The Invisible Mountain

by Carolina de Robertis

  She didn’t mind. It was her duty. When she was tempted to write with too much heat, she took cold baths to drain the poems out of her.

  I chose this life, she thought, naked, gritting her teeth against the cold. So I will live it.

  Hard white tiles gleamed at her from all sides.

  Eva’s second child arrived on a day that seemed to rip her into two. The girl shot out red and screaming; Eva was screaming; their voices formed a jagged fugue. The nurse swaddled the baby in a blanket and took her away. Eva calmed her breath. She waited until the room was almost empty. Only she and a single medical student remained.

  “Psst.”

  He approached her.

  “Bring me my baby.”

  He scanned the empty room.

  “Please.”

  “It’s against the rules.”

  “I know.”

  “It might take a while.”

  “Fine.”

  The young man studied her. His face was stocky, earnest, in need of a shave. He left the room. Eva waited. The ceiling tiles weren’t moving anymore. She watched them do nothing in their perfect rows. The student returned, darting in quickly, a jewel thief with loot wrapped in a blanket. He laid the baby on Eva’s chest, a tiny face, so clean now, strange and wizened, alien, delicate, eyes shut, skin pink, fingers squirming in the unfamiliar texture of the air.

  The student was also staring at the baby. “Have you chosen her name?”

  “Yes,” Eva said, having prepared for a girl one month prior, in the library with a play by Oscar Wilde. I am athirst for thy beauty, the heroine had said. Neither the floods nor the great waters can quench my passion, and that line had rushed into her, had seemed to redeem the horror that came next. “Salomé.”

  “Salomé?” He frowned. “Isn’t she the one who beheaded John the Baptist?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know the story?”

  “Yes.”

  He cocked his head and stared at her with new intensity. Footsteps rang out in the hall, then faded. He looked at the baby again. He was quite handsome. Eva wondered whether this was his first birth.

  “Salomé,” he said slowly, as if tasting the word. “What will she do?”

  Eva adjusted her daughter’s frail weight on her breasts. “Do?”

  “With her life. Isn’t that strange, the pure potential of one life?”

  Eva said nothing. The student closed his eyes and laid a hand on the tiny head. Salomé leaned into his palm with total trust. “You can do anything, Salomé. Change the world, the course of history. It’s all possible.”

  Eva was exhausted and rapt and vaguely embarrassed, as if she’d stumbled into someone else’s private ceremony. She wanted to swallow Salomé back into her body. She wanted to shout at this joven to stop interfering, to leave them alone, to stay near them always. The intimacy he’d struck up was unbearable. Salomé’s face crunched, she whimpered, and Eva peeled off her hospital gown and pulled the baby to her nipple. The small mouth groped for her.

  “It may take a while,” he said, “for milk to come.”

  The baby-mouth found the nipple. Nothing came out. Salomé began to cry.

  “If I may,” the student said, and reached for Eva’s breast. Adjustment, pinching, baby-soothing, there, there, and then the mouth arrived again and it began, the smallest trickle, stinging from Eva’s body. The young man looked away at the wall.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Ernesto.”

  “Your last name?”

  “Guevara.”

  “Señor Gue—”

  “Just call me Ernesto.”

  “Ernesto. Thank you.”

  He nodded. “I should take her. Once she’s done.”

  “Of course.”

  They waited until Salomé’s mouth softened its grip. Eva pried her away and handed her to Ernesto. His hand was on her baby’s head again, holding it up, a necessary touch, but Eva felt the urge to call out, Stop, you thief.

  “Shall I turn off the light?”

  “Please.” She pulled her gown back up and watched them leave.

  She leaned back into her pillow. Outside, the sun was rising with its entourage of pinks and mauves. In the glare of modern fluorescent lights, she had not noticed. She felt empty. She closed her eyes and turned to the left, then to the right, chasing sleep. When she found it, when she dreamed, he was there too, the student, standing on a rooftop with her daughter in his arms, and he said, It’s all possible, he said, anything, he roared like a lion, he was a lion now, his paws were going to rip her daughter to shreds, she shouted and ran toward them but he threw the baby up toward the sun, a baby growing wings and rising, baby flying, she would get lost or she would burn, a baby Icarus, her baby, No, Eva shouted, no and no, she ran she flapped her elbows like a stupid hen but couldn’t fly, couldn’t fly; Don’t worry, the lion said, it’s possible.

