“The man outside. His name is Guillermo,” he finally says. “He helps people, families, when a loved one is kidnapped and being held for ransom.”
Ignacio breathes in sharply. The tension builds in his neck and jaw, in a corner of his face Andres never noticed until now. He sees his son’s Adam’s apple jolt as he tries to swallow his anger, and he’s almost convinced by his calm, staunch demeanor until he looks Ignacio in the eyes. Andres knows better than to try to comfort him immediately. His stare is unblinking and expectant, withholding any reaction until he’s heard the news explicitly.
“I received a call a couple of mornings ago about your mom . . . She’s being . . . held. Guillermo is here to help us bring her home.”
The boy blinks—just once—and his face goes slack. His eyes dart back and forth between his father and the door, behind which they can still hear Guillermo setting up the lines. He presses his lips together and nods, as if he’s having a conversation in his head.
“How long is he here?” he asks.
“Until we get your mom back,” Andres says slowly.
“How long will that take?”
He shakes his head and opens his hands. “I don’t know. As soon as we can.”
“And all they want is money? Is it a lot?”
Andres is tempted to correct him, to tell him that’s not all they want. What they want is his life’s work. They want every day, every thought, every waking effort of his last eighteen years. Instead, he nods.
Ignacio walks across the room and opens his bedroom door. “What’s so complicated about that? We pay and she comes back. It’s that simple.”
“I’m afraid it’s not.”
“It is that simple. What do we need him for? I can help. Just tell me what to do.”
“Don’t—don’t you worry about Guillermo,” Andres says. “You don’t understand how this works. We need him to—”
“No, you need him. To make yourself feel capable. To feel like you’re protecting her or helping her when all you’ve been doing is sitting around the house doing nothing. You lied to me. You made me think she’d just left like the . . .” But he can’t finish.
In the silence, Andres begins to understand all the things his son can’t help but know. He walks over to him, placing his hand on Ignacio’s stooped shoulder. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to protect you and Cynthia from all this. I’m trying everything I possibly can.”
Ignacio steps away and stands taller, almost matching his father’s eyes. “If that were true, she’d be home already.”
The arrogance, from his own son, is almost too much to take. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He reminds himself to breathe now, in for one second, out for another. He closes his eyes for just an instant longer than a blink, but when he opens them Ignacio’s arms are crossed and he holds his head tilted in such a way that makes Andres want to slap it straight.
“I don’t have time for this. Guillermo and I have work to do.”
“Tell me when they call. Let me talk to her! Let me talk to them.”
“That’s enough, Ignacio!” He’s almost screaming now, and he has to take a moment to slow his thoughts down. “I just mean, I’ll handle this. I don’t want you getting involved.”
“But that’s not fair.”
“None of this is fair. Just, please. Eat something. Keep Cynthia company. Make sure she’s okay, and if she asks, tell her your mom’s traveling. That she misses her. Punto.” He pulls his son close and doesn’t even care that it’s such a battle. Ignacio’s arms are stiff as they wrap around him, but they are here and warm and solid, and for now that is all that matters.
After sunset, Andres and Guillermo go searching for Marabela’s car. They have only an hour or two before the curfew kicks in, and already the streets are quieter and citizens hide in their homes like mice. From the passenger seat Andres gives Guillermo directions to his office. He’d started to feel light-headed as they left and had to ask Guillermo to drive. Now he pushes down the window, hoping for the comfort of a breeze against his face, but in an instant Guillermo swerves into the next lane, inches away from a micro stuffed with passengers hanging on to an overhead bar for balance. Despite getting tossed side to side, Andres knows he can’t complain; driving less aggressively would only get them in an accident. Guillermo, like all of Peru, drives a la defensiva.
