Eva Luna

by Isabel Allende

  “What about?”

  “Tell me one you’ve never told anyone. Make it up for me.”

  “Well . . . Once there was a woman whose lifework was telling stories. She traveled far and wide, offering her wares: stories of adventure, suspense, horror, lust, all at a fair price. One noon in August she was standing in the center of a plaza when she saw an imposing man walking toward her, slim and hard as a sword. He was weary; he had a weapon in his hand and was covered with the dust of faraway places, and when he stopped before her she noticed a strong odor of melancholy. She knew immediately that the man had been at war. Solitude and violence had driven steel splinters deep into his heart, and had robbed him of the ability to love himself. Are you the one who tells stories? the stranger asked. At your pleasure, she replied. The man took five gold coins from his pocket and placed them in her hand. Then sell me a past, because mine is filled with blood and lamentation, and I cannot use it in my way through life. I have been in so many battles that somewhere out there I forgot even my mother’s name, he said. She could not refuse him, because she feared that there before her in the plaza the stranger would shrivel into a little pile of dust—which is what happens to those who are not blessed with good memories. She motioned for him to sit beside her, and when she could look into his eyes, she was once again overcome with pity, and was moved by a desire to take him in her arms. She began to speak. All that afternoon and all that night she spun her tale, inventing a worthy past for the warrior, putting into the task all her vast experience and the passion the stranger had evoked. She spoke for a very long time, because she wanted to offer him the novel of his life, and she had to invent it all—from his birth to the present day, his dreams, his desires, his secrets, the lives of his parents and his brothers and sisters, even the geography and history of his homeland. Finally it was dawn, and with the first light of day she could tell that the odor of melancholy had faded from the air. She sighed, closed her eyes, and when she felt her spirit as empty as that of a newborn child, she understood that in her desire to please him she had given him her own memory: she no longer knew what was hers or how much now belonged to him; their pasts had been woven into a single strand. She had delved deeply into her own story and now could not take back her words; but neither did she want to take them back, and she surrendered herself to the pleasure of blending with him into a single story. . . .”

  When I finished I stood up, brushed the dust and leaves from my clothes, and went to my hammock in the hut. Rolf Carlé stayed before the fire.

  * * *

  Comandante Rogelio arrived very early Friday morning, so stealthily that the dogs did not bark when he entered the village; but his men knew, because they slept with one eye open. I shook off the numbness of the last two nights and ran to hug him, but he stopped me with a gesture only I would notice. He was right, it was thoughtless to show signs of intimacy before men who had not loved in such a long time. The guerrillas welcomed him with crude jokes and backslapping, and it was obvious how much they counted on him, because from that moment the tension eased, as if his mere presence were a safeguard for them. He had brought a suitcase filled with uniforms, neatly ironed and folded, officers’ stripes, caps, and regulation boots. I went and got the trial grenade and placed it in his hand.

  “Good,” he said approvingly. “Today we’ll send the dough to the prison. It won’t show up on the metal detector. Tonight the compañeros can make their weapons.”

  “Will they know how?” Rolf Carlé asked.

  “Do you think we’d forget that little detail?” Comandante Rogelio laughed. “We’ve already sent the instructions, and by now they have the stones. All they have to do is cover them with the dough and give them a few hours to dry.”

  “The dough has to be kept wrapped in plastic so it doesn’t dry out,” I explained. “You score the surface with a spoon, and let it get hard. It darkens as it dries, and looks like metal. I hope they don’t forget to put in the fake fuses before it sets.”

  “This is a country where anything can happen, even making weapons from bread dough. No one is going to believe this,” sighed Rolf Carlé.

