“But he would have been able to carry Ricardo.” Xandra said.
Salvador waved his hands at them. “Wait,” he said urgently. “For all we know, the people who carried Ricardo into the church did not kill him. Suppose the comandante bashed him in the head and made someone else carry his body into the church.”
“And made them stab him in the chest?” Xandra was incredulous.
Maria Claudia raised her hand like a girl in school. “Or stabbed him himself out of rage. The comandante is certainly capable of rage.”
Xandra slumped back in her chair. “So it could have been anyone.”
The priest put down his pen. “We are getting nowhere.”
Silence retook the room.
Maria Claudia held out begging palms, pale in the candlelight. “I still ask why anyone would carry a dead body into the belfry. That is important.”
“Oh, stop. The padre is right.” Xandra’s voice was filled with exasperation. “This is a useless guessing game.”
“I am afraid that is true,” the priest said. “We cannot solve Ricardo’s murder. Besides, we have something more important to speak of.” He touched Salvador’s arm. “It is time to reveal your secret.”
A lightning jolt of tension ran through them. Alivia rose half out of her chair and gave her husband an accusatory stare. Xandra’s fists went to her hips. Maria Claudia studied the priest as if trying to read the secret in his face.
Salvador swallowed hard. “I have—we have—Alivia and I have been hiding Aleixo.”
Xandra stared in disbelief and then beamed. “He is alive? Alé is alive?”
Her father took her hand. The sadness in his expression wiped the smile from her face. “Yes, querida. Alive, but—”
“But what?” Xandra demanded in that merciless way of hers.
“He is ill,” the priest said.
Alivia stood now. “You have seen him, Padre?”
The padre shook his head. “I wanted to go and bless the boy, to see if the sight of the priest who used to play bolas with him and his schoolmates might calm him, but Salvador pointed out that any strange activity might bring in the spies.”
“God help us,” Maria Claudia whispered.
“What?” the priest asked her.
“That we live in a place where a priest cannot go to bless a sick person without risking lives.”
The padre touched the back of her hand. “That is why we must take action.”
“Action?” Alivia demanded.
Salvador reached out to her, but she slapped his hand away.
“I want to see him. I want to see my brother,” Xandra said.
“Now is not the time, querida,” her father said, his voice as gentle as hers was sharp.
“Tell them your plan, Salvador,” the padre said.
Salvador took Alivia’s elbow and pulled her back into her chair. He explained the plan to escape with Aleixo. “But the comandante is watching me closely now.” He looked directly at Alivia. “The padre suggested this.”
“When will you leave?” she asked.
“As soon as I have some food for the journey. We cannot expect to find much along the way. I am going to have to take the horse, querida,” he said to Xandra.
“When you need César, I will bring him to you.”
“Not yet. Your mother and I will prepare everything without drawing suspicion. I will let you know when. Probably tomorrow, after dark.”
“In the meanwhile, what will we do about Ricardo’s death?” Maria Claudia asked.
“I am afraid we must put that aside until Aleixo and Salvador are safely away,” the priest replied. “What can I do to help?” he asked Salvador.
“Pray,” Salvador and Alivia said in unison.
The priest looked up at the crucifix on the opposite wall—the most famous image of torture and death in the world. The men who had tortured Salvador were no better than the thugs who had done that to the Son of God. Worse, really, for the men who were now torturing people in Paraguay called themselves Christians and had the benefit of the teachings of the Prince of Peace. Bastards. Bastards. And some of them were priests.
The padre raised his hand to bless them but felt like a fraud. What did his beliefs mean, if they could not inspire goodness?
* * *
López’s face told Eliza Lynch everything she needed to know. “The Brazilians have crossed the river from Santa Elena to San Antonio,” he said.
“I will be ready in half an hour.”
He grabbed a decanter and splashed brandy into a glass. “We will go up to Cerro Cora.” He gulped the liquor.
A thought that had nagged Eliza for a month now resurfaced: what role did all the brandy he took for his toothache play in his madness, his wrong choices? She decided the question was irrelevant. Escaping with as much wealth as possible was the only answer at this point. “There is good news,” she said.
He looked at her expectantly. “The trunks?”
She nodded emphatically. “They left Santa Caterina at first light.”
His eyes filled with relief. “What does Menenez know?”
“I cannot be sure. So far, he has not tried to take them.”
“He would be a dead man, and he knows it.”
“Can we make sure?” She let the hint hang in the air.
“He will not disobey a direct order.” He downed the brandy and took up his pen. She read the note over his shoulder. He shoved the paper into an envelope and sealed it, then heaved himself out of his chair and went to the flap of the tent. He handed the missive to the guard outside. “Take this to the comandante of Santa Caterina without delay. And bring me a bottle of brandy.”
* * *
As they filed out of the little interior room, Maria Claudia saw pain in the padre’s face and could not tell the cause. They all had too many reasons to grieve. Try as she might, she could no longer quiet her heart with reason or pretty thoughts of a heaven hereafter.
She waited behind while the others went out through the back door into the campo. She and the priest watched the three figures crossing through the high grass in the fading light, Xandra running ahead, Alivia walking too fast for Salvador, who struggled to keep up.
