The Disappearance of Irene Dos Santos

by Margaret Mascarenhas

  The day before the last of the private television stations was shut down, she watched a rerun of an American talk show dubbed in Spanish, where the female host asked her celebrity guests, “What do you know for sure?”

  The only thing Irene knows for sure is that she is done with running. She will stick it out till the end, clinging to her own small slice of life, a life she had so long resisted and later fought demons and hellfire to keep. She will plant her vine and nurture its fruit. She will graft it with budding hope for herself and Manuel, for her country and its people, with all their attendant complications and contradictions, races and beliefs, secure in the knowledge that even in this, the so-called real world, there is a place for magic, that it is possible, sometimes, to pull starlight out of sand, to reach into the sky and bring home the moon. She will write her radio tales and blow into the mouths of her characters the hot, sweet breath of life and passion. She will do what she has always done, only now she will draw an invisible line in the invisible sand to demarcate where these lives end and hers goes on. She will stand on the foundation of the new life she has fashioned, trusting that it will not crumble beneath her feet, and believing that her story, this story will continue.

  And now Manuel is kissing her, sucking softly on that tantalizingly tender place just under her ear, the place that gives her goose bumps.

  “Perdóname,” he says about the photograph of her frozen terror on the rock, placing it facedown on the bedside table.

  “For what?” she asks, and means it.

  Acknowledgments

  This book was several years in the making, during which I received sustenance from many quarters. I am deeply indebted to:

  Sonia Anderson, best friend, touchstone, and co-custodian of memories.

  The late Consuelo Perez, who was the inspiration for the character Consuelo in the novel.

  My agent, Ellen Levine, for her judicious editorial feedback, patience with my process, and diligent efforts on my behalf.

  My editor, Selina McLemore, and her assistant, Latoya Smith, for their belief in this book and painstaking attention to detail. And the people at Grand Central’s art department, who created a wonderful cover.

  Women who have been readers and brutal critics when necessary: Andrea Bachigalupi Boyle, Ginu Kamani, Mafalda Mascarenhas, Nell Sullivan, Antonia Van Becker, Swatee Kotwal, Shobhaa De, Lea Rangel Ribeiro, the late Dixie Engesser, the late Frances Bregman.

  Men who get me and my writing, have read for me enthusiastically, and have made crucial observations that helped flesh out my male characters: Victor Rangel Ribeiro, Sudeep Chakravarti, Remo Fernandes, Maitreya Doshi, Avtar Singh, Akash Timblo, Cecil Pinto, Apurva Kulkarni, Stan Kugell, Sergio Mascarenhas, Desmond Fernandes.

  Milana, who contributed a swimming club membership that helped alleviate writer’s cramp and carpal tunnel syndrome.

  Mario, for being my biggest cheerleader and helping to finance the lean periods.

  Che, Maximiliano, and Oliver, my doggie foot warmers.

  Maria Lionza, irrespective of whether she is fact or fiction.

  And Venezuela, my home away from home.

  Extract from “The End of the Colombian Blood Letting Could Begin in Washington”

  On November 9, 2006, the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia-Peoples Army, (-FARC-EP) sent an “Open Letter to the People of the United States.” It was specifically addressed to several Hollywood producers and actors (Michael Moore, Denzel Washington, and Oliver Stone) as well as three leftist academics (James Petras, Noam Chomsky, and Angela Davis) and a progressive politician (Jesse Jackson). The purpose of the open letter was to solicit our support in facilitating an agreement between the U.S. and Colombian governments and the FARC-EP on exchanging 600 imprisoned guerrillas (including 2 on trial in the U.S.) for 60 rebel-held prisoners including 3 U.S. counter-insurgency experts.

  FARC-EP

  Founded in 1964 by two dozen peasant activists, as a means for defending autonomous rural communities from the violent depredations of the Colombian military and paramilitary, the FARC-EP has grown into a highly organized 20,000-member guerrilla army with several hundred thousand local militia and supporters, highly influential in over 40 percent of the country. Up until September 11, 2001, the FARC-EP was recognized as a legitimate resistance movement by most of the countries of the European Union, Latin America, and for several years was in peace negotiations with the Colombian government headed by President Andrés Pastrana. Prior to 9/11 FARC leaders met with European heads of state to exchange ideas on the peace process.

