by Claudia Pi
I went out into the garden to smoke. I lit a cigarette. After that, another. Then another. I called Juani again. He didn’t answer. He must be at home, though. He’ll be sound asleep and can’t hear the phone, I thought. I wanted to think that he was sound asleep. But it was also possible that he was out and about. Or lying unconscious somewhere. Or he had come home and was sleeping soundly but not as a result of fatigue. From alcohol. Or that other thing. I find it hard to name it. Marijuana. Cannabis is what it said in the American Health and Human Service report that Teresa Scaglia gave me soon after finding out about the “difficult time you’re going through”. No, not that; he had promised not to touch it and I “must believe in my son, because he can do it”. That is what the specialists brought into Cascade Heights to support families with “children at risk” said – that we had to believe in our children. But what did they know? That wasn’t the problem – the problem was believing in ourselves.
The operation was a success, so the surgeon informed me. He told me about it in that same corridor, with his gown still on, as he removed his latex gloves. I waited for them to bring Ronie back to the room and for him to come round from the anaesthetic. I rang the house and this time Juani answered. I told him everything. He sounded strange, very alert – it was obvious that he had not been sleeping.
“Is something wrong?” I asked.
“No, nothing. I’ve got a headache.”
“What’s up? Did you eat something that disagreed with you?…” He didn’t answer. “Or did you drink something?… What time did you get back?”
“Stop it, Mum,” he interrupted.
“Ring me whenever you want.” He didn’t ring.
What with the anaesthesia and the tranquillizers, Ronie slept for the rest of the morning. I dozed in an armchair beside him. Finally I went downstairs to get some lunch. I didn’t ring anyone to let them know what had happened. Neither clients nor friends. My mobile rang a few times but, after checking that it wasn’t Juani, I didn’t answer. At one point I did think of telephoning the club’s guard to let him know where we were, but straight away I realized that that would be a nonsense. Perhaps it was a premonition. Because, as I was finishing my lunch in the hospital cafe, in came Dorita Llambías, who had just been visiting a friend of hers. She approached my table, shaking her head.
“What a terrible thing to happen, Virginia! What can you tell me about it?” She reached for my hand on the table and gripped it tightly. I realized that she was not talking about Ronie’s accident.
“What are you talking about, Dorita?”
“What, haven’t you heard?” she said, and I noted in her voice an unmistakable excitement at being the bearer of news. She drew nearer, the better to break it to me.
“Last night there was an accident at the Scaglias’ house – an electrical problem. El Tano, Gustavo Masotta and Martín Urovich were found drowned in the swimming pool. In reality they weren’t drowned – they were electrocuted. It seems they were electrocuted by an extension cord.”
I could not begin to make sense of her words: it was as if everything around us were moving about. I held on to my chair so as not to fall off it.
“Can you believe it – grown men messing around with cables and water?”
“Were all three of them electrocuted?”
“Yes, it seems that the cable fell into the water and they died instantly.”
Scenes from the previous night flashed before me, like a film reeling forwards. The open fridge in front of me; Ronie coming into the house after abandoning the Thursday night fixture at El Tano’s; the stairs; the terrace; the lounger beside the balustrade; my lounger beside his; the silence; the lights in the Scaglias’ pool; the ice cubes falling to the floor and slipping away; the jazz permeating the poplars’ lament; and especially his silence, my irritation, his anger; the fall on the stairs; his howl of pain.
“Poor Teresa and the children. Who’s ever going to want to get back in that pool now?” said Dorita.
I thought of Ronie fleeing from that house that night, as though he foresaw the tragedy. Ronie, another death-defying survivor. The same as his pins. “When God is not present, he just isn’t and there’s nothing we can do about it. But what a stupid way to go and die, no?”
“Very stupid,” I said, and I went to find my husband.
44
Within the same hour that Ronie was discharged from hospital, his friends’ bodies were travelling in caravan along the Pan-American highway to a private cemetery. Virginia pushed her husband – his leg now plastered – in the wheelchair without any help along the hospital corridors. She had requested this: that no one go with them. The time spent negotiating the path through the hospital garden to the car would help her prepare for the task in hand, she thought. When they arrived at the car, she put the brakes on the chair, moved to face Ronie, then crouched down in front of him, grasping his hands.
“There’s something I have to tell you.”
Ronie listened without saying anything. “The night before last there was an accident at the Scaglias’ house.”
Ronie shook his head. “El Tano, Gustavo and Martín all died of electrocution.”
“No,” said Ronie.
“It was a dreadful accident.”
“No, no it wasn’t.” Ronie tried to stand up, but immediately fell back into his chair.
“Keep calm, Ronie.”
“No, it wasn’t like that. I know it wasn’t.” He began to cry.
“The gardener found them yesterday morning at the bottom of the pool.” Ronie tried again to stand up, but Virginia stopped him. “Ronie, you mustn’t put weight on your leg because of the—”
He interrupted her: “Take me to the cemetery.”
