He went to a nearby, hollow tree where the woods broke out into a grassy plain. He reached in and took out a canvas-wrapped pot of honey. He picked a few wild oranges and with them and the honey and some chipa, the dry cornbread he had hidden deep in his pocket, went to feed the mad boy he had tied up inside a jungle-smothered cabin hidden among the thick trees and vines.
* * *
Padre Gregorio fetched candles from the church, lit them, and placed them on either side of the corpse of Ricardo Yotté. He knelt near the dead man’s head and tried to pray for the repose of Yotté’s soul, but not even a priest could banish the resentful and hateful thoughts that connected themselves to the history of this sinner. So many people in the village had reason to detest Ricardo, who in his quest for power had sacrificed their needs to his own. Some burned with envy because he had gotten for himself that which they desired but could not achieve: wealth in this time of want, power that came from his service to the dictator; or merely because he ate sumptuous meals while ordinary people lived on the brink of starvation. In the confessional, the padre had heard of many sins people had committed because of, or with this man: of betrayal, of adultery, of lies told to avoid Yotté’s wrath or curry his favor. And there must have been some who did not confess because they did not see the sin in despising Ricardo Yotté.
“Padre?”
He looked up to see Alivia León standing in the dark doorway to the sacristy. He stood and motioned her to come in. Maria Claudia entered behind her.
Without a word, slight, wiry Alivia looked down at the body, took it under the arms, and dragged it into the shaft of light coming through the doorway that led out to the campo. The corpse’s foot disturbed a candlestick, and the priest and Maria Claudia both reached out to catch it from falling. Their hands touched accidentally.
Alivia knelt and examined the wound on Yotté’s head. She picked up the dead man’s hand and peered at his fingernails.
“See that dirt?” the priest asked.
Alivia nodded.
“Look at his chest.”
Silently Alivia unbuttoned Yotté’s shirt and looked closely at the wounds and then again at his fingers. She turned and examined the floor of the belfry where a thin layer of dust had been disturbed by her moving the corpse. Alivia picked up some of the dust on her finger and examined it. “No one has cleaned here in several days.”
“Domingo Ypoa used to clean it every day,” Maria Claudia offered. They all knew Ypoa had long since died of dysentery, along with thousands of others fighting in the swamps around the great fort downriver at Humaitá.
“I swept it myself a few days ago,” the priest said.
Maria Claudia’s hand went to her mouth. “But I would gladly have—”
He waved off her comment. She clasped her hands together in front of her skirt and stood stiffly, her head bowed: a posture of humility, but somehow she seemed injured.
Alivia went back to Yotté’s head and looked again at the deep gash. She touched the dried blood in his hair. She lifted his head, which lolled in her hands like a broken doll’s. She peered at the nape of his neck and turned the body and examined the back of his tan velveteen jacket and black cashmere trousers. The priest watched her fingers admire the softness of the fabrics.
Alivia rose to her feet and brushed off her skirt. “How long has it been since anyone came into the church through this belfry?” she asked.
“Since they took away the bell, there are few reasons to come here. The door has no lock, but I am the only one who comes this way. I cannot remember coming through since”—he had to think—“Wednesday, maybe even Tuesday.”
“This man has been dead less than a day, probably only a few hours,” Alivia said. “It has not been so hot, so it is hard to tell, but I would say five or six hours at the most. And he was not killed here.”
“How do you know that?” the priest asked.
She pointed to streaks in the dust between where the body lay and the back door of the belfry. “His body was pulled in that way. Besides, wounds of the head bleed profusely. Even a little cut will let a lot of blood. The head wound killed him. If the blow had been dealt here, there would be a pool of blood, or it would look as if someone had cleaned it up.”
“But the wounds to the chest,” Padre Gregorio said.
Alivia shook her head. “If he had been alive when those wounds were made, his shirt would be soaked with blood, but there is only a very little bit of blood by those wounds. Some of them have no blood at all. The cuts in the shirt match the cuts in the skin. The only real blood is on the back of the shirt collar.”
“He was stabbed after he was dead?” The priest was incredulous. “Why would anyone do that?”
The two women looked at each other. “Hatred,” they said in unison.
* * *
Across the plaza from the church, Comandante Luis Menenez was sitting down to an early Sunday lunch of chicken puchero. With devastation and starvation all over the country, he could still find a tender pullet and plenty of rice for his larder, while the rest of the populace subsisted on boiled manioc, palm nuts, wild oranges, and greens gathered in the campo, or they starved to death. The comandante had his connections and privileges. Even when the war was still raging, as long as López still held power over the country, Menenez could depend on periodic saddlebags of food that arrived with orders from the mariscal’s headquarters. All he had to give in return was his obedience, his reports, and occasionally to personally bring a miscreant to the dictator. Sometimes, when he had not seen López face-to-face for a few weeks, he arrested someone just to take a prisoner to headquarters, to remind the mariscal of his loyalty and service.
His food deliveries had become sporadic lately. He had had to confiscate today’s chicken from Saturnino Fermín, who wept like a baby when the comandante found it in a box in the crotch of a tree behind the old man’s shanty on the outskirts of the town. “For the war effort,” Comandante Menenez had said when he took the bird. He did not bother to arrest the old fool. He could always take him later if he needed to.
