“Key?” Liliana repeated.
“You are the key,” the old woman said before turning to Diego and winking at him, “to his heart.”
Liliana could feel the heat flushing against her cheeks and her wariness suddenly lifting as she anticipated a routine telling filled with riches and lifelong happiness.
“You are on a journey for truth,” she continued. “But there is a man…”
“A man?” Diego interrupted.
“This man himself can do you no harm but he controls other people who can.”
“Who?”
“He is close.”
The woman closed her eyes and they stayed closed for what seemed like an eternity as Liliana and Diego searched the wild motion behind her translucent lids. Liliana’s hand fell limp against the table but still the woman’s eyes remained closed. Diego stood, helping Liliana out of her chair before moving to meet Nita at the small cash register near the front of the store. Finally the old woman opened her eyes again and then she disappeared behind the dark curtain she had emerged from earlier.
When she returned, a faint smile on her lips as she carried two small pieces of rope, she took Nita by the wrist and clasped a small bracelet around it. Nita smiled and thanked the old woman as she admired the tiny silver charm pressed against her palm. Then the old woman took Liliana’s hand, stringing it with a matching bracelet as her sisters. She held the small glinting object up to her face and saw that dangling there was a tiny silver wolf.
Once they were back outside Nita looped her arm through Liliana’s, pulling her in the direction of the rest of the shops. The rest of the day, Nita dragged them all over the barrio, into every crowded doorway and through every open shop until she could barely keep her eyes open anymore. The sun was starting to go down, the moon already pale and blinking above the cityscape as Diego carried Nita back to the truck and drove her and Liliana home—both of them asleep by the time they reached the city limits. But it was the familiar drone of the engine as it whirred to a stop, the sound of returning home, that woke her once again.
The wolf’s metal outline had been pressed between Liliana’s palm and Diego’s arm and when she opened her eyes there was a small blush imprint in her skin. Nita was leaning against the window—the small charm dangling from her bracelet glittering in the moonlight and Liliana bent closer, taking her by the hand. She was just waking her up when light glinted across the surface of the silver and she noticed that the tiny charm was the small and delicate carving of a lamb.
Chapter 26
Diego
Diego could feel the thick paint already drying into the deep creases along his palm and he raked them across his pant legs, smearing them white. The sun was just an hour into its ascent and Diego was balancing a narrow ladder against the vined trellis that climbed the face of the house. He had already painted the far south wall, trying to finish the areas of the house that lacked natural shade before the sun was too high and the humid air blowing off the sea was too thick to inhale.
The metal creaked beneath his weight as he hoisted himself up onto the roof, the sunlight reflecting off of Liliana’s bedroom window warming his skin. He leaned against it, letting his back absorb the cool night still lingering within the glass, and closed his eyes, listening for any sign that she was awake. But the shutters were too dense and the rising cacophony of morning too alive to hear anything. He peered inside but all he could see were the curtains pulled tight, not one prick of light or swell of a shadow shaped like the long wisp of a girl.
The arch of his knuckle was suddenly poised over the glass, the thick layer of paint almost muting the sound. But as he was about to knock again, the curtains drew back and Liliana’s face, still red and swollen with sleep, appeared behind the glass. Diego felt the knot in his stomach unravel as she pushed open the window, the wind stringing through her wild ringlets and carrying the minty rosewood smell of her hair to his lungs.
“What are you doing up here?”
Her fingers worked to rub the sleep from her eyes as her yawn settled into a shallow smile.
“You’re late for work,” he said, holding up his hands, white palms facing her.
“You started painting already?”
I wanted to get the south wall before it got too hot outside.”
Liliana slipped into a narrow doorway, blocking her from view and Diego could hear the soft rustling of her changing clothes.
“How does it look?” she called out, reappearing in a pair of denim cut offs, her hair, twisted into a pony tail, hanging lush down her back.
Diego reached for her hand and she crawled over the window seat, her bare feet moving slowly along the rough shingles as she followed him to the ladder. Paint littered the path with thick pale drops and she followed them to the side of the house that faced the road.
When she rounded the corner, a hand shot to her eyes, dulling the harsh glare of the sun on the stark new coat. She blinked, eyes adjusting as she moved closer and examined every stud and every board.
“I can see it,” she breathed.
Diego stepped towards her.
“See what?”
“The house. The way it should be.”
She smiled, her arm grazing his as one of her fingers hovered over the wet paint. She pressed down, absorbing some of the liquid and then she touched the tip of Diego’s nose. He jolted, not from the slick trail running down his skin, or even the harsh chemical smell of it, but at her touch so light and yet so deliberate. She stared at him, waiting for him to react, but instead he ran his thumb across the wall and then trailed the cold paint down her neck and across her bare shoulder.
