Purgatory

by Tomás Eloy Martínez

  The more I delve into Emilia’s life, the more I realise that from beginning to end it is an unbroken chain of losses, disappearances and senseless searches. She spent years chasing after nothing, after people who no longer existed, remembering things that had never happened. But aren’t we all like that? Don’t we all abuse history to leave some trace there of what we once were, a miserable smudge, a tiny flame when we know that even the deepest mark is a bird that will leave on a breath of wind? ‘One human being is more or less the same as another; perhaps we are all already dead without realising it, or not yet born and do not know it,’ I said to Emilia one of the last times I saw her. ‘We come into the world without knowing it, the result of a series of accidents, and we leave it to go who knows where, nowhere probably. If you hadn’t loved Simón you would have loved someone else. You would have done so joyfully, with no guilt, because you cannot love what you do not know.’ She didn’t like this idea because she could not conceive of a world without Simón and loving made sense only if it meant loving him. I don’t think I understood at all that afternoon. Now, I would say I was an optimist, that the mere fact of existing or loving is enough to give meaning to everything. This is not how Emilia feels, and she is right. I realise this when I find a map among the papers that she left: the map of a city that stretches out in time not in space, and maybe because of that, an impossible city. There are transparent edges with dates beneath which the city is always different. In the centre is a vast palace next to a lake or reservoir. Above the palace, in capital letters, is written the code word to her life, Simón. The map is torn, wet with drool and with tears. It has no edges, sectors, bearing, no scale, and I don’t think it is necessary to ask where they are.

  I have already spent hours unearthing what is hidden in the folds and on the backs of the photographs and clippings given to me by Nancy Frears. Perhaps there is nothing worthwhile here, perhaps that part of Emilia’s life I do not know is a lunar desert or an insignificant outcrop like Kaffeklubben. I begin reading one of her notebooks. ‘I know D is a dressmaker and I’ve asked her to make me some dresses . . .’ The cellphone I always carry with me rings and I set down the notebook. It is noon. Not many people know I have a cellphone and I don’t recognise the number calling. I answer, convinced someone has misdialled and prepared to listen to an apology.

  ‘It’s me. Emilia,’ says the voice. It’s her.

  I’m startled. She has taken me so much by surprise that it takes a moment before I react. I don’t even remember where I thought she was hiding.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you all over,’ I tell her. ‘Nancy was out of her mind with worry – she called the police. You caused a terrible commotion. Where are you? Can I call you?’

  ‘A commotion,’ she says. Her voice sounds completely calm. ‘There’s no reason to be worried. I’m fine, I’m better than I’ve ever been.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ I say. ‘But if the police find you, they’ll pick you up.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything, I’m free to go wherever I like.’

  ‘Of course. It’s just that you left without telling anyone. At the police station they asked if you were suicidal, if you’d been depressed. One of the officers thought you might have been kidnapped, that you might even be dead. You took the Altima.’

  ‘What a waste of time. The people in this town have no idea how to fill the lives they don’t have.’

  ‘They’re looking for your car,’ I tell her. ‘Sooner or later they’re bound to find you. Can I see you?’

  ‘That’s why I’m calling, so we can meet up,’ she says.

  ‘Sure, just give me a place and a time. I’m free right now.’

  ‘Not now. Tonight, eight o’clock. At Toscana, the restaurant where we first met.’

  ‘Toscana doesn’t exist any more,’ I remind her.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. The best places are those that don’t exist, just like on maps. I won’t be coming alone.’

  ‘So where then?’ I insist. ‘I don’t want to miss you. Once I’ve seen you, I’ll need to let the police know. I hope you understand.’

  ‘I understand. Eight o’clock then, at Toscana.’

  ‘On the corner there,’ I repeat so there’s no mistake. ‘Who are you with, Emilia?’

  ‘With Simón. We’ll both come. Tonight you’ll get to meet him.’

  I held onto the photos and the clippings for a long time. I don’t know what to think. Obviously I’ll be waiting for her at eight o’clock on the corner of George and Paterson. Toscana does not exist but there is a point in reality where it does not matter whether or not it exists. Who is this Simón with her? I know that Simón Cardoso is dead, several witnesses testified to that fact. Tortured, a bullet through his forehead: it is all there in the transcripts of the trial of the comandantes. Maybe the man I’m going to meet is an impostor, an illusion created by Orson Welles from beyond the grave. If it doesn’t matter to Emilia, I don’t see why it should matter to me.

