“The day after,” Iturraspe clarifies. “That Monday morning saw the return from Rosario of Señora Delia de Ezcurra, his mother.”
Interlude Three
IN TIMES OF PROSPERITY a parish priest—who only the most elderly have any recollection of, and then only from what they’d been told by their parents—excited at the growing riches promised by modern architecture and the railway, and at the substantial donations the wealthy immigrants couldn’t stop showering on the Lord, set about a task less sustained by faith than by the shared certainty of limitless progress—namely, to cover the ceiling of Malihuel’s church with mosaics. The diocese authorities gave their blessing, the contributions began to pour in stimulated by the priest’s enthusiasm, and Malihuel’s celebrated favourite son, Aníbal Trajano—the creator in his younger days of the equestrian statue of Comandante Pedernera—was commissioned to make a preliminary sketch, which, regardless of its initial vagueness, was approved without further ado so as not to delay the start of the work. The concept couldn’t fail to be to everyone’s liking—from atrium to altar, the glorious epic of Malihuel’s foundation and development would be detailed along the whole length of the nave, from the barbarian desert trodden only by horses’ hooves to the fort founded by the viceroys, the Creole population, the arrival of the immigrants and the railways, and culminating over the altar in a vision of the future, in which the angels of divine grace and the trailblazers of progress would gaze from heaven to earth and earth to heaven in mutual recognition and satisfaction. Specialist workmen arrived, Italians brought in especially from Rosario along with the tesserae, and for months mass was held under a cage of scaffolding that hid the progress of the work from prying eyes. Once the first stretch was finished, the scaffolding was moved over to the centre and tongues began to wag. They were willing to accept Herculean savages with shapely torsos brandishing centaurs’ spears, but not as willing to accept a host of defenceless Indian mothers trying to protect their children from the slaughter that the soldiers, sabres at the ready, were about to wreak on them. This local imitation of the Massacre of the Innocents was soon followed by a portrait of daily life in the fort, featuring the long-suffering figures of the ragged soldiers—one of whom was stretched out between stakes and wore the unmistakeable expression of a suffering Christ—and the tasks of the barrack whores. The proud figure that everyone had thought would represent Malihuel’s founder, when the sketches had been presented in society, turned out to reproduce, in the minute geometry of the tiny ceramic squares, the mythical bandit, Musurana. No sign of angels so far, not even so much as a cross. There are already too many on the altar, came the artist’s answer from on high in the scaffolding, whose fights with the deceived parish priest had reached epic proportions and, according to some, helped in no small way to speed his passage to the Glory of the Lord. And when the priest managed to conquer his proverbial fear of heights and saw with his own eyes that the work intended to celebrate the contribution of the immigrants in fact set out to depict no less than that execrable outbreak of anarchism known as the Cry of Alcorta, the rupture was inevitable. Furious, Malihuel’s very own Michelangelo headed back to Rosario swearing never to return, a promise that proved none too hard to keep, since his advanced years and his health broken by all that hard work brought about his swift demise.
A serrated edge several metres from the holy grail of the altar was as far as the works would ever get. The townsfolk spent several months debating whether to hire another artist to rethink the remaining work and rework what had been completed to the taste of the offended parishioners (but how do you rework a mosaic?), whether they should leave it the way it was because of the artistic merit some people stubbornly saw in it, or whether, as the fanatics and the conned demanded, they should demolish the whole thing and give the ceiling a clean and democratic lick of whitewash. The years, the damp and the poor quality cement employed—supplied, it should be noted, by Don Alejandro Alvarado’s general stores, the brand requested by the artist in his initial budget having been ruled out as too dear—made sure the tiny tesserae began to fall, at first sporadically and almost indiscernibly, then in hail-like profusion. Every morning before Mass, the janitor had to sweep them up off the floor and dump them on a pile, which in view of an ever-less-likely restoration, went on growing, as did the gaps, which stretched saw-tooth tentacles out across the scenes, joined with each other and went on growing, gradually morphing into shapes that were ever more obvious against the polychrome background. One of my most vivid childhood pastimes was to discover in their random and shifting outlines the insects, pirates and astronauts with which my imagination used to alleviate the tedium of the masses my grandmother forced me to attend. I wasn’t the only one—several kids used to spend almost the whole of mass with their chins tilted roofwards and it was only when a tile fell in someone’s eye—a girl’s—and detached her retina, that the opposition to the demolitionists caved in and the trowels had the last word. Years later Don Eugenio Casarico would make off with the heap of tiles in return for a token contribution and use them to tile the first and thereafter most polychromatic swimming pool in Malihuel.
