The Invisible Mountain

by Carolina de Robertis

  “Have another tart.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  She nudged him playfully. “You could.” She held the platter up. He raised hands of surrender and took a glazed pear tart. Eva watched him bite, cleanly, with his front teeth. “How’s your fiancée?”

  He stopped chewing. His fingers squeezed the pastry crust, creating tiny cracks.

  “Of course I know.”

  “She’s fine.”

  “She must be very beautiful.”

  “My parents like her.” His eyes were so pale. “I have a duty.”

  “To her?”

  He shrugged.

  “To your parents?”

  Roberto clasped her hand with both of his. Sweet pear and butter crust broke in her palm. “Eva. I want you. You’re always in my mind.”

  “Roberto—”

  “But I can’t.”

  “Can’t what?”

  “Marry you.”

  They stared at each other. Deep afternoon light edged the furniture with gold. She would keep it all, the furniture, the north-side sun, the man. She shook her head, slowly, sadly. “Querido. What will we do?”

  He leaned toward her. His breath smelled of black tea. “Stay here. Be together. You’ll have what you need.” He kissed her. His mouth was lush and damp and sweet with glaze. She fell back against the sofa. He was on top of her, already stiff.

  “Roberto.”

  “Mm.”

  “We can’t.”

  His voice came like a child’s. “Why not?”

  “You know why not.” His sex was firm and so were her hands around his jaws. “We’re not married.”

  He clawed at her, her blouse opened, her legs opened to the push of his knees, and she almost relented—why not, why not, he had waited so long—but when she closed her eyes she saw a dirty alley, fast rats, her own throat bared in the cold. She pushed at him. He did not stop. She pushed harder, and his weight jerked back. He crouched beside the sofa, and made a low sound.

  “Roberto?”

  He did not look at her. The walls framed him with ornate wilderness: hordes of mauve roses in a lattice cage.

  “Roberto.”

  “I have to go.”

  He lunged for the front door and disappeared.

  The next three hours went by in a haze. Eva drank a whole bottle of wine and watched light fade from her beautiful home. It was not her home. She had lost. He’d had enough. There would be no more discreet envelopes, no more dreams in satin sheets, no more afternoons of subtle glances and slow lassoes and sugar in English tea. Night fell; the room grew dark, tinged with low light from the street lamp outside her window. She should have settled for his offer, stayed his woman-on-the-side, kept what she had and let him satisfy himself, instead of placing all her chips back on the table. If he gave her another chance, she’d take it, but it was probably too late. She’d have to pack her bag. There was little to pack and she had nowhere to go. Buenos Aires loomed around her in all its brutal grandeur, hissing with triumph, you don’t belong, you never will, you’re nothing. She saw her father in the dark corner of the room, glistening, translucent. Whore, he called her. Stupid whore. She bared her teeth at him and he faltered like a reflection in water disturbed by stones. Her head hurt. She couldn’t think. She longed to stop the eddies in her mind. She closed her eyes.

  She woke up to a staccato knock and stumbled through the dark room. Roberto stood in the hall.

  “I left my hat.”

  “Come in.”

  He stepped into the darkness.

  “I’m sorry. I’ll turn on a light.”

  “No. Don’t.” His silhouette approached her. He smelled of cigarettes. She’d never seen him smoke. “Eva.”

  She braced herself.

  “It’s all right. We’ll get married.”

  She didn’t breathe.

  “Say yes.”

  “Yes.”

  They held each other in silence. Outside the window, a car gunned by, on its way to a lavish party or lonely bar. Roberto sank both hands into Eva’s hair. Eva breathed into his starched collar. His mouth fell against her cheek, jaw, neck.

  “When?”

  “Soon,” he said, low enough that the corners of the room would not have heard him. “Very soon.”

  The next day, Roberto broke off his other engagement and reserved the church for a Saturday two weeks away. He handed Eva a list of boutiques. “They’re expecting you tomorrow.”

