No Place for Heroes

by Laura Restrepo

  She waited five minutes, ten, twelve. Nothing, nobody. Again the black hole, the daily first sensation of paralysis, again that chasm between her and her child. In the haste of planning, she had not anticipated this. The possibility that Ramón wouldn’t come to pick her up but would leave her there, stranded in a void, had not even occurred to her. She had considered a thousand other adverse contingencies, but not that one. Again she felt aimless and without a possible plan of action, again at zero, in pure anguish. Blood drained to her feet and her ears buzzed. She breathed deeply so as not to collapse, and then saw Miche walking toward her. Ramón had commissioned his brother to receive her, and he had been running late.

  “Miche helped me with the suitcase and we took a taxi to the Avenida la Plata Station together,” Lorenza told Mateo. “From there we took the metro to Plaza de Mayo, changed to line A and rode to Castro Barros, where we got off and took a taxi back, with Miche always looking back, checking and counterchecking to verify that we were not being followed.”

  “Followed by whom?” Mateo asked.

  “My people, I suppose. Now that my people were the enemy. Suddenly everything we did made both the Iribarren brothers and me seem very pathetic. One of the strangest games. And ridiculous on top of that, for when Miche had arrived late to the airport, or rather from the beginning had blown the operation, the very first thing he said to me was not to tell Ramón that he had arrived late because Ramón would give him shit for it. How not to think of Marx, who said that the events in history happen the first time as tragedy and the second time as comedy. What was happening to us now was ridiculous and at the same time terrifying, because you were involved.”

  “And you complain of Wei-Wulong on my PlayStation.”

  “Wei-Wulong is a naïve child compared with these full-metal warriors that we had become, kicking each other in the groin.”

  “Why are we going around in circles?” Lorenza said to Miche. “Nobody’s following us, I came alone, I swear. I’m not the enemy, Miche, I am just a poor woman who wants to see her son. I’m tired, come on, save me the fares.”

  “I have nothing to do with this, che,” Miche replied. “I follow orders.”

  “We finally arrived at a building in Palermo,” Lorenza told Mateo. “And don’t ask me how, with my terrible sense of direction, I managed to record in my head every turn, every block, every traffic light, to the point that I could repeat today the labyrinthine journey we undertook that night. From the moment I landed at Ezeiza, and until I had you with me safely back in Bogotá, I made it my business to know exactly where I was standing.”

  Lorenza asked Miche how Mateo was and he said that he was enjoying himself, those were his exact words, and she didn’t know whether to interpret them as naïve or sarcastic.

  She did her best not to get agitated. She couldn’t afford to lose control. Foremost, she needed a cool head, every step and every word had to be calculated, so she shut her mouth and walked in silence, amid tension you could slice with a knife, until they reached a furnished apartment, apparently uninhabited, at the building in Palermo, and Miche told her to take the bedroom, he’d sleep on the sofa in the living room. Then he ordered a pizza that they ate in silence, or rather that he ate almost entirely on his own because she hardly ate, either out of courtesy or hypocrisy.

  It was all very strange. To Lorenza it was surreal to be there in that impersonal place, a sort of anteroom or limbo, on the journey to Mateo, with Uncle Miche acting as her jailer, but at the same time her guide, the one who would take her to her son. After they ate, Miche asked her if she wanted to watch TV for a while and she said maybe not, and he also asked if she wanted to shower, since the trip had been so long, and she accepted, said it would do her some good, so he struggled for a long time to light the boiler but in the end failed, and said it was better this way, better to go to sleep, because the next day they’d have to leave no later than six in the morning, and she was infinitely glad they’d start early and she asked where they’d be going, but he repeated that she had to have patience.

  “What are we playing, Miche?” Lorenza confronted him.

  “Don’t ask me. I don’t understand anything, I do what I am told and ciao, this dump stands between Ramón and you.”

  “You’ve always been a good guy,” she said, or rather begged.

  “Why don’t you sleep a little, piba, you’re exhausted.”

