on. I want to know how things feel when we’re not dealing with torture or disappearance. Besides, in case you haven’t yet done the math, I’m six years older than you.”

  “Age is not about math. And neither is love.”

  “I’d be careful about using that word. Things did not go well for me the last time I used it. Except I got Laura. And we can’t forget about Laura.”

  After lingering over coffee and bread, they hugged Angela good-bye and headed north to the beach resort of Pichilemu. Walking along the gritty, mud-colored sand, watching the surfers in wet suits lining up to ride the curl, drinking second-rate beer in beachfront bars with diagonal cracks through the tiles on the floor, Eugenia felt the knots in her back loosen one by one. They were in no hurry. They stayed in another ragged hotel, the sheets smelling of brine, for three days. Their lovemaking was quiet and tender, sometimes mirthful, no longer the voracious hunger of the first time. At sunset they walked the beach and watched the sun sink piece by piece, first red, then pink, then gold, until all that remained was a silver afterthought across the horizon. On the fourth night, as they sat drinking glasses of homemade raspberry liqueur on the veranda of their favorite restaurant, Ignacio leaned back in his chair.

  “I was thinking,” he said, “that we might want to head further north tomorrow. We can spend New Year’s at one of those quaint little places along the coast, and then we might drop by and visit my family. They’re at the summer house in Algarrobo, near Valparaíso.”

  Eugenia sat up straighter and looked at him with some alarm. “Visit your family? Are you sure?”

  “Look, we’ve been through this before. But now it’s different. No, don’t say anything. I heard you when you said we have to take things slowly. But even though I’ve lived independently since I was sixteen and I’m not like a lot of Chilean men who live at home until they marry, and don’t even learn how to make a bed or boil water …”

  “You do remember what happened last time, when we went for lunch. And now, we arrive together, obviously traveling together …”

  “But that’s exactly the point. They need to know what’s happening in my life. They’re my family.”

  “I don’t think your mother’s opinion will have changed in the meantime. She wants you close, you’re the only unmarried son. I’m six years older than you, and besides, to be quite frank, I’m damaged goods!”

  “Okay, look. Let’s just see what happens. Let’s head north, and we’ll see how we feel after the New Year.”

  When they headed north toward San Antonio, they wore their bond comfortably, like an old shirt grown soft from washing. Walking, they sought each other out instinctively, shoulders touching, hand seeking hand. Sitting, for a meal or in the car, a free hand would find a shoulder or a knee. They laughed together easily, on the same breath, or finished the other’s sentence. They spent New Year’s Eve in a small fishing village, dancing and drinking cheap wine at a local bar. By then, nothing seemed more natural than the right turn Ignacio took, off the coastal road late in the afternoon of their sixth day together, following the arrow to Algarrobo.

  The house was up among the rocks, a long set of stairs zigzagging down from the veranda to the water’s edge. Eugenia saw the family gathered on the porch from several blocks away, blotches of bright-colored summer clothes that hid and reappeared with each turn of the road. They arrived at the rear of the house, where a door to the kitchen stood open to allow in the early evening breeze. Four cars were already parked, two of them late-model station wagons suggesting the presence of children. They walked in, saying hello to the servants they met along the way.

  “Hello!” Ignacio called as he got closer to the porch. “It’s me! I brought Eugenia!”

  Cecilia Letelier came out to greet them. She took Eugenia’s hands between hers and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “Why Eugenia,” she said. “What a surprise. Traveling without your daughter, I see. So good to see you again.” The stiffness of her voice belied her words. “Nachito,” she said, turning to look at her son while still holding on to one of Eugenia’s hands. “To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure? Can you stay a few days?” Without waiting for an answer, she led them out onto the porch. “Ignacio,” she said, “look who’s here.”

  Don Ignacio gave Eugenia a tight hug. “Eugenia, so good to see you. How’s that lovely daughter of yours?”

  “She’s fine, don Ignacio,” Eugenia said. “She’s with my sister and my mother at our family’s farm.”

  “And where is that, my dear?” doña Cecilia asked.

  “South of here, a bit inland from the coast at Bucalemu, near San Jacinto.”

  “Yes, I know the area well, I have a dear childhood friend whose family has a place right near there. Why, after the agrarian reform, they—”

  “Mamacita,” Ignacio interrupted quickly. “We need to finish the introductions. Eugenia,” he continued, taking her by the hand, “this is my sister Ceci, her husband Antonio, my brother Fermín, and his wife Soledad.”

  Eugenia made the rounds, shaking hands and receiving pecks on the cheek.

  “We were just sitting down to have a pisco sour,” doña Cecilia said after they had all settled back into the various pieces of wicker porch furniture. “Clemente!” she called toward the kitchen. “Bring out two more glasses for el niño Ignacio and his friend!”

  They sat drinking pisco sours until the moon came up over the ocean, projecting its light in sheets across the surface of the water. As they continued to sit on the porch, the servants brought out a light supper of chicken and avocado sandwiches, followed by cups of consommé. Only when all the dishes were removed and snifters of cognac passed around did the family’s attention turn fully to the new arrivals.

  “Eugenia,” Ceci said, “my mother had mentioned to me that you have a teenage daughter. You look so young, I can’t imagine—”

  “Ceci,” Ignacio interrupted, “Eugenia’s daughter Laura is sixteen, and she’s a really lovely young lady. As you can imagine, it was really difficult bringing her up in exile. Eugenia has done a marvelous job, I have to say.”

  “Being in exile for such
a long time must have been so hard,” Ignacio’s brother Fermín said after a short silence. “How did you—”

  This time Ignacio’s father interrupted. “You know what,” he said. “Eugenia must be tired after a long day on the road. Perhaps we shouldn’t go immediately to such heavy topics. We were hoping to see you again, Eugenia. We really enjoyed your visit when you had lunch with us in Santiago. But next time, you must bring Laura. Here in Algarrobo I can show her some wonderful places along the shore, in the crannies between the large boulders, where you can find the most beautiful shells.”

  “Papito,” Ignacio said, “I didn’t know you were still collecting shells. Why, the last time I looked in your study the shelves were absolutely crammed. Where are you putting the new ones?”

  “Ay, Nachito, don’t get me started,” doña Cecilia complained, “I’ve been telling him that it’s time to throw some of them out, but he’s like a little boy when it comes to those things!”

  Everyone laughed at that, and began teasing don Ignacio about his child-like attachment to collecting. The conversation then shifted to more mundane topics, and once the cognac was consumed and the moon moved further up in the sky, Ignacio’s mother got up.

  “I’ll go make sure the rooms on the first floor have been prepared,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind sleeping in a twin bed, Eugenia. Unfortunately it’s all we have left, with the house as full as it is. Luckily, with Ceci’s nanny on vacation in her village in the south, there are two rooms open on the ground floor. Ignacio, do you know if Clemente got your suitcases out of the car?” After saying their good-nights, they followed her out into the hall.

  “Ah, good, I see your bags are in the correct rooms and the beds have been made. You also have clean towels. Ignacio, can you show Eugenia where the bathroom is and how the shower works? Good. Well, I guess that’s it then.” She gave them both pecks on the cheek. “Welcome, Eugenia, it’s good to see you again. I’m always happy when Nachito brings his friends to the house. Sleep well.” Her summer sandals flopped briskly against her heels as she made her way up the stairs.