The whole country is in a constant state of defense, even the president, who only two months ago had a military tank—thirty-five hundred pounds of nerves and steel—charge the steps of Congress to declare that it, along with the constitution and the judiciary, had been suspended. That evening President Fujimori addressed the nation on television and made it sound like this was the only way to protect the country from the growing threats of terrorism and a worsening economy. Congress was at a political deadlock, and this was only temporary, Fujimori assured. Meanwhile, armed guards kept senators and congressmen out of the government palace, their stares and bodies rigid as they held their rifles across their bodies, pointed at the sky.
Andres thinks the tank was a bit much, but then again, how else do you abolish two armies of terrorist rebel groups if not with a firm hand? The time for subtleties has long passed—the tank is just another radical gesture in the wake of random bombs, fires, and blackouts that have taunted the city as of late, loading even the quietest moments with fear as everyone secretly wonders where and when the next will strike.
Still, it seems to Andres that the presidential coup, the Fujigolpe as it’s being called, has garnered little protest from the people. They embrace it, even, with loud sighs of relief that finally someone is fighting for them. The last president left the economy in such chaos that even his promise for a new electric train was abandoned, its giant unfinished pieces still scattered throughout the city. Such poverty made people desperate; it bred social uprising and created an environment where guerrilla groups have plenty of desperate citizens to prey on.
In the last elections, Fujimori seemed to come out of nowhere. Who would possibly relate to a Peruvian son of Japanese immigrants, an engineer who had more academic and television experience than he did in government? They called him El Chino, perhaps derogatively at first, but eventually affectionately. Everyone, even Andres, thought the other candidate would win; he was a famous novelist, rich in ideas. But at the last moment, Andres, too, had voted for El Chino. Marabela took the election results the hardest. She loved Mario Vargas Llosa’s words, thoughts, and aspirations. She believed he could be the one to bridge her dreams and the tangible, and now the gap, the contrast, is too much for her.
They approach downtown and Andres tells Guillermo to make his next left so they can enter his building’s parking lot from the back. Traffic lights glow against the nearly empty streets, but he feels the darkness winning. He finds he’s more afraid of what he can’t see than what’s right in front of him. Is this supposed to be progress? Is this supposed to make them feel safer?
The questions land in Andres’s thoughts, then flutter away like dragonflies on a pond. His fears strike somewhere closer to him, closer than any assassination attempt or detonated micro could ever reach. They always go straight to the uncertainty surrounding Marabela, the all-too-familiar terror of knowing he is one misspoken word away from losing her.
“Is this it?” Guillermo asks as the car slows down behind a pale yellow building. Parking downtown is always scarce; Andres’s employees find it where they can while he and the senior executives go around the back, to a narrow alley that runs behind the office and has just enough room for five or six cars. This is where they hide their vehicles, where the wives park quietly if they’ll just be in and out. The entry is wide enough for two cars to pass, side by side, at a careful speed.
He nods. “If she made it here that day, she would have parked here.”
“Anyone could block this entry. They could have pulled in diagonally,” Guillermo says as they drive through. He sounds aggravated, like any idiot should know thi
s. He stops abruptly behind a lone navy-blue BMW.
“Mira eso,” Andres says, as if he doesn’t believe it, as if he won’t until someone else confirms he sees it, too.
The car is perfectly parked and seemingly undisturbed. There are no scratches on the surface, no tires slashed, none of Marabela’s belongings scattered along the pavement. Andres had expected to find it with the doors wide open, ransacked. He gets out of the car for a closer look and Guillermo follows.
“It’s unlocked,” Guillermo says, opening the driver’s-side door.
“What does that mean?”
“Maybe she got out of the car but she didn’t have time to lock it.”
He almost asks why but then the implication hits him. “They took her the second she got out of the car?” He’s starting to wish he didn’t have so many questions. He’s no longer sure he can handle the answers.
“It’s possible,” Guillermo says, but he doesn’t look at Andres. He circles the car, gets down on his knees and checks underneath it. Andres mirrors him on the other side.
“What are we looking for?”
“Nothing,” Guillermo says. “There’s nothing under here.”
