Born to Run (30 page)

“When your husband sent you to America, did he know you were pregnant?”

“
Si
, is why he send me… because
bebé
is coming.”

“Because you’d be safer?”

“No, was…” She paused, trying to find the right words. “…was
menos peligroso
—less dangerous, yes?—after we leave from here.”

“But that’s not what you told your daughter, is it?”

“
¿Qué?
”

He repeated the question slowly.

“I no want her to feel abandon by her father. So I tell her lie. I lie to her about many things; to protect her feelings. I pretend to her my husband is very pretty, but he short and
fat… like Maria Rosa now,” she cackled, the camera exposed briefly to the breathtaking spectacle of her toothless mouth.

“Is this a picture of your husband?” He passed Maria Rosa the grainy print Elia had given him. It was taken from the 1968 newsreel when the Chilean diplomat met LBJ.

“
Si
,
mi marido
,” she sneered, spitting a large gob of yellow out of her mouth onto the paper.

Reynolds was ecstatic. Only a star interviewer could extract such passion, and the camera was getting it all.

“I don’t understand, Señora Diaz. Why spit on him?” Come on. Do it again, he hoped. Tear it up. Burst into tears. He glanced up to see the second camera was framing her
face but was pulling back the zoom enough to get her hands too. Marcus, the chief cameraman, was a professional.

“Because he throw me away,” she said, her flabby arms suddenly gesturing so extravagantly she almost knocked the pitcher of water over. “I pregnant and he send me to America
for get rid of me. Bye-bye me. And bye-bye
bebé
. He say,
Lloqsiy wasiymanta pantasqan qanwanqa karani
.”

“Excuse me?”

“In Quechuan language means:
Get out of my house, I make mistake with you
.”

Elia could sense Reynolds’ next question; it was as though a hangman’s trapdoor was dropping open in the pit of her stomach. She saw Marcus preparing for it too, tightening his zoom
in on Maria Rosa for a full-screen face shot.

“But why would he say such bad things to you?” asked Reynolds.

“Because his
amigos
tell him he is
cabrón
…”

“¿
Cabrón
?”

Her hands flew to either side of her head, her forefingers pointing upwards like horns. “
Cabrón
… because
bebé
is not his.”

“Hernandez Diaz… he was not Isabel’s father?”

“He is husband, si. But no father. He go crazy with me. He tell me get out, but I say, ¿
Y la guagua
?… and what of
bebé
? He say to me, he shout, I
remember clear, ¡
No estoy ni ahí
! ¡
Vete al carajo
!
I no care! Go to hell!
Hernandez he say more very bad things to me.”

Reynolds solemnly looked up to the lens, “As you’ve just heard, while Isabel Diaz’s mother was indeed married to a Chilean diplomat, that man was not Isabel Diaz’s
biological father.” He turned back to Maria Rosa. “Maria Rosa, tell me… who was Isabel’s
real
father?”

“
Jardinero
. Can you believe…” she said, stretching her arms wide to take in their destitute surroundings, “I once has gardener work for me?”

“The embassy gardener?” asked Reynolds, feigning shock since he already knew the answer from their run-through.

“Si. He nice to me. But my husband go red. He say,
tú eres más falso que una pirata boliviano
—you are faker than a Boliviano pirate. He say that to me!
Him… a Chile dog!” She spat into the dirt, just missing the rug. “He throw me papers and little bit money and he say ¡
Vaya
! Go! Get to America. ¡
Vete al
carajo
!”

Elia’s lips, dry from the cold, had split badly from grinning so much, but she couldn’t care less. And nobody, not even Reynolds, was noticing the smells any more.

Eventually, Maria Rosa turned the questioning back on Reynolds, “Why you has interesting in Maria Rosa?” She’d asked this earlier, during the prep, but they had fended her off.
Elia wanted her to hear the answer for the first time with the cameras shooting.

“It’s your daughter, Maria Rosa. She was recently running for President of the United States.”

“¿
Mi Isabel
?” Maria Rosa’s eyes glazed over, then she smiled weakly, sadly, and for a moment she fell silent.

Elia imagined that all kinds of memories and what-could-have-beens were flooding Maria Rosa’s head, details she’d long forgotten, or wanted to.

“Señor Reynolds,” she said eventually, a tear running down her cheek, “Isabel want to be presidente since very little girl.”