The padre faced her and gave a quizzical look. She reached toward him. “Take my hand,” she said. When he did, a pulse ran from their touching palms through her veins. “I love you,” she said, looking right into his warm, serious eyes. “Come to me.”
She let go of his hand and turned away, but he held her fingers, kissed them, and only then released her hand.
With one backward glance, she slipped out, back through the dim church that smelled faintly of incense and candle wax. She took holy water at the front door and blessed herself, feeling surer of what she was doing than when she left the church as a bride, barely three years ago.
* * *
From the doorway of the comandancia, Luis Menenez watched Maria Claudia cross the plaza toward her house. That thin, prayerful woman held no sexual interest for him. Her being in the church meant nothing; she never went anywhere else. But she could be coming from some new palaver with the priest and Gilda’s relatives. For now he preferred to let them continue their collusion, to see if they uncovered something he had not.
He had toyed with the idea of accusing Gilda of cuckolding him with Yotté, but clearly that would worsen his current difficulties. He would get rid of Gilda when the war was over. He told himself delaying was prudent, not weak. He slapped his riding crop hard against his left palm. Here in this hateful heat, he was trapped in a stagnant swamp of indecision that grew more fetid the longer it stood.
He needed to be a man of action but though he still commanded this village, only the most ignorant and docile still gave him his due. He used to make them quiver and shit their pants just by looking at them the wrong way because he stood in the place of López. But the dictator had become remote, a power fading into the mountains of the north. Only through me is he really a threat anymore, Mene
nez thought. And he is much more of a threat to me than to anyone else in Santa Caterina.
He threw his riding crop on the table, clasped his hands behind his back, and faced the door. The sight of Josefina approaching across the plaza further frazzled his nerves. That harpy knew more than he about what was going on under his nose. The last thing he needed was a tirade of her silly predictions and interpretations, always delivered with such drama. In the old days of Spain’s power, the Inquisition would have burned her as a witch. She dragged that grandson of hers everywhere, like a badge of everything people were not supposed to think concerning the war. He should arrest her for fomenting antigovernment feelings. Or maybe for Yotté’s murder. That would get rid of her and placate López. She might be guilty. That fierce look in her eyes might not be only an act to impress the villagers with her spiritual powers. She was sixty if a day, but wiry, still strong. She could have killed Yotté and dragged him into the church. Why not? This eternal nursemaid to the Yotté family, more than anyone in the village, could have caught Ricardo off guard and bashed him. The comandante picked up his riding crop and stood tall as the hag dragged her half-dead grandson through the open doorway.
“Buen día, Señor Comandante,” she said. The impassive boy at her side blinked at coming in from the bright sunshine. She dragged her bony finger across the table and looked at the dust, the papers, and the pair of muddy boots scattered on the bare brick floor. “Gaspár cleans like a man. Get Luz down the street to clean for you. You could pay her in food. She is stupid, but she would do a better job than this.” She looked at him as if such a remark merited a response.
The comandante was on the verge of telling her this was none of her business when a terrifying thought occurred to him. Perhaps this crone was a spy for López. It made sense. Yotté could have recruited her. Everyone talked to her. It would be easy for the rider who brought messages to the comandante to meet her near the casa Yotté on his way in and out of the village. She may have come to check on his progress. He could not speak. He wanted to be the dangerous man he used to be. Instead he was mortified to fear an old woman.
“Do you wonder why I am here?” she finally asked.
“I thought you would get around to telling me,” he said as pleasantly as he could.
She gave him her customary knowing smile. “Your wife made a condolence call on the sisters of Ricardo.”
López’s threat about not bothering those Yotté bitches rang in his blood. “Well, er—we are all so saddened by what happened,” he finally blurted out.
“Yes. Yes.” She waved one of her claws at him. “While your señora was there, she mentioned some missing valuables.” She looked at him expectantly.
Fear prickled the hairs on his back. “Yes?”
She looked at him for far too long. He could feel her assessing his nerve. He held her gaze, though it turned his stomach to fire. She smiled, showing her teeth, brown from her constant cigars. “I wondered if you know anything about them.”
His scalp froze. She was a spy. This was a trap.
She held up a crooked finger, like a duenna warning a suitor off the girl whose virginity she protected. “You are our comandante. You are supposed to know everything that happens in the village, no?”
He bristled. “My concerns are none of your business,” he snapped
She showed him her ugly teeth again. She put her hands on his desk and leaned toward him. The triumph in her eyes told him that he had made a dreadful mistake. “I apologize for disturbing you,” she said knowingly. “Vaya con Dios, Comandante.” She made what should have been a blessing as well as a farewell sound like a threat. Then she took her putrid grandson’s empty sleeve and left the building.
The sweat his body had somehow suppressed broke out on the comandante’s chest. Where did she get her nerve? She must have López’s power behind her. He should go after her, tell her he was about to make an arrest. But. There were too many “buts.” He had to make a move. He paced the small space of his office. Terror completely inappropriate for a man of his position chilled his neck, while the rest of him dripped with sweat.