  Two of the village Indians paddled a dugout to Santa Mariá to deliver food to the Indians in the prison kitchen. Among bunches of bananas, chunks of yucca, and two cheeses lay the mound of Universal Matter, looking for all the world like unbaked bread. It drew no reaction from the guards, who were used to sending food packages through. Meanwhile the guerrillas reviewed the details of the plan one last time, then helped the tribe complete their preparations. Families were packing their miserable belongings, tying cord around the feet of their chickens, collecting provisions and utensils. Although it was not the first time they had been forced to a different area, they were disheartened; they had lived several years in that jungle clearing and it was a good place—near Agua Santa, the highway, and the river. The next day they would have to leave their primitive plots, because as soon as the soldiers found out about their role in the escape, the reprisals would be fierce. For lesser reasons the military had swept down like a cyclone on the hapless natives, wiping out entire tribes and erasing every trace of their passage on earth.

  “These poor people . . . there are so few left!” I said.

  “They have their place in the Revolution,” Comandante Rogelio declared.

  But the Indians were not interested in his revolution, or anything else that came from that hated race; they could not even repeat the long word he had used. They did not share the guerrillas’ ideals; they did not believe their promises or understand their reasoning; and if they had agreed to help in a venture whose outcome they were not capable of measuring, it was because the military were their enemies and this gave them an opportunity to avenge some of the harm done to them over the years. The chief knew that even if the Indians had not been involved, the soldiers would hold them responsible because the village was so close to the prison. They would not be given a chance to explain; so if they were to suffer the consequences whatever they did, it might as well be in a good cause. They would cooperate with those silent, bearded men who at least had not stolen their food or mistreated their daughters, and then find a home somewhere else. Several weeks in advance they had decided where: ever deeper into the jungle, with the hope that the impenetrable vegetation would prevent the Army from following them, and would protect them for a while longer. That had been their lot for the last five hundred years: persecution and extermination.

  Comandante Rogelio sent El Negro in the jeep to buy a pair of young goats. That night we sat with the Indians around the fire; we roasted the animals in the coals and opened some bottles of rum that had been reserved for the last meal. It was a good farewell in spite of the restlessness in the air. We drank with moderation; the young guerrillas sang a song or two, and Rolf Carlé entertained everyone with magic tricks and with photographs from a miraculous machine that in only a minute spit out images of the dumbstruck Indians. Finally, two men stood guard and the rest of us went to bed; we anticipated a very heavy day.

  * * *

  In the only available hut, lighted by the kerosene lamp flickering in a corner, the guerrillas lay on the floor and I in the hammock. I had imagined I would spend those hours alone with Huberto; we had never spent an entire night together. Nevertheless I was content with the arrangement; the young men’s company soothed me and I was able finally to control my fears, relax, and doze. I dreamed I was making love in a swing. My knees and thighs were bared in a flutter of lace and yellow taffeta petticoats. On the backward arc of the swing I was suspended in air, and I saw the powerful sex of a man waiting below. The swing hung for an instant at the height of the arc; I lifted my face to the sky, which had turned purple, then plummeted downward to be impaled. My eyes opened in fright; the room was filled with warm mist. I heard the roar of the river in the distance, the crying of night birds and the sounds of animals among the dense trees. The rough cords of the hammock irrita
ted my back through the fabric of my blouse and the mosquitoes were pure torment, but I could not move to brush them away; I was dazed. I sank back into a stupor, soaked in sweat, dreaming this time that I was adrift on the ocean in a narrow boat, in the arms of a lover whose face was covered with a mask of Universal Matter and who thrust deep inside me with every swell of the waves, leaving me bruised, swollen, thirsty, and happy: desperate kisses, omens, the wall of that hallucinatory jungle, a tooth-shaped gold nugget given as a gift of love, a knapsack of grenades that exploded noiselessly and filled the air with glowing insects. I started in my sleep and awoke in the darkness of the hut, and for a moment did not know where I was, or the meaning of those spasms in my belly. I did not sense, as at other times, the ghost of Riad Halabí caressing me from the far side of memory but, instead, the presence of Rolf Carlé sitting on the floor beside me, resting against his knapsack, one leg doubled, the other extended, arms folded across his chest, watching me. I could not see his features, but I saw the gleam of his eyes and teeth when he smiled.

  “What are you doing?” I whispered.