He smiled down at the tureen. This chicken actually was for the war effort, if one included in the definition having a strong, well-fed leader to control this sector of the country. The entire south had fallen to the invaders. López, his entourage, and what was left of his ragtag army had fled north with the enemy in their wake, bypassing Santa Caterina. But Luis Menenez still controlled this area in the name of López, and he intended to keep it that way.
He took his place opposite his bland wife, Gilda. “What does that do-gooder priest think he is saying?”
“He means well.”
A typical remark. She picked at her food as she picked at life, never approaching anything with gusto. Elegant, he had thought her before their marriage, with her tiny frame and graceful movements. He had chosen her because she was a León—half sister to Salvador—head of the most important family in the district. He had thought his brother-in-law would make a powerful ally. But rather than taking advantage of his bloodlines and connections, Salvador had chosen to serve as an ordinary soldier. He had come back missing a foot and now he planted crops with his own hands as if he were a peon like Alivia, his lowly wife.
At least Gilda was still ambitious, even if she lacked fire. Not even the priest’s repeal of the marriage laws irked her. The comandante squared his shoulders. “That priest is a fool. Chaos will result from his stupid announcement.”
She raised her eyebrow, a characteristic gesture. “We have had chaos for more than three years.”
He pointed his fork at her in warning. “Careful what you say. Orderly society requires that people strictly follow rules or be punished if they do not. Obedience to authority must be maintained if Paraguay is to have a glorious future.”
She looked at him askance. “Glorious future? Really, Luis. I am very afraid the future you hoped for has escaped our grasp.” She placed her snowy white, lace-trimmed napkin next to her still full plate. “Plea
se excuse me. This wind from the north has given me a headache.” She got up and left the room.
The comandante wolfed down the rest of his meal, then took her plate and finished what she had left.
As he mopped up the last of the gravy with a crust of bread, a new thought occurred to the señor comandante. The priest’s speech could easily be interpreted as critical of the war and therefore treasonous. He could arrest the padre and bring him to López as proof he was in charge of this district.
Paraguay needed strong men more than ever. The first dictator, Francia—called El Supremo—had controlled everything, closed the borders to bar outside influences that might lead Paraguayans to want more freedom. Freedom that would only result in anarchy. Now this silly priest, with his liberal notions, was tearing down one of the most important proscriptions. Think of the number of bastards that would be conceived. The comandante knew how chaotic a child’s life could be when his father and mother were not married. But he banished this personal thought for the larger, national issue he preferred to ponder. Mariscal López disregarded these very same rules. He never married, but instead fathered bastard children—especially with his Irish courtesan, that rapacious woman he had brought back from Paris. Oh, the attraction was obvious. La Lynch was most elegant. That beautiful figure. She flattered López with parties lasting a week to honor his birthday. She treated him like an emperor. Only a strong man could resist such adulation. López, like many short, homely men, fell victim to an ambitious woman. Not that any sane man would express such a thought. López’s own brothers had been thrown in prison as suspected traitors. The comandante knew enough to keep his opinions to himself.
He went to the mirror over the sideboard. He ran his fingers through his still black and thick hair and smoothed his luxuriant moustache, the badge of the highborn Spanish blood coursing through his veins. He may have had some Indian blood, but it did not dominate. Where it did, men’s faces were practically hairless. His hair showed his worth as a person.
The dictator too sported a full black beard. But he was flawed, and the war had turned to a shambles. The comandante’s complete loyalty to López could no longer secure his future. Nor could he change sides. He was bound to the dictator so tightly that any hint of disobedience would mean certain death.
Menenez turned away from his looking glass and from these threatening thoughts. He had to concentrate on how best to deal with the things he could control. That meddling priest was an Argentinean. He could be suspected of spying for the enemy. Uncovering a ring of Argentine spies might boost the comandante’s reputation. Yes. That priest was opening a possibility. Menenez’s mind was just beginning to warm to this idea when a knock at the door brought the object of his ruminations into the room.
The tall, slender priest doffed his broad-brimmed hat and held it over his heart. “Señor Comandante, I must ask you to come with me. Ricardo Yotté has been murdered.”
* * *
With trepidation, Maria Claudia neared the house where Ricardo Yotté had lived with his younger sisters, Martita and Estella. Their old aristocratic family, like most of their ilk, rejected Eliza Lynch when she first arrived from France. But Yotté eventually became the loyal companion of the dictator’s beautiful mistress. No one understood why a young man far more attractive than López had been allowed such access to the lady. He had spent almost all of his time in the capital—Asunción, a hard three hours ride away—to be near La Lynch, seeing her nearly every day, if he were to be believed. One imagined López would have kept a potential rival at a distance. Perhaps the dictator believed no one would ever have the nerve to cross him. But someone had. Not by making love to Señora Lynch, perhaps, but by murdering one of their closest supporters.
Yotté’s sister Martita, Maria Claudia’s old schoolmate, had confided that Ricardo was never alone with La Lynch. Still, he bragged in Santa Caterina about their friendship. He impressed some with his access to power but scandalized others by boasting about a woman they thought a harlot.