Andres tries to think like him, following Guillermo’s logic. “If she was attacked here, wouldn’t she have dropped her purse, her keys . . . anything?”
“A lot of times they’ll check the wallet to be sure they got the right person. There’s a chance they just took it with them.”
“So she was taken here,” Andres says.
“Nothing’s certain.”
“No. Just that she never would’ve been here if I hadn’t asked her to come by.”
“You shouldn’t blame yourself,” says Guillermo, his tone distant as his eyes circle around the car. “It’s not as if they came here expecting you. I doubt that was the case. These are well-planned crimes. They rarely settle for a target they never intended to take.”
“Why not choose me, then? Why Marabela?”
Guillermo stands and for a moment Andres thinks the man is clapping his hands together, mocking him in this moment of desperation. He gets up and realizes his own hands are covered in dirt and gravel, so he mimics Guillermo and brushes his palms together. He waits to see what Guillermo will do next. It’s become too exhausting to doubt him every step of the way, and he starts to get the sense that everything will be fine so long as he trusts what the man tells him.
“Don’t ever rely on logic in the minds of these criminals. It’ll deceive you when you’re least expecting it,” Guillermo says. He reaches for the passenger door and Andres does the same on the driver’s side. The khaki leather seats are stiff and unwelcoming as he struggles to slide into the driver’s seat and fit his legs beneath the steering wheel. Even in Marabela’s absence, there’s no room left for Andres in her place. Her scent, having won the battle against the new-car smell that’s faded in less than a year, overwhelms him.
“Do you want me to drive it to the house?” Guillermo asks.
The car will only invite more questions from Cynthia. What of her mother’s car without her mother?
“No. It’ll have to stay here,” Andres says. “I’ll just tell Edith that Marabela’s car broke down and we haven’t had a chance to get it fixed.”
To anyone who asks at the office, he hasn’t been feeling well and would rather work from home in case he’s contagious. To neighbors who ask why they haven’t seen much of his wife, he keeps it simple with the same story about the charity gala road trip he’d told his children. To the women like the one from the charity committee who call wondering why Marabela hasn’t come to their meetings, he keeps his tale vague, his voice somber as he tells them about a family emergency in the United States, making it uncomfortable for them to ask more questions. He’s sure eventually his circles of friends will collide and they’ll find their concerned whispers of gossip don’t add up, but that’s the least of his worries.
There are so many lies now he’s beginning to doubt his own truths.
DAY 7
“Well, how did it go?” his mother asks, as if she’s asking about a party or a first date. Even though it’s been years since she’s visited Andres’s house, Lorena quickly makes herself at home, unloading bags full of meals her cooks have made, telling Consuelo and Carla where they should be stored and how long they’ll need to be heated.
Andres knows his mother would rather not fuss over their reunion, so he takes her in quietly. Seeing how much she’s aged saddens him more than he’d anticipated. For years he assumed an eventual reconciliation would mean starting where they left off, but it’s clear now that time did not stop for their sake. Lorena’s hair is an ambiguous grayish blond, depending on how the light hits, and her frame is wider than Andres remembers. He always imagined his mother would be the type to stave off old age with cosmetic work, but the wrinkles along her eyes and forehead are rather becoming. They suit her, like armor scuffed in battle.
He’s surprised at how relieved he is to see Lorena; her presence wrings the last drops of energy from his body. Last night he slept no more than two hours, but even then, his thoughts kept him on the precipice of consciousness. His mother’s restless energy makes Andres feel useless by comparison, and he is tempted to leave her alone in the living room while the maids bring her a café con leche.
“Sit,” she says, tapping the couch next to her, as if the house belongs to her. “What else is left for you to do right now?”
“What I need to do and what I can do are two very different things,” Andres says, taking a seat. He needs to go to the office and set up meetings with clients and investors. He needs to go over the year’s reports with his financial advisers and get a better idea of what he can ask for the company, if it comes to that. More than anything, he needs to pretend that everything is fine—nothing out of the ordinary. If word got out about Marabela’s kidnapping, the buyers would smell his desperation and offer him the bare minimum for his business.