He jammed on his hat and strode off toward the house of Luz. She was stupid, and he never asked her to dust his desk, but she did let him fuck her in return for scraps from his table. Before he was halfway across the square, one of López’s Monkey Tails, mounted on a beautiful black stallion, charged into the plaza, handed Menenez a message, and without a word or a salute sped away through the gathering dusk.
16
In the dark of that cloudy night, the priest arrived once again in ordinary clothes at Maria Claudia’s door. When he tried to speak, she stopped his lips with hers. She took his hand and led him to her narrow bed. Alivia had told her to look for a thick liquid that would indicate she was fertile. She had found it yesterday and today. Now, when he kissed her, some of it escaped its warm secret place and trickled down her thigh. He touched her there and groaned.
She put her arms around him and let their passion consume her. No thoughts, no decisions, nothing but the heat and taste, the spicy smell of his hair and ecstasy of being one with him.
The storm of their hunger for each other did not diminish until dawn.
As a weak gray light began to illuminate the walled garden outside her bedroom window, he raised his head and spoke. “I must—” was all she let him say before she put her fingers to his mouth.
“You must leave me before the sun rises.”
He took her hand and kissed it over and over again.
She rose and drew her old linen sheet around her. He dressed quickly and walked arm in arm with her to the front door. The still sleeping village lay perfectly quiet, the roofs of the houses along the street were silhouetted against a slight lightening of the sky. He kissed her good-bye.
“I love you,” she whispered to his retreating figure.
He turned and reached out a hand toward her and then disappeared into the gloom of the street.
* * *
In that same predawn light, Xandra slipped out of her bedroom window and sped toward Tomás. She wanted him to be innocent, so she would not have to hate every Brazilian for Aleixo’s condition. Her parents would not allow her to see her brother. They said it was for fear of the comandante and his spies. But she pictured what the war had done to Pablo. She could not bear that her brother might be like that.
In the gray light, sweet-smelling ferns dangled over her. A roar to her left stopped her. It could be a jaguar or just a big-eyed howler monkey. At midnight it would have been the cat; during the day the monkey. She listened. Birds chattered in the branches nearby. They would have flown from a jaguar. She moved on.
Salvador awoke at that same time. He rolled two ponchos and a machete and tied them with a cord. He gathered some chipa, a couple of hard-boiled eggs, and two wild oranges. Terrors in the night had convinced him not to wait until sunset. They would leave this morning.
He worried he would be seen taking the boy through the forest, that Alé would overpower him and take the machete. God only knew what he would do if he got his hands on a weapon. Salvador could not run away if foragers or snooping spies saw them on their way to get César. Rather than bring the boy to the horse, he would have to risk bringing the horse to the boy.
Leaving Alivia asleep, he went to awaken Xandra and ask her to fetch the horse, but she was not in her bed. So he set out alone for César, hoping he and the boy could still be on their way before full daylight broke.
* * *
In the quiet of their bedroom, Gilda pleaded with the comandante: “López said they are breaking camp again and he wants Ricardo’s murderer by nightfall today, but listen to me, Luis. Forget that last message. If La Lynch is so keen to get those four trunks, they must contain the treasure of Paraguay. The only intelligent thing to do is to take them and get out of the country.”
“Very tempting, my dear, but I think the treasure, if it is treasure, is long gone from here. I have to arrest your brother Salva
dor for Yotté’s murder.”
Disbelief was all he saw in her eyes. “Impossible. He is too righteous to have done such a thing.”
Menenez held out his latest orders from López. “He says he wants the murderer today without fail, or I must present myself in place of the killer. We know from the padre’s description that whoever dragged Yotté’s body into the church was not strong enough to carry it. Salvador’s missing foot puts him into that category. And we know he hated Yotté because he took Mariano for the army. I can tell López these things. They will convince him I have the right person.”
Her thin lips disappeared into a grim line. She stood up and paced the room. “Arresting my brother would cast suspicion on our whole family. Remember what López did to Mercedes Martínez.”
Her words stopped him. She had a point. Mercedes Martínez had been the wife of a brave colonel. During the evacuation after the defeat of Humaitá, Martínez and his few remaining men had held out against the attacking Argentineans so the bulk of the Paraguayan army could escape. For three days, Martínez had refused to surrender. On the fourth day, after almost all the men from Humaitá had made it across the river, delirious with hunger and out of ammunition, he gave up. Instead of praising him as a hero, López had cursed him as a traitor and arrested his wife.
“Yes, yes,” he said, “but people also can prove their loyalty by showing their willingness to betray their relatives.”
Gilda’s dark lashes flickered. “Okay, so you save your life, but what then? When the war is over, we are going to be just as poor as everyone else!”
“And powerless,” he said, hating the thought.
“López is the past, we have to look to the future, and without Salva—”
He waved his hand to shoo away her words. “If I fail to bring in Salvador by nightfall, I will be in the past.” As soon as he said it, a blinding thought occurred to him. “Wait. Stop. You are right. Salvador has the land. When the war ends, if he and his sons are all dead, the land will be ours.”
He watched the triumph of such an eventuality dawn on her, but then a great banging at the front door disrupted their thoughts.
Invisible Country Page 21