“America wanted it too, Maria Rosa.”

REYNOLDS was already in the minivan, lounging smugly across a double seat, his legs spread as wide as his self-satisfied smile. The crew were packing their gear into the
vehicle, but Elia stayed back with Carlos as he gave Maria Rosa the money he’d promised, in an envelope. Only then, did she hop in and tell the driver to head straight for the airport. She
and Marcus already knew the satellite uplink in La Paz was hopeless, so editing the material would have to wait till they got back to LA. Reynolds seconded the motion, not because he cared about
technical details, he just wanted out of this godforsaken hole. His work was over.

Within minutes of their departure, all the
paceños
who’d been squeezing into the cracks between the shanties so they could ogle the bizarre event had scattered back to their
own squalid homes.

Two dark figures, their teeth glinting in the
watia
afterglow, sprung from the shadows. Maria Rosa saw them immediately. She’d been expecting them and greedily extended her hand for
her second envelope of the night. She wasn’t completely stupid, she thought, and now she knew the background for the first time she would ask these people for even more money than
they’d promised. She’d met them twice now, the first time a few weeks ago, just before Elia had got her tip-off.

Maria Rosa ushered the woman inside the hovel. Diana’s face was dark, her red cap peak pulled low over her eyes, and she was sombre as she handed the woman the fat wad. She placed her hand
on Maria Rosa’s shoulder and pressed her fingers in on the bone, “Maria Rosa, you must promise our secret will die with us both.”

“
Si
,” the bent old woman nodded, the pain in her shoulder and the mention of death hinting that now might not actually be the best time to renegotiate.

Diana smiled and slapped the old woman hard on the back. Maria Rosa felt a sharp pin-prick jab between her shoulder blades and was about to say something when Diana slipped out through the
curtain and left. Maria Rosa watched the mysterious woman pass by the hot
watia
hole and drop something into it, rousing a brief flare to the dying fire. Even if she’d seen it closer
up, Maria Rosa would’ve had no idea what a
Clip’n’Drip
was. She turned back inside and shrugged, a nerve pinching the same painful spot in her back, unaware that in two
hours’ time it would never trouble her again; and nor would anything else.

T
HE INTERVIEW ISABEL Diaz agreed to give to Shannon Reynolds had nothing to do with Reynolds and everything to do with Mr Devine, Elia’s
boss. Devine had been good to her over the years. It didn’t hurt either that he too was a Catholic.

The set behind Isabel and Reynolds was a poignant blowup of her mother in the doorway of her shanty, with three snotty-nosed, half-dressed urchins clinging to her skirt. “What can I say?
It’s history,” Isabel said facing Reynolds on air, and brushing her hair behind an ear. Isabel was trying to emphasise closure, but all it did was show her vulnerability. “But of
course I’m disappointed I didn’t know about this before, or my nomination wouldn’t have got scratched.”

“And you’d be President now.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t,” she shrugged. “In any case, Mr Foster was duly elected, he’s been sworn in and, as a nation, we need to move on.”

“And your mother, Madam Speaker? Seeing her again, on TV, in all that squalor… that filth? It must have shocked a wealthy woman like you.”

Isabel snapped to ice so quickly that Elia, who was watching from off to the side, could almost hear her cracking. Elia had personally negotiated the ground rules with Isabel’s staff.
Anything about her feelings for her mother was strictly off-limits. She had agreed to the backdrop photo, but that was to be it.

“I have many regrets, Mr Reynolds, but I’m not disposed to sharing them with you. We agreed on that before this interview, as I recall.” Delivering that last sentence through a
sweet smile, she destroyed Reynolds’ prospects of ever interviewing another serious political leader again.

After the interview, Devine wandered onto the set and signalled his nicotine-stained finger over at Reynolds. The “face” strutted over to his boss expecting dollops of praise for his
last-minute attempt to throw Isabel off-balance but instead, Devine stretched his arm up around Reynolds’ sculpted shoulders, slipped his cigarette out of his mouth, and edged the interviewer
off to the side of the studio where they couldn’t be so easily heard.

“Shannon, my boyo,” he said, lowering his voice so even Reynolds had to lean down to hear him, “it’s time you got yourself a brain to work your tongue. If you ever get
one, call me; I might think of rehiring you. Security is clearing out your desk.” Devine placed his fist in the small off Reynolds’ back and shoved him forward and, for a change, the
mouth was lost for words.

