The Blue Line

by Ingrid Betancourt

  “I thought she died during childbirth.”

  “Yes, that’s what I always say. The word ‘suicide’ scares people. It’s okay. It hasn’t affected me, since I never had any emotional bond with her. I couldn’t even tell you what it means to be part Mapuche. I have her eyes, that’s all. I prefer to have people think I’m Korean. That way I don’t have to explain about my mother.”

  “Do you know why she did it?”

  “I know her family never forgave her for marrying my father. She was some sort of Mapuche princess. I believe she was very beautiful.”

  “Do you have any photos of her?”

  “No, none at all.”

  “What about your father? Did he keep any?”

  “It was a very hard blow for him. He left Argentina, and he’s never wanted to go back. He made a new life for himself here. He married Nicole when I was barely two and then became an American citizen. She helped him to stop drinking. She didn’t want to have any more children, so she could take care of me. She’s my real mother. We were very lucky.”

  “How did he meet Nicole?”

  “Nicole? She’s the sister of his best friend. That’s how they met. Uncle George is a captain in the air force; he’s the one who helped me get this job. If it wasn’t for him, I never would have been hired at Swirbul and Collier.”

  “True. Not just anyone can get a job with Swirbul and Collier,” Theo said, stirring the ice around in his glass. He reached out and stroked Mia’s cheek. She stopped him.

  “No, Theo.”

  “We have too much in common for us to stop here.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “I’ll only go as far as you want, Mia. I can wait.”

  —

  Newark airport was very busy and the traffic was moving slowly. Cars were lining up to drop off passengers, then struggling to negotiate their way out of the congestion. Theo was impatient. He had just said good-bye to Julia, who was leaving for a month to visit Ulysses.

  After one final maneuver to overtake a long line of taxis, Theo forked off in the direction of New York City. He took the New Jersey Turnpike and then turned onto a congested freeway through the Bronx, telling himself that yet again he’d made the wrong decision. Finally he passed the toll plaza and sped toward the Connecticut Turnpike, heading up the coast in the direction of Trumbull. He still had an hour’s drive ahead.

  By the time he’d parked in front of Mia’s building, the sky had already turned red. A flock of birds flew overhead, chirping loudly. Theo looked out and saw the white streak of a plane crossing the blue sky. He hesitated for a moment, then got out of the car.

  —

  Mia opened the door wearing a simple green wrap dress tied at the waist and black stilettos. Theo watched her as she walked over to a carefully laid table. The lit candles in the center were reflected in a large picture window. Everything had its place in the room, a minimalist space uncluttered by ornaments or photographs. Mia poured a glass of champagne and offered it to Theo.

  “What are we celebrating?” he asked, putting an arm around her waist.

  “Our first weekend on our own,” she answered, moving closer.

  “And I thought you’d asked me over to sample your famous egg-white curry.”

  “There’s something else on the menu,” she murmured in his ear.

  She took him by the hand and led him down the hall.

  —

  The next morning he was awakened by a ray of sunlight falling across his face. Mia was curled up against him, her lips slightly parted as she slept.

  He recalled their conversation from the night before. He shouldn’t have talked so much. He had shared his life story, or rather the official version of it: his childhood with Gabriel and his brother’s death during the Dirty War. He had told her—out of habit—that the Montoneros had kidnapped him during the terrible years of violence in Argentina. Mia had no idea who the Montoneros were and couldn’t have cared less. Besides, he hadn’t revealed anything of real consequence. But it had done him good. For the first time his past seemed far behind him.

  Since arriving in the United States, Theo had not mentioned his brother’s name to anyone other than his uncle Mayol and Julia. He hadn’t told a soul that the real reason he had wanted to work at Swirbul and Collier was to track down Gabriel’s killer and not, as everyone assumed, to obtain U.S. citizenship.