  —James Petras, November 20, 2006

  (http://petras.lahaine.org/articulo.php?p=1684&more=1&c=1)

  A Goddess, a Snake, and a Double-Edged Sword

  In early June 2004 drivers on the Avenida Francisco Farjardo in the city of Caracas witnessed a strange and disturbing sight: the landmark statue of Maria Lionza, commissioned from Venezuelan sculptor Alejandro Colina, had cracked in two. The torso of the goddess had fallen backward, leaving her staring helplessly, arms outstretched, at the heavens. Oddly enough, according to news reports, this occurred a day after authorities announced the completion of restoration treatment. The imposing fifty-four-year-old monument of reinforced concrete, which normally stands 11.2 meters high, had not been moved for the restoration process, and was surrounded by scaffolding at the time of the collapse, creating a surreal cagelike effect. According to a BBC news story, “When Venezuelans awoke on 6 June to find Maria Lionza broken at the waist, interpretations and conspiracy theories abounded. Some said the goddess had broken in two deliberately in order to warn Venezuelans about the danger of their deeply-divided nation” (“The Goddess and the President,” BBC, June 21, 2004).

  Having grown up in Venezuela, for me this story became the irresistible seed material for a novel.

  For centuries, Maria Lionza, a mythological Indian princess/goddess, has captured the imagination of the Venezuelan population, and the number of her supplicants is estimated to be in the hundreds of thousands. Given strong impetus in the 1950s by dictator Marcos Perez Jimenez, who made Maria Lionza a symbol of national identity, the cult has been officially recognized and sanctioned by subsequent democratic governments of Venezuela—even though the existence of Maria Lionza herself has yet to be authenticated by scholars of the period—and she is still considered to be the patron saint of the nation. The mythical origins of Maria Lionza, handed down by oral tradition, are lost in time. The version I have given in the novel is an amalgamation of several of the most popular stories of her origin.

  Though believed to have many incarnations, the goddess is generally depicted in two forms: (1) as Yara, naked, riding a tapir and holding a human pelvis in her upstretched arms; and (2) as Maria, a mestiza Virgin Mary figure wearing a blue mantle over her head and shoulders. Maria Lionza reigns over her subjects from the Sorte Mountain in the state of Yaracuy along with a pantheon of deities that includes real and legendary characters from Venezuelan history. Officially known as the Maria Lionza National Park, Sorte is frequented by large numbers of pilgrims and tourists, particularly on weekends and holidays.

  The primary deities in the goddess’s pantheon, which is divided into “courts,” include “El Libertador” Simón Bolívar, the man who fought for and won the independence of many Latin American countries; “El Negro Felipe,” a black man who is said to have fought with Bolívar in the Independence Wars; and “El Indio Guaicaipuro,” who is believed to have fought against the Conquerors at the time of the Conquest. When Maria Lionza, El Negro Felipe, and El Indio Guaicaipuro appear together to mediums, they are called Las Tres Potencias (the Three Powers), representing the three races that make up the Venezuelan population.

  There are numerous other subdeities such as the writer Andrés Bello, and even a notorious criminal known as El Malandro Ismael, whose veneration is outside the realm of traditional perceptions of “goodness” and “morality.”

  In her Indian avatar, Maria Lionza is depicted as
the reverse of the most frequently represented image of Simón Bolívar: she rides the gentle tapir, he rides a stallion; she is nude, he wears an army uniform; she holds a symbol of life (a human pelvis), he holds a symbol of death (a sword).

  Catholicism is the predominant religion of Venezuela, and a majority of Marialionceros are Catholic. Although the Catholic Church frowns upon the worship of the pagan goddess, it has abandoned efforts to eradicate the cult. Maria Lionza’s devotees come from all races and classes, but she is especially revered among the poor.

