Beyond the Ties of Blood (2 page)

She stood waiting near the statue, shifting her weight from right to left, feeling the edge of her left boot rub sharply against her instep, hoping Sergio would show up quickly and end her humiliation. Instead, a group of folk singers in black ponchos moved forward and set up their microphones against the side of the statue. As they took out their
bombos
and guitars and began their first set, the red-haired student put down his megaphone and limped slowly down the stairs. He collapsed against the wrought-iron fence at the bottom, supporting his weight on his lower back. Eugenia moved closer.

“Excuse me,” she said. “
Compañero
.”

He pushed his shoulders back as he straightened up. “
Compañera
.”

She shifted her weight back from left to right, trying to take the pressure off her left instep. She cleared her throat. “I couldn't help noticing, you were leading the crowd from up there, so I thought I …”

He leaned slightly sideways, right elbow resting casually on the fence.

“It's just that … I was supposed to … Do you know Sergio Undurraga?” she finally blurted out.

He sat down on the ledge of the closest flower bed, shoulders hunched forward once again. “Look,
compañera
, everyone knows Sergio. But he's not here yet.”

She held out her right hand. “Eugenia Aldunate. It's just that he was supposed to meet me here at ten-thirty.”

“Manuel Bronstein,” he answered, standing up once again. He took Eugenia's hand in his much larger one. “No offense,
compañera
, but anyone who knows Sergio knows he won't be here until at least one o'clock, longer if he runs into a cute pair of legs along the way.”

She jerked her hand from his grasp and turned to go.

“Wait! I'm sorry, I didn't mean …”

She stopped, her back still toward him. “Oh yes you did. Do I look that stupid?”

He hurried after her and grabbed her shoulder. “No, I'm sorry, I really am. Look, truth is … well, we're from different groups, different campuses … you know … opposite sides of the river …”

She turned to look at him, and his hand fell slowly to his side.

“Okay, look. I'm just angry because me and the guys from the University of Chile, we're always the ones left holding the bag. The guys from the Socialist Youth at the Catholic University claim to be such radicals, but they can't get up before noon.”

They were standing about fifty feet from the plaza's southern edge. The crowd had thinned out around them as people pressed in to try and get a glimpse of the singers. Eugenia felt the full weight of the sun bearing down on her head. As she reached up a hand to wipe the sweat gathering at the top of her eyebrows, she noticed a line of smaller, coiled-up ringlets along Manuel's forehead. His abundant red hair and beard would not have been unusual at the Catholic University, where many of the upper-class students were light-skinned, even blond, but they did stand out in the more working-class crowd at the University of Chile. And his eyes, she noticed, were a stormy shade of grey. Still, his hair was slightly ragged along the edges, a clear sign he didn't have the money for a professional haircut. She brought her hand down and looked away.

“It's kinda hot, isn't it,” he said, looking down at his watch. “I don't come back on for another hour and a half or so. You want to find a cold drink somewhere?”

Without waiting for an answer, he put his hand under her elbow and led her off toward the line of juice shops that hugged the sidewalk along Providencia Avenue. Eugenia let herself be carried along. He stopped at the third one down from the corner and claimed a table under the red awning. After pulling out a chair for her, he went inside. When he emerged a few minutes later, he sat down next to her, stretched his long legs under the table so that his boots peeked out the other side, and smiled.

“I hope you don't mind, but I went ahead and ordered for both of us. I know the guy behind the counter, and he makes a mean grape juice. It's fresh, and don't worry, he boils the water.” He laughed. “I learned the hard way, believe me. Several cases of the runs before I figured out that a lot of the guys around here must use sewer water in their drinks.”

A young man in a white waiter's jacket stained with what looked like the remains of strawberry juice put two tall glasses down in front of them, thick white straws floating diagonally across their rims. Eugenia's mother had always warned her about drinking water at restaurants closer to downtown, fearing that the water supply outside the more upscale neighborhoods could not be trusted. She was grateful for the reassurance and took a sip of the cold liquid. It was delicious.

