As they set off once again, the car rattles uncontrollably, and Carlos Alberto regrets not insisting on bringing his Range Rover, given to him by his mother after his father could no longer drive. It was a sturdy vehicle, though somewhat battered after being briefly commandeered by drug runners in broad daylight. “Get out of my car,” they had said, one of them pointing a gun through the open window at Carlos Alberto’s crotch. The police had found it later, abandoned in the hills of El Hatillo, one side riddled with bullet holes. Carlos Alberto thinks the bullet holes give the car character. In any case, who can afford bodywork these days? It is still a comfortable ride.
The Lancer has to be at least twenty-five years old by his calculations. He can already feel the impact of the shot suspension on his hemorrhoids. He voices his idea about stopping at a service station in Valencia. But Ismael and Luz exchange smiles as though he has just made a joke, and Luz continues driving at breakneck speed.
Around two p.m., Ismael takes over the wheel. Again, the drive begins in silence. The old man stares straight ahead as though there is no one in the car but himself. As for Luz, she is as reticent as the old man. Carlos Alberto begins to anticipate with something bordering on dread several days of silence interspersed with grunts of acknowledgement on whether to turn left or right at a particular juncture, or which truck stop to eat at. He is distracted from this train of thought as they enter the valley of Maraca.
Recently swept by a thundershower, the valley is at its lushest, reminding Carlos Alberto of why it is known among indigenous painters for its unique palette of greens and golds. Sugarcane in the fields is high. The breezes have diminished and a relentless humidity seems to press the air out of his lungs. Carlos Alberto hopes they will find rooms with air-conditioning in either San Felipe or Chivacoa, for he can afford the best as long as TVista is paying. They stop briefly at a small supply store along the highway. Like shopkeepers all over the country, this one, too, has become adept at disguising the holes on his shelves. When Ismael asks for a bag of wheat flour, the owner shakes his head.
“Wheat flour has all but disappeared from the shelves for two months now,” he explains. “The little that gets into the state is being delivered directly to bakeries and pasta makers. Not much baking is done at home these days.”
Ismael selects a bag of white cornmeal instead, which looks to Carlos Alberto as though it may have already exceeded its shelf life. This, he supposes, means that wherever Ismael is taking them first will involve cooking. He hopes he will not be expected to pull his weight in that department, since the only thing he can cook is steak, and the chances of obtaining good-quality meat on the road are unlikely. Luz purchases several packs of cigarettes and some mints. Carlos Alberto is suddenly aware that he has left home without his shaving kit. He buys shaving cream and a pack of disposable razors at a price that seems to him monstrous, double the price of such a purchase in the city. Ismael adds some rope and loose-leaf Indian tobacco to the supplies. Carlos Alberto observes the selection of the tobacco with some puzzlement; as far as he knows, Ismael is neither a smoker nor a chewer of tobacco. When their purchases are complete, the shopkeeper invites them out back to a tarpaulin-covered patio for a drink of rum on ice. They accept.
“For a time, one thing we could still be thankful for was that the crazy love of crime besotting the country had not struck the Western province with the same intensity as in the capital,” says the man, whose name, they have learned, is Mario Antonio Perez, Papy to his friends. “No longer,” he continues, shaking his head mournfully, “what with this business of the rebels taking over some of the big cattle ranches and El Presidente turning a blind eye. That’s what started it. Land reform. Now they all think they live in Cuba and that everything belongs to everyone. The situation is bad, and we expect it to get worse. One of the big supermarkets a block from my home was attacked at payroll last month by a bunch of indios. And just the other night, somebody tried to steal the metal nameplate of my apartment building to resell for scrap metal. He was heard at two a.m. by one of my neighbors, who got his gun and caught the guy. Big scandal in the street, people running around half naked, a couple of shots in the air for good measure, and after a few hours a police car finally came and took the thief. We couldn’t find the sign, though we scoured the area.” He shakes his head and sighs. “But look at me, giving such bad tidings to visitors! Pay no attention. Where exactly are you headed?”
