The Disappearance of Irene Dos Santos (20 page)

At first she is unable to find the evidence that would vindicate the voice in her head. She is relieved and disappointed at
the same time. But then her hand sweeps the back of the drawer, touches the pointy corners of a small box wrapped in paper.
She pulls it out, takes it to the bathroom, and shuts the door behind her. In the cardboard box is a framed black-and-white
photograph of the four of them—Amparo, Alejandro, Consuelo, and Ismael. It had been taken the night of their fifth wedding
anniversary, Alejandro and Amparo’s, the night Consuelo and Ismael first met. They were holding up champagne glasses and smiling.
So young, so full of joy, of promise, with their lives ahead of them.

You remember
?

“Yes, I remember.”

You must tell the story to Lily
.

Of course, Amparo knows this conversation exists only in her imagination. She must have seen Consuelo put the photograph in
the dresser drawer at some point. But storytelling was as good an occupation as any other while waiting for the baby to come.
Perhaps being compelled by a militant Maria-lioncera to dig for joy in their memories would be good for everybody. Luz, for
example.

Life had given Luz some pretty tough knocks—the loss of her father before she was born, a difficult relationship with her
mother, not being able to have children, her divorce. For a while, after she married Miguel Rojas, it had seemed as though
Luz was finally going to be happy. But something had gone wrong; Miguel had left her. And although when he left her, he left
her enormously wealthy, he also left her bitter. All Luz’s toughness was just the veneer over her unhappiness, la pobre. Luz
might be rich enough to buy diamonds at a time when most people could barely afford Harina P.A.N. But all the buying in the
world could not cure loneliness.

The best cure for a bitter heart is to feed it with hope and possibility. And with that thought in mind, on the fourth day
of the Novena to Maria Lionza, Amparo tells the story of how Consuelo Salvatierra fell in love with Ismael Martinez.

“Amparo and Alejandro Aguilar cordially request your company to celebrate their fifth wedding anniversary,” said the embossed
invitation. So, when she was twenty-nine, Amparo’s best friend, Consuelo, attended a large dinner party at her home in the
prestigious residential area known as Lagunita on a clear, star-filled night in June. And that is where she first saw Ismael
Martínez—poet, composer, and revolutionary—just back from the Gran Sabana, where it was rumored he had been rabble-rousing
with the Pemon tribes to block the construction of an oil field.

That Ismael, he was always up to something, raising hell of one kind or the other. There had been rumors of his involvement
in working-class riots and plots to overthrow the dictatorship. And in those days individuals suspected of sedition usually
disappeared or else were the victims of bizarre accidents, or inexplicable suicides.

But there was Ismael, acting as though he hadn’t a care in the world. That night he was casually debonair in black trousers
and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled twice at the cuff. He stood with his back against the terrace railing, his dark
brown, wavy hair catching the silver light of the moon. He was facing Consuelo and Amparo, who stood just inside the French
doors, surrounded by his usual group of revelers whenever he came to the city, which is to say, mostly women. He was playing
the cuatro and singing. The song was “Flor de mayo,” and the way he sang it could set a fire ablaze in any woman’s belly.
It is not an exaggeration to say that all the women were in love with Ismael Martinez that night, jostling one another in
an effort to be closest to him, or in his line of vision, using every feminine trick in the book to capture his attention.

Consuelo and Amparo stayed where they were, observing the women surrounding the man. Like Amparo, like all the well-to-do,
oil-rich wives in Tamanaco at that time, they were confidently slender and elegant, with perfectly coiffed heads. They wore
imported lipstick and sported the latest fashions from Europe, all purchased with oil money. Amparo could tell that Consuelo,
who was a big-boned woman with unruly black hair that fell to her generously rounded hips, felt immediately out of place,
even though she looked spectacular in a low cut black dress and red satin pumps.

The song came to its wistful conclusion, evoking sighs of pleasure from the audience. Amparo thought: Ismael can make even
these city slickers long for the Gran Sabana, even if they’ve never been there.

“Be careful with that one,” she whispered in Consuelo’s ear. “He has the soul of a llanero—a real heartbreaker. No woman can
tame him. He belongs to every woman and no woman.”

And just then, by some strange twist of fate, Ismael stopped singing and looked directly at Consuelo, who immediately became
pale as a ghost and looked as though she might faint.

“I tell you, Amparo,” she would say later, “it was as if he had grabbed my womb with his eyes and squeezed it.”

But, to go back to the story, just as Alejandro instructed the band to play a bossa nova, a man called Pedro Lanz, who held
an important government post and was visiting from the capital, approached Consuelo and asked Amparo for an introduction.
Now, Amparo didn’t like Lanz, for reasons she couldn’t quite explain, for he was by no means an unattractive man and had impeccable
manners. But, according to Alejandro, being nice to Lanz was good for business, and Amparo was nothing if not her husband’s
most effective public relations manager.

“But of course, Señor Lanz,” said Amparo. “May I present Señorita Salvatierra.”

“Un placer,” said Lanz, politely offering his hand. But it remained hovering in midair, and Consuelo did not accept it. Amparo
nudged her, thinking her distracted, but Consuelo, said, “Oh, was he talking to me? I thought he was introducing himself to
my breasts.”