“It won’t do you any good.”
“Take me to the cemetery or I’ll walk there myself.” This time he did stand up and it was all Virginia could do to stop him from taking a step.
“Are you sure you want to go?”
“Quite sure.”
“Well then, let’s go together,” she said. She helped her husband into the car, then put the wheelchair in the boot and sat down at the wheel beside her husband. She looked at him, stroked his face and started the engine, ready to do as he asked.
45
It was a sunny day. Spring had come to the tulip poplars which, still leafless, abounded in great violet flowers. Some of us parked on the verge. A full fifteen minutes before the ceremony was due to start, the underground parking was already full and security guards had been stationed along the side of the road, so that we could safely leave our cars there.
“I didn’t recognize you. Have you changed your car?”
Everyone was there. It would be quicker to name the absentees than to run through the list of all those present. The Lauridos were travelling in Europe: “After what happened with the Twin Towers, people are so paranoid that now everything’s on offer; hotel rooms are going for a song – you have to grab these chances while you can”; the Ayalas were staying with their son in Bariloche; Clarita Buzzette was recovering from pneumonia. The entire administrative staff from The Cascade were there; the tennis teachers, the golf Starter. Nothing like this had ever happened to us before. Never had there been so great a misfortune within our gates.
“It defies belief…”
“Poor Teresa…”
“It was an electric shock, wasn’t it?”
We waited beside the chapel for the bodies to arrive, casting glances at each other, unsure what to say. And yet we all said something. “Haven’t seen you for months.”
“Let’s hope next time we meet in happier circumstances.”
Someone asked after Ronie and Virginia Guevara. Somebody else said that he had been discharged from hospital that morning. We speculated on the chances of Ronie coming to the funeral. “No, I don’t think so. It would be a very traumatic experience for him.”
“Poor thing, he’s already been through enough.”
“Who’s got your
kids today?”
The police had handed over the bodies in the shortest possible time. Aguirre, the Chief of Security at Cascade Heights, had spoken personally to the superintendent. “On his private line – he’s a friend.” There was no need to heap more distress on the widows. Doctor Pérez Bran, a long-standing member of the community, offered to speak to the presiding judge.
“And why did a judge have to be involved?”
“It’s standard: there were three deaths.” Pérez Bran knew him: he was moving various cases through his court. The judge assured him that the matter would be expedited. The police carried out routine inspections. “Why Culpable Homicide? If no one was to blame?…” They should call it “Unintentional Homicide”, the word “culpable” is too misleading.
“And why ‘homicide’? They ought to put ‘accident’.”
“That definition doesn’t exist in the Code.”
“Which code?”
“The Penal Code.”
“Well they should add it; if the thing’s an accident, it’s an accident. Why don’t people call things by their name in this country?”
“Is that El Tano’s mother?”
“No idea.”
They had wanted to listen to music. They were listening to music. Diana Krall, apparently. But El Tano had wanted it closer: he had pulled the cable, the stereo had detached itself and the extension cord had fallen into the swimming pool. “Didn’t the switch trip? You know those appliances have to be checked at least once a year.”
“The thermal overload tripped, but they were already dead.”
“What is the thermal overload?”
“I thought you knew all about circuit breakers…”
“You know, that must be the mother. She has a look of El Tano about the face.”
“Do you want me to tell you what I think killed them?”
“What?”
“That monstrosity Carmen Insúa cooked up with the photos.”
“Oh please! Just thinking about it makes my skin crawl.”
At eleven o’clock on the dot, three coffins arrived: El Tano’s, Gustavo’s and Martín’s. Apparently it was Teresa’s idea to have them buried in a row. In death, as in life, she said. They had been together on their last night together, as they were every Thursday, without fail. Ronie Guevara had had a miraculous escape. He had gone home earlier – some say because he felt unwell, others that he argued with El Tano. For whatever reason, Fate had not chosen him to die that night with the others.
“Nobody dies before his time is up.”7
“Where have I heard that before?”
“This is a case in point.”
Teresa had taken charge of all the arrangements, before and during the ceremony. She must have been on something. She looked awful, yet serene. She seemed to be coping reasonably well. They say that she paid for Martín Urovich’s plot. Lala would not have been able to meet that expense. When the three coffins entered the chapel, there was a bit of whispering among some people who were not from The Cascade. Apparently they were Martín’s relatives, from the Jewish branch, who objected to the choice of officiant to bless his journey to the next world. But nobody said anything. Not even his parents, who wept in each other’s arms. The three widows sat together in the front pew. Teresa and Lala arm in arm, Carla a little apart. From the pew behind, a friend not known to the rest of us stroked her back. El Tano’s children, and Martín’s, were weeping, supported by friends and relatives. The priest spoke of the Lord’s call, of how difficult it was to understand that He should call people so young and of how one must learn to accept His wisdom. He invited us to recite the Lord’s Prayer. Those of us who could intoned the words. It wasn’t very many, considering the number of people who were present. When it came to “Forgive us our sins…” many of us uttered the older form: “forgive us our trespasses”. And in the murmured prayer, there was a commingling of trespasses and sins, trespassers and sinners. We made the sign of the cross. A mobile rang; various people fumbled in their handbags and pockets, but the ringing continued. “Hello, I’m at a funeral… I’ll ring you back.” May the Lord receive Martín, Gustavo and Alberto into his glory, said the priest. We all looked at each other. “Alberto” meant nothing to us. God must receive El Tano into his glory. El Tano Scaglia.
