Then it was again the turn of Diego Garcia to speak. He gave an abrazo to the singer before taking the microphone. In the commanding voice Alejandro found so seductive, he began. He spoke of his feeling of responsibility, for hadn’t he fought alongside the incumbent president to overthrow the previous corrupt regime in the hope of creating a better future for the country? Only to find that the president had turned into his predecessor and betrayed the people. “And now, like his predecessor, he must be resisted.”
“We have our battle cut out for us against the voracious eaters of our lands and of our souls,” he said. “But already there are other organizations that share our concerns about a common enemy. And together we can prevail. Together we will flood the streets, reclaim our rightful lands and our souls. Our resistance is like the wild passion fruit vine of the forest, beginning with a semilla watered by hope and strength, now growing exponentially, sometimes unruly, with tentacles that have taken unexpected detours, but all connected at the root. Soon our vine will bear fruit, and its fruit will be abundant.” At this point, as cries of “Viva la resistencia!” began to fill the air, Ismael rejoined Diego Garcia on the stage with his cuatro and began singing in an exquisite soprano that made the hair on Alejandro’s forearms stand on end. It was a ballad filled with yearning and pride, one he had never heard before, but felt as if he had known all his life. Within seconds everyone had joined in the chorus, “Como crecen las frutas de la enredadera.” How they grow, the fruits of the vine. Some had tears streaming down their faces, and Alejandro was one of them.
Alejandro told Amparo that it was as though he had forgotten who he was, the enemy, an agent of the thousand-headed soul-killing terrophagus. All at once he felt on the side of the people in the clearing and, overcome with emotion at the conclusion of the song, he began shouting “Viva!” as wildly and enthusiastically as the others.
When Garcia made his way back to where Alejandro was standing, Alejandro clapped him vigorously on the back and said, “I feel that you and your friend have returned to me something I had lost; you must introduce me to this Ismael Martinez.”
After the crowd had dispersed, the three of them—Alejandro, Diego and Ismael—sat on the ground under the stars, drinking shots of agua ardiente and talking long into the night.
After that, Alejandro shared with his two new friends an intellectual love affair and boyish camaraderie that would last the rest of his life. The three met frequently under the Aguilar roof, sharing information, planning and plotting acts of resistance to the regime of El Colonel: Alejandro from within, Garcia and Ismael from the outside. Together, they founded the radio voice of the Guajiro resistance movement, Buenos días Guajiro, along the lines of Cuba’s Radio rebelde. They used adolescent code names to communicate with each other. Alejandro was Speed Racer, Ismael was El Zorro, and Diego was El Negro Catire. It would have been comic, if their vocation had not been deadly serious, and even life-threatening.
After two aborted attempts, the P.E., along with allied movements, mounted an unrelenting street protest in every major city, paralyzing businesses and transportation. It was this third thrust that finally sent El Colonel fleeing into exile. But not before his henchman, Pedro Lanz, director of the Department of Security and Classified Information, almost made Ismael disappear.
A year after Consuelo and Ismael were married, Amparo received a cable from Ismael from a small town in the southwestern provinces. Consuelo had suffered her first miscarriage. Hoping that the company of her closest friend would serve as a balm for her sorrow, Ismael had decided to bring her to Tamanaco. They arrived in the month of October, and Amparo and Alejandro had welcomed them with open arms. Amparo allowed Consuelo nine days of tears, the time it took to complete the obligatory Novena for the unborn baby’s soul, before instituting a regime of fun and happiness. It was not long before she had coaxed her friend into mornings of beauty parlors and shopping for pretty things, afternoons of movies and museums, evenings of boisterous card games, late nights of singing and laughing. Ismael spent most of his days with Alejandro at the office.