  To my knowledge, no Venezuelan radio novela or telenovela has been written specifically about Maria Lionza or her incarnations to date, which is quite extraordinary, given that she is the emblem of all the hopes and aspirations of Venezuela’s masses. I myself have used the myth primarily as signifier and anchor in The Disappearance of Irene Dos Santos.

  Kidnappings, forced disappearances, and assassinations orchestrated by revolutionaries, crime bosses, the secret police, or international mercenaries have long been a part of the Venezuelan story. In 1976, when I was in high school, William Niehaus, an American businessman and the father of a former schoolmate, was kidnapped by the Grupo de Comando Revolucionario, the guerilla wing of the Liga Socialista, and held for over three years. Around the same time the charismatic media personality Renny Ottolina, beloved by the masses, was killed after deciding to run for president as an independent, just three months before the elections. The crackdown on the drug trade in Colombia has forced much of it across the border, and these days Venezuela is a very dangerous place to travel. The nexus between drug running and gun purchase by groups such as FARC continues.

  The roots of the popular Latin American serial novel extend back to the days of the Cuban “radio lectores,” readers hired to read social realist novels of the nineteenth century to workers in cigar factories. With the advent of radio was born a genre of melodrama that depicted social ills in a more popular and less literary format. It was called the culebrón (“snake”) because of its tendency to go on extending itself as long as the audience for it existed, and it was the precursor of the telenovela. Not surprisingly, the telenovela’s global export came via Cuban exiles at the end of the 1950s and early 1960s, many of whose writers and directors fled to Venezuela, Argentina, and Mexico.

  It was in Mexico that a new form of serialized storytelling emerged. It was pioneered and developed by Miguel Sabido for Televisa, where he was vice president for research in the 1970s. The essence of what is known today as the Sabido Method was the use of the soap opera to educate and encourage social change. Using the classic literary device of character growth, Sabido developed the process of character transformation in a way that was television-specific and tackled sensitive subjects such as sex, abortion, family planning, and AIDS in an accessible manner. It was a new communication model that has had enormous global impact, one that has been adopted and adapted all over the world. Obviously, such a mechanism for influencing the masses can be a double-edged sword....

  Venezuela, one of the world’s major oil-exporting nations which also boasts one of South America’s largest, most abundant rain forests, has one of the most vibrant cultures I have ever experienced. The country is currently engaged in a fascinating political experiment, and on this subject it is a country deeply divided. I have met some who are passionately for it and others who are vehemently against it. I have no idea how it will turn out, but it promises to be a wild ride.

  —Margaret Mascarenhas, August 2008

  Discussion Questions

  Maria Lionza is an actual cult figure in Venezuela. How does the goddess Maria Lionza function as a symbol in The Disappearance of Irene Dos Santos?

  How does the passion fruit vine work as a metaphor in the novel?

  How much of the ethos of Venezuela has the author been able to convey through the lives of her characters? Has it changed your perception of that country?

  How does the author juxtapose magic against craziness, ghosts against hallucinations, lies against truth, prorevolution against antirevolution, socialism against capitalism?

  Are the protagonists of the first eight sections of the novel real, figments of Irene’s imagination, or characters she has written into her radio novelas? All of the above?

  If we live in someone else’s dream/imagination, is our reality as real as that of the dreamer/writer? Is the author suggesting that it is possible to dream something/ someone into existence?

  What does Irene lose and/or gain by becoming “well” and reintegrated into society?

  Is it possible for the South American radio novela format to serve the purpose of promoting social change? If so, why would radio be a more useful tool in this endeavor than television?

  The themes of revolution and resistance—the ongoing battle between the people and their leaders—are integral to the story line of the novel. Among the nine primary characters, Ismael, Consuelo, and Amparo are the most overtly “revolutionary”; Lily, Coromoto, Efraín, and Luz are neutral; Marta is opposed to revolutionary ideology; while Irene appears ambiguous. What might be the author’s intent in representing all these worldviews?

