Was she making too much of their connection? She was pretty sure Ignacio felt it, too, but was it more than the emotional impact of having heard her story? After all, when he’d held her in Boston she had been crying because of the memories stirred back up. She was sure he didn’t hold all his witnesses in his arms. But maybe it had been the intimacy of the setting rather than any personal attraction on his part. Besides, she hadn’t been with anyone since Manuel, and maybe she didn’t know how to read the signals anymore. She didn’t know if it would feel the same between them in Chile.
In fact, she wondered if anything would feel the same. She remembered the morning the soldiers came, only a few minutes after she’d gotten back from the store. That fear, the one she’d felt bubbling up from the cracks in the sidewalk every morning since the coup, had finally pounced and grabbed her by the throat. Would it still be hiding in unexpected corners, waiting for her to pass by?
Eugenia looked down at her daughter, still sleeping soundly, her head nestled now along one side of her mother’s lap. Running a light hand across Laura’s forehead and brushing back a strand of hair that had wandered over one eye, she wondered what the next few weeks had in store for them. Thankful for the predictable routines of her job, her daughter’s school and new friends and Irene’s presence, Eugenia had begun to feel a certain sense of rootedness and belonging in Boston. True, all it took was one missed cultural cue, one mispronunciation of her name, and the old familiar longing would well up. Yet what was she longing for? The military government? Her mother’s controlling attitude? Then with the transition toward democracy, the plebiscite and the elections, everything had been turned upside down once again. When the Truth Commission’s invitation provided an excuse, she had been surprised at how quickly she started making plans to return for good.
Looking back on it now, Eugenia realized that she should have seen how disruptive the trip to Chile would be for Laura. When they’d moved from Mexico City to the United States, her daughter had not yet been a teenager. She’d seemed to fit in so easily, and the friendship with Marcie had been a great help. But Eugenia had forgotten about the missed school year, the early difficulties, the isolation that she and Laura had felt at first despite Irene’s help. She could still remember the look on Laura’s face when she’d come back to the apartment to find Ignacio. Eugenia had felt shocked at her daughter’s hostility and hadn’t known what to do or say, so she let Laura go to her room and hadn’t tried to explain. By the next morning, she realized now, it had been too late. Laura even refused to celebrate her sixteenth birthday.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. This is your captain speaking.” The smooth Texas drawl over the loudspeaker caused Laura to stir, and she moved back into her own seat, still half asleep. “I hate to wake you up, but we’re about an hour and a half from touchdown in Santiago. Our flight attendants will be coming through the cabin soon to serve you breakfast and pass out the forms you’ll need to clear customs and immigration. So this would be a good time to stretch your legs, use the facilities if you wish, before things get busy. And thank you for flying with us.”
Eugenia stood up and squeezed out into the aisle, joining the line for the bathroom that was forming at the first row of the coach cabin. As she waited, she went back over the list of verbal instructions Ignacio had given her. For now, Laura could enter on her Mexican passport, and Irene had helped her get a visa at the Mexican Consulate in Boston. Once they got their bearings, they’d decide if they wanted to go through with the paperwork it would take for Laura to apply for Chilean citizenship. As for Eugenia’s situation, Ignacio had explained that the problem of returning exiles was still a work in progress, especially for those who, like her, had been classified as “subversives.” Inevitably there would be some bumps in the road. They’d gone over the papers she had in her possession: her proof of exit from Chile, issued by the Mexican embassy and stamped by the military police on the way out; her exile identity papers provided by the Chilean consulate in Mexico City; her green card and employment record in the United States. For the moment Eugenia had no passport, but it would be just fine, Ignacio had assured her. With copies of her papers, the newly formed Office of Return would issue her an entry permit, and they could take it from there once she was in the country. He promised he’d be waiting at the airport.
Still, she was nervous. She remembered how she’d been treated on her way into exile. She wondered if the military police were still in charge of immigration. And would her mother be waiting at the airport too? Irene had promised to call and let her know the details of the flight. But it had been a long time, and they’d not been in close touch.
“Sorry to interrupt you again, ladies and gentlemen.” That southern drawl, the vowels multisyllabic. “Those of you who have your window shades raised might’ve noticed that the sun’s coming up. If you’re on the left-hand side of the plane you’ll be able to see the Andes mountains. On a personal note, though I’ve flown this route for years, I must admit the dawn glow on ’em still gives me a thrill. Take a look if you can.”
Along with the other people in the bathroom queue, Eugenia bent down and looked across the cabin to the windows on the left side. The blush of first light shimmered salmon-hued off the snow-clad peaks. In between, the jagged, cliff-like indentations looked lilac, almost purple. Violet valleys plunged down into the clouds, drawing her into a place where only phantoms could survive. Her vision began to blur. When she finally looked up, her eyes locked with those of the man ahead of her in the line. His long, dark hair, greying now, hung in waves to his shoulders and was matched by a huge handlebar moustache. Tears were rolling down his cheeks.
“La cordillera. First time back?” he rasped. She nodded. “Me, too, compañera,” he said. Swatting at his eyes with one hairy paw, he turned to open the door to the bathroom.