On the evening of November 1, he asked Alejandro to stop at a florist on the way home so that he might buy flowers. It was Consuelo’s thirtieth birthday. Since there was no place to park anywhere near the flower shop, Alejandro dropped Ismael off and instructed his chauffeur to drive around the block a couple of times. After sixteen times around the block and still no sign of Ismael, Alejandro got out and went into the flower shop, but the florist said there had been no customers in over an hour. Alejandro used the phone at the flower shop to tell Amparo what had happened but urged her not to alarm Consuelo. He would wait at the florist awhile longer, he said.
“These men!” Amparo exclaimed to Consuelo with a lightheartedness she did not feel. “If it weren’t for women they’d lose their own heads.”
When the doorbell rang at six p.m., the maid had left and Amparo was in the shower. Consuelo ran to answer it. She barged into the bathroom, carrying a lavish bouquet of white roses, and stammering so badly that Amparo could not make head nor tail of what she was trying to say.
“Pero qué te pasa, Consuelo? Slow down, I can’t understand a word.”
“For me, from Pedro Lanz,” Consuelo said.
When Amparo heard that, a chill of fear ran down her spine—for Ismael, for Consuelo, and indeed for them all. As director of Security and Classified Information, Pedro Lanz was in charge of his own section of secret police, a man believed to be so devoted to his job that it was claimed he slept with his eyes open. Certainly not a man to be taken lightly. To make matters worse, when Amparo had introduced him to Consuelo a little over a year earlier, Consuelo had reprimanded him for staring at her breasts and gone off to dance with Ismael. And it was not a matter of classified information that Ismael was no friend of the Department of Security and Classified Information.
“What shall we do?” Amparo asked, when Alejandro returned.
“We will make discreet inquiries,” he said.
While Amparo took charge of the phones, Alejandro used his connections to obtain any information on the possible detention of Ismael. And Consuelo took to the streets, looking everywhere she could think of—military headquarters, police lockups, hospitals, mortuaries. Amparo knew she had every reason to be concerned for the life of her husband as well as that of Ismael. It was dangerous to appear to care too much about those who disappeared. After two tense weeks, she received the news she had been dreading. It was Lily Percomo on the line, an American woman who worked as her husband’s secretary at TVista.
“Some Seguridad Nacional officials are here,” Lily Percomo whispered into the receiver.
“Put me through to my husband,” Amparo said urgently. The secretary complied, but, before Amparo could utter a word beyond hello, Alejandro said, “Polenta criolla will be fine for dinner.”
“Está bien, mi amor,” said Amparo, breaking out into a cold sweat, “I’ll see you at the usual time, around seven?” Polenta criolla was code for an emergency. And seven meant that Amparo should send the kids to her mother’s in Valencia.
“Seven, perfecto.”
Amparo packed a suitcase and sent Alex and Isabel with the driver to her mother’s. When she informed Consuelo of the situation, Amparo expected her to fall apart, but she was strangely composed. In fact, it was Amparo who was nervous, who would jump out of her skin every time the phone or the doorbell rang. Consuelo poured her a scotch and together they waited for Alejandro to come home.
Alejandro returned only at eight, his face haggard, his eyes grave. The Seguridad National men had interrogated him for three hours in his office on his connection with Ismael Martinez. Alejandro had maintained that his wife and the wife of Ismael Martinez were friends from childhood. Then they suddenly switched gears and grilled him about his car.
“That’s a pretty fancy car you have. Where did you get that car?” they said, as if they didn’t know already.
“I bought it from a dealer in sp
orts cars.”
“Really, and do you have a receipt for it?”
“As a matter of fact I do.” After he showed them the receipt in his file, the tone of the interrogation alternated between chatty and menacing. Alejandro secretly recorded the exchange, pressing a button under his desk.