Afterwards the priest announced the times of mass in his chapel at the weekend. “Remember that the one on Saturday at 7 p.m. replaces Sunday’s service.” And he extended his sympathy to the bereaved widows, the relatives and friends. He was brief. They always are brief in those places. And monotone, lacking intonation, like a registrar performing the last marriage of the day in his office. It would have been unbearable to spend much more time in there. The chapels in cemeteries are very small. And inside this one there were three coffins, three widows, too many people who did not know the Lord’s Prayer, the smell of flowers, weeping.
We walked in a group along the cobbled path. On either side, the freshly cut grass looked immaculately green. As we walked, our procession was joined by various latecomers. All of them silent. All of them wearing dark glasses. Our halting steps marked a beat for the coffin-bearers. A funeral march. Some cries were sharper than others. Some cries were younger: the cries of children. At the end of the path we came to the place where three graves had been dug. Beside them were green carpets. The cemetery workers stood beside the mechanism that would be used to lower the coffins into the graves. We grouped around the three pits. The administrative staff from Cascade Heights, the tennis teachers and the Starter kept a discreet distance. Alfredo Insúa said a few words: “I speak, not as the president of Cascade Heights, but as a friend.” It was his first public speech since the elections which had named him president of the Council of Administration of our community. He stood next to Teresa as he spoke, firmly holding her hand. El Tano’s mother cried out in the midst of her tears. And Urovich’s bent down to embrace her son’s coffin. Alfredo spoke of the pain that would linger in The Cascade, but also of “the pride in having known them, of having had them as neighbours and friends, of having shared games of tennis, conversations, country walks. The history of Cascade Heights is graven with their names.” Someone automatically greeted this speech with applause and more clappers followed suit, but others joined in only tentatively, and there were some who wondered if it was even appropriate to clap at a funeral, so the applause was short-lived. Then the cemetery workers turned the handles and the three coffins descended together. El Tano’s mother cried out once more. Carla walked forwards to throw some earth into her husband’s grave. El Tano’s children threw in some flowers that were passed to them by Insúa’s new wife. Urovich’s daughter hugged her mother’s legs and would not look up while her father’s coffin was being lowered down. Someone led El Tano’s mother away. Now Lala kneeled down, embracing her daughter and weeping. The workers allowed a few more seconds’ lamentation, then they pulled the green carpets over the open pits in the ground. Now each of us went up to kiss the widows. The bravest among us first. And then we hugged their children. We hugged one another. “I can’t believe it,” someone said. “I can’t believe it either,” people replied.
Finally, we drifted away from the graves and took the path back to the cars. Teresa and her children got into El Tano’s Land Rover, but she was not driving – it was a brother or a brother-in-law, doubtless someone from the family, because we didn’t recognize him. Carla left with a friend. And Lala with Martín’s parents.
A few of us were left, still making our goodbyes in the car park, when Ronie arrived. In a wheelchair pushed by his wife. His leg was in plaster. He was dry-eyed. So was she. But their expressions would tear out the heart of anyone bold enough to look at them. Ronie’s eyes were fixed straight ahead, as if willing people not to stop him, not to say anything. A futile hope. Dorita Llambías went straight up to him and squeezed his hand. “Be strong, Ronie.” And Tere Saldívar placed her hand on Virginia’s shoulder. “We’re here whenever you need us.” She nodded, but did not
stop.
“They’re beside the tub of fuschia Alpine violets,” someone pointed out, but Mavi was already walking on as if she knew where to go, retracing our own footsteps on the path. Every so often the wheelchair got caught in the cobbles and she wrestled the chair back and forth to free the wheels, but she never stopped. We watched them as they went on. They did not pause until they reached the three open graves covered with the green carpet. Then Mavi positioned her husband’s chair beside them and stepped back a few paces. Ronie, with his back to us, in line with the three graves, completed the quartet.
46
We got home at about lunchtime. Juani wasn’t there, and that was something else to worry about. I made Ronie comfortable in the living room, positioning his wheelchair in front of the window that looks onto our grounds. “Would you like some tea?” He said that he would and I went to the kitchen to make it. I screwed up the courage to ring the Andrades’ house. Juani was there, with Romina, and that made me feel a bit better. I poured two cups of tea and took them on a tray to the living room. The wheelchair was empty.