Slash and Burn

  The women in the neighborhood didn’t understand why a man with armfuls of food would be leaving a lonely woman’s house in the middle of the day. They assumed she was paying him for sexual favors, because the boy was too young to be with her out of love. He wasn’t ugly either. They wondered if he might have been involved somehow in her husband’s death. They didn’t dare ask her because they knew it wasn’t true, and that she’d become cross and never help them again. It’s not like she was sorting out their entire lives, or paying for their groceries, but she was always willing to pitch in when needed. And whenever something found its way into her hands, she shared it without ceremony or any provisions for reciprocity. Just like her husband had. It was a pity he’d died, because from that moment on, people kept breaking into her barn. Whenever she asked the neighbors if they’d seen anyone go in when she wasn’t around, or if they’d heard any sounds of looting the night before, they said nothing. They didn’t want any trouble: the men doing the robbing might get annoyed and break into their houses when their husbands or life partners weren’t around, and teach them a thing or two about discretion.

  The robbers respected the men’s presence, even those who were elderly or weaker than they were. They viewed the women as they had before the war, even though they’d fought beside them, saved their lives on occasion, and could even kill them now, claiming they’d trespassed on their property. But they knew none of them would. They wouldn’t want their children to think of them as murderers. Nor would they want to shoulder the weight of their neighbors’ judgment. They couldn’t stand the thought of being told they’d gone too far, that it was unbelievable how much they’d changed since wartime, that nobody would have thought they’d care enough about their possessions to end the life of a compañero-in-combat, even if that compañero was stealing from them. They would’ve shared what they had, if only they’d been asked. But no man wanted to suffer the embarrassment of asking a woman for help, especially one without a husband. They’d be ridiculed. Their own wives would scorn them. Maybe even leave them. There was only one option: to do what they’d been doing. The other women would have to understand.

  She couldn’t. She didn’t think it was fair for them to take what she’d toiled to get for her daughters. Nor could she accept the women’s sudden interest in advising her on how to raise her girls, even though they’d never lifted a finger to help. None of them had helped when her husband died. None of them had contributed to her search for her missing daughter, or looked after the ones who lived with her, not even when she had to leave the country to find her firstborn. She didn’t care if they were saying, now, that it was for her own good, that they didn’t want her daughter to go the way of one of the other girls who’d taken the admissions exam with her at the university and become addicted to drugs after studying abroad in a neighboring country, even though she’d been accepted at the university she applied to. They wanted her to be like the second girl, who’d also been admitted but decided she ought to get married and have kids while she was still young, and revisit her studies later, if necessary: she’d gotten together with a boy whose parents had emigrated a long time ago and sent money every month. The boy had a brother who might be a good match for her daughter, if she didn’t become too peculiar. She was a pretty girl, but not the only one in those parts. Best make up her mind soon. She wouldn’t be young for ever. She couldn’t spend too long dreaming of universities and foreign cities. Neither could her mother.

  27

  It was always possible the trip might not happen. The people who were meant to hire her might change their minds and opt for a girl of a different nationality, with a different education, language, age, or complexion. It was also possible the plane might blow up or crash into something on the way. It might happen that, when she arrived at the airport, the customs officers would decide not to grant her entry. It had occurred to many who, their round-trip tickets purchased, were put on a return flight and sent home without ever being able to get so much of a glimpse of their supposed destination. Later, those countries would save themselves the uproar and drama on their soil by having the airlines screen travelers during layovers, without even needing to issue refunds. If one of their employees determined the girl inadmissible, she wouldn’t make it across the ocean. She’d come home. She’d cry for a long while and then find a new future for herself. In fact, she already had: though she was still going abroad, it wasn’t to make money for her own studies, but for those of the next youngest sister. After all, maybe it was true that it was her turn now. Maybe she was better at school and would pass all her classes without difficulty. Then, if nothing slowed her down, if her sister graduated when she was meant to graduate, she could return and enroll in the university a second time. Maybe not to study public health, but something like it, at any rate something that allowed her to do the volunteer work she wanted to do. Maybe she’d even manage to help her mom and sisters to leave the community they were living in before the deadline. They could move someplace where no one knew them and start afresh, make new friends and open a small business, just enough for them to scrape by after she was back in the country and studying again, and the money she’d saved up was running out. She said all this without meaning for her next youngest sister to respond as she does, saying no, that it made more sense for her to stay and carry on her studies at university. If she was gone too long, all the progress she’d made would be lost, she’d forget what she’d learned up until then and have trouble getting back into the rhythm of university, which was what had happened when she’d gotten sick as a kid and failed the academic year even though they’d given her plenty of opportunities not to. It’s not that she wasn’t any good with books, she was just a slow learner. What’s more, she always worried too much. Best focus on passing the subject she still had pending: she’d go to France in her place. She didn’t think the people hiring her would object or even notice the difference: they’d never seen her before. The person who’d put them in touch would understand the situation and realize she was right. The younger the girl, they’d think, the better her chances of adapting to a new culture and learning a new language. The people taking her in would also like the idea of receiving the other girl in her place. In the photo, she looked much nicer and more steadfast than her sister. They also liked the fact that she was trying to help her sister. They’d try to do the same for her in return. They can’t promise her great things, but she can count on them for whatever’s in their power.