  I’ll give her back the press cuttings tonight, I’ll ask her permission to publish what little I already know of her story. I could spend what remains of the afternoon taking notes on some of the other things she’s written in the folder. Most of it is unimportant, comments about the soap operas that were on television back then and also an account of the cruel incident which caused the rift between Emilia and her father. On one of the cuttings, I notice a small red circle and, underneath, a line from Dante’s ‘Purgatorio’ in the meek, childlike handwriting that was Emilia’s at the time: Quel color che l’inferno mi nascose. I know the line, it is one of the most famous lines of the poem: ‘That colour that in me Inferno had concealed’. Nothing in Emilia is chance, which meant that in writing that line she was alluding to a hidden story, one that burned her up inside, but one that she did not want to forget.

  I’ve mentioned that when my cellphone rang, I had been reading one of her notebooks: ‘I know D is a dressmaker and I’ve asked her to make me some dresses . . .’ This was just the beginning. At the end of November, the Spanish royal family were to visit Argentina and Dupuy wanted his daughter to accompany him to the gala ball the Eel was planning to throw. The doctor ordered a dinner jacket from his tailor and told Emilia to track down the finest fashion designer in Buenos Aires, suggested she call someone at Para Ti for advice. ‘I don’t trust you to decide what to wear,’ he told her, ‘and when you are my escort, you can’t afford to be anything less than the queen.’ He wanted her to wear a dress like the one Audrey Hepburn wore in Funny Face, though the only things Emilia had in common with Audrey Hepburn were her long legs and her dancer’s neck. ‘I want a dress that is simple but unforgettable,’ he said, ‘and just this once, I’ll let you wear your mother’s diamond earrings for the evening.’ Ethel could not wear anything now, not even the filmy skin that sheathed her body. She was covered with sores from her terrible allergies and even the touch of her nightdress made her whimper like a kitten; for most of the five days she spent in the mansion on the calle Arenales she was almost naked, soothing her tender skin in a lukewarm bath. Emilia did not leave her side: she sang to her as she sang to her dolls as a child, brushed her hair, stroked her head until she finally realised that she would be better taken care of in the home. On the sixth day she drove her mother back and returned to the loneliness and the torment of paying the debt which Dupuy implacably demanded.

  Towards the end of 1978, the newspapers and the radio broadcast only what they were allowed. They had been doing so for some time, and by now fear and compliance had become habit. If human beings could disappear, if the houses where the destitute took shelter and the savings of the credulous and the old could disappear, why would inconvenient truths not also disappear? And so readers pretended to know nothing, telling themselves ignorance was bliss. The comandantes left it to Dupuy to take care of the unreality and concentrated solely on the armed repression. Madrid and Barcelona were hotbeds for fugitive extremists and it was vital to make the best possible impression on the
king and queen of Spain, to give them a glimpse of the happiness and prosperity that flourished in Argentina. Dupuy was not about to permit any dissent from the media, not so much as the flutter of an angry wasp’s wing. ‘You should go so far as to prohibit making jokes about the royal couple,’ the Eel had told him. ‘I don’t want any gossip, any rumours, any stories about the past.’ Argentina was walking on eggshells and Europe was a flank which could not be ignored. The United States had been foolish enough to elect a president who appointed inquisitive, meddling diplomats. He was fanatical about human rights and the subversives were determined to use what little breath they still had to disrupt the royal visit. The honour of the nation was at stake.

  Dupuy dispensed with the services of the journalist who had done such sterling work with the European papers before the World Cup. She might be able to pass as the wife of a carpenter, or even as a reincarnation of the Virgin in spite of her weight, but it was unthinkable that he could present her at a royal gala. He needed a journalist who was more ruthless, more refined. The admiral recommended Héctor Caccace who worked for his newspaper and whose manner was as graceful as his prose (officers and lawyers still talked about ‘good and bad pens’). Dupuy had never heard of the man and had his people make discreet enquiries. Caccace, his informants advised him, was cunning, a coward, maybe, but deferential to those in power. He was mortified by his surname Caccace – Caca sounded like Shit – and was taking steps to change it. In fact his cousin, Estéfano Caccace, a tango singer who was the toast of milongas at Club Sunderland, worked under the stage name Julio Martel to avoid such scatological connotations. Héctor had got ahead by arming himself with an arsenal of literary quotations which he wore everywhere like a whalebone corset. He knew which knives and forks to use, kissed the hands of ladies, effusively praised their gowns with little French phrases. Dupuy called him into his office and within five minutes decided he would do. He was a little affected but his pretentiousness could pass for elegance; there would be no complaints about him at the royal gala. Later, Caccace phoned him. He did not know how to apologise for his discourtesy, he waffled endlessly, infuriating Dupuy, and finally explained his problem to the doctor. ‘Having read the invitation, it’s clear that formal dress is required, and I don’t own a tuxedo.’ ‘Don’t waste my time with such foolishness,’ Dupuy interrupted him. ‘Go and rent one at Casa Martínez like every other journalist.’ Caccace hesitated a moment and then brought up the subject of the starched shirt front, the cufflinks, the shoes. ‘They’ll cost another hundred thousand, probably a hundred and twenty,’ he calculated, ‘and I haven’t got the money.’ ‘Come by my house and I’ll give it to you,’ Dupuy said contemptuously. ‘I’ll give you the money and a copy of the contract. Just do your job and stop fucking me around.’