  He had joined the company as a systems engineer, hoping the position would give him access to classified files. He was very young when he was hired and had just arrived in the country. From his earliest meetings with the CIA, when he was trading information for protection, his contacts had realized he was exceptionally skilled in the field of IT security. He had been steered in the direction of Swirbul and Collier, where he could remain anonymous. He quickly rose through the ranks, under the close watch of the CIA.

  As head of his department, he was now in charge of servicing all of the computers in the company. He had gone through all the available archives with a fine-tooth comb. He knew his target was hiding in the United States, but it had proved impossible to track him down. He had spent thirty years driven by hatred, obsessed with revenge. Even Julia hadn’t been able to set him free. But this morning he felt elated.

  —

  The sun was barely above the horizon when Theo and Mia climbed hastily into the car. They gulped down a backpackers’ breakfast in the first open diner they found, before stopping off at Theo’s to get the motorcycle out of the garage and pull on leather jackets. They headed north at full speed, free on an empty highway. Theo wanted to reach Rhode Island by lunchtime, but Mia wanted to go farther.

  They arrived at Cape Cod just as the sun was setting. The beach was deserted except for a woman and her young daughter. The girl, who was wearing a straw hat that was too big for her, was staring at them disapprovingly as they chased and splashed each other in the waves. They bought freshly caught and fried fish on the waterfront and ate it with their hands, licking their fingers, before making their way home slowly, exhilarated, their heads in the stars, arriving in time for bed at dawn with no desire to sleep.

  Theo woke first. He loved this moment, when Mia belonged to him in spite of herself. He lay there, captivated, then got up gently so as not to wake her and went to get dressed. Mia had hung a gallery of family photos in the hallway leading from the living room to the bedroom. Theo ran his eye over them. All the pictures were of Kwan and his parents except for their wedding photo, in which a radiant Mia kissed her husband, her parents on one side and Kwan’s parents on the other.

  Theo made himself a cup of coffee and went to sit in the living room, opposite the large window with its view of the sky. He took out his cell phone and scrolled distractedly through his messages.

  All of a sudden he stopped short, put down his coffee cup, and hurried back into the hallway. He found the wedding photo again and peered closely at it. A shiver ran down his spine.

  27.

  ULYSSES

  Austral Summer

  1976

  Escorted by a nurse, Julia made her way into the maternity unit, empty-handed. She found it difficult to walk. She winced as she sat down on the edge of her bed. Tina thought she looked different. There was something of an Italian madonna about her.

  “Well?” asked Maby, who had been transferred to the maternity unit during Julia’s absence.

  “It’s a boy!” Julia said breathlessly. “I wasn’t allowed to bring him myself. He weighs five and a half pounds. He took his first breath at precisely 3:27 P.M.”

  “Is that important?”

  “I don’t know,” Julia said, lying down. “The nurse put him on my chest as soon as Rubens had gone. He lifted his head and looked at me. I’m sure he wanted to see what his mother looked like. He fell asleep straight after that. I think he was relieved, poor thing!”

  Tina an
d Maby laughed as they sat down next to Julia.

  “What about Rubens?” Maby asked.

  “Like with Tina. Horrible. But not enough to ruin the moment.”

  “Did the nurses help you?”

  “There are two of them. Only one helped me. She cancels out Rubens. The other one is a complete witch, even worse than Rubens. They all hate each other.”

  “That’s reassuring,” Maby said, before adding: “Was there a lot of damage?”

  “Yes, serious damage. Ulysses will be my only child.”

  There was a brief silence.

  “Ulysses?” Tina asked. “That’s a tough name for a kid!”

  “Couldn’t you find something more . . . local? Like Juan, or Pablo? Then we could call him Pablito. Try saying Ulissito, just to see!”

  The three of them burst out laughing.

  Julia bit her lip, lost in thought. After a while she said, “I think the name will suit him. Ulysses never lost hope. I want my son to be like him.”

  Tina pulled a face. “I should have thought about it, like you did, before calling my daughter Dolores!* Dolores . . . I guess it was my subconscious playing a dirty trick on me.”