“So how is it you know Sergio, anyway?” Manuel asked. “Is he your boyfriend?”

She allowed herself to focus on his unkempt hair and beard, the smells of sweat and unwashed clothes mixing with black tobacco and, under it all, a surprising aroma of oranges. Although he acted so cocky and sure of himself, there was a vulnerability to him that gathered in his grey eyes, the set of his shoulders, even the angle of his dirty beret. So this was what a revolutionary student was supposed to look like, she thought. Not like Sergio, with his expensive haircut, custom-made clothes, and imported cigarettes.

“You're awfully nosy for someone I barely know,” she said, bristling a little in spite of herself.

He chuckled. “Could be.” The loud slurping of his straw against the bottom of the glass made clear he had finished his juice in less than a minute.

“You were pretty thirsty, too. How could you finish it so quickly when you talk so much?”

Manuel leaned back in his chair. “Okay. Look, Eugenia. It's just that Sergio isn't a very nice guy, in my opinion. And he's not dependable. You seem like a nice enough person, but I just don't think he's being square with you, especially if he said to meet you at ten thirty and …” he looked at his watch. “It's already twelve, which by the way means I need to pay up and go.”

He bolted up from his seat and disappeared back into the shop. When he reemerged a couple of minutes later, he threw some coins on the table and put out a hand to help Eugenia up, surprising her with the gentlemanly gesture.

“Thanks, but I'm not done yet. Let me just sit here and finish my juice. When you're done up there, I'll find you near the statue if I'm still around. You're easy to spot with your red hair. And Manuel”—she added as he turned to go—“thanks for the drink.” He turned back and nodded slightly in her direction, then turned again and disappeared into the crowd. Minutes later, she could see the blaze of his hair as he began to climb the stairs, megaphone in hand.

Eugenia sat at the table alone, nursing her sore left foot. She finished her drink slowly, enjoying the coolness of the liquid and the shade. Her foot felt a lot better after a while, though she came to realize how foolish she'd been to wear these boots to a demonstration. She got up from the table and began to walk back toward the plaza. She jumped when she felt a hand grab her arm, and for an instant she thought she was being robbed.

“Hey! Where've you been? I've been looking all over!” It was Sergio. He leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Man, what a crowd. Stinks to high heaven around here.”

“You really must've been held up.” Eugenia looked at her watch. “I got so hot waiting around that I decided to have a drink.”

“Have to be careful around here, babe. The hygiene isn't quite what you're used to in your neighborhood, you know.”

“It's okay. I had a good guide. He knows the places around here.” She met Sergio's quizzical gaze and continued. “It's that guy up there with the megaphone.”

“Manuel Bronstein from the University of Chile?” Sergio spluttered. “You know who he is? He's one of the top guys in the Revolutionary Left! He's from the south, Temuco I think. Word is that he had to come up here because the cops were after him. Not the kind of guy you want to invite to your house for dinner, little girl! Family's been in the country one, maybe two generations, no land to speak of. Man, I can just see your mama's face when he gets to the door, red beard and all, reeking of black tobacco and garlic, nicotine stains on his broken fingernails. Believe me,
doña
Isabel would faint at the sight.”

Eugenia straightened up to her full height and wrenched her elbow free. “You can say whatever you want, but there's a few things I know for sure, without your help. He was here early. He and his friends did all the work to get things going. He was thoughtful enough to see I was hot. He offered me a juice, making sure we went to the place that boiled its water. By the time you showed up, you were two hours late, as usual. And even if your imported Marlboros smell a lot better than his black tobacco, the stench of your patronizing attitude makes me want to throw up!” She turned and headed for the plaza, surprised at her own assertiveness and at how happy she felt that it was finally over with Sergio. It had been a long time in coming, but it took that drink with Manuel for her to finally realize it for herself.

