The Disappearance of Irene Dos Santos (15 page)

“You mean
Papi
is the one who delivered me?” says Lily incredulously. “I never knew that.”

“No,” says Consuelo, “
I
delivered you, my darling. But it turned out your father knew a great deal about assisting, having once participated in a
delivery in the jungle along with his friend Lucrecia, who was a midwife. Anyway, Amparo was so furious that your father forgot
to call her, she demanded that he make it up to her. Which, of course, he finally did, by introducing her to Lucrecia. And
that’s how Amparo became a midwife.”

Consuelo wants her daughter to understand the endurance and sacrifices love demands in return for the joy and ecstasies. There
is another story that would illustrate her point. A story she has never spoken in words, though there have been hints of it
in some of her early painting—a period Ismael calls her “brooding period.”

Nine years before Lily was born was a time of unrest and trouble for the nation, and as far as the government was concerned,
Ismael had become part of the trouble and unrest. When he disappeared in Tamanaco on the day of her birthday, Consuelo felt
a terrible soul-shrinking foreboding. Every morning for three weeks, she left at eight and returned only at night. All day
long, she scoured the city, searching in hospitals, police lockups, and, finally, the morgues. What she saw in the morgues
made her blood run cold—grey, naked corpses, some without hands, or feet, or heads. Other bodies dark with bruises and burns.
Sometimes the bodies were children. With haunted eyes she would tell what she had seen, while Amparo covered her shaking shoulders
with a shawl and Amparo’s husband, Alejandro, poured her a stiff drink. Finally, Alejandro learned through his secretary,
Lily Percomo, that Ismael was being held in detention without charge at the Ministerio de Defensa.

Consuelo sought and received an appointment with Pedro Lanz at the Department of Security and Classified Information. She
went to the Palacio Miraflores, signed her name in a registry, sat down in the designated area, and folded her hands firmly
in her lap, expecting a long wait. She watched as, across the marbled hallway, a woman in a dark blue dress begged for an
appointment and was denied. When the woman refused to leave, she was escorted off the premises by two soldiers, screaming,
“I want to see El Mago, I want to see El Mago.” Consuelo remembered with a chill in her spine that Pedro Lanz was morbidly
known as the Colonel’s magician for his ability to make men disappear. A few minutes later, another soldier approached her
and asked her to follow him up an imposing stairway and down a long, wide hallway. When she entered the office of Pedro Lanz,
he stood, looked directly into her eyes, and greeted her cordially, “Ah, Señora Consuelo, I must say that marriage has only
enhanced your beauty. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Dizzy with guilty gratitude that she had not met the fate of the woman in the blue dress, Consuelo thanked Pedro Lanz profusely
for seeing her on such short notice.

“I’ve always held you and your husband in the highest regard, Señora,” he said, maintaining eye contact. “I am a great admirer
of Ismael’s musical and poetic talent. He is a genius—a true renaissance man.” Pedro Lanz walked from behind his enormous
desk to where she was standing, and, taking her solicitously by the elbow, drew her toward a red velvet upholstered sofa to
one side of the room, saying, “I can never forget his role as one of the compadres who helped pave the road to power for this
government, and indeed my own position in it. I assure you that I am not a man who ignores such debts. So, tell me, how may
I be of service?”

“Señor Director, my husband is missing. He simply vanished nearly three weeks ago in Tamanaco, where we were houseguests of
Alejandro and Amparo Aguilar. Since then, I have looked everywhere and contacted everyone I can think of. I don’t know where
else to turn,” said Consuelo, moving ever so slightly away from him on the sofa, and turning toward him earnestly, in order
to make it appear as though her intention was to have a better view of his face, rather than to alleviate her revulsion at
his proximity.

“Claro, I understand,” he replied, patting her hand. “After all, who can we turn to in times of need, if not to our friends?
And I speak frankly to you now as your friend and not as a government official. As you know, I grew up with Ismael, who, like
so many creative persons, was restless and never could stay in one place, or, for that matter, with one woman, ha ha, for
long, until, of course, you came along, my dear. I don’t want to appear indelicate, but even the best of men will stray from
time to time and it is wise to give them a little extra rope.” His tone implied that he knew this to be the case with Ismael
and was breaking the news to her gently.

Consuelo could feel the blood flooding her cheeks at his reference to her husband’s well-known and colorful history as a lady’s
man. It was difficult to keep her poise. “I am well aware of my husband’s past, Señor Director. And though he is my husband,
I have never curtailed his freedoms. During the year we have been married, he has had no reason, nor shown any inclination,
to...stray, as you put it. He went to buy flowers for my birthday and never made it to the flower shop. This is why I am certain
he has been hurt or detained against his will.”
By you,
she wanted to shout, but stopped short just in time. Whatever you do, Alejandro and Amparo had warned, don’t say you know
he is being held at the Ministerio de Defensa. But of course Pedro Lanz knew what she meant even though she had not said it.
For they lived under a dictatorship, and what was a dictatorship but a country without habeas corpus?

“My dear Consuelo, if he has been detained, as you put it, it is not by my order, though his political activities and affiliations
are known to me,” he said, smiling with his mouth but not his eyes. “Nevertheless, I assure you, I will make inquiries and
do my best to get to the bottom of this matter.” He rose, offering her his hand, signaling the end of the interview.