  Una diosa, un serpiente y una espada de doble filo

  En junio, a principios de de 2004, los conductores en la Avenida Francisco Farjardo en la ciudad de Caracas encontraron una vista extraña y perturbante: la famosa estatua de Maria Lionza comisionada del escultor venezolano Alejandro Colina, se había partido en dos. El torso había caído al revés, dejándo la diosa mirando desamparadamente al cielo con los brazos extendidos. Lo raro es que, según las noticias, ésto ocurrió un día despues de las autoridades anunciar que el processo de la restauración de la estatua estaba completa. El monumento imponente de 54 años, hecho de concreto reforzado, que normalmente tiene 11.2 metros de alto, no había sido movido durante la restauración. A la hora del derrumbamiento la estatua estaba todavía rodeada con andamio, creando la impresión surreal como si fuera encerrada en una jaula. Según una de las noticias del BBC, “cuando los venezolanos se despertaron el 6 de junio para encontrar Maria Lionza partida en la cintura, interpretaciones y teorías de conspiración abundaron. Algunos dijeron que la diosa había rompido en dos justo para advertir a los venezolanos de los peligros de una nación profundamente dividida.” (BBC, La diosa y el presidente, 21 de junio de 2004)

  Yo pasé los años formativas en Venezuela, y para mí, esta historia se ha convirtido en la material irresistible de una novela.

  Por siglos, Maria Lionza, princesa india de mitología local, ha capturado la imaginación de la población venezolana, y el número de sus supplicantes se estima en los centenares de millares. El ímpetu fuerte en los años 50 dado por el dictador Marcos Perez Jimenez, hizo de Maria Lionza un símbolo de identidad nacional. El culto ha sido reconocido oficialmente y sancionado por gobiernos democráticos subsecuentes en Venezuela aunque la existencia de Maria Lionza misma jamás ha sido autenticada por los académicos del período, la todavía la consideran como santa patrona de la nación. Los orígenes míticos de Maria Lionza, transmitidos por la tradición oral, se han perdido con el tiempo. La versión descrito en esta novela es una amalgamación de las varias historias populares sobre su origen.

  Aunque tiene muchas encarnaciones, la diosa generalmente aparece en dos formas: (1) como Yara, desnuda, montado sobre un tapir, sosteniendo en los brazos una pelvis humana; (2) como Maria, una imágen de la Virgen de los Mestizos, con una capa azul cubriendo la cabeza y los hombros. Maria Lionza reina sobre sus súbditos desde la montaña Sorte en el Estado de Yaracuy junto con su panteón de deidades, incluyendo personajes verdaderos y legendarios en la historia venezolana. Conocido oficialmente como el Parque Nacional de Maria Lionza, Sorte es frecuentado por una gran cantidad de peregrinos y turistas, particularmente los fines de semana y los días de fiesta.

  Los deidades primarios en el panteón de la diosa, que se divide en “cortes,” incluyen El Libertador Simon Bolivar, el hombre que luchó para, y ganó, la independencia para muchos países la
tinoamericanos, El Negro Felipe, un hombre negro conocido por haber luchado junto con Bolivar en las guerras para independencia; El Indio Guaicaipuro, quien se cree haber luchado contra los conquistadores. Cuando Maria Lionza, El Negro Felipe, y El Indio Guaicaipuro aparecen juntos a los medios, se les llaman “Las Tres Potencias”, representando las tres razas de población venezolana.

  Hay muchas otras deidades secundarias, como el escritor Andres Bello, y un criminal notorio, conocido como El Malandro Ismael, cuya veneración está fuera del reino de opiniones tradicionales sobre “lo bueno” y “la moralidad.”

  En su avatar indio, muchos representan a Maria Lionza como el revés de la imagen más popular de Simon Bolivar: ella montada sobre un tapir apacible, él montado sobre un garañón; ella desnuda, él vestido en uniforme del ejército; ella sujetando un símbolo de la vida (una pelvis humana), él sujetando un símbolo de la muerte (una espada).

  El Catholicismo es la religión predominante de Venezuela y la mayoría de Marialionceros son católicos. Aunque la iglesia Católica no condona sobre la adoración de la diosa pagana, ha abandonado el intento de suprimir el culto. Los devotos de Maria Lionza vienen de todas razas y clases, pero es venerada especialmente entre los pobres.