Are you aware that the dealer you bought your car from is trafficking stolen vehicles?...no...luckily for you we can’t find the original owner of your Corvette and anyway it’s not you we’re interested in...you were seen having dinner at El Carrizo last weekend with Ismael Martinez who we believe is connected to another man we are very interested in...our wives are childhood friends...yes, so sad for your wife and your wife’s good friend...she won’t be seeing him for a while...arrested...¿qué dices hombre? there must be some mistake...no we don’t think so or maybe you know something we don’t...is it possible to contact him?...no of course not you cannot contact him, no one is allowed to contact suspected traitors to the nation...but, his wife, what is she supposed to do?...por supuesto it’s a bum rap for the wife, these damn revolucionarios never think about their families never think they’re going to get caught but they all do in the end and poof! keep your nose clean hombre.
When he came home, Alejandro played the recording for Amparo, and continued to play it in his head, over and over, especially the “poof,” which had been punctuated by one of the Seguridad Nacional thugs making his hand into the shape of a gun and pointing it at Alejandro’s head. They tried to evaluate his own performance, whether he might have slipped up anywhere, given unintended information, put anyone else under suspicion. Sleepless in bed that night, Alejandro told Amparo that the hardest part was pretending that he didn’t give a damn about Ismael being arrested. And the feeling of powerlessness. Because even though he was a public figure with a certain amount of clout, even though he had maintained his friends in government, if Alejandro showed too much interest, too much concern, about what had happened to Ismael, it would be only a matter of time before the shadow of Pedro Lanz swallowed him as well. Political unrest was growing, crackdowns had become routine, these days no one was above suspicion.
The day after Ismael disappeared, police fired guns at students who were chanting, “Down with the dictatorship.” While children were falling to the ground like rain, El Colonel appeared on television, telling the people how lucky they were to be living in an economic democracy. What he really meant was that he and his cronies were lucky, because they were indulged by the Americans in exchange for millions of barrels of oil each day. It was no wonder, said Alejandro, that El Colonel was completely enamorado with the gringos, who had already awarded him the Legion of Merit.
Lily Percomo, the American woman who worked as Alejandro’s secretary, was married to Ralph Percomo, an attaché who worked at the American Consulate under the nondescript title Advisor, Foreign Affairs. Ralph Percomo and his wife were frequent social guests at the Aguilar residence. A cordial diplomat in public, Ralph Percomo was suspected by Alejandro of being an American intelligence operative. He was also a binge alcoholic. When he drank too much, he beat his wife, Lily, who he prevented from leaving him by locking up her passport. He always punched her in the ribs or stomach, never in the face, preferring not to review his handiwork the day after. When she arrived for work at TVista wincing, it was Alejandro who shut the door to his office and poured her a scotch. And it was Alejandro who twice took her to the hospital to wrap her broken ribs. Lily Percomo would do anything for Alejandro. And when she said she could find out where Ismael was being held, Alejandro believed her. After a few days, she said she had the information, but it was not good: Ismael was being held in the capital at the Ministerio de Defensa, an impregnable fortress from which no detainee had ever been released.
Alejandro went pale. “God help him,” he said, before driving home with the news.
Lily Percomo phoned Amparo the next day, wondering whether they could have lunch together. There was such an urgency to her tone that Amparo, who was planning to make hayacas that day, changed her mind. “Bring your friend, Consuelo,” said Lily Percomo. They agreed to meet at an open-air restaurant near Alejandro’s office.
When Amparo and Consuelo arrived, Lily Percomo was already seated at a table, nervously smoking a cigarette. While they waited for their order of sandwiches and coffee, Lily Percomo began to describe her plan to free Ismael. It was stunningly simple, so simple as to appear desperate and even stupid. It was a plan Alejandro would never approve. Lily Percomo said her husband kept a box of official stationery locked in his briefcase. She said she knew where he kept the key. She would draft a letter to the Director of Security and Classified Information, Pedro Lanz, saying that Ismael Martinez was an American asset, an “information gatherer” whose information was culled, manipulated, and then disseminated through TVista to serve the incumbent government’s interests. This would also explain any intelligence the government might have acquired regarding Alejandro’s link with Ismael, beyond the friendship of their wives, and even, perhaps, the link with Diego Garcia. The letter would request Ismael’s release, quietly, without any publicity.