The minute Eugenia stepped off the curb onto the cobblestones of the roundabout, she felt herself swept up and carried off by the whirlpool of humanity that now filled the whole area from the plaza to the river. As long as she relaxed into the current, she discovered, everything was fine. She felt herself carried along in the general direction of the statue. At one point she managed to look back and saw Sergio's well-groomed head bobbing along.

The ebb and flow of the crowd carried her closer to the statue, then further away. After several tries she found herself at the very edge of the swell as it reached the wrought-iron gate, and somehow pulled herself free by holding on to the rail. Sergio, still a good ten feet behind, was carried off into the center of the eddy once again. She saw him turn to look at her, and then he disappeared into the mass of berets, bandanas, and tousled locks. She sat down by a bed of sad petunias and considered her next move.

“Well. I didn't expect to see you here again so soon.” Manuel was standing next to her, trying to wipe the streams of sweat with a grimy handkerchief. His face was haggard, and he walked with a slight limp. He managed a crooked smile. Her eyes filled with tears.

“What's the matter?” he asked. He fumbled through the pockets of his jeans and pulled out another handkerchief, slightly cleaner than the first one. He sat down next to her and pressed it into her hand. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

She shook her head and opened her mouth to say something, but no words came out. After taking a few deep breaths she tried again. “I … I'm all right. It's just that Sergio …”

“I saw him in the crowd, but he was being carried in the other direction. Did he find you?”

Eugenia nodded, blowing her nose into his handkerchief. “Yeah, he found me. Acted like everything was my fault. Said some pretty mean things. So I told him to get lost.”

He put his arm around her shoulders for a moment. “It isn't like I didn't warn you.”

“Yeah, I guess now I can see better what you meant.” She turned toward him. He took his arm off her shoulders and stood up, still looking down at her.

“I'm sorry he was such an asshole. I have a last shift now before the folk singers come back up for their final set. Will you be all right here by yourself for a while? After that we can go if you want, maybe get a sandwich and some coffee.”

She nodded, surprised at how very much she actually wanted to wait for him. After putting a hand on her shoulder for a second, he grabbed the megaphone and left. Sitting by herself, she wondered for a moment if it was a good idea to go out with him. After all, at least according to Sergio, Manuel was from the provinces, the son of immigrants, and a member of the most radical and dangerous leftist organization. Even she, who didn't follow politics that much, knew that they supported armed revolution and did not form a part of Salvador Allende's leftist government. Yet there was something about him. Was it his gentlemanly ways, paying for her drink, offering to help her up? Was it the contradiction between his arrogant attitude and the vulnerable glimmer she'd detected in his grey eyes? Or it could be a lot simpler. Maybe she'd finally had it with being the good daughter, especially since her mother's meddlesome matchmaking had gotten her involved with Sergio.

The first few hours of the demonstration had been more political, a generally supportive celebration of Allende's first six months in office. Speakers had praised the speeding up of land distribution to the poor in the countryside and his generally pro-worker policies. The rest of the day turned into a youth festival, with folk music and dancing. When the folk singers began their last set with a ballad, Eugenia found herself humming along, reaching down deep inside her memories for a familiar melody and harmony. Next they played several of Violeta Parra's more well-known protest songs, including “Long Live the Students,” which still brought cheers and clapping from the tired, thinning crowd. Her favorite, though, was “Volver a los 17,” a song she knew by heart. It was an ode to love and how it could make anyone young and happy again. Sergio said it was sappy, but it always made her cry. And from the reaction of the crowd she wasn't the only one. They finished up with a long medley of Víctor Jara songs, anchored by “I Remember You, Amanda,” another sappy one, according to Sergio. But she loved this one, too, especially the part where Amanda waits at the gate of the factory for her lover, an idealistic guerrilla leader, only to learn he had been killed in the mountains. And that last line, it somehow always punched her in the stomach: “Many did not return, including Manuel …” Now that last line had a new meaning.

“Hi. Sorry it took so long.” Even though the folk singers had ended their set, she had been so deep into the mood of the music that she jumped, and it took her a minute to return to the present. He was sitting next to her. “So I guess I made a liar out of Víctor Jara, huh?”