  She didn’t ask how it went with Cristina, but she sifted through the possibilities in her mind. Cristina had raged, thrown precious vases against the wall, cursed Roberto and all his future offspring. She had fallen on her knees, wept maiden-tears, implored him, with her hands over her heart, to reconsider. No. She had smiled a tight, noble smile, said stiff little words (a poor girl, ah, how nice for you), and dismissed Roberto with a nod of the head. She braced herself for Cristina Caracanes to appear at her door, face red, hands fisted, but no such thing occurred. Even the society pages kept their talk of the Santos scandal to two brief paragraphs, having devoted most of their space to the Peróns. Juan Perón had just won the presidency. Evita would be his first lady. It was necessary to speculate endlessly on the future, to herald a new era, to dissect rumors of Evita’s inauguration gown. Still. Two paragraphs are enough to hide a knife in. Srta. Caracanes has been replaced by an unknown girl, suspected to be of dubious origin. Eva sat on the floor in the morning light and read the sentence thirty-seven times. She tore the article out and broke it into pieces, smaller and smaller, until it almost looked like dust. She took it to the balcony and threw it toward the mansion across the street. The shreds fell in slow, haphazard clusters. She went inside and took out a blank page.

  Dear Mami,

  I am sorry I haven’t written, but today I have wonderful news: I’m getting married. His name is Dr. Roberto Santos, and he’s a highly respected man. Also, he is reliable and kind.

  The pen paused a moment, then resumed.

  Our engagement is in the society pages, near photos of Evita! The wedding is in twelve days. There is much to be done, as you can imagine. Roberto wants me to have a whole new wardrobe. He’s very generous. I have this address until the wedding: 657 Avenida Magenta #10. The apartment has gilded wallpaper and beautiful teacups (you’d love them, Coco). These pesos are a gift from us.

  I love you, Eva.

  She immersed herself in preparation. She spent long mornings in svelte boutiques sheathed in glass that had once seemed impenetrable. She could love the way the lamps glowed in those places, lending radiance to silks and stones and pearls. She wanted to gleam like gemstones, to flow like a gossamer scarf, to rustle with the dignity of finely crafted petticoats. She was taken seriously by the women who measured and folded and pinned at her ankles (she remembered, acutely, that hem’s-eye view of the world). She could finger a satin gown and make it hers with a mere nod. She was asked, in cool, courteous tones, whether she preferred her diamond set in gold or platinum. Gold, she affirmed. Gold in all its boldness. She needed it against her skin for her first dinner with Roberto’s parents.

  The Santos family home was a place of chandeliers and echoing halls and plush drapes that hid the windows. They ate in a taut silence, broken only by the clink of terse knives on white china. Señora Santos, with her rod of a back and high lace collar, eyed Eva with frank skepticism. Señor Santos slumped over his soup, shaking his head between bites as if to a tragic opera he alone could hear. Eva punctuated the meal with pleasantries.

  “What a beautiful home.”

  Clink, clink.

  “That portrait is lovely.”

  Clink.

  “The soup was exquisite, thank you.”

  Roberto, to her right, bent his head over his plate like a man in prayer or penance. No one spoke. The maid cleared bowls and refilled wineglasses without a word. Halfway through the main course (herbed potatoes, boeuf au vin), Eva resigned herself to quiet eating. The sauce was delicious, piquant, rich;
she washed it down with long gulps of wine. She would have mopped it with her bread if it hadn’t seemed undainty. Her wineglass seemed to fill of its own accord (the maid was skilled, unobtrusive—she looked a bit like Mamá had in old photos, the hair, the glow-black eyes). Eva felt Señora Santos’ eyes on the red pour as it landed in her glass. She sat up straighter. The silence was palpable, it almost had flesh, it stretched along the table like a muscle, flexing, issuing its challenge. The chocolate mousse arrived in crystal goblets. She lifted a silver spoon. She would make it through dessert. She had faced many challenges in her life; surely she could survive a chocolate mousse. The thought made her laugh—a short, sharp cackle. Ha-ha-ha! The three of them—his father, his mother, Roberto himself—stared at Eva. Roberto flushed; his mother pursed her lips; his father’s mouth hung open. She waited for shame to heave its mantle over her, but she felt only the weight of the gold necklace at her throat. She held her head high (necklace sparkling, she imagined, in the candlelight), and smiled.