  Miche seemed to understand her appeal and took her hands for a moment. “Mateo is fine and you’re going to see him tomorrow. As sure as my name is Miguel, you’ll be with him tomorrow, I swear by my mother.”

  The bedroom had a double bed but she couldn’t lie down. She paced from one side of the room to the other so as not to explode with impatience, six steps from one wall to the other, back and forth, back and forth, just as she’d done the night before the birth, in the Hospital Ramón Sardá, in Parque Patricios, the very popular Maternidad Sardá, when she refused painkillers and refused to go to bed, while Ramón, his mother, the internists, and the nurses tried to convince her to rest, but she just wanted to be left alone to walk through the halls, up and down, up and down. You’ll be exhausted when the time comes, Ramón tried to reason with her. But she wouldn’t stop, couldn’t stop, walking and walking all night, stopping only when the contractions doubled her over and she realized she was early: the labor, expected for eight or nine in the morning, began at five. They were not able to get her doctor and she had to be attended by the internist, and they couldn’t apply the epidural because the child was already on the way. She never even reached the delivery room and there on the couch, she realized that the moment had arrived and that she would have to make a brutal effort.

  The cataclysm shook her, she felt her bones rattle and a pain so intense took possession of her that it was no longer pain, she thought, must have had some other name, since it was more like a force, and not only hers but a force of nature that zeroed in on her body and would intensify to an unbearable degree. And then came peace. She held on to the most serene creature she had ever seen, a little boy with delicate features and amazing, tiny, perfect hands, as comfortable in the world as he had been for nine months in her belly, gentle, like a gurgle of joy that so often announced itself with a slight kick, and that at the same time was a powerful presence, terrifying and overwhelming. And there he was, as close to her as before the birth but even more so, because now she could see him in the clear light of day, and maybe he saw it too, and perceived the intensity of that first blue morning of his existence.

  Mamaíta, who as agreed upon the night before arrived at the hospital at six thirty, rested and ready and in flat shoes, so that she could remain by her side during the long, hard task of delivery, was caught by surprise by a nurse who was standing in a rectangle of sky against an open window, the baby wrapped in white cloth.

  “It’s a beautiful boy,” she announced.

  Now, two and a half years later, in that room in a half-empty apartment in the neighborhood of Palermo, Lorenza leaned back at last, around three in the morning. She did so with the deliberate purpose to rest awhile, to deal with what was waiting for her the next day, whatever it was, with her senses alert.

  “From the other side of the door, I could hear the sound of the old movies your uncle Miche was watching on TV, one after the other,” she told Mateo.

  He couldn’t sleep, either.

  “Was he keeping an eye on you?”

  “Maybe. The phone and the door were on his side, to make sure I remained incommunicado. I didn’t care, hadn’t really planned to communicate with anyone. Before seven in the morning, we were at Aeroparque Jorge Newbery and at eight were flying to San Carlos de Bariloche.”

  Bariloche, of course, thought Lorenza. You might have guessed it, where else would they be if not in Bariloche, Ramón’s dream place, his refuge, his Utopia, but also a convenient spot for him and unfavorable for her, horribly difficult for executing any escape plan. Located in Andean Patagonia, near the tip of t
he continent, some two thousand kilometers from Tierra del Fuego and the antarctic circle, Bariloche was at that time a settlement area rather isolated from the rest of the world, a place she had never been and that he knew well from his work there as a guide for mountain excursions. During the flight, Miche kindly warned Lorenza that Mateo would not be at the airport, so she dampened any expectation and its consequent disappointment for this new landing.

  Miche had in his pocket the keys to a white Chevrolet Impala that was there waiting for them. Without saying anything, they drove east, away from the town, which Lorenza inferred was a few kilometers from the Chilean border. She took advantage of the silence to engrave in her mind every name that appeared on the road: Lago Nahuel Huapi, Pioneers Road, Virgen de las Nieves, El Retorno Hostel.