The skin he had touched began to flux crimson and she took her bottom lip between her teeth. She drew in a breath and Diego waited for her to speak but instead she pushed passed him and grabbed the roller, running the thick pad across his back before he could turn around. His lip began to curl but he shook himself free, narrowing his eyes before sprinting for the paint can behind her. He grabbed hold of the brush, the feathered teeth dripping white and he flicked his wrist, flinging a stream across Liliana’s thighs. She let out a sharp breath, laughing, and hit him in the shoulder with the roller, stamping him with a thick white glob.
Then they were both covered in the white mess, fingers and legs tangled as Diego pinned Liliana against the wall, the paint brushes abandoned in the grass by their feet. Diego could feel it cold and dripping down his scalp. He watched as a few stray drops landed against Liliana’s collarbone and he followed it, letting his finger linger over the soft hollow flesh. Her spine suddenly arched against the wood, her chest rising toward him and he pressed his hand into the small of her back.
His body pulled him forward but his lips just held there, still, over the warm breath rising from her mouth. There was a rusting exhale as the screen door swung open, followed by Nita’s voice as she called inside to Ana. Liliana hooked her finger in one of Diego’s belt loops and held a finger over her lips. Then she led him around the back of the house where they waited for Nita’s back to be turned before running for the vineyard.
They slipped into one of the dense rows where the bushels slumped to the ground, raking up the earth when the wind caught hold of their tendrils. Diego wanted to stop, for the mouth of the labyrinth to snap shut, bringing Liliana to a halt against his chest so he could fit his hands around her waist, letting them fall, slowly, to the soft skin just below her hips. He wanted to feel her mouth, to taste every sloping curve and smooth indention, every inch of him melting until he was weightless enough to inhale, for her to consume completely. That’s what he wanted more than anything but as she led him down the row, to where the hard terrain gave way to the soft flesh of the beach he didn’t stop her. Instead, as she made that first leap into the tide, he let go of her hand, he let go of her and watched as the ocean stripped her clean.
Chapter 27
Liliana
Liliana climbed out of the water, eyes and nose burning—her skin and the bac
k of her throat feeling raw as she scrubbed the paint from her arms and legs, peeling it from her face and combing it out of her hair. As she waded there, foam lapping against her chest, she watched Diego as he climbed back up toward the house, stopping at the edge of the vineyard where he crouched, waiting for her.
Half an hour later she was clean, her skin burned a pale rose color from the salt water and she was sitting on the porch steps. She rolled up the back of her shirt, just an inch and let the heat from the warm cement steps radiate through her. Diego finally met her outside just as the sun was creeping passed noon. He was wearing a fresh pair of clothes, the paint nearly stripped completely from his thick raven hair, save for a few strands behind his ear.
He sat on the step below her, his shoulder resting against her knee, his eyes on the horizon. An hour earlier they were in a tangle behind the house, her back was pressed to the freshly painted wall, and their lips just inches apart. Now they were barely touching, Liliana’s hands ringing the hem of her shirt, impatient and angry with herself for having hesitated. Now the moment was gone and it had been replaced by a grating confusion that made it hard for her to speak.
“I don’t like the water,” Diego said.
Liliana’s lips parted, a soft whistle escaping where the words should have been.
“It’s not that I can’t swim or that I’m afraid.” He paused. “During the war, the military…one of the ways they used to kill people was that they would drop them over the ocean—send them falling out of a plane at 3,000 feet. I used to see them, flying over the vineyard, carrying people out into the bay.”
“Here?” Liliana’s voice caught, passing through her lips in a stilted ripple.
Diego nodded.
“You saw them?”
Liliana looked out over the ocean, her skin recoiling at the dampness of her clothes—sand and salt still lingering in them. Her eyes clamped shut.
“I didn’t want to tell you,” he said. “I…”
But his words trailed off, though Liliana could see that his lips were still moving. She couldn’t hear his voice as it buzzed just below her chin, or the loud hum of the cicadas, or the wind tumbling in with the tide. The water was black now, the sun rippling off of it in deep plum shards and it crawled over the sand as dense and dark as a shadow, as dark as the night itself.
Chapter 28
Diego
Something loud rattled against Diego’s window and he glanced up to see his father peering through the glass. For a second he was startled by his father’s shadow, his dark contours bleeding with the night. He never got up that early, content to let the sun win that race every time. But when Diego met him outside he was unloading sand bags from the truck and carrying them to the edge of the beach.
A storm was coming and they had to block the tide from rolling into the vineyard. All that salt water would kill the vines and they’d have to strip them and start all over. Diego pulled on his work boots, glancing back at the house, at the porch he and Liliana had just finished painting the afternoon before, second coat still setting, and began unloading the bags.
When the wall was high enough they packed the gaps with moist sand and reinforced the edges with large stones, finishing their makeshift wall just as the wind was starting to pick up. It ushered them back inside, a cold beast trembling against the windows and clawing its way in beneath the doorframe. Diego’s father put on a pot of coffee, the low warble lost beneath the growing storm, and they each downed a cup. There was no way either of them would be going back to sleep.
Diego poured himself another cup, lingering by the sink as he tried to avoid the silence. But, surprisingly, it proved to be too much for Andrés and he finally spoke.