  Her mother will warn her not to ask for more than was offered in the arrangement. She doesn’t want any trouble for her, and she doesn’t want the people taking her in to think she’s trying to take advantage. She’ll also ask her not to bother her firstborn’s family. Under no circumstances should she give the impression that they were trying to get anything out of them. She doesn’t want to feel accused again, not even from an ocean away. Nor does she want her other daughter to experience the kindly disdain of the couple who’d purchased her little girl.

  The sons were different, but, even so, she’d rather she didn’t contact them. She doesn’t want them to feel responsible for her, or to try and make up for never visiting her even after promising they would. She understood that, in the end, they’d decided to do whatever brought peace of mind to the woman who’d taken them in as a mother. So, unless the girl was in dire straits and could see no way out, she ought to avoid pestering them.

  Several weeks later, they’ll learn of her presence in the country from the people who work at the organization for finding lost children, and will call the house where she’s staying to say they were there for her should she ever need anything. She’ll tell them she isn’t in Paris. The people she’s with will explain that the sister who was meant to come had misunderstood the person who’d put them in touch: they were to pick her up from the Paris airport and drive her to the town where they lived. Neither her sister nor her mom had paid attention to the details either. The name of the city where the missing girl had grown up clou
ded everything else.

  Her employers showed her a little of the city. She didn’t know where her sister had grown up or the places she’d frequented, but they took her to where they thought she might have gone as an average girl. They did their best: the girl didn’t seem to know much about her sister.

  In reality, she’d never asked her mom what her sister was like. What she’d told them about her back then had been enough. She hadn’t cared about the details because she never imagined ending up so near her.

  Her lost sister’s adopted brothers will offer to take her to the exact places when she visits Paris, maybe on vacation. Though they don’t want to seem insistent, they’ll ask her, through her employers, to consider it. The woman in charge would rather not take the risk. Though the boys will have told her the story that had brought them together, she won’t feel comfortable letting the girl go off with two strangers without authorization from her mother or from the person who’d put them in touch. It’s not that they’re trying to keep her against her will, they simply want to protect her: the girl doesn’t know the country or how to get around on her own, and she still doesn’t speak the language very well. The few sentences she can string together aren’t enough to make them feel confident. The boys don’t speak her language either, and the person won’t be able to be there to translate. She’ll be at work. If they’d like to come visit the girl, it’ll have to be at a time convenient for her and only with the approval of the mother or the person who’d recommended her. She hopes they understand. The brothers will agree to wait. Every so often, they’ll call to extend their offer again and, some time later, will also tell their adopted sister to guess who’s in town.

  Who?

  They’ll ask her to try a little harder. She won’t want to. She isn’t in the mood for games. Things aren’t going very well for her in the colony. Or in her marriage. She’s thinking of coming back to Paris.

  They’ll think it’s a good idea—that way she can find out who’s there.

  Who?

  Does she really not want to guess?

  Really. When has she ever been in the mood for games?

  The name they say will mean nothing to her.

  Really?

  She won’t be able to place it.

  When she does, she won’t smile. She’ll say she thought she’d washed her hands of all that, but, deep down, she’ll be pleased. They, who know her well, will tell her she mustn’t worry: the girl hasn’t asked about her or come looking.

  Really?

  She can relax: they don’t think she has any interest in contacting her. She hasn’t wanted to see them either.

  She’ll ask if anything bad has happened.

  Has her adoptive mother said something?

  No.

  Her father?

  Nothing.

  She’ll be intrigued. She’ll ask them to keep her in the loop, in case it’s a ploy. Later, she’ll ask them to get her the phone number of the place where the girl is staying. She’ll call. She’ll ask her how things are going in that country. The girl will say they’re going well, except that it’s too cold for comfort. She feels like she’s constantly freezing.

  And it’s not even winter yet.

  The people who put her in touch with the host family knew it would be best to wait for spring to come before bringing her. Flights were cheaper then and there was less chance of her despairing at the weather. She’d see the flowers bloom and have time to acclimatize.

  Her sister will say that, at that moment, it’s too hot where she’s living. She misses the cold over there.

  She’ll ask where she is. The girl won’t be able to place it in her mental map. She was never very good at geography. The sister will try to give an idea of it. She’ll ask her to speak more slowly: her French isn’t very good yet. Her sister will say it’s much better than she thinks. Maybe she was French in another life.

  The girl won’t get the joke.