By the time the plane had landed and taxied to the gate, Laura was wide awake. After wolfing down her breakfast and half of Eugenia’s, she’d struggled to pass her hairbrush through the sleep tangles in her thick hair. She gathered it up in the one barrette capable of holding it all and, after the plane reached the gate and the seatbelt sign was turned off, stood to rummage through the overhead compartment for her backpack and leather jacket. She struggled to squeeze her thin arms into the sleeves without hitting another passenger, then took Eugenia’s bag out and passed it to her along with the guidebook she’d retrieved from the seat pocket.
“Are you sure you have everything, Laurita?” Eugenia asked as she stood up.
Laura nodded, then took and squeezed her mother’s hand for a second before turning to stand in line. Eugenia’s eyes filled at the unexpected gesture. Perhaps things would be all right for Laura in Chile after all.
They exited the plane into a glass-enclosed, tube-like passageway. A late winter drizzle made it hard to see much, and in any case they soon entered a sanitized, fluorescent hallway. Small icons with arrows pointed them in the direction of immigration. They entered a large room with a recently waxed linoleum floor, red velvet ropes dividing the space into five separate lines, each headed toward a booth at the far end. The person sitting in each one of those booths, Eugenia realized, her stomach suddenly recast into a single burning knot, was wearing the toad-green uniform of the military police. Trying to control the violent trembling in her knees, she focused on reading the signs above each booth in an effort to choose the line that was correct for them. Two lines for Chilean citizens. Not really, at least not now. Two lines for foreign visitors. Well, not exactly. One line for foreign residents. That wasn’t it, either.
“Mamita? You all right? Where are we supposed to stand?” Laura had taken her mother’s clammy hand and was looking at her with concern. “What’s the—”
“I’m so sorry I’m late. You wouldn’t believe the traffic! I don’t know what’s up with Santiago, no matter what time of day or night, it just seems you can never—well. I’m here, you’re here, and everything’s going to be all right.” It was
Ignacio, his formal grey winter coat and dark blue tie contrasting with his impossible youthfulness. As he ran his hands through his hair in a vain effort to smooth it down, the one long black strand over his right eye stood out at an apologetic angle. Eugenia relaxed into his embrace.
“Are you all right? You seem really tired.” Ignacio kept hold of her elbow as he turned to give Laura a more formal peck on the cheek.
“Well, I didn’t sleep much, but that’s not the problem,” Eugenia answered. “It’s just that the police in the booths … well, they look pretty much the same as when we left.”
Looking up, Ignacio nodded, then turned back and led them off to the left side with a hand under each woman’s elbow, stopping for a moment by the wall. “Absolutely right. But that’s not where we’re going. I have copies of all your documents, duly stamped. Do you have Laura’s passport and visa handy?”
As Ignacio reached into the inside pocket of his coat and took out an official-looking envelope, Eugenia removed Laura’s papers from her purse. Ignacio folded them into the same envelope, then escorted the two women to an exit along the left wall. He handed the envelope and his own pass to a guard standing there. The man looked through all the materials carefully and then nodded, waving them through. Before Eugenia could catch her breath, they were in the baggage area. A porter took her luggage tickets and collected their bags from the carousel. They went off to the side again, and Ignacio showed his pass to the customs guard standing there. Within minutes they were out in the greeting area where hundreds of people stood waiting for their loved ones, bouquets of roses and carnations splashing the crowd with red.
“There are a number of returnees arriving on your flight,” Ignacio said, noticing Eugenia’s stare. “Most of them haven’t seen their family in nearly twenty years. In this group you were one of two without some kind of valid passport. The Commission is also sponsoring the other person, but I made sure I was assigned to be your welcome committee.”
Eugenia looked up as Ignacio’s hand tightened slightly on her arm, feeling the warmth spread up into her chest. Their eyes held for a moment. “Thank you,” she said softly. “I—”
“Chenyita! Oh my God! Chenyita! Laurita!” They were enveloped in the overpowering scent of red roses combined with Chanel N° 5. It was her mother. Doña Isabel’s milk-white hair was pulled modishly back into a french twist, the pearls in her ears matching a single, flawless string around her neck. She wore a soft cashmere jacket in a muted houndstooth pattern.
“Chenyita! I can’t believe it! My God! Oh, and Laurita! Look at you! A young lady already, why the last time I …” Her mother interrupted herself as she looked up and caught sight of Ignacio. “Buenos días, young man.” Her voice took on a more formal, proper tone and she looked at her daughter expectantly, her arms slowly dropping to her sides. A pile of roses now lay on the floor around their feet. Laura had managed to hold on to about half a dozen. Eugenia stepped carefully over the red-rose carpet and took Ignacio by the hand, bringing him back into the circle.
“Mamita,” she said, “this is Ignacio Pérez. He’s the lawyer with the Truth Commission who arranged my return. Ignacio, this is my mother, María Isabel Valenzuela de Aldunate.”
“Señora.” Ignacio took her hand formally in both of his, bowing slightly.
“A pleasure, young man,” she fluttered. “Though you don’t look old enough to have graduated from the university, much less to be a prominent lawyer. Pérez. And your mother’s last name?”