“What about the signature?” asked Amparo. But Lily Percomo smiled and said she could forge her husband’s signature, that she had done it before, on checks.
It would have to be hand-delivered to appear authentic; such messages would not be sent by post. And it would have to be done during one of Ralph’s bimonthly trips to the United States. Lily Percomo said no one would question her if she personally delivered the letter to Pedro Lanz, as she had acted as her husband’s courier on earlier occasions.
Consuelo listened without comment while Lily and Amparo discussed the timing of the letter’s delivery. Should it be delivered immediately or just before the planned coup of the P.E. and its allies on New Year’s Day?
The advantage of waiting, Amparo noted, was that even if the coup failed, as had the one before, there would still be so much confusion that Ismael might be able to escape the city before the women’s duplicity could be discovered. But if it were discovered, Lily Percomo would be the first one incriminated. She would have to go into hiding once the letter was delivered. They would not tell Alejandro anything until it was a fait accompli; only then would they ask him to make arrangements to hide Lily until it was safe to spirit her out of the country, most likely via Curaçao. Lily would write a note for Ralph saying she was leaving him.
There were other valid reasons to deliver the letter later rather than sooner; it gave them more time to plan for contingencies and to better orchestrate an escape for Consuelo and Ismael, as well as for Lily Percomo.
Amparo said she had overheard Diego Garcia telling Alejandro that the P.E. had their own moles in the government, including a man in the Seguridad Nacional. If that were the case, surely Alejandro must be privy to information on Ismael’s status, or could acquire it through Diego Garcia. Lily said Amparo would have to obtain this information from Alejandro. At which point, Consuelo finally spoke: “I would rather set myself on fire in front of the Presidential Palace than spend one more day doing nothing.”
And so it was that they decided to implement their plan with immediate effect.
But that night, while Lily Percomo was in the process of stealing her husband’s stationery, Ralph had woken up and surprised her in his study, the briefcase open before her. He had beaten her senseless. She was admitted to the hospital in a coma from which she would never emerge. Her husband claimed she had fallen down a flight of stairs. She died within a week. And Amparo confessed to Alejandro.
Since it could not be known how much information, if any, Ralph Percomo had been able to extract from his wife before she lost consciousness, for the sake of her safety, Alejandro wanted Consuelo to leave Tamanaco immediately. But Consuelo insisted she would not leave without Ismael, that without Ismael her life would have no value anyway, that without Ismael she would rather be dead. And no one, not even Amparo, could change her thinking on this. The next day, she p
honed to make an appointment with Pedro Lanz. Her request was granted and she hired a taxi for the hour-long drive to the capital. She returned from the meeting in a subdued state, saying that she had appealed to his sense of honor. She said she had given her personal guarantee that Ismael would be no trouble to him in the future. He had assured her that he was a man of his word and had promised to help.
“There is hope,” she said. “It is all I have.” Amparo and Alejandro were torn between admiration for her resilience and pity for her faith in such a promise.
For nine more days they waited. During this time, there was no word from the mole at the Seguridad Nacional. They went about their business as usual, but their nerves were on the point of breaking. On the tenth day, a car with darkened windows was seen parked for several hours outside the Aguilar house. Alejandro said the situation was too dangerous, that Consuelo must leave the city because the government might try to use her against Ismael. He had hit on the only argument that could persuade her to leave the city, the terrifying thought that she might be the instrument used to break her husband. That very evening, Consuelo exchanged clothes with Amparo’s housekeeper, covered her head with a scarf, and walked undetected to a taxi stand. Alejandro had instructed her to get into a cab with a particular license plate number. The driver had already been instructed to drive nonstop to the destination written on the paper Amparo handed him earlier in the day.
When they arrived in Yaracuy, the driver had refused payment.
“God bless you,” said Consuelo.
“God, and the P.E.,” said the driver, winking. And it was only then that she had noticed that the tattoo on his forearm was a passion flower.
The Disappearance of Irene Dos Santos Page 12