  She’ll tell her she’ll call again another day. She can’t say when, at that moment, but she promises she will. She’ll tell her to keep working on her French.

  The girl will go to school feeling happy. She’ll work harder every day. When she calls home, she’ll tell her mom that she spoke to her lost daughter. The mother will be happy. She won’t ask if she mentioned her, so as not to have to hear that she didn’t. She’ll be thankful that she let this girl go instead of the other one.

  The other one would never have taken her sister’s call, or would’ve hung up immediately. She hadn’t forgiven her for not loving her mother or appreciating how hard she’d tried to get her back. With time, she’d understand that her response was to be expected, but, in the moment, she would’ve wanted to punish her a little and, if she could, tell her some things she thought she deserved to hear.

  The firstborn would probably never have tried to call again, and would think she’d made a mistake in trying to get close to them. They’d never hear from her again, not even the sporadic and meager news they’d been getting from her till then. They would hear nothing else about the baby girl she’d given birth to or the plans she had in mind.

  28

  Before that happens, the daughter who’ll travel abroad in her sister’s place will feel afraid. She’ll hear steps on the roof of their house like those that had once turned to leaps, then screams, and then hacking on their front door when she was just a little girl. Her mind will go to the man who’d once insisted they hand over the eldest daughter the mother had raised and, faced with her silent refusal, started trying to bring down their house.

  If an ex-soldier from the village hadn’t reinforced those parts of the house that the first man had weakened, this other man would’ve entered with ease. If her father hadn’t built the house the way he had, the first man would’ve had no trouble seizing her sister and taking her away. Everyone in the community knew he’d done the same to others. It was said he broke into the houses of the women he desired and stayed there for as long as he liked. It was also said he waited on roads for other village girls, diverted them to where he wanted them, and then sent them back on their way with instructions to keep quiet. If they ever accused him, he’d end them after killing their parents in front of their eyes and blaming it all on the girls, claiming they’d asked for it.

  He’d put a sharpened machete to the necks of the community’s women and demand they move like he’d told them to and do what he wanted. He expected a beverage at the end of each encounter. If there wasn’t one waiting for him, he took it as an offense and punished them for it. He hit them where everyone could see and made them prepare him something to drink right away. He also told them that if they didn’t want to force him to do it all over again, they should make sure a beverage was waiting for him the following day.

  Though he’d have preferred to move on to another woman’s house, he’d go back to that one just to make sure she’d learned her lesson. He wouldn’t take any refusals or objections. Or negotiations: his word was to be respected.

  His family refused to intervene. His mother said there was no way her son was doing what he was being accused of. His brothers preferred not to get involved. Though his sisters believed there might be some truth to the claims, they could do nothing about it: when their turn had come to take him into their beds at night, no one had offered them a helping hand. If they did anything to stop him from going to other women he’d only return to them.

  His father was the only one who could get his attention, the only person he obeyed. But he was elderly and very ill, so no one wanted to trouble him. The doctor had said he was to avoid any anger or commotion, which is why the family tried to protect him from hearing anything that might upset him. But seeing as no one else was willing to help, the girls’ mother went to speak to him the day after his son’s visit.

  She asked him to keep his boy away from her girls. She’d already asked him directly. Once she’d even pried her eldest daughter from where he’d cornered her.

  She wasn’t asking to be
reimbursed for the damage he’d done to her home, but to let them sleep peacefully and live at ease. Otherwise, she’d be forced to find some way of handling it herself. He knew she could: they’d been together at a couple of camps. Her father had been a friend of his. They’d gone to the mountains together during the invasions. They’d attended the same lectures and read the same leaflets given to them by the catechists. He knew what was just and what he had to do if he didn’t want someone else to do it themselves. So he agreed to talk to his son, and to cover the cost of repairing the damage the boy had caused.

  The man’s mother didn’t appreciate the measures taken. She said she didn’t understand why they had to pay for the house of a woman who had nothing to do with them. Upset as she was, she spread word that the woman, finding herself alone, was trying to make others cover her and her daughters’ expenses, and that she’d found in her husband a fool who would slip her some money. But, deep down, she knew what her husband was doing. She knew her son was responsible for the damage and her husband was paying for it. He always had. During the war, he’d gone to the mountains so his son wouldn’t have to, and asked those fighting there not to recruit him. He knew that if he were to join their forces, he’d be liquidated in weeks: the boy didn’t heed instructions or fight for any causes other than the one everyone knew about.

  Sometimes he thought the boy should’ve fallen in the war so that his mother wouldn’t have to go through what she was going through then, and so she could fabricate a story that framed him as a hero. But when he’d had the chance to decide, he’d been swayed by how much she’d suffer if her son died. He’d thought his boy might somehow help her get ahead, and so he chose to believe what she did: that their son could change, even though it wasn’t true. Now, he had to pay for it.