  “I love chocolate. Don’t you?”

  She took a bite of mousse (so sweet, so heavy). Señora Santos sent back her own dessert.

  “Don’t worry,” she said to Roberto on the car ride home. “They’ll come to accept me.” She leaned against his arm. They would because they had to. Roberto took her hand and curled their fingers into a knot.

  Their marriage plans were simple: a wedding at the chapel, attended by Roberto’s immediate family and a single friend, Dr. Caribe, and his wife. Antonio Caribe had been Roberto’s mentor in medical school, and now, as colleagues, they still discussed their work in unrelenting detail. He was the kind of man you could imagine cupping a wounded sparrow with both hands. Priest and veil, vows and rings and the kissing of the bride. No reception. They would head directly to a honeymoon cottage south of Mar del Plata.

  The day before her wedding, Eva received a package that held a gift wrapped in tissue, and a letter.

  Dear Eva,

  Congratulations. I want to meet him. I want your marriage to be very happy.

  Please send photographs. Everybody wants to see. Artigas asks about you often. He is in good health, drumming every day, often with César, Xhana’s fiancé, who is a wonderful drummer—you remember him of course? They are getting married next month. Xhana is teaching history. And she’s one of the best dancers in all of Carnaval. You really should see.

  More news: Mirna has had another boy—you’re an aunt, again. And Coco’s granddaughters are growing up to be fine girls. Ay, you should see them, Eva, almost muchachitas and so pretty—can you believe I am such a lucky grandmother? It’s just too bad their good-for-nothing uncle Andrés is still not writing home. If you see my son (you must know something!) tell him he’s broken our hearts and he should come back where he belongs.

  Back to your Mami.

  I never had a wedding dress, hija, so I can’t send you mine to wear. Take this instead. Something old. Something blue. I made it from the curtain that was my wedding bed. The first time I ever saw your father, he was walking out from behind this curtain on a ridiculous little stage. Well. You are missed. Cuidate.

  Love,

  Mami

  Eva unwrapped the tissue and found a garter of blue velveteen and ivory lace. It was well stitched, but garish compared to the silks and linens of her new life. She brought the garter to her nose: it smelled like camphor and cinnamon; it smelled like Uruguay. The lace tickled her cheek, softly, an echo of lost touch. She pictured Roberto’s mother meeting Mamá, a dark-skinned woman called Pajarita, sewer of garters, brewer of bark, bride who spent her wedding night out in the open air, on the banks of the Río Negro, surrounded by horses and trunks of costumes. She could see Señora Santos with perfect clarity, the look on her face, the arch of her wringable neck. Eva would wear the garter. No one would know. She would smuggle it under the vast cloud of her gown. It would rub between her thighs as she walked down the aisle, the friction of memory and lost worlds. Life was full of lost worlds. You could travel miles of twisting roads and think you’re far away from all you know and suddenly stumble on the scrap of one. Thirty years ago, a girl lay down in a place that smelled of grass and horses and the darkwet river. They were all gone now—the years, the girl, the horses. Eva stroked the garter with her fingers. Maybe it would susurrate—though nobody would hear it—under the noise of Venetian lace, the sigh of petticoats, the silence of white roses held in front of her like weapons.

  Cinco

  ——————

  ACROSS BLACK WATER,

  A SECRET SEA

  Fine things filled her life: a house in La Recoleta with an entrance flanked by pillars and a perfect hedge, four-course meals from a cook trained in Toulouse, five boxes of jewelry, warm legs beside her own at night, damask drapes, silver platters, Louis XIV chairs, enough ingredients—surely more than enough—for brewing happiness.