  “The same thing you are,” he replied, also in a low voice, to keep from waking the others.

  “I think I was dreaming . . .”

  “So was I.”

  We slipped quietly from the hut and went to the small open space in the center of the village. We sat beside the dying coals of the fire, listening to the eternal murmur of the jungle, in the light of the faint moon rays penetrating the foliage. We did not speak; we did not touch; we did not try to sleep. Together, we waited for Saturday to dawn.

  When it began to grow light, Rolf Carlé went to get water to boil coffee. I stood up and stretched; my body ached as if I had been beaten, but I felt at peace. It was then I noticed the reddish stain on my slacks. That hadn’t happened for so many years that I had almost forgotten what it was. I smiled, content, because I knew that it meant I would never dream of Zulema again, and that my body had overcome its fear of love. While Rolf Carlé fanned the coals to start the fire, and set the coffeepot on a hook over the flames, I went to the cabin, pulled a clean blouse from my bag, tore it into rags to use as sanitary napkins, and went to the river. When I returned, my clothing was wet, and I was singing.

  By six o’clock everyone was ready to begin that decisive day in our lives. We said goodbye to the Indians, and watched them leave in silence, carrying children, pigs, chickens, dogs, and bundles, fading into the foliage like a row of shadows. The only ones who stayed behind were those who were to help the guerrillas cross the river and guide them through the jungle. Rolf Carlé was one of the first to go, camera in hand and knapsack on his back. The others followed, each to his own task.

  Huberto Naranjo kissed me goodbye on the lips, a chaste and sentimental kiss: Be careful. You, too. Go straight home and try not to attract attention, and don’t worry, everything will work out fine. When will we see each other? I’ll have to hide for a while—don’t expect me. Another kiss, and I put my arms around his neck and hugged him hard, rubbing my face against his beard, my eyes moist because I was saying goodbye to a passion shared for many years. I climbed into the jeep; El Negro was waiting with the motor running to drive me north to the distant town from which I would take a bus to the capital. Huberto Naranjo waved, and we both smiled. My best friend, don’t let anything happen to you, I love you very much, I whispered. I was sure that he was echoing the same words, knowing it was good we could count on and always be near to help and protect each other; at peace because our relationship had taken a turn and finally slipped into the track where it should always have been. We were two best friends, affectionate and slightly incestuous brother and sister. Be very careful. You, too.

  * * *

  All day I was buffeted by the jolting of the bus, bumping along a treacherous road constructed for heavy trucks and eroded to its skeleton by rains that had washed out potholes big enough for boas to nest in. At a certain bend in the road the vegetation suddenly opened into a fan of impossible greens and the daylight turned stark white, illuminating the perfect illusion of the Palace of the Poor floating some fifteen centimeters above the rich humus of the jungle soil. The driver stopped the bus and all of us passengers pressed our hands to our breast, not daring to breathe during the brief seconds the sorcery lasted before gently fading away. The palace vanished, the jungle reappeared, the day recovered its normal transparency. The driver started the motor and, awed, we returned to our seats. No one spoke until we reached the capital many hours later; each was searching for the meaning of that revelation. I did not know how to interpret it, either, but it seemed almost natural since I had seen it years before from Riad Halabí’s truck. That first time, I had been dozing and he had shaken me awake when the night sky turned bright from the lights of the palace; we had left the truck and run toward the vision but before we could reach it, it was enveloped by shadow. I could not stop thinking about what was to happen at five o’clock in Santa María. I felt a racking pain in my temples, and I cursed the morbidity that tortured me with visions of disaster. Let it go well, oh, let it go well; help them, I begged my mother, as I always did in moments of crisis, but once again her spirit was unpredictable: sometimes she appeared without warning, startling me, but at times like these, when I needed her urgently, she gave me no sign that she had heard. The landscape and the sweltering heat reminded me of when I was seventeen years old, of the day I had made this journey carrying a suitcase with new clothes, the address of a boardinghouse for young ladies, and the still-vibrant discovery of pleasure. I had wanted to take my fate into my own hands, and since then much had happened to me. It seemed as if I had lived many lives, that I had turned to smoke each night, and been reborn each morning. I tried to sleep, but the sense of impending disaster would not leave me in peace, and not even the mirage of the Palace of the Poor could rid me of the sulfurous taste in my mouth. Using the rather vague criteria in the Maharishi’s manual, Mimí once had analyzed my premonitions, and had concluded that I should not trust them because they never predicted anything important, only trivial events, and when anything significant happened to me, it always came as a surprise. Mimí had demonstrated that my rudimentary divining powers were completely unreliable. But again I begged my mother to make everything all right.

