The Disappearance of Irene Dos Santos (39 page)

As for Pedro Lanz, even were he to defy pure common sense, his own self-preservation instincts, his feelings of loyalty to
his former school friend who had begun to visit him in his dreams—even were he to disregard all that and give the order of
execution, it was by no means a certainty that the guards would carry it out. He could not be sure who among them had not
been contaminated by the resistance, which had spread like a bushfire, raging from city to city, town to town, village to
village, and even through the forests, consuming everything in its wake. Pedro Lanz was a man whose decisions and orders were
designed to achieve a particular result, a man who did not like waste, particularly the waste of a good man, a man whose composing
ability and lyricism, though clearly subversive, was nothing short of a maravilla. What a great advantage it would have been
to have such a man on the side of the regime. Pedro Lanz could discern that the writing on the wall of time was not in the
government’s favor, that its days were numbered. Besides, he had given his word to Consuelo that he would do “everything in
his power” to secure the safe return of her husband, and he was nothing if not a man of his word, though when he gave it,
it never crossed his mind that Ismael would resist every conceivable method of persuasion. Well, not
every
method; Pedro Lanz had never used the one method that would have broken Ismael in seconds: He had never arrested or threatened
to arrest Consuelo. On the contrary, he had relaxed the surveillance on her the day before she disappeared from Tamanaco.
He had done this because he too had the ability to fall in love at first sight, as he had on the night of the fifth anniversary
of Amparo and Alejandro Aguilar, the moment he saw Consuelo.

On the morning of the most violent and well-orchestrated popular uprising in the history of the nation, before leaving for
the plane that would carry him into exile, the last order Pedro Lanz would give as director of Security and Classified Information
would be to free Ismael Martinez.

Ismael was alone in the cell, his cellmate having been executed three days earlier, when the only guard who had not yet deserted
his post opened the cell door. “Hurry up, get going, and buena suerte,” he said, before racing down the steel grey corridor,
ripping the regime’s insignia from his uniform and flinging away his cap as he ran, with Ismael close on his heels.

Once there was a norteamericano, a black man, who said he had a dream. But it was not a dream. It was only a fleeting vision;
a vision that dims and brightens in the never-ending battle between the few who have everything and the many who are tired
of being left behind to suck the bones at the empty banquet table.

Following a spate of random school kidnappings in Tamanaco, Ismael had taught Lily certain maneuvers that would enhance her
chances of escaping the grasp of a predator. Once she had succeeded in loosening the grip of an attacker, her father said,
she should run like hell, shrieking like a siren, to attract as much attention as possible. Lily was best at slipping out
of a neck lock, but that was on dry land, with her feet on the ground. From his dreams he could see his daughter struggling
in the water with Irene and called out to her. With seconds to spare, Lily followed her father’s instructions, coiling first
and then jackknifing out of Irene’s grasp. Irene lunged toward her again as if in slow motion. “Hit her,” said Ismael.

He had been warned by his Que grandfather of the dangers of intervention from the dream world in the course of real-life events.
“There is always a price to pay in such an exchange,” his grandfather had warned. Ismael knows that Lily has already paid
with a part of her soul, that he and Consuelo have paid with the pain of their own separation and the anguish of watching
their child battle the unnamed fears that have prevented her from embracing life to its fullest. And Irene had surely paid.
And now Efraín; he too is paying with the loss of his entire family. Perhaps finally Imawari would be sated.

“Dios, mío,” Lily exclaims, “I just realized...the boy Efraín, he has Irene’s eyes!”

“Stop talking and push,” says Amparo. And a few seconds later the first granddaughter of Ismael Martinez bellows her way into
the world.

For the first time in months Ismael and Consuelo fall into each other’s arms and into the same bed, too exhausted even for
speech. But even in their sleep, their bodies call out to each other, and they awaken in the early hours of the morning to
the relentless, involuntary movements of their hips. Laughing, they succumb to that primordial command. The silk of Consuelo’s
nightgown slides from her body like a sigh. He kisses her; her legs lock around his back. Their lovemaking is long, luxurious,
and wanton. And, at dawn, when there is a light knock at the door, they hold their hands to their mouths like randy teenagers
who have made too much noise.

“Come in,” says Ismael, covering their nakedness with the sheet.

It is Luz. “I’m so sorry to disturb you,” she says, “but we cannot find Efraín.”