Devine wheeled around to find Elia. She had been watching the two men, wondering what was transpiring but Devine, without a word, pulled Elia’s sleeve over toward Isabel. “Madam
Speaker, before I apologise to you for Reynolds’ appalling breach of our agreement, I’d like you to meet Elia Cacoz. She was the brains behind this story and you can be the first to
congratulate her on her promotion.”

“Mr Devine…,” was all Elia could get out.

“Ms Cacoz. Well done,” said Isabel, taking her hand. “If only I had you around last year.”

“Actually you did,” Elia said, slipping her hand out of Isabel’s warm grip and hanging her head. “I was Mike Mandrake’s researcher and, um, I sort of screwed up. I
killed the research too early. I feel so, so responsible.”

“Didn’t you hear what Madam Speaker said during the interview, Elia?” asked Devine, smiling. “It’s history.”

Elia heard, but was not convinced.

Her instinct was right.

T
HE DOOR TO Ed’s study at home was closed but Davey found it unlocked, and snuck it open to peek inside. His father had his back to him, and
Davey could see from the green light flashing on the desk that he was talking on his speakerphone. To the boy, the grey phone-dome sitting on a 1930s bleached oak and steel Frank Lloyd Wright desk
didn’t look at all incongruous.

Nobody else was there except Ed and, with the drapes open, there was plenty of light for the bit of fun that Davey had planned. The boy slipped inside quietly and pressed the door closed behind
him before sliding to the floor. Ed had chosen the same motif for the carpet here as in his office: five-pointed stars, though for the privacy of his home he’d gone for a less understated
pattern.

Davey had already programmed the shutter-click on his camera to remain silent so his game would be as hushed to his father as it was to himself, and he started snapping. He began with four shots
of the desk.

Eventually Ed swung around and as he did so, seeing Davey, his face compressed into a frown for a second, long enough for Davey to get him in the frame. “I’m on the phone,” he
signed, relaxing into a beaming smile and pointing to the console, “Want to say something?” Ed’s face was warm and open. He vainly hoped the boy would speak to him as he’d
done for Isabel.

Davey shook his head, instead pointing to his camera, so Ed got the hint and shifted his pose so he looked mean, like a gunslinger sizing up his kill. Davey gave his dad the thumbs-up and
clicked away.

“You still there?” asked Niki Abbott over the speaker.

“Davey’s just come in… with his new camera.”

“I should give him some lessons,” she laughed.

“Not with what you’d teach him!”

“Funny man. I know he can’t hear, but shouldn’t…?”

Ed waved at Davey before turning away. “I’ve got my back to him now. Where were we?”

“You were saying it’s two hours till she leaves. I’m getting wet just thinking about this,” she said.

Ed shook his head. “No dirty talk.”

“Ed, he’s deaf!”

“I don’t care,” Ed said. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the light flashing red for an incoming call on the other line. “Our call’s coming
through…”

BY the time Isabel was ready to fly to the shack, Davey was back in happy-mode and she guessed it was the excitement of coming to the heliport.

His toilet break was taking time. The rotors had been spinning for five minutes and Davey hadn’t made a reappearance.

“What
is
he doing in there?” repeated Isabel.

“Don’t wear out your watch,” Ed said, glancing at the chopper whirling outside the terminal not fifty feet away.

“It’s not as if you have appointments at the other end,” George added.

Davey burst out of the restroom door, his toy penguin Pip flying in one hand, his camera gripped in the other and his shirt flapping out from under his sweater.

“I hope you weren’t taking photos in there!” George laughed.

Davey ran straight to Isabel and whooshed up into her arms, squeezing her with all his might. She tucked in his shirt as he hung there and hugged him back, and spun him around like the rotors,
with so many swirls they were both giddy.

When she stopped, and was still swaying a bit, Davey slipped down and his blond head snuggled into the down-filled squishiness of her steel-grey parka. With cuddles over, he handed Pip to George
and stretched his camera out in front and pointed it back at his face, snapping a big cheesy self-portrait. He held up his hand signalling to the others to wait for a moment—this was serious
business. He had to check his work was of adequate quality, inspecting it on the camera’s display screen. Finally, Davey, apparently satisfied, placed the camera firmly in Isabel’s
gloved hand.