Behold Things Beautiful

by Cora Siré

  And then to allay her fears, he’d added, “In your case, there’s a deterrent to repercussions, your citizenship.” He asked how long Alma planned to remain in Luscano. “I’ll need you to testify at some point.” Things would stagnate during the holidays but he expected his work to accelerate in the new year.

  Alma made no promises, stating firmly that her sabbatical would end soon, that she’d have to go back to teach in January. Later in the meeting, César had asked about her release. Alma disclosed the little she knew. “My mother claimed she called Patrón Pindalo.” César noted this down, glancing at his boss. “I can’t do much with second-hand information,” Lalo Martín had said. But it seemed crucial that the trail would lead outside the military into the tentacles of power.

  Sitting in the courtyard, Alma felt divided between two versions of herself. There was the exile stifling her past in that other life in Montréal, writing and teaching, defining herself as she wished. It was a predictable existence, structured yet disconnected. All she had to do was to release the pause button held since her return. But now there was this version, her decision to testify rooting her in Luscano, a reckoning she had to pursue until she’d dealt with all the truths that were in her power to uncover. In either case, she had to manage her fears, could not afford to regress into paranoia, jumping at every sound, hiding out in the house alone.

  Alma went to the kitchen and phoned the bookstore. Roma launched into a detailed retelling of the protest. Alma listened for a break. Patience plus the concession of privacy would be the cost of having her friend live here. She finally got to the point of her call.

  “I’ll get my stuff and come over tonight. By nine at the latest.”

  Alma had a rehearsal with Emilio in the evening. She promised to leave the key with a neighbour.

  “Do you have any food?”

  Alma opened the fridge, empty but for her staples of bread, yoghurt and fruit. “Not really.”

  “I’ll stop at the market on my way.”

  Alma hung up and dialled the embassy in Montevideo, which, since the Canadian budget cuts of the nineties, also covered for Luscano. A receptionist answered and put on her on hold. As she waited, Alma contemplated Flaco’s words yesterday, his recitation of Lorca’s “Absent Soul