Carlos Alberto says they are en route to Sorte.
“Paying a visit to the Lady and El Niño, are you? I doubt even they can help us now. If you are passing through San Felipe, take care; car vigilantes propagate the latest racket there. You cannot park anywhere in the town without coming back to your car and finding a little cardboard on your windshield that claims your car is being attended. Some derelict Guajiro kid just pops out of nowhere to remove the card as you get into your car and of course you are expected to give him some money. My advice is, don’t refuse, unless you want trouble. The street kids move in gangs.” He continues for sometime in this vein, perfectly content to be the only one talking. Finally, he says, “Well, time for me to get back home, or the wife will have something to say about it. Good luck to you.”
Luz says she wants to use the bathroom, but Carlos Alberto thinks she probably wants to make another phone call to her ex.
Finishing their drinks and thanking Papy, Ismael and Carlos Alberto climb back into the car, now hot-boxed from almost an hour in the full afternoon sun, and wait for Luz. As he fastens his seat belt, Carlos Alberto feels a wave of longing for those left behind, none of whom are ever at a loss for words.
From the day Carlos Alberto married Lily, though he has been polite, Ismael has barely spoken a word to him, which makes it exceedingly difficult for Carlos Alberto to discern whether or not his father-in-law likes him. So he is pleasantly surprised when, turning back onto the road to San Felipe, Ismael suddenly becomes a fountain of speech, embarking with gusto on a story about a road trip three years earlier. It was to the Indian settlements in the Delta, where he had gone on behalf of the Department for the Preservation of Parks, Forests and Protected Areas to investigate reports of unauthorized cutting of mangroves. Unofficially, he had gone to study the music and instruments of the Warao. His own face is illuminated as he describes the journey through the Delta, then another to Pemon country, the magnificence of the Tepuys, imposingly high mesas of up to 3,000 meters. Carlos Alberto watches, fascinated, as Ismael’s craggy features, the deep wrinkles that make folds in his face, smoothen as he speaks. As they moved farther away from the city, Ismael begins to sing softly, almost under his breath, in a language Carlos Alberto had never heard:
Ihi kabo arotu ihi
Ihi tata arotu
Hi nasaribuna tane
Domo tuyu tuyuna
Hi nanoarate ine
“What is that language?” Carlos Alberto asks.
“It is Warao,” says Ismael.
“What does it mean?” he asks.
“‘You are the lord of the skies, you are the lord of beyond, your voice is like the tigana bird, I call your name many times.’”
It is an astonishing transformation. And Carlos Alberto thinks to himself, Here is a man who belongs to the wild places.
Carlos Alberto knows that his father-in-law, a genetic blend of Spanish and Que, is quite famous for his cuatro playing and timeless ballad compositions, though his fame has never translated into financial security. He is aware that Ismael in his younger days had worked with the Indian underground organization, Passiflora Edulis, so named in honor of the legendary Spanish Civil War heroine Dolores Ibarruri, also known as La Pasionaria, who remained in exile in the Soviet Union. The P.E. (for the members were notoriously obsessed with secrecy and only referred to it by its initials until it had served its purpose and was disbanded) had joined the Junta Patriótica to overthrow El Colonel. Carlos Alberto even knows that Ismael had spent time in the unspeakable secret prison of the regime as a dangerous di
ssident for writing a song that had ignited the fire of resistance in the hearts of the people, and that he had been released only on the day of the uprising that sent El Colonel fleeing for his life. While conducting research on that brutal period in history, he discovered that Ismael is considered a kind of folk hero in some of the least expected circles. He had wanted to interview his father-in-law and record him singing his own music as part of a documentary, but when he brought it up, Ismael had declined crustily and without amplification.