Chapter Four
“AND HERE IN THIS ONE are all five of us see? It was for the saint’s day if I’m not wrong because we were the organising committee for the parish association. The photo must’ve been taken by Father Abeledo himself, or he’d be in it. This is Delia de Ezcurra, always so well dressed, and the one next to her’s Clota the Superintendent’s wife, you see what I was saying, she even copied her hair poor thing, never could get over what happened. And here at the other end’s your grandmother, so serious, she and Delia used to be thick as thieves when they were younger but they drifted apart later in life, and they spent their time quarrelling in the association. And these two in the middle believe it or not are Chesi and I, come on own up you didn’t recognise us did you. But I never had a second’s doubt the moment I laid eyes on you, you were always round here playing as a boy, I used to have some felt dolls and you always asked me to get them out of the cabinet and a wooden toothpick holder shaped like a porcupine, as a matter of fact I wanted to give it to you seeing as how you liked it so much but your grandmother never let me, his parents spoil him as it is she used to say. Do you still speak English?”
My Auntie Porota passes me another sugar-laden maté and smiles. Apart from the colour television set, predictably turned down low, showing some afternoon quiz show, the chairs, which look too new, and the photo of her deceased husband on the wall, it’s the same kitchen, flanked by a thin arbour of wisteria, where I used to have my milk and cookies as a boy. Almost lost in the brown imitation-leather armchair with light wood arms, Auntie Chesi flashes me the occasional smile and listens attentively to what her sister has to say, barely looking up from the once-white wool salvaged from her dead husband’s favourite cardie, which, before my horrified eyes, she’s knitting into a little jacket for my son, and which I’ll throw out of the bus window on my way back to Buenos Aires.
“What a pity you didn’t bring us any photos of your wife and your little boy, we won’t forgive you you know, next time you come you have to bring them with you, if they’re not comfortable at Guido’s they can stay here, that Guido fancy him going to live just there, and renting, with all the properties the family owns, he only does it to irk his parents and there he is still driving the truck poor Celia, a good thing the other one turned out all right architect you know even as a boy a little darling always so obedient but Guido always raising Cain he was me I was lucky with Beba and Leandrito no complaints about either of them, each better than the other they turned out. What did you say your wife did?”
My Auntie Chesi listens to my reply, smiles, says nothing, tugs at the strand of wool to unhook it from the edge of the basket, reaches the end of a row and starts on the next. Her sister looks on sweetly, smiles at me, stretches out a photo of a gentleman with a lost expression and rather anachronistic appearance as if he’d snuck in from an older photograph, accompany
ing a youthful Delia de Ezcurra, and between the two of them a boy of around ten, who looks up at her, distracted from the camera the second it eternalised the scene. It’s the first photo I’ve seen of him, I’m astonished to realise before Auntie Porota picks up the thread of her running commentary:
“She never stopped loving her husband while he was alive but what that woman felt for her son was more like adoration. Used to do herself up as young as she could and when she went to Rosario to rub shoulders with the toffs and someone took her for his wife she nearly wet herself with the excitement, no really, she had her ways about her that Delia did I can tell you … He was always bound to turn out like that, a spoilt crackpot he was, hundreds of girlfriends but always tied to his mother’s apron strings, and don’t think it bothered her, just the opposite I think, she was proud he was so much in demand, I reckon she used to keep count of his conquests, possibly more than he did. They were so close, you’ve rarely seen such a thing between a mother and her son, it’s not that she was always breathing down his neck they led their own lives she even got let’s call him a boyfriend in Rosario ooh just right after losing her husband agronomist I think he was married oh yes but her son was never jealous of her nor she of him as I said, that’s why every time I remember what happened like now I get this dreadful pain right here in my chest and my only consolation is that she soon followed suit, God didn’t want to prolong that suffering and decline we all watched her falling into. Errrm I think well let me see, Delia’d gone to Rosario I think, and she came back that very Monday morning, must’ve been in her car, she had a Renault 12 it was wasn’t it Chesi? It was her husband’s and she used to lend it to her son when he was in town. Sort of beige colour it was, it looked brand new the way she looked after it, she was like that with everything. Of course she knew nothing about what had happened to her son, how could she she’d just arrived, when she got home she asked the maid who said she hadn’t seen him since Friday, there was nothing odd about that at all because sometimes the lad wouldn’t set foot in the house for a week at a time, he was a bit of a tearaway as no doubt you’ve heard if you’ve been asking around, but she must’ve spotted something in the girl’s expression, especially that one who wasn’t that ugly