  Then they veered onto a road that led uphill to the cathedral, as indicated by the arrow at the crossing. The road narrowed and became steep without signs of any sort. About forty-five minutes after leaving the airport, they came upon a valley on the banks of another lake. Small log cabins peeked through the trees, a considerable distance from one another. If she had not been calculating how she was going to dash off to Chile, she would have had to acknowledge that this was one of the most beautiful corners of the planet. Miche stopped the Impala next to one of the huts. Lorenza got out and soon saw, approaching through the woods, coming down the mountain, riding an old horse, a man with a small child.

  “IS THAT OFFER to go skiing still valid?” asked Mateo, apropos of nothing.

  “You said you didn’t want to.”

  “I didn’t want to before, I want to now.”

  “Then say no more,” Lorenza replied, enthused. “Tomorrow is my last commitment. At noon, I’m free, and we’ll be in Bariloche by nightfall. How nice you changed your mind, kiddo. This is the best news. Can you imagine? We can stay five or six days, and up to eight if we get a little cabin at a good price, or a couple of rooms in a pretty hostel, there must be one that’s not too expensive, it’s not yet high season. We can rent clothes and equipment there, so that’ll be no problem.”

  “Not with you, Lolé,” said Mateo gently, but it was as if someone had struck her on the head.

  “Not with me?”

  “I’d like to go, but without you.”

  “What do you mean, without me?”

  “I really want to go. But without you.”

  “What about me? What do I do in the meantime?”

  “You wait for me here in Buenos Aires.”

  Mateo must have been saturated with the constant presence of his mother, with the irremediable absence of his father, with adult stories, with claustrophobic days of Dynasty Warriors, so much anxiety and so much twirling the lock on his forehead with his forefinger, listening to dramas of times gone by during the resistance. It was only natural for him to be tired of roaming between ghosts, and he deserved to have a good time outdoors, in the present, with people his own age. Lorenza understood, why wouldn’t she understand, it was perfectly understandable, and at the same time not so much. What happened to her eternal comrade? Why did he want to leave her behind? There was something there that was not entirely fair, and she too could use some air, some exercise. Mateo thought that her skiing was awful and he wasn’t wrong, but she still loved it. And Mateo knew it, knew how happy she was coming down the mountain, even if she fell and had to get up ten times. Also, she very often dreamed of snow, had a veritable obsession with snow, maybe because she was born in the tropics and up until sixteen years ago, when she had flown to meet him, had to be content with wintry landscapes from pictures on boxes of cookies and Christmas cards.

  But how could she keep her son from going alone, if only the day before she would have loved to have been rid of him, seen him as independent and active, passionate about something, instead of holed up in his room, his neurons electrocuted by the PlayStation. So why did she feel diminished now, as if she’d gone from high heels to barefoot, and why would she not be able to enjoy those five days without Mateo? It was only five days and she had so many people to see in Buenos Aires, so many things to do, why be sad if, after all, she had not fallen from a train, or been thrown out of a party. Though maybe she had, a bit.

  She’d wait for him at Gabriela’s house. She’d catch up with her old comrades, continuing to recover fragments of the old days. All right: she would stay and Mateo would go. And if the decision had been made, there was no time to lose, they had to find a winter camping site, or a ski school, so that he would be with a group and a good instructor.

  “Then you’re not going to call Ramón?” She hadn’t wanted to say it, but she did, and was startled to realize she’d pulled one last trick out of her sleeve in order to keep him there.

  Mateo ducked the question and did not respond. It was better that he didn’t. It was only fair that they surrender in this first effort to find his father. They had done enough and could one day return to continue the search. For now his thoughts were aimed at other things. First of all, he wanted a new backpack; he felt that the suitcase he’d brought was no good, the others on the trip would have backpacks, and he did not want to be the only one with an old-man suitcase.

  “Think about it, Lolé. It doesn’t go with my personality.”