  They were crying with laughter when the door opened and two nurses came in, each carrying a newborn. Dolly had spent a few days in an incubator, and Ulysses was being allowed a few minutes with Julia.

  The young mothers sat up and got ready to hold their babies.

  Without warning, the crazy woman from the corner darted forward and made a lunge for Ulysses.

  “That’s my baby!” she cried, looking around wildly.

  Julia had never really paid any attention to the young woman, who was always seated in her corner with her back turned. Now she had suddenly burst into Julia’s life, sparking panic and a general effort to reason with her. Julia moved slowly toward her.

  She was slight and probably very young, but her salt-and-pepper hair accentuated the effects of premature aging. Everything about her evoked the fear and fragility of a wounded bird. She stood hunched over, as if expecting a blow.

  “That’s my baby,” the woman repeated, becoming louder each time.

  At the sound of her voice, Julia stood rooted to the spot. Impossible. It couldn’t be. Despite the rictus that twisted her mouth and the paralysis down one side of her face, despite the wrinkles, the receding hairline, and the unfocused gaze, Julia had finally recognized her. It was Rosa. Her friend Rosa.

  The one Julia had pulled from the hell of the Ezeiza massacre, the one Gabriel had nursed back to health and fallen in love with. The one on whom El Loco had unleashed his fury after she had escaped with Adriana. It was Rosa, her friend.

  Her torturers had stripped her of everything, but not of her heart.

  “Rosa . . .” Julia said as the other women fell silent. “Rosa, my darling, listen to me.”

  Rosa turned her blank gaze on Julia.

  “That’s my baby. . . .” she replied.

  “No, he’s not your baby. His name is Ulysses. But you can hold him.”

  Rosa took the baby carefully and walked slowly to her bed at the far end. She sat down and rocked Ulysses, singing to him in a soft voice, a picture of serenity and fulfillment. The baby fell asleep in her arms.

  In the days that followed, Julia tried several times to strike up a conversation with Rosa, to no avail. She then experimented with sitting next to her in silence for hours, looking for a flicker of recognition in her eyes, an emotion, anything that could bring her back. In the end she decided to talk out loud, convinced that her words would somehow reach Rosa’s heart. She told her about everything that had happened since Castelar, about Paola—whom she no longer had any news of—and Adriana and Augusto. She sensed that the young woman was listening to her, because the rhythm of her breathing changed slightly when Julia described events they both had witnessed. But she could never be sure, as Rosa had mastered the art of absentia. When she finally told her about Gabriel, about his death, Rosa didn’t even blink.

  Rosa was the only one who didn’t receive any visitors. Julia couldn’t recall her ever mentioning her family. She knew that Rosa had grown up in foster care. Julia remembered Gabriel talking at some point about Rosa’s parents and how he had met them. They had been destroyed by alcoholism, lived on the edge of poverty, and had lost custody of Rosa because of their violent behavior. Gabriel had been shocked by the way Rosa’s parents blackmailed their daughter. They were constantly asking her for money, even though she was making just enough for herself. As a child, she had been shunted from one foster family to another, ineligible for adoption because her parents refused to sign the forms surrendering custody. As soon as she was old enough, Rosa had taken charge of her own life, working several part-time jobs to put herself through college. She had been co-opted at a very young age by a clandestine network of the Montoneros, who valued her for her extraordinary memory. Julia knew she was impressive in passing on vast quantities of information without writing any of it down.

  She took to giving Ulysses to Rosa to rock every day. Rosa did exactly as she was told but refused to talk. Rosa had never been one to open up, but Julia trusted her, and her help with Ulysses was invaluable. Dr. Rubens hadn’t spared her, and Julia was left with an angry red scar that caused her a lot of pain and severe headaches—a side effect of the drugs he had tested on her. Julia spent most of her time lying in bed, battling her migraines. Tina had her hands full with little Dolly, and Maby, who would be giving birth any day, had been transferred to the intensive care unit.