  I arrived home that Saturday night looking like the victim of some disaster, filthy from sweat and dust, in a taxi that drove me from the bus terminal to my door, passing through the park illuminated with coach lamps, past the Country Club with its rows of palm trees, the mansions of the millionaires and ambassadors, the new buildings of glass and steel. I was on a different planet, at an incalculable distance from the Indian village and young men with burning eyes ready to fight to the death with absurd grenades. When I saw the house ablaze with light, I had an instant of panic, imagining that the police had preceded me, but before I could turn back Mimí and Elvira threw open the door. I went inside like a sleepwalker and fell into a chair, wishing that everything that had happened was only an invention of my feverish brain and it wasn’t true that at that very hour Huberto Naranjo, Rolf Carlé, and all the others might be dead. I looked around the living room as if I were seeing it for the first time; it seemed more welcoming than ever with its eclectic furniture, my improbable ancestors looking over me from their ornate frames, and the stuffed puma in a corner, its ferocity intact in spite of all the abuse and upheaval it had endured in its half-century of existence.

  “I’m happy to be home!” I said from the bottom of my heart.

  “How the devil did it turn out?” Mimí asked after examining me to be sure I was all right.

  “I don’t know. I left just as everything was about to start. The escape was planned for around five, before the prisoners were locked in their cells. There was supposed to be a riot in the yard about that time to distract the guards’ attention.”

  “Then it should have been on the radio or television by now, but there hasn’t b
een a word about it.”

  “That’s good news. If they’d been killed we’d have heard, but if they escaped, the government will keep it quiet until they can concoct their version of what happened.”

  “These last few days have been terrible, Eva. I haven’t been able to work. I’ve been sick with fear. I imagined you captured, dead, poisoned by snakebite, devoured by piranhas. Damn Huberto Naranjo!” Mimí exclaimed. “I don’t know why we ever got mixed up in this crazy mess.”

  “Oh, little bird. You look like a sparrow hawk. I’m of the old ways, I don’t like all these goings-on. What is a girl doing mixed up in a man’s affairs, I’d like to know? I didn’t boil lemons and make you drink them for this,” Elvira sighed, as she scurried around serving coffee, preparing a hot bath, and laying out clean clothes. “A good soak in a hot tub full of linden leaves is good for getting over a fright.”

  “I’d better shower instead, abuela.”

  The news that I had begun to menstruate after so many years was welcomed by Mimí, but Elvira saw no cause for celebration; for her it was nothing but a dirty nuisance, and she thanked her lucky stars she was too old for all that business. She’d always wondered why humans didn’t just lay eggs, like chickens. I searched through my bag and pulled out the package I had dug up in Agua Santa; I placed it on Mimí’s lap.

  “What’s this?”

  “Your dowry. I want to sell what’s inside so you can have your operation in Los Angeles and then get married if you want to.”

  Mimí ripped off the dirt-stained wrapping and exposed a box damaged by mildew and termites. When she prized open the lid, Zulema’s jewels fell into her lap, as brilliant as if they had just been cleaned, the gold gleaming yellower than ever: emeralds, topazes, garnets, pearls, amethysts, all glowing with new light. The pieces I had thought so wretched when I aired them in the sunlight of Riad Halabí’s patio now glittered like the treasure of a caliph in the hands of the world’s most beautiful woman.