Instantly, Ismael is on his feet, pulling on his trousers, running out the door, with Consuelo close behind him. Marta and
Amparo are searching the house while Lily anxiously clutches her baby in the living room, Alegra at her side. Carlos Alberto
is scouring the garden compound. “He couldn’t have gotten over the wall or out the gate,” says Carlos Alberto when Ismael
joins him.

Having run out of places to look in the house, all, including Lily with her infant, come out into the garden. They are all
talking at once—who was the last person to see Efraín, what time, how could this happen, and so forth.

Then Ismael observes the ladder against the back wall of the house and looks up. Efraín is standing at the highest point of
the roof, right at the edge, his arms outstretched like a bird, his eyes wide and glazed as though sleepwalking.

“He is on the roof,” says Ismael. Immediately Carlos Alberto and the others follow the direction of his gaze and there is
a collective gasp.

“Poor child,” says Carlos Alberto, “it is too much for him; he has lost his mind.”

Luz begins to wail.

“Quiet, Luz,” says Ismael. “He is dream-walking; we mustn’t do anything to startle him. Someone please get me my pipe and
pouch of tobacco.”

Standing in the garden below, Ismael lights his pipe, inhales deeply, closes his eyes. As he enters into a trance the sounds
of the world fall away and there is only the smell of rich, full-bodied tobacco. In his mind’s eye the edges of the world
soften, a resonance fills the sky, there is a hovering wind, the air assumes a ponderous density, and in his mouth he can
taste metal. He is on the edge of the world of dreams. Through the dim gray light that filters through the membrane between
the real world and the dream world, he can see Efraín outlined some distance before him instead of above him. Pushing away
the membrane like cobwebs, he sees that the boy is standing on a cliff at the edge of the abyss. Across the gaping hole, and
through a blue diaphanous mist, he can distinguish a female form. At first it seems as though she is beckoning to the boy,
but then he realizes she is waving him back from the edge of the abyss. Efraín stands with his legs apart, his face upturned,
and his arms outspread as he sings, “I can fly.” In each hand he holds a small feather. As Efraín tilts precariously forward,
the woman’s gestures become more frantic. Ismael sucks deeply from his pipe and begins to blow a smoke bridge but he is too
far away. He runs forward, blowing as he goes, but even as he gathers speed, he knows he cannot save the boy from tumbling
into the abyss nor even keep himself from falling, for he has not asked Imawari for permission. And yet he leaps into the
air, stretching and reaching to grab at Efraín’s shirt collar. It is a leap of faith. The sky opens in a livid sear, and a
tremendous wind begins to blow, scattering debris in his face. Then, he and the boy are free-falling, hurtling toward the
jaws of the great caiman. All at once, a great vine made of smoke unfurls beneath him and wraps itself around his waist, hoisting
him, along with the boy, to safety. A gourd adorned with Maizcuba feathers drops at his feet. It is his grandfather’s rattle.
Efraín crumples to the ground and Ismael lifts him into his arms. As if from a great distance Ismael hears his grandfather’s
voice: “Who knows the line between vision and madness, between dreaming and waking, or whether there is a line at all?”

When Ismael opens his eyes, he is on the roof with the boy in his arms. Efraín, now awake, is clinging to his neck, and those
below are whooping and cheering. Except for Luz, who is laughing and crying.

“You see that, Efraín?” he says. “That is your family.”

It is possible to grow passiflora edulis even from cuttings, layers, and grafts.

I
n her dream, she is riding through the forest on a giant tapir, when she sees Lily standing, bewildered, in a clearing.

“Vamos, vamos,” she says as the tapir, over which she has no navigational or speed control, rushes through the clearing. As
she passes Lily, she reaches out, expecting her to grab hold and hoist herself onto the tapir. But Lily hesitates at the critical
moment, and the chance is lost. Then she is blinded by a flash of light, her neck snaps back as if she has received a blow
to the chin, she falls backward, her back bending at an entirely impossible angle. The dream shifts. In this dream she is
swimming. Arm over arm, pummeling the water, and with each breath, just before she dips her head to exhale, she sets her sight
on the shore. Then a cramp makes her jackknife. The sandwiches. Why had she eaten so many? The cramp recedes but her leg and
arm muscles are spasming. Treading water she shouts to Lily, “I cannot keep this up much longer. I want to go back.”