The more Andres tries to think of a solution, the more he feels like he’s being asked to knock down a building without making a sound.
“I just keep thinking about what they’re doing to her. I can’t stop imagining the worst. And then when I do, I feel guilty, like if just by thinking these things I’ll make them happen, and it’ll be my fault.”
“Sweetheart. Don’t be ridiculous. No one is that powerful. Just be happy you don’t know, and fill your thoughts with ways to get her out of there. And how are the kids? Are they here?”
“They’ll be home from school soon. They’re . . . adjusting. Ignacio already knows what’s happened, but we agreed there’s no reason for Cynthia to find out. She’s not blind, though. She sees things changing around her and she asks questions and she has no idea what she’s adjusting to.”
This morning he introduced Guillermo to Cynthia, explaining that they’re working together on a big project. The child didn’t waste a second and asked if that was what they’ve been working on in her mom’s room.
“Did she give you permission to go in there?” she asked.
“It was her suggestion. She told us we may as well use it while she’s out of town,” Guillermo said. “Now, do you mind if I tag along while Jorge takes you to school? I have some things to pick up at my office nearby.” In truth, Guillermo wanted to accompany Jorge in order to study the routes he typically takes. He’s told Andres the family needs to become more vigilant about security. From now on, Ignacio will walk to Cynthia’s school in the afternoons, where they’ll wait together for Jorge to pick them up. He’s advised them to never take the same routes twice, never give the impression of a routine. He wants them to be unpredictable, quick and alert as flies.
“Ignacio doesn’t like Guillermo telling him what to do.” Andres reaches across his mother’s lap and grabs a pack of cigarettes from a small side table. “Sorry,” he says, offering her one. “And why should he? The man is full of contradictions. First, Guillermo tells me no one can find out, everything needs to
go on as usual. Then he’s giving the maids and the driver instructions—”
“He’s very good at what he does, Andres. You can’t afford to doubt him.” Despite turning down the cigarette he offered, now Lorena pulls one out of the pack. Her long white-tipped fingernails look like they’ll puncture the paper or catch fire as she lights up. She inhales with one hand, then uses the other to push the smoke away as she exhales.
Andres lets out a long, thin cloud of smoke. It’s been nearly ten years since he enjoyed a cigarette with his mother. In the early years of his marriage, they spoke candidly only over cigarettes, because Marabela hated the smell and would often find an excuse to leave the room whenever they lit up.
“How can you be so sure of him?”
“I’ve seen him do his job before. I was there every evening with Elena’s mother after they took her.”
“I wish they’d told me. I would’ve tried to help.”
“Are you running around asking old friends and exes to help you?” She doesn’t wait for Andres to answer, knowing he won’t. “So you see why they didn’t bother, then.”
It’s strange to hear his mother describe him as just an old friend and an ex when he’s always felt he and Elena were more than that. They were family, not by blood but by history, and he had just as much a right to know about her well-being as his mother did. The problem—and what kills him, what adds to the heavy sorrow he’s been carrying around for years—is that he simply failed to ask.
“How is she doing?” he says, knowing that this won’t count. His mother shakes her head and takes a slow sip of her coffee. Outside, the garage door rumbles open, and soon Guillermo will walk in with more supplies, more armor, for the darkroom. A part of Andres is relieved, thankful for the distraction.
“She was held for five weeks, you know—short, compared to most kidnappings, at least from what I hear. God only knows what it felt like. She could never talk about it when she got out, and then these last couple of years she just got so paranoid . . . la pobre,” Lorena says. “She’s at a private psychiatric facility now. Her parents checked her in just three weeks ago. With all the blackouts and explosions lately . . . who can blame her for feeling unsafe? It was all they could do to keep her from hurting herself.”
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