  Eight weeks after Salomé was born, one week before the exile, Eva entered the Presidential Palace with a tingle in her breasts. The night felt thick, steeped with not-yet-fallen rain. La Casa Rosada stood beneath it, with its indestructible walls, its scores of lamp-lit windows, its tall entrance guarded by bare-breasted nymphs whose carved faces flickered with hunger or amusement. Eva held her breath as she passed beneath them. Around her, fellow guests pressed forward in a clash of fine perfumes. The tingle sharpened; she tightened her hold on her husband’s arm.

  In the coat room, Eva removed her fox fur, unveiling her gown, red as the rubies hanging from her ears. A bold color to choose, but this was a night for boldness, her first social engagement since the birth of Salomé. Time to fit back into her slim, boned gown—but it was tight, terribly tight against her breasts, pushing up on swollen milk that should not be there. A proper lady would have run dry weeks ago. She turned to Roberto, who stood absentmindedly by her side, and smiled. “Shall we?”

  Roberto nodded. He looked tired. She studied the sag of skin beneath his eyes, the droop and crease of ambitious, unending work. Tonight, back at home, she should approach him with her arsenal of comforts. Rub his feet; recite poems (all poetry, for him, was soporific); change into that black negligée. The negligée, though, had failed the last few times. She wondered what she had done to slacken his interest. Borne a child. Grown too round. She’d expected that while pregnant, but now he still stayed away, working long nights and taking his dinners away from home, for work, he’d say, and she would say for work, yes, naturally. Eva reached up and straightened her husband’s bow tie. He smiled, a kind of crumpling at the edges of his eyes, and she missed the hulking softness of his body. They linked arms and walked to the ballroom.

  The great hall opened its vast and lavish arms. Everything glittered: gem-encrusted women, medal-encrusted military men, hors d’oeuvre trays, the polished cello weeping lustily. The ceiling dripped with chandeliers and with the echoes of two hundred murmurs. Nearby, a colleague of Roberto’s told an anecdote that held five listeners in sway. Roberto headed toward them, and Eva followed. Halfway there, her nipples prickled fiercely; she placed a hand on her waist to steady herself.

  “Roberto. I have to powder my nose. I’ll come back soon.”

  In the bathroom, crystal vases held their lilies twice: once on the marble and once in the mirror in which a woman struggled to pull her breasts out from the top of a strapless gown. Two streams shot from her body and spattered onto the mirror. A lady gazed back at her between streaks of white milk. Still a lady. Of course she was. Even if she had two breasts that stole suckles when the wet nurse wasn’t there. She had failed to surrender the animal pull of Salomé’s mouth, the feel of liquid pulsing from large body into small. Eva removed the cloth she had stuffed into the front of her dress to catch the errant leakings of her crime. She bound it around her chest like a bandage and pulled it tight. Tighter. She thought of her daughter in her cradle—or perhaps, right now, at María’s breast. The milky mess on the mirror dribbled down to the marble counter. She wiped it away. The t
oilet flushed the evidence into dark and unseen pipes. The air smelled of milk and sweat and lilies. She readjusted the front of her gown, checked her hair, and headed back to the party.

  The crowd had grown thicker. Starched tuxedos mingled with generals’ uniforms and gowns of every color: coral, lilac, emerald, cream. Murmurs; laughter; some kind of sonata on the strings. Roberto was speaking with another prominent scientist, a balding parrot of a man. She joined them and stood at her husband’s edge, smiling pleasantly, scanning for people to talk to. Champagne flutes approached on a silver tray. She curled her fingers around one, drank, and saw Lucio Bermiazani, the publisher, across the room. She had never met him but she knew his face—fleshy, with a sharp little smile—from Democracia’s literary section; last year, for the debut of Soledad Del Valle, he had been the star of those pages. His limelight had been magnified by the lack of photos of the poet herself, a woman steeped in mystery and journalistic speculation, a blind paisana writing verses in the wheat fields of the pampas, reclusive, plebeian, infamous, enchanting the literary elite without ever setting foot in the big city. And the poems. Quiet passion almost shaking off the page. Eva savored them, late at night, long after they had put her husband to sleep.