Lanz’s swarthy complexion went pink as if he had just been boiled, and, for the first time Amparo’s social skills failed her
entirely. In any case, there wasn’t a thing she could have done, since Consuelo was behaving as though both she and Lanz were
invisible to her, and perhaps they were, because at that moment Ismael started walking toward them and Consuelo was watching
him with her lips slightly parted, as if he were the only other human being on the planet.

“Buenas, Amparo; good evening, Pedro,” said Ismael.

“Good evening, Ismael,” said Pedro Lanz.

“Pedro and I fought in the last revolution together, did you know that, Amparita?” said Ismael. “But now he is a director
and has become antirevolutionary.”

“Ismael, you know I know nothing of politics,” Amparo replied, while Consuelo began studying the area near their feet. Pedro
Lanz must have realized he didn’t have a hope in hell of redeeming himself with Consuelo. He politely extracted himself, saying
he thought he would get something from the bar.

“Good riddance,” Ismael said, eyeing Consuelo appreciatively. “Now this, Amparo, is a woman. Where have you been hiding her?
I demand an introduction.”

Amparo, like all the other women, was a little bit in love with Ismael, who, she was convinced, could charm a snake if he
set his mind to it. Relieved by the precipitous departure of Lanz and happy for the opportunity to please Ismael, she said,
“Ismael Martínez, this is my best friend Consuelo Salvatierra, from Valencia. We were in school together.”

“In that case, I will have to visit Valencia more often,” he replied, while Consuelo blushed all the way down to her knees.

Now, Amparo may have been fond of Ismael, but she was protective about Consuelo, and she didn’t want him messing about and
trampling the flowers in the garden of her best friend’s heart. Besides, though Ismael could be considered among the best
of the country’s most important poets and musicians, he rarely had a céntimo to his name. On the other hand, one dance could
hardly matter, and the two were unlikely to meet again. Still, she thought it best to caution him. “Cuidado, Ismael. Don’t
try to play the fool with her—she’s not like the others. If you were to break her heart, Alejandro would kill you and I would
let him.” Alejandro had a reputation for a lethal left hook.

“I only wanted to ask her to dance,” said Ismael, smiling disarmingly. “Do I have your permission, Amparita?”

Amparo looked at Consuelo, who continued to look at the floor. “Well, Consuelo?” said Amparo. “Would you like to dance with
this good-for-nothing lout?”

“Yes,” said Consuelo, without raising her eyes.

(And then what? says Lily.)

And then Ismael reached out, placed his fingers under Consuelo’s chin, and lifted it until her eyes were level with his. Then
he took her gently by the elbow and led her to the dance floor, where they began to dance. They danced so beautifully together,
and all eyes were upon them. They continued to dance during the buffet, and during the serving of coffee and brandy. Finally,
when all the other guests had left, Alejandro and Amparo went to put out the lights on the terrace, and through the French
doors they saw a solitary couple, still swaying softly to the music of the moon. After that night, Consuelo and Ismael danced
all night every night for a week. And on the eighth day of their acquaintance, they were married at a small chapel in Valencia,
with only Consuelo’s aged parents, Amparo, and Alejandro in attendance.

Amparo held a reception for them on the terrace where they had first met and invited all of Tamanaco society. All the women
in attendance were dressed to kill in all the colors of the rainbow, as though, even after the fact, they might be capable
of seducing Ismael back to his earlier ways. But Ismael didn’t even look at them and in their hearts those women wore black.

“How did you achieve the impossible?” Amparo asked Consuelo later.

It seems that on the seventh day, Consuelo threatened to cut her hair fashionably short, as was the trend in the capital.
Ismael told her he would never allow it, that he would keep watch over her night and day until she gave up such a silly notion.

“Well, if you’re going to guard my hair twenty-four hours a day,” said Consuelo, “I suppose you’ll have to marry me.”

And that is the reason Ismael gave up chasing skirts all over the country. It was to rescue Consuelo’s abundant hair.

What is this thing with men and hair?

Amparo and the other women laugh and ponder this question for several minutes, but no one has an explanation. They regard
Carlos Alberto questioningly, but he only smiles and shrugs his shoulders. They turn to Ismael for the answer. But he is asleep,
snoring softly, on the sofa across the room; he has decided to stay after all. Consuelo is pressed up next to him, one arm
across his chest.

“Look at them,” says Luz, “they fell asleep during their own story!”

“That’s because they are still living the story,” says Amparo.

The corners of Lily’s mouth are curved slightly upward in the beginning of a smile.

“I never knew that my mother could be so determined,” she says, “I always assumed it was my father who called all the shots.”

“Your mother, cariño, is no one’s doormat,” says Amparo. “It takes some nerve to rebuke a director for staring at one’s breasts.”

“Yes, I suppose that is true,” says Lily. “I remember the time Señora Lupe asked why Papi was away all the time and Mami replied
that it was because he was El Zorro, fighting against evil.” She laughs heartily and the other women join her. Even Luz, who
is mostly sour. Remember this, remember that, they say, their voices rising, their laughter getting louder and more raucous.

From the corner of her eye, Amparo sees Carlos Alberto regard them apprehensively, like a park ranger spotting dangerous animals
that have rampaged into his camp in the night. But Amparo and the other women pay no attention to him; they are caught up
with hilarity, slapping the table, roaring with laughter, tears streaming down their faces; they are celebrating the moon-dance
life of Consuelo Martinez Salvatierra. And, as far as Amparo is concerned, this is the way it should be.