Ordinarily, Maria Claudia might have chatted with Martita and Estella after mass that morning, but she had been too distracted by Padre Gregorio’s announcement.
She approached the big, carved wooden door of their villa, near the little river that separated the center from the estancia León. In years past, she had frequented this house but not since the deaths of Martita’s parents and her brother’s subsequent rise. She had grown to hate Ricardo, who marched into people’s houses and confiscated their possessions “for the war effort,” he said, but how could her father’s carved ivory pipe or her mother’s embroidered silk shawl help the war effort? Ricardo just took anything fine or desirable. She despised him so intensely that she could not have hid her feelings from his sisters, so she chose to stay away.
The door was missing its old bronze knocker—sent to the foundry at Ybycuí like all metals that could be cast into cannons. That factory for arms had been built eighteen years ago, when she and Martita were first starting school. This war, the government said, was being fought because the allied enemies had invaded their country, but if this war was unexpected, how could the old dictator—López’s father—have known Paraguay would need a factory to make weapons? Despite their protestations of being completely surprised, the Lópezes must have been planning for this war for decades. She shook her head to banish the thought that all those people, including her gentle young husband, had died for a lie.
She pounded on the door and wondered how she would express the awful news. Could she say Ricardo was with the angels, as one did to comfort a person on the loss of a loved one? Would angels welcome a man who rounded up boys of ten and twelve and marched them off to be maimed and killed?
Maria Claudia raised her fist to knock again, but the door swung open and Josefina Quesada, the old servant and clairvoyant, who had been nursemaid to the girls’ mother as well as to the Yotté children, bowed and gave Maria Claudia a wary look. In her left hand she carried her perennial lit cigar. Behind her cowered her war-ravaged grandson Pablo who never left her side. “Buen día,” she said in a hoarse whisper. She held the door only partway open, asked no questions, nor allowed Maria Claudia to enter.
Maria Claudia swallowed hard. Her throat felt as if it would close up rather than allow her to speak words of shock and injury. She should have kept closer to these bereft girls after their parents died. What would it have mattered if the other villagers thought she was in league with Ricardo because she remained friends with his sisters? It would not have been true. But she had chosen to save her reputation and so kept her distance. “I have urgent news for the señoritas,” was all she could get out.
Josefina’s watery eyes narrowed, but she let the door swing open. “They are in the garden.”
Maria Claudia hurried through the airy hall and the music room to the garden door. Unlike the simple layout of rooms built around a central patio typical of the finer houses in this village, this one was built in the European style. She expected to see the sisters dressed in white, sitting at the round table on the garden terrace, as she had sat with them so often, gossiping and teasing. Instead Martita, wearing a plain homespun skirt and an overblouse, both of dull gray cotton, was turning over the turf near the back wall of the garden. Her forearms and hands and the front of her skirt were stained with the reddish muddy soil. Her sister Estella sat hugging her knees on the ground nearby. Her dress was finer, but also muddy, as if she too had been digging.
Though older, Martita was the smaller, with a homely but pleasantly round face and big almond eyes fringed by thick lashes that had been the envy of the girls at school. She wore her hair as always, parted in the middle with a single braid wound around the top of her head to make a little platform for the things she always carried. All Paraguayan girls, regardless of their class, carried bundles on their heads from time to time, but Martita had hardly ever been without one. At school the girls had teased her, said that was why she was so short: that the heavy bundles she always carried ha
d stunted her growth.
As soon as Martita saw Maria Claudia she dropped the spade she had been wielding. Before this accursed war, no lady of her station would have been caught planting and tending a garden, nor would she ever have worn such common clothing or gotten so dirty. The hurt pride of her class consciousness shone in the flush of shame on Martita’s face.
Maria Claudia put her hands together as if in prayer. “Please forgive me for intruding,” she said softly. “I must speak with you. It is very important.”
Martita rubbed her hands on her already mud-stained skirt and grabbed Estella by the arm and pulled her up. Before the war, Estella had been plump and beautiful. Now she was thin and pale and barely spoke. Martita dragged her sister toward the house saying, “We must change.”
Maria Claudia opened her mouth to object, but the two girls ran inside. She heard Martita scolding Josefina for letting a guest in when they were in such disarray. Maria Claudia regretted even more that she and the sisters had drifted apart. I abandoned them, she thought, because I disapproved of Ricardo. But what he did was not their fault.
She sat at the table under the arbor. They had played cards here as children. Her finger traced the open design of grapevines in the ironwork. People’s lives were like these shapes, twisting and turning, coming together and moving apart.
“What is it?” Martita spoke from the doorway. She and Estella had changed into matching, clean but not pressed, white lawn dresses. They took seats at the table.
“I need to tell you—you must prepare yourself—” Maria Claudia twisted her hands in her lap. “It is about Ricardo.”
Martita’s big dark eyes turned wary; Estella’s mouth twisted. “What shameful thing has he done now?” Martita’s voice was filled with stony resignation.
Maria Claudia reached for her friends’ still dirty hands. “I am so sorry, Martita, Estella. He is dead.”
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