  They bought a red backpack with many straps and compartments, which Mateo felt was more in tune with his personality, and Lorenza was pleased to see him so happy, delighted to see him excited about his own plans. Then they fought about a new pair of boots. She insisted on getting some boots suited for the snow but he refused to go along. He claimed that there was no need and that he didn’t even feel like trying them on, but she piled on her convincing arguments, so he gave up and they bought them. They went to several travel agencies to shop around and compare prices, made a second round, studied catalogs, looked at photos, and finally opted for a complete package, including airfare, accommodation, food, equipment rental, lessons, and a lift pass. They bought a pair of thermal gloves and again argued, this time about whether it would be necessary to get a warmer scarf. He won, and they didn’t buy a scarf. The next day, at eleven o’clock in the morning, they were at Aeroparque Jorge Newbery, looking for the place where Mateo was to meet his fellow travelers.

  Life biting its own tail. There she was, saying goodbye to Mateo at exactly the place where years earlier she had taken the plane to Bariloche to go looking for him. She thought about telling him, to make him aware of the coincidences, the tricks of time as it pursues itself and reconnects, closing cycles and opening new ones. But she said nothing, obviously this was not the time.

  Mateo had on a new face. He was illuminated, as if he had opened some door to the world and a stream of light had poured over him. He was going back to Bariloche, a teenager, wearing the Bridges to Babylon shirt he had bought at the Rolling Stones concert, a little skittish but radiant by the time he approached the other boys and girls going on the trip, sixteen in total, with a couple of ski instructors, two polite, athletic women, at home in their roles as those responsible for the group, who gave Mateo an effusive welcome and introduced him to the others in the group, some new, like him, but most veterans of several winters, making the same trip with the same people. They called for their plane to board over the PA and Mateo ran after the crowd, lugging his red backpack and without saying goodbye. He was so excited that he didn’t even realize he hadn’t said goodbye to his mother, and she had to simply wave with her hand, in case he turned to look at her.

  “I stood there like an idiot, and I swear I had to make an effort not to cry,” she told her friend Gabriela a few hours later.

  “The orphan of your son,” replied Gabriela. “I know that sad figure well.”

  Lorenza headed for the window to look at the runway, to make sure that Mateo boarded the right plane, when someone shoved her from behind and almost made her fall.

  “Goodbye, Lolé, I love you very much.” It was Mateo, who rushed to hug her and ran back to catch up with the others.

  She
had accepted the invitation to spend the week in Gabriela’s apartment, at 6000 Zelada Street, in the Mataderos neighborhood on the outskirts of Buenos Aires.

  “It’s full of fuzz,” said Gabriela, passing her hand over a table, which was covered in gray dust. “My lungs must be full of lint. It’s because of my job, I embroider here at home, and the fabric and threads shed lint.”

  “You embroider?”

  “Yes. Sheets, towels, linens, baby clothes, trousseaus—”

  “By hand?”

  “My old lady embroidered by hand, what beautiful things she made; not me, I work with machines.”

  “So that’s why you gave me those dozen little embroidered shirts when Mateo was born.”

  “You haven’t forgotten,” said Gabriela while making the bed on the living-room sofa, after picking up and piling on the floor against the walls the dozens of bundles the sofa had been buried under.

  “What are they?” asked Lorenza, who had once again become Aurelia, because that’s how Gabriela knew her and what she still called her.

  “Sheets. One hundred twenty-seven sets of sheets, which I need to have embroidered, ironed, and ready to go by Monday. Monograms in blue, look: like this, RCH, Rochester Classic Hotel, the place the order is for.”

  Her workshop was right there in the apartment, so they had all the time they wanted to talk, as long as Aurelia let her work and helped if she wanted, steam ironing, pressing the sheets and pillowcases after they’d been embroidered, so that the delivery could be made on time.

  They used to meet in the Basilica of San José de Flores, when they were both active in the front lines of the resistance. According to the minute they had agreed upon, they met in the alcove behind the altar, overseen from the vault by a young Christ Pantocrator who inspired them with confidence. There, they knelt with rosary in hand and pretended to pray as a duo. Hail Mary full of grace, and interspersed their Hail Marys with party information, blessed art thou among women, planning the activities of the week; and since both were pregnant, before leaving they sprinkled their bellies with holy water, to protect the children.