  Her husband was nodding now, while his interlocutor praised Perón’s Soviet policy. She murmured, “If you’ll excuse me,” and launched across the room.

  The way a soiree could open and she’d sway through—after all this time it still seemed like pure magic. She became acutely aware of her own body, its motion, the dark gleam of her hair, the perfume glowing softly from her body. Elegance was a sphere of power around her. Men stepped back to make way for her passing, women stood up straighter, eyes lingered, chins nodded or shook from side to side. She was so much more than a woman scrambling to wipe her milk from marble: she was noticed, she had weight, she had incisive things to say.

  Mr. Bermiazani was talking with General Penaloza. “Ah!” the general said. “Señora Santos! How are you tonight?”

  “Resplendently well, General.”

  “And resplendent you look,” the huge man replied, baring crooked teeth. “Lucio. Have you met Señora Santos?”

  “Why, no.” Lucio’s body stretched at his tuxedo.

  “Señora, this is Lucio Bermiazani. And this is Señora Eva Santos, wife of Dr. Roberto Santos. I am sure you’re aware of his work.”

  “Of course.” Lucio raised his eyebrows. “Your husband has done much for Argentina.”

  “Thank you.” Eva raised her Champagne flute. “As have you. Your collections are marvelous.”

  Lucio preened; she could almost see the peacock plumes fanning out behind him. “Ah. You read poetry?”

  “I adore poetry.”

  “Really? Why?”

  General Penaloza wandered off, having spied Juan Perón across the room.

  Eva swirled her Champagne in its glass; its edges frothed. “Why?” She felt the party, the night, the sea of jewels and gowns reduce to this instant, this spot, this beam of attention from a fleshy little man. “ ‘Why breathe? Why love? / Why seek the morning? / Poems are just wings that grow / In every human’s mind.’”

  The publisher rustled his lush, invisible feathers. “Soledad Del Valle.”

  “A true inspiration.”

  “Wait a moment. Eva Santos. I’ve seen your pieces in La Nueva Palabra.”

  “They’ve published a few.”

  “If I remember correctly, they are quite nice.”

  “You’re too kind.”

  “So you like women poets.”

  “Among others.”

  “There seem to be more and more of them these days.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Have you published a collection?”

  “No.” She smiled. “But I do have a home overflowing with poems! It makes for interesting housekeeping.”

  “Well, I hope that rather than let the broom get to them, you’ll send some to me.” He reached into his tuxedo jacket and pulled out a business card. “I would like to peruse your manuscript.”

  “Ay, Señor—thank you.”

  “Señora, it is my pleasure.” He bowed. “And now, my dear, excuse me.”

  Lucio waddled away, and she stood for a moment in the thrill of her victory. She longed to tell Roberto. She turned to make her way back toward him.

  She stopped after her third step. Evita stood in full view, glistening like a diamond in a lush satin gown. She was laughing at something someone had just said, mouth a wide red arc, hair a golden crown. She looked gaunt, yes—the rumors of illness must be true; but ill or not, she shone, here she was shining, jewel of the nation, saint, wife, mouthpiece of the people, glue binding the nation to Perón. The Bridge of Love, she was called, and surely the name was apt, surely crossings were made bearable by her presence. Now Evita stood alone against the backs of black tuxedos, surprisingly small, but while she stood, while her mouth arced, Eva could believe what she wanted to believe: that the promises were true; Perón an almost-God; the poor could have glamour, houses, fine brocade; the government loved its people without end; immigrant waitresses could keep their precious stones and publish books of poems. Don’t die, Eva thought to her. Don’t ever die. Evita turned her head and their eyes met and for a moment Eva shouted her whole soul into her gaze, but Evita just nodded vacuously, smiling the same smile that graced portraits across the nation, and then her eyes scanned on and it was over.