Carlos Alberto thinks his father would have got on well enough with Ismael, who is definitely not a pansy by any social or cultural standard one may choose to apply. While he is by no means a heavyweight, he is tough and wiry, with a certain feral look in his eye. Other men would think ten times before opposing him. Because of his economy with words, he sometimes appears almost taciturn. Nevertheless, women fall for him, even at his age, which is seventy-five. Just the other day, Carlos Alberto accompanied him to the automercado to pick up a case of beer. The cashier, a sumptuous creature with sensuality oozing from her very pores, ignored Carlos Alberto completely and began flirting with Ismael, as if he were Antonio Banderas. Ismael did nothing, as far as Carlos Alberto could see, to encourage the girl. In fact, he was rather gruff. Yet she appeared most reluctant to conclude the business at hand—that of ringing up the purchase—and went on chattering and blushing like a romantic schoolgirl.
From all reports, Ismael was an accomplished seducer in his youth. Carlos Alberto has even heard that Simón, another famous composer of ballads, had written at least one song with the exploits of Ismael in mind. It is quite possible. Not only does Ismael have a way with women, he is at ease around them. And yet he is, without question, completely devoted to his family. The thought that he and his father-in-law have at least this in common gives him the courage to start up a conversation.
“What made you decide to get married?” he asks.
“I met Consuelo,” says Ismael, grinning.
“And what made you settle down in Tamanaco?”
“I promised Consuelo when she was pregnant with Lily.” Ismael begins to hum “Caballo viejo” quietly to himself, and that is the end of that. The subject is closed. Luz sits staring out of the window, smoking a cigarette and twirling a lock of her frosty blond hair, humming fragments of the melody with Ismael. Then both bellow out the words of the chorus in harmony at the top of their lungs. Carlos Alberto thinks that Luz and Ismael are unlikely, but perfectly suited, traveling companions. He misses Lily.
“You are not really leaving me,” she said before he left. “You can be anywhere and with me at the same time. Here, I bought you this journal for your birthday, but you can take it now to document your experiences along the way.” She had motioned toward the bedside table, where a leather-bound A-4–size notebook lay. Deeply touched by her thoughtfulness, he had still insisted that he didn’t really want to leave, that he was doing it for the money.
“I know that, mi amor,” she replied.
“Don’t worry, mijo,” encouraged his mother-in-law. “My husband won’t eat you for breakfast. His silence makes him seem much grouchier than he is.” She patted his face. “Men have ways of connecting with their hearts, Carlos Alberto.”
This alleviated his anxiety to a great extent, for Carlos Alberto thinks Consuelo must know a great deal about men’s hearts if she could capture and keep the heart of Ismael Martinez.
After three hours of driving, of which Ismael now does the most since he is the only one who knows the final destination, they turn off the carretera onto a dirt road. After another forty-five minutes of bumping around, and just as Carlos Alberto is about to protest the choice of road—a rough-cut path, really—the speed with which they are attempting it, and the effect it is having on his back and hemorrhoidal ass, Ismael parks the car on the side of the road.
“I thought we were going to Chivacoa,” says Carlos Alberto.
“Maybe tomorrow,” says his father-in-law.
Without another word, Ismael gets out of the car, opens the rear door of the station wagon, which is now caked in mud, and beckons for Carlos Alberto and Luz to collect some of the bags and follow him through a hole in the fence near the road.
After half an hour of trekking on a rough path through what Carlos Alberto thinks must be some kind of national preserve or park, they arrive in front of the oddest dwelling he has ever seen. It is a sturdy circular structure with a conical roof, built of manaca palm wood and temiche leaves, bound together by rope. An oil lamp is burning in the cutout window, which has no glass.
A young mestizo boy—no more than ten or eleven years of age, perhaps younger—opens the door, his slight frame a silhouette against light behind him. A few moments later, a Guajira woman of indeterminate age, wearing a fraying dress of equally indeterminate color, appears at the boy’s side and places her arm protectively around his shoulders. A broad smile breaks out across her face the moment she spots Ismael.