  Eva retreated into the house as though it were a huge cocoon. There would be time for the world, but first she sank into the luxury of avoiding it. While her husband spent long days at the hospital, she spent languorous afternoons in the study, suffused in dusty sunlight and the orgiastic scent of old books. She fell into epics, novels, history, reading greedily until the light had drained entirely from the sky. When Roberto arrived, they ate at the long dining table. He talked about his day. She nodded at his stories, smiled at his triumphs, ruffled her forehead sympathetically at his complaints. Later, upstairs, he unwrapped her clothing like a present. Pinned beneath him she would feel as if no wind could sweep her away, no storm disturb the rocking anchor of his weight.

  Eventually, she ventured out, a refined lady now in silk and gold. She spent hours composing poems alone in chic cafés. She bought books by the armful. She attended parties where guests sipped Veuve Clicquot and engaged in calculated banter. She quickly learned to ply her wit with politicians, intellectuals, aristocratic women with sleek hair. Some were stiffer with her than others but she held her head up high and kept on beaming. After all, what could they do? It was a new era, when even the first lady could come from poverty, be called a whore behind affluent hands, yet step into the limelight with ferocity. No apologies from Evita Perón. At home, Eva listened to her speeches on the radio. Perón is everything, the soul, the nerve, the hope of argentinos. I am only a simple woman who lives to serve Perón. The lavish chairs and carpets could catch fire from the sheer heat of that voice. Eva could almost see the spreading flames. One cannot accomplish anything without fanaticism! It is well worth burning up our lives! Photos filled the papers: Evita at her office, where droves of Argentina’s poor came knocking, every day, asking for help, receiving money, dentures, meals, smiles, shoes, sewing machines, toys, imported rugs, imported curtains, promises of more help to come; Evita in opulent Parisian gowns, dripping with diamonds, laughing toward the camera; Evita at the microphone, face wrenched with speech, hand high as if about to wave or slap. Eva cut out pictures and kept them tucked in folded underclothes, hidden from Roberto. Roberto did not like the Peróns.

  “They’re fascists,” he said, straightening his tie in the morning.

  Eva nodded blankly.

  “They control more each day.”

  She smoothed his collar.

  “We have to be careful. Stay on their good side.”

  “Certainly, mi amor.”

  Sometimes, deep in the night, she dreamed she was Evita and a throng of children pressed into her bedroom. They were barefoot. The women followed close behind. She shook Roberto, in bed beside her, but he wouldn’t wake. The women and the children put their arms out, open-palmed, demanding, and then Mami was among them with scissors in her hand, she didn’t look at Eva, she began to slice the satin bedclothes, and Eva tried to gather sheets around her, tried to scream, but the children had grown bigger, were suddenly young men, tearing at bedclothes with hungry hands. On good nights she woke up before they reached her.

  After two years of marriage, Eva gave birth to a son. Roberto. Robertito.
His first cries pierced the air and seemed to shatter it. She longed to quiet him with her body, fill him with her milk, but Roberto had made other arrangements. Her son was whisked into the next room, where a wet nurse waited.

  “Don’t worry,” the delivering doctor said. “Just rest.”

  For months Eva ached for her baby. She lingered fiercely at his cradle while he slept. The wet nurse was called María: a ripe young woman, maddeningly sweet, offering a softness those tiny hands now recognized, pouring what Eva had let dry. Her breasts were wastelands. She was a lady now, had a role to play, a part with no room for babies sucking at her body. Her son grew larger. She barely knew him. She saved his shoes. She couldn’t help it, the urge was primal, subterranean, and anyway she did it secretly, there was no one to mind. She played her part impeccably. Señora Santos, Doctor’s Wife, Charming Lady, Really a Delightful Poetess. Did You See Her Recent Verse in La Nueva Palabra? Quite enchanting. Elite salons opened their doors to her. Even her poems had to fit into her role: she was not, after all, some anonymous girl, some immigrant waitress no one cared about. She mattered; she was seen; her words could lift or stain her husband’s career. She corralled her poems into good-wife themes—domestic joys, devoted love, the sweetest slices of motherhood. She also combed each line for anything that could be construed as anti-Peronist. There were writers and editors who’d gone into exile. If I have to apply five turns to the screw each day for the happiness of Argentina, Evita shouted, I will do it. Eva’s poems grew as sculpted as the hedges around her house.