Consuelo leapt to her feet, the blood flooding her cheeks with crimson. “Excuse me, Señor Director, but I do not believe you.”

As soon as the words escaped her lips, she regretted them. The reputation of Pedro Lanz was of a man who could inspire fear
in the hearts of strong men using only his mirada, whose displeasure could have life-or-death consequences. Her knees began
to tremble and her mouth went dry, but her eyes were blazing. To her surprise, he laughed.

“Caramba! I’ve always said that Ismael Martinez knows a high-spirited thoroughbred when he sees one, and you, my dear, are
magnificent. I recognized this the moment I saw you that night in the home of Amparo and Alejandro Aguilar, and you scolded
me for behavior unbecoming to a gentleman.”

Consuelo’s relief at the unexpected acquittal was so great that she absorbed the comparison between herself and a racehorse
without offence. She went so far as to express her regret for having treated him so rudely at their first meeting. But Lanz
waved off her apology with his hand and leaned so close she could feel his hot, stale cigar breath on her face. He was no
longer laughing. A fat bead of sweat from just above his left eyebrow dropped into her lap as he whispered, “Instability in
the country is growing as we sit here, you and I. Even among those in my own department, I cannot be sure whom to trust. I
should be out doing something about that, yet I am here, listening attentively to your concerns. In the grand scheme of things,
the absence of one man, while regrettable, is not a matter of such, shall we say, gravitas. So tell me, presuming I were able
to help you, what would you give me in return?”

She would have given anything. She would have given her life.

Many days later, she sat in a hut in the forest and watched the door, willing it to open. When it did, and Ismael walked through
it, her heart performed a
soubresaut
. She stood and walked to him, trembling. Without a word, they embraced. She did not know how long they stood there, pressed
together, bone to bone. It was nearly dark when, reluctantly, she pulled herself away to put a pot of water on the wood stove
to boil. While the room filled with steam, she gently removed her husband’s clothing, wincing as she observed the bruises,
welts, and burns on his back and buttocks, kissing each one with reverence. She could not bring herself then, or ever, to
ask what he had endured in detention anymore than he could ask her what she had endured waiting for his release. Instead,
she said to him: “You will never sing in public again. You must promise me.”

Ismael had not argued that the danger was over, that under a new and democratic government, they would have little to fear,
and political debate would become a matter of common public discourse. He had simply buried his face in her hair and said,
“I promise you.”

And so, gradually and tenderly, they moved beyond the unmentionable. Ismael continued to document his experiences and ideas
through music and lyrics, work he gifted anonymously to musicians around the country, who would sing them as if they were
their own. But the musicians all knew from whom the gift had come, for the words and music of Ismael Martinez could not be
confused with those of any other artist. And without exception, those who performed his music would send him a portion of
their profits.

After they left the Western provinces, Consuelo and Ismael had lived for a time on nothing but love, relying mostly on the
kindness and hospitality of strangers. And, after his release from prison until the day Lily was born, whenever Ismael sang
his compositions, it was for Consuelo’s ears alone.

No, she decides, she will never tell anyone, not even her daughter, of the lengths she was willing to go to purchase her husband’s
life. It was a love sacrifice, yes. But it is not a happy memory.

In the afternoon, Consuelo pats her hair into place and smoothes the front of her dress, feeling more herself because Amparo
has finally arrived. She had been addressing a midwife’s conference in Miami on the day Lily had fallen. It took two days
to reach her on the telephone, but as soon as she heard, she had cancelled her last lecture and taken the first flight back.
That she has brought a nurse in tow is a miracle, since it is almost impossible to find live-in nurses in the city these days.
And besides, who can afford them?

From the rattling of pots and pans in the kitchen, Consuelo deduces that Marta is not entirely pleased with this population
invasion, with the extra mouths to feed, with the possible siphoning off of her authority. Consuelo can hear her grumbling
to herself. She considers offering to help in the kitchen, if only to take her own mind off Lily and the baby. Cooking, the
rhythm of preparing a meal for those she loves, has always been a source of joy for her, a creative act, like painting. She
considers moving her easel outside into the garden. But the anxiety of the past four days appears to have stolen her inspiration
as well as her appetite.

To her relief, Amparo’s assistant, Alegra Montemar, has turned out to be a woman of cheerful disposition, with no residue
of airs from her former life as a celebrity. Seamlessly, she has established herself as part of the household, coming forward
when her services are required, melting into the background when they are not. Consuelo watches her as she enters the kitchen,
instinctively deferring to Marta, only speaking when spoken to, offering to help with the washing. And Marta begins to thaw
incrementally, to stop muttering under her breath.

After breakfast, with Alegra’s help, Consuelo gives Lily a sponge bath and dresses her in a luminous sky-blue nightgown from
her bridal trousseau. Luz applies a slight dash of rouge to Lily’s chalk-white cheeks, which have never before known or needed
the transformative powers of makeup.

“You look beautiful,” says Carlos Alberto afterward. “Nobody would ever imagine you were sick.”

“That’s because she is not sick,” says Amparo. “Pregnancy is a celebration of life.”

Thank all the gods and goddesses of the universe for Amparo, thinks Consuelo. She can always turn any situation into a good
time.