for a chinita, left no stone unturned he didn’t Delia’s son, and Delia ended up picking them for their ugliness or she’d have to send them back before their nine months were up. I don’t know if it was a something in her voice or if she started crying or what but what I do think is that that was when Delia started to worry. I don’t know where she went or who she talked to, what I still find strange is that she didn’t come to us her friends straight away. At that stage nobody was really sure what had happened to the boy, whether he’d been taken to Rosario or was still at the headquarters, but if there’s one thing I am sure of it’s that when she went to see Clota she still didn’t suspect anything, because she went to ask her to find out if the police knew or could find out—no song and dance—if anything had happened to her little boy. She was barking up the wrong tree there, just imagine Clota, the only other person in town in the dark, because nobody’d said a thing to her, out of respect for her husband I reckon, and him least of all as you can imagine, I put myself in his shoes poor man such a difficult decision he had to take, knowing what good friends Delia and his wife were, but that’s duty for you isn’t it. I’ll never forget the time I failed my niece in an exam and made her repeat the year, remember Chesi? Her parents wouldn’t speak to me for a month after that but what was I to do, I can promise you the girl suffered less than I did. I think Clota was in seventh heaven that day, Delia’d done so much to include her in town life when they arrived, it was through her that she met us and that in a few months the whole town’d accepted her, policemen’s wives often spend years here without fitting in, especially the lower ranking officers’, who disappear into the Colonia where property’s cheap or into the Banco Hipotecario houses I don’t know if you’ve seen the new ones but Clota of course was the wife of the chief of police and Delia was the first one to say this one looks different it’s about time we had a gentleman for once and once she’d said it everyone said it, and it may’ve been things like that that made the Neris decide to stay in town after he retired. So Clota how can I put it it wasn’t that she was glad or anything but she felt that God was giving her an opportunity to give her friend Delia something back a few crumbs of the bounty she’d had showered on her, and she assured her that the minute her husband came back for lunch she’d ask, no, demand that he put the whole headquarters at her friend’s disposal no ifs or buts. I don’t know what he must’ve said in reply, her husband was no liar but he was no blabbermouth either. The things a policeman must see every day the least he’ll try and do is protect his family from them, especially seeing as they’re sworn to professional secrecy just like doctors are Clota answered us whenever we tried to draw her out. What I think is that things were no longer in his hands he’d’ve carried out his orders and there was nothing else he could do then, but I do think he was a little slack there at least, he could’ve told the mother her son’d been arrested and where he was being held so she could go and see him, particularly that very afternoon when Delia had a personal appointment with him at the station, and she must’ve heard something else by that stage because she was really worried and Clota’s husband what was his name Neri yes but his first name was … Armando that’s it he assured her the police would do everything in their power and that he’d already radioed all the police stations in the area and the highway patrol and if nothing had come in in forty-eight hours they’d put out a national alert, and in the meantime some people say the boy was locked up a stone’s throw away worrying about his Mamá who took the Superintendent’s hands in her gratitude to kiss them and he pulled them away in time taken aback Doña Delia please I’m only doing my duty and she herself told Clota, who with tears in her eyes told Chesi and myself, I’m so fond of Delia she cried I’d do anything for her promise me both of you that we’ll all stick close to her in such dire straits and we said of course of course, what else could we say? And that very night she came to see us well me because in those days Chesi and I had our own families and our own houses sometimes I tell her I can hardly believe it don’t I Chesi, that’s life for you in the long run we’ve ended up spending more time together the pair of us than with our children and husbands if you add up the years at Papá and Mamá’s and our widowhoods together, and the rest of the time living next door to each other so we were never very far apart, my hubby and Dr Lugozzi were great friends as well and the children were brought up to be so close they were more like brothers than cousins, so then when Delia showed up the pair of us comforted her as best we could, and that was in spite of your Uncle Rodolfo—remember how you used to call him Uncle Rodolfo?—your Uncle Rodolfo didn’t want her in the house, he was worried about the police of course we still had the kids living at home they always ask after you you know Beba had another boy not long ago I’ll show you the photos later I’ll be going over someday soon because I can’t stand being away from them for so long. But you know I may be easy-going and can adapt to things but if I have to stand up to someone I do and I said to him then and there I said Stop it Rodolfo. Delia’s a lifelong friend and I won’t slam the door in her face the way the others do, think what you like about her son and she’s partly to blame for the way she brought him up but the door of this house which was my parents’ and so’s more mine than yours will never be closed to her so it won’t. We were up till goodness knows what time, Delia I remember as if it were yesterday was sitting there where you are, wringing one of those special handkerchiefs all embroidered with her initials that she had made up in a shop in Rosario all stained with her make-up it was she hadn’t stopped looking after herself yet she hadn’t let herself go yet the way she did later broke your heart to see her it did, she who was always the best-turned-out woman in town but as I always say the higher you are the harder you fall. Something’s happened to him I’m sure my heart’