“Mama!” Eugenia admonished.
“Don’t worry, Eugenia,” Ignacio chuckled. “You know, señora,” he added smoothly, “people often comment on my youthful looks, which is why I always dress formally when I’m working. You see, I graduated from high school in 1974 at the age of sixteen, and went straight into the law program at the university. So I became a lawyer and went overseas in 1984 and took a Master’s degree in human-rights law. After I returned in 1986, I joined a firm here in Santiago that had begun working with recently returned exiles, and I’d been with them for four years when I was asked to join the Commission on Truth and Reconciliation. I’m actually thirty-two years old, señora, and my mother’s last name is Letelier.”
As smoothly as he had dealt with her questions, Ignacio began collecting the red roses from the floor. Between him and Laura, they gathered them into two large bunches. After motioning to the still-waiting porter to follow them, Ignacio piled his bouquet on top of Laura’s, took Eugenia’s and her mother’s arms and moved the group toward the street. Her face peeking out from behind the combined rose bouquets, Laura brought up the rear.
The automatic doors opened to reveal a uniformed chauffeur standing beside a late-model black sedan. Ignacio motioned to him, and gave the porter a tip while the other man hoisted the bags into the open trunk of the car.
“Wait a minute, Ignacio. Of course my daughter and granddaughter are staying with me. I thought I could just get a taxi and …”
Ignacio gently patted doña Isabel’s forearm. “Of course, señora Isabel,” he answered. “Eugenia and Laura will stay with you. But please allow me to spare you the inconvenience of a taxi. There’s always a line, you know, and the rate just went up. There’s no point. So once we’re all comfortable and on the way out, you can just give Custodio here the address and we’ll have you home as soon as possible.”
In a matter of minutes everyone was settled, Ignacio in the front seat next to the driver, doña Isabel in the back between her daughter and granddaughter. And they were off into the drizzle and heavy morning traffic, dense smog covering the cordillera that only a couple of hours before had brought tears to Eugenia’s eyes.
The house looked just the same, though when doña Isabel rang the doorbell the young girl who ran out to open the dark wrought-iron gate, thin brown legs pumping quickly beneath a formal black and white maid’s uniform, was unfamiliar. The maid struggled with the suitcases Custodio passed her and managed to drag them up the walk, then up the three tile stairs to the front entrance.
“Don’t worry, Rosa,” doña Isabel said after the young maid had propped up all four bags next to the door. “The gardener should be here soon. I’ll ask him to carry them upstairs to the bedrooms. This is my daughter Eugenia and my granddaughter Laura,” she continued. “They will be staying with me now.” And to Eugenia, as if she had heard her daughter’s unspoken question, “Teresa went back to her family in the South. You know, she never really was the same after you disappeared. Once we found you and Irene got you out of the country, she decided she’d had enough. She packed her bag and went home.”
Eugenia went back toward the gate to say goodbye to Ignacio. As he moved forward to take her in his arms, the moist smog enveloped trees and buildings in a somber veil, suffocating all hope of sun.
“Don’t worry. Everything will be fine,” he whispered. “I’ll let you get settled and call you tomorrow morning. If you need to talk before then, I also wrote my car phone number on the back,” he said, pressing a card into her hand. With the fleeting touch of a thumb against her right cheekbone and a wave to her mother and daughter, he was gone.
Eugenia walked slowly up the steps to where Laura stood, sheltered from the rain under the ledge that overhung the front door. Luckily the entrance was large enough for her and the bags. Doña Isabel had just gone inside and could be heard giving orders to Rosa about lunch. Eugenia squeezed in under the overhang and put her arm around her daughter’s shoulders, trying to gauge, more from touch than sight, how she was feeling. At first Laura pulled away from her, a tightness spreading through her shoulders. But when Eugenia insisted, gently rubbing her fingers over a cord of muscles gathering into a hard braid along the side of Laura’s neck, her daughter relented.
“Well, then, I guess it’s true,” Eugenia said.
“What’s that?” Laura asked.
“We’re back. But as they say, you can’t go home again.”
Laura let her mother’s fingers work on the knot along
the top of her shoulder. “So this is the house where you grew up,” she said.
“Yes, m’hijita.”
“Was it always this gloomy?”
Eugenia let the question settle between them, heavy in the damp air.
“Well, it is different when the sun is out.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know. But I’m not sure. Maybe it was after my papa, and then Irene, moved out that things changed.”
“But you left, too.”
“You’re right. That’s a triple dose, then.”
“Do we have to stay here?”
“Not forever.”
“But for how long?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I don’t like the feel of it.”
“Look, I promise we won’t stay longer than we have to. In the meantime, though, can you give your grandmother a chance? You’re the only grandchild she has.” Laura nodded slowly, as if measuring the size of the request. Then the two women turned and walked into the marble-floored front hall.
As they entered, they were caught in the middle of a frenetic wave of activity. Doña Isabel was running back and forth at a speed that seemed implausible for any human being. She flitted through the swinging door to the kitchen, shouting instructions to Rosa, then moved back out and into the bathroom, arranging the soap and towels, peering out the window to check for the gardener.
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