“Well, well, if it isn’t El Malandro himself,” she says. “It’s been a long time, viejo. Bienvenido.” Ismael embraces the woman and tousles the boy’s unkempt hair, which looks like it could use a good wash. Clearly, this boy does not have older sisters, thinks Carlos Alberto.
“Carlos Alberto, Luz,” says Ismael, “may I present to you my friends, Juanita Sanchez and her young grandson, Efraín.”
Together, the five partake of a simple but generous dinner consisting of black beans, plátano, and rice, set on a knobby wooden table made of planks and cement blocks. The planks creak and wobble every time anyone shifts an elbow or passes a plate. During the meal, Ismael and the old Indian woman speak in a language Carlos Alberto does not understand. But it is apparent the old woman is upset by whatever Ismael is saying. Then the old woman apparently says something that upsets his father-in-law equally, for afterward he does not speak and stares off into space with a dark expression.
Carlos Alberto, uncomfortable with the ensuing silence, turns to Luz, but then changes his mind about starting any conversation with her, resigning himself instead to shoveling food mechanically into his mouth with a wooden spoon. When the meal is over, Carlos Alberto sees that the boy Efraín, who has been perched on Ismael’s lap throughout the evening, has fallen asleep, his head lolling against the older man’s shoulder, lips slightly parted in a half smile. The poor child will get a crick in his neck if he sleeps in that position much longer, Carlos Alberto thinks. He catches Ismael’s eye and points to the boy. Ismael carries Efraín to a hammock in the corner of the room and Luz follows, taking off her long sweater and gently covering the boy. Then she climbs into the spare hammock and appears to fall asleep almost instantly. Funny, he would never have pegged Luz as the maternal type.
“Efraín made an appearance today; he is very tired,” the old woman says in Spanish to Carlos Alberto. Carlos is about to ask Juanita Sanchez what she means by appearance, when he is struck by the realization that Efraín is the boy shown in a sketch on TV, the one they call El Niño. But before he can ask any questions, Ismael shoots him a warning glance. The old woman hands Ismael two hammocks and two light blankets, and Ismael beckons to Carlos Alberto to follow him outside. Together they select some sturdy trees between which to tie the hammocks. The hammocks are made of remarkably fine weave that feels almost like silk.
“Sleep well,” says Ismael. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Carlos Alberto has never spent the night in a hammock. But that isn’t what keeps him awake. Neither is it because this is the first time he has slept apart from Lily since they were married. It is because he is bursting with questions for Ismael, who, astonishingly, has brought them straight to the source of their quest. Here he had been worried that he was embarking on a mission that might cost him his job at the university, that he might well be risking everything on a potentially futile pursuit that would bring in little money beyond expenses from the television producers in the end. The old Guajira must be using the boy somehow to capitalize on the e
xcitement about the statue, that much he has surmised, though he has yet to come up with an explanation for how she has conjured up the El Niño apparitions. But what he really wants to know is how Ismael is connected with these squatters in the middle of the forest. Without a doubt, Lily’s father is full of surprises—a real aventurero! And what about Luz—Luz had behaved as though living in a shack in some forest was the most natural thing in the world. Who would ever have thought that Luz could go even a day without the beauty parlor and her telenovelas? No doubt, Luz was fitting into the adventure far better than expected, far better, in fact, than he was. She hadn’t used the outdoor facilities before she went to bed. He wonders how she will react to the discovery that she will have to piss and shit in the woods for the duration of their stay here.
Poor pollination or insufficient watering can cause malformation in passiflora edulis. Attacks from pests can cause scarring.
Luz
When she was five, Luz announced that she wanted to be a gypsy dancer when she grew up. She arrived at this conclusion after her mother’s East Indian friend from Trinidad, José Naipaul, took her to see a flamenco show. Afterward, at home in their one-bedroom apartment, she had demonstrated to her mother and brothers how a real dancer danced. With astonishing ease, her little feet replicated the stacatto steps of an accomplished flamenco dancer, while her fingers clicked away at invisible castanets.
The Disappearance of Irene Dos Santos Page 16