  Meanwhile, Emilia entrusted the making of her dress to D. She was quick, discreet and talked little. Her speech was peppered with clichés, but her work displayed more originality and talent than many of the fashion houses. She asked Emilia to get her a length of crêpe georgette and showed her the design she was working on. It was a tailored off-the-shoulder dress of clean, simple lines with broad straps and a silk trim around the waist. ‘What colour would you prefer?’ D asked. ‘I don’t know if I can wear something like that,’ said Emilia, ‘I’ll feel naked. It’s so daring, and as you probably know, my husband is not around, he disappeared. I’m more or less a widow.’ ‘I don’t know where my husband is either,’ said D. ‘They came to our house one night and took him and he’s never come back. I spent a year and a half searching for him. This country is a wasteland, a tragedy. Everything fades, disappears. What if I make the dress in black?’ ‘OK,’ Emilia accepted, ‘I’ll feel more comfortable wearing black. But I’d like the neckline higher, no décolletage.’ ‘Oh no,’ D protested, ‘do you want to ruin all my hard work? What about a square neckline? They’re very fashionable at the moment.’ ‘What should I wear over it? It needs to be something light because the weather is getting warmer and by the time the king and queen get here it will be worse.’ ‘A silk cape would suit you better than a shawl,’ said D. ‘Or maybe crêpe rather than silk, something you can drape lightly over your shoulders but can take off easily.’ ‘White? Ivory?’ suggested Emilia. D was not persuaded. ‘Against a black dress, ivory or white will just look like you bought something off the peg. How about pink? Dusky pink is very popular this summer. If you like I can trim the waist of the dress with dusky pink crêpe too.’

  Emilia arrived at the gala like Cinderella in her fairy coach. Her mother’s earrings lit up her face with a radiance that seemed to come from another body (she knew from where). Even the Eel came up to greet her, surprised. ‘M’hijita, how pretty you look.’ He was wearing a full dress uniform bedecked with medals. Dupuy shook the Eel’s hand, bowed to his wife – who was wearing a long blue dress to cover her bloated legs. There was a flight of marble steps up to the main hall. Reality had been left outside with the few families of beggars who scavenged for food in the garbage. The great hall, where a quarter of a century earlier Evita had received the destitute, was a copy of the Grand Hall in the Paris Opera House, the ceiling and the pillars extravagantly and ornately gilded. Inside, the hall was lined with mirrors which endlessly reflected the chandeliers, the jewels, the huge platters of lobster and caviar. Emilia had nightmares about mirrors. Her mother’s dressing room had floor-length mirrors, even mirrors on the ceiling. As a little girl Ethel had threatened to lock her in there and ever since she had not been able to shake off the nightmare of being hundreds of Emilias, endlessly reflected, none of them the same, because no reflection was exactly like another. She spotted Caccace in the distance running after a large platter of quails’ eggs and popping two and three into his mouth at a time. From time to time he took out a little pad and made notes. The king and queen had not yet arrived, but they were clearly due at any moment because the crowd, forgetting protocol, were elbowing each other at the top of the stairs behind the Eel. Emilia decided to stay at the back of the room near the window where Juan Manuel Fangio, a former racing-car driver, was trying to avoid the stifling heat. Emilia too was beginning to feel suffocated and she draped her cape on a chair between two curtains. She heard applause and moved closer so she could get a glimpse of the king and queen, who looked very young and very happy. The king was wearing a dinner jacket just like everyone else. Next to him, the queen looked tiny. Emilia stopped, incredulous when she saw the dress she was wearing. She had read somewhere that the queen only wore Spanish couture, designs specially made for her by Balenciaga and his disciples. But the dress she was wearing that evening was almost a perfect copy of Emilia’s dress. D always insisted that she had very little talent. ‘What I do is really simple,’ she’d say, ‘it’s nothing much.’ And here was the queen wearing a dress that looked just like the one made by her dressmaker but which had probably cost a hundred times more. It was the same design, subtly tailored with dusky pink trimming about the waist, broad shoulder straps and the same square neckline that Emilia had found so intimidating. The only difference was the colour; the queen’s dress was white. The designer at Balenciaga or whoever it was had also given the queen a matching cape: dusky pink crêpe tied with an almost invisible red cord. Emilia didn’t know where to put herself; she was terrified the queen would notice the coincidence. She felt embarrassed and ashamed, but at the same time proud of her dressmaker. She was relieved that she had taken off her cape. She watched as the queen, hemmed in by the crowd, fanned herself impatiently, never once losing her smile.