s telling me I’ve had this stabbing pain here since this afternoon it won’t let me breathe she kept repeating and Chesi and I saying Come on Delia you’ll see it’ll be all right, look at all the times he disappeared without a word and then turned up at home with a bunch of flowers or a box of chocolates and you always forgave him, and she says No this time it’s different before the minute I’d ask a friend or one of the women who always kept track of him I’d calm down but this time nobody wants to talk to me, people avoid me in the street, I’ve even had people hang up on me and the ones I do manage to talk to won’t look me in the eye when they tell me I don’t know a thing. Do you know anything? Please if something serious has happened to him don’t hide it from me, I’d die if I knew he needed me and here I am doing nothing to help him desperate she was and Chesi and I you can’t imagine our distress but we didn’t want her to do anything stupid the way she would later she was very impulsive and was capable of doing something crazy so it would be better for her to hear it straight from her son telling her Don’t worry Mamá I’m fine the sweetest voice a mother can hear now that was his fault, the first thing he ought to’ve done was call his Mamá and reassure her, the only thing I always asked of Leandro and Bebita when they went out at night was stay out as late as you like I’d tell them but please don’t forget to ring, fat chance, whole nights I’ve spent sitting up waiting for the phone to ring you’ll see soon enough your son’s little now but when he grows up you’ll see for yourself, they say Darío called his lawyer or one of his friends course he’ll’ve thought they’ll get me out first and then he’d tell his mother when it was all sorted out there was no need to worry her he’d ended up sleeping it off in one local police station or another on more than one occasion, never here of course for his Mamá’s sake and anyway how could he know it’d be any different this time. I mean I think he was in the right if he didn’t want his mother to find out, although some Jezebel or other was bound to go and tell her sooner or later you know what it’s like in these towns we’re never short of busybodies but not us, no, we’d never dream of it. Delia eventually ended up going home, easier I think, but she can’t have slept properly because at the crack of dawn the next day she was at the parish house knocking on Father Abeledo’s door who was in the throes of one of his depressions at the time I’ll tell you about them in a minute and I don’t know if she managed to get him out of bed I don’t think so, it’s so many years ago now, can you remember Chesi? No of course, if Father Abeledo’d been having one of his good days it was a joy to see him there was nothing a girl wouldn’t have done for him like a ray of sunshine he was this Jewish girl even wanted to convert but her parents slapped the idea right out of her head, the Brofmans I don’t know if you ever met them apart from that they’re well loved and well respected in town and as I was saying Father Abeledo would have given her consolation spiritual guidance such a shame it all happened during one of his crises and then … I don’t know if she’d planned it or if she had the idea there and then, the parish house is right next door to your grandparents’ and our Delia went right up and rang the doorbell. But you probably know more about it than I do, you must’ve been told by your … Oh, see what I mean, that makes two of us. You know how it is when you realise someone doesn’t want to talk about something, you don’t just go bringing the subject up, I never did find out where the feud between Delia and your grandmother came from, actually it was your grandmother who was the offended party, Delia used to act as if nothing was wrong always wore a smile she did Emily this and Emily that that’s how she pronounced it with an English accent imagine, a crying shame it was, the only two women in town who could speak proper English and they wouldn’t speak to each other, sometimes I thought Delia was doing it on purpose, she had a rather catty streak to her sometimes, and your grandmother obviously was always ready to answer her back but she knew how to restrain herself, a real lady she was, and now suddenly there she is in the wee small hours banging on her door like a mad woman, you know what people are like they don’t give you so much as the time of day till they need a favour, I don’t know if I’d been in your grandmother’s shoes I might’ve slammed the door in her face oh so now that you need me we’re friends are we slammm but your grandmother didn’t, did the dignified thing she did and showed her in.”
An Open Secret Page 16