“So you been out with that girl?” he said, gesturing to the house.
Diego nodded, his legs stiff as he made his way to the kitchen table. “I took her and her sister to the city. We went to Palermo Viejo.” Diego took another drink of his coffee. “I took her to Louis’ and she met Marcos.”
Diego’s father leaned back in his chair and stared out the window at the dark clouds rolling in over the ocean.
“We found Adrian.”
“And Trini?” Diego’s father said, fingers tight around his steaming mug.
Diego shook his head.
“During the war?” Andrés asked.
“Yes.”
Andrés nodded and took another drink of his coffee.
“During the war,” Diego started, “did you ever hear of any tunnels?”
“Tunnels…”
“Adrian, he was telling us that some people used them to escape. They were supposedly right outside the city and run by the Gypsies.”
“Gypsy tunnels,” Diego’s father began to mumble to himself. “I heard about them.”
“You did?”
“Always sounded like some kind of trap to me. But after a while, the way word of them travelled through the Gypsies—it was just like the myths I used to tell you when you were a boy. But from what I heard it took months to dig them out. Especially since they probably had to work at night, in complete darkness. Must have been a long son of a bitch too to take people from the outskirts of the city all the way into Uruguay.”
“How was that even possible?”
“Who knows. But apparently it was a pretty complicated system with different routes and moveable clay walls.”
“What do you mean different routes?”
“It was their only defense, I guess. People said the Gypsies used their black magic and that’s how no one knew how to get in or out but them. But really they built different routes and separate tunnels to use as traps for soldiers posing as civilians.”
“Like they were rigged?”
“The only way in or out was with a Gypsy. They were the only ones who knew the way. They used music to communicate in the tunnels so if the way out was to the right, they would take the soldiers to the left, where a firing squad would be waiting.”
“But if the walls were always moving how did they know where they were going?”
“The music. They used the guitar as a compass. A tocaor would be waiting at the end of the tunnel and the sound traveled through to the other side.”
“So they just followed the sound? Then anyone could find their way out.”
“Not the sound. The notes, the melody. The position of the hand on the frets. Each song had a hidden message and the Gypsies would just interpret it.”
“That sounds impossible. They had to have already known the way.”
“No one could know the way out beforehand. It was too big of a risk.”
“Why were the Gypsies of all people helping them to escape? Don’t they usually tend to keep to themselves? I mean, usually it’s the Gypsies that are always in the streets begging or peddling for money.”
Diego’s father snapped at him, “Gypsies do not beg, boy. Are you a beggar?”
Diego shook his head, startled by the orgullo trembling in his father’s voice—pride for a culture he thought he’d abandoned.
“I just mean Gypsies have always been persecuted for the way we look; the way we live and make a living. How could they just forget all of that and risk their lives to help the people who once shunned them?”
“They didn’t forget, and maybe that’s why they helped them.”
Diego’s father stood and poured himself another cup of coffee. Rain was beginning to fall in a torrent—large drops hammering the soft soil and sending it up, swirling in pale bursts. It battered the thin metal roof, like dinging drops of silver and Diego’s father raised his voice to be heard over the noise.
“Most of the people who disappeared or were imprisoned were targeted because they were different. They weren’t Catholic, or they weren’t anti-Peronist, or they had friends who weren’t, or they bought their milk on the wrong side of town. If anyone understands what it’s like to be persecuted just for being different, it’s the Gypsies.”
“Were people really able to escape that way?�
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“I don’t know. Before…” He paused, thumb trembling in the steam rising from his cup. “Before the Gypsies sold it to the junta in exchange for their own freedom…maybe.”
“What do you mean they sold it to the junta?”
“When the military caught wind that the Gypsies were helping people leave the country, they made them enemy number one and told them in exchange for their maps of the tunnels, they would let them live.”
“And they believed them?”
“What choice did they have?”
Diego dropped his cup in the sink and watched the brown liquid splash against the sides.
“They had a choice,” he said between clenched teeth.
“They did it for their families, Diego. When you have a family, you’ll under…”
But the last syllable was cut by the crack of Diego’s door as it slammed shut. And as he buried his face in the mattress, the storm outside painting everything black, he wasn’t thinking of the pretexts, of how the Gypsies could justify that their lives were more important than someone, anyone else’s, but he was thinking of the consequences, of the people, terrified as they crawled toward freedom, each step only taking them closer and closer to the very thing they were running from.
Chapter 29
Diego
The roots of the Ombu tree sprawled out like giant hands over the terrain—growing in knots and spiraling around one another until they were as wide as the trunk itself. The entire thing looked like it had been wrung out, the bark rippling and twisting as if it had once been made of flesh. It tore from the ground on webbed feet, jutting into the horizon like the sloping back of a dancer, and the thick branches hung low, leaves trailing the ground as if the wind was spelling its name.
Diego watched as Liliana disappeared within the branches, catching glints of her as she slid between the leaves—their velvet skins fluttering against her own.
The Things They Didn't Bury Page 14