  Eva didn’t have the chance to tell Roberto her news until hours later, in their car. Outside, rain had finally released itself from the sky. It fell heavily. Eva reached for her husband’s hand. “Lucio Bermiazani wants to see my work. I think he’s going to publish me.”

  Roberto kissed her forehead. “All right.”

  It wasn’t the response she’d hoped for. Her husband was a good man. He had done so much for her. He had undone his life and rebuilt it in a new shape just to be with her. They both knew about this debt, too large to be repaid. She squeezed his hand and looked out the window at Buenos Aires cloaked in rain. Ornate doors swung open for well-dressed patrons seeking warmth. Young lovers huddled close under one umbrella, in an alley, laughing. Proud iron streetlamps cast hazy globes of light. She imagined her book in sumptuous detail: its spine, its creamy pages, the gala celebration that would mark its release. There would be Champagne, brilliant flowers, a flood of people. Perhaps even Soledad Del Valle would come. EVA SANTOS, the papers would read, THE POET WHO LURED DEL VALLE OUT OF HIDING. Buenos Aires would toast and shine and wrap its arms around her. Outside their car, the streets were changing, unfolding the large houses of La Recoleta. The downpour pummeled the metal roof above their heads.

  It rained for two days. Wetness surged, eased, pattered, surged again. It was surging hard, the third night, at one-fifteen in the morning, when Dr. Caribe arrived at their door. They were both surprised when María, the wet nurse, knocked at their bedroom door to say the bell had rung. They had just retired. Eva was kneeling on the floor, loosening the laces of her husband’s second shoe. She stared up at him in the dim light.

  “Expecting anyone?”

  “Of course not.”

  Shoes relaced, collars straightened, a married couple descended broad red stairs (what a fight that had been, for red carpet; Roberto had wanted a dull, unassailable beige, but Eva had held firm and won her red—Diablita Red, she called it to herself, like the chairs where she had first become a poet). Eva stood on the last stair and watched her husband cross the foyer.

  “Who is it?”

  “Antonio.”

  Roberto opened the door. Dr. Caribe stood beneath a black umbrella. He gripped the handle as though it were the only thing anchoring him to the ground.

  “Please, come in.”

  Dr. Caribe entered, snapping his umbrella closed. “I’m sorry for the intrusion.”

  “Nonsense. You’re always welcome. But is everything all right?”

  “No.”

  “Your wife … ?”

>   “She’s fine. The children are fine. I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t know where else to go.”

  Roberto took his friend’s coat and hat and handed them to Eva, who hung them on the coat stand. “Would you like a drink?”

  In the drawing room, Eva poured Cognac into three curved glasses and sat on the sofa beside her husband. Dr. Caribe faced them on the loveseat, hair damp, eyes glassy. She’d last seen him four months ago, at his sixtieth birthday. The toasts had been emotive and profuse and made Dr. Caribe blush over and over. Tonight his face was pale; he looked old, worn, haunted. A subtle ache crept into her breasts.

  “We missed you at La Casa Rosada the other night,” Roberto said.

  Dr. Caribe did not answer.

  Silence returned, enormous, awkward. On the coffee table between them, a vase of white roses stood, impassive. Eva looked at the wallpaper, with its greens and violets, its French peasants dancing under golden trees. Rain roared against the window.

  “Have you been reading the Democracia?” Dr. Caribe said.

  “Sometimes.”

  Dr. Caribe looked at Eva.

  “Yes.”

  “So you’ve seen this.” He pulled a clipping from his pocket. The picture showed a young man, slim-faced and grave, staring out from beneath a headline: EVIL PLOT AGAINST PERóN FOILED! POLICE ARREST TRAITOR IN SHOOTOUT. There was a photo of the traitor, a student who’d been conspiring with the U.S. Embassy to bring down Perón. Eva had read the story a few days ago, pulled in by the traitor’s name. Ernesto Bravo. She’d reread it to make sure it wasn’t the one she’d met, the medical student, but no, it was someone else.

  Roberto nodded. “I heard about it. The police arrested a young man for treason.”

  “That’s what it says. But it’s a lie.” Dr. Caribe stared into his drink. His mouth pursed as if shutting in a toxic word. He swirled his Cognac, once, twice.