  One morning as Julia was lying on her bed, she heard Rosa murmuring as she rocked Ulysses: “Muse, tell me of the man of many wiles, the man who wandered many paths of exile. . . .”*

  The words flowed out of her mouth. Her speech, usually so incoherent, had now acquired a clear rhythm. She went on, stopping only to draw breath: “Men are so quick to blame the gods: they say that we devise their misery. But they themselves—in their depravity—design grief greater than the griefs that fate assigns.”

  “Rosa, what are you saying?” Julia interrupted.

  Rosa turned and looked at her calmly, then said in an even voice, “I’m rocking him to sleep.”

  Julia sat up on the bed.

  “You’re rocking him?”

  “Yes.”

  “What were you reciting?”

  “The Odyssey.”

  “You know The Odyssey by heart?”

  “I learned it at school.”

  “Rosa . . . And me? Do you know me?”

  Rosa didn’t respond.

  “Look at me, Rosa.”

  Rosa looked away.

  “Rosa, do you know where we are?”

  “Yes, at home,” she replied without emotion.

  Julia made as if to embrace her, but Rosa placed the baby gently on the bed and walked away.

  The following week Rosa had another unexpected fit. She went after Rubens, ripped off his glasses, and bit his hand.

  “You crazy bitch!” he spluttered, backing away. “You’ll pay for this!”

  —

  Not long after, Julia was informed that her mother had obtained permission to visit her again. They wouldn’t let her into the ward, but Julia knew that physical contact through the bars was tolerated.

  When Julia saw her mother outside the room, she lifted Ulysses up off the bed, removed his gray flannel blanket, and slipped the tiny bundle between the bars and into her mother’s arms. Julia was surprised at the emotion she suddenly felt as she looked at Ulysses nestling into her mother’s shoulder. It was as if something had been released inside her, as if the baby had at that precise moment become her son in the eyes of the world.

  Her mother spoke after a few minutes. “Mama Fina’s waiting outside. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to introduce her to her great-grandson and have her hold him.” />
  Julia asked the guard who had been listening to the conversation.

  “The child can’t go out,” she said gruffly. “But you can let the grandmother in. Just for a minute.”

  Clothed with the sun, Mama Fina made a striking entrance. With her blue gray suit with white piping, her matching straw hat, her smile, and her voice, she managed to fill the place with a breath of spring air. Julia was embarrassed to be seen in her old gray tracksuit. She patted her hair into place and moved closer to the metal door, a lump in her throat. Mama Fina took her hands through the bars, unable to say a single word.

  “Here,” Julia’s mother said, flustered, handing the baby to her.

  Mama Fina held him to the light and studied him carefully.

  “He’s perfect,” she said.

  She turned back to Julia with a broad smile. “So, what’s his name?”

  Julia relaxed. “Ulysses Joseph d’Annunzio,” she said proudly.

  Mama Fina’s eyes grew wide.

  “Ulysses Joseph! Thank you, mi amor. I’m very touched. And relieved that Joseph is his second name, not his first. Fino is an unfortunate nickname for a man.”

  “So is Ulissito, for that matter,” Julia joked.

  Mama Fina suddenly became serious. She turned away from the guard as she handed the baby back through the bars.

  “The French consulate is going to send an envoy to start the asylum process. The procedure is already under way. Your guardian angel is helping us obtain authorization for the visit.”

  Julia looked blank.

  “You know . . . the one who was inspecting the troops that evening.”

  “Ah! . . . of course, I see. When?” Julia asked, taking the baby in her arms.

  “Señora,” came the stern voice from behind them, “you’ll have to leave now; it’s the end of your visit.”

  “Be patient,” Mama Fina murmured.

  “Señora!” the guard repeated.

  “Let’s go,” Julia’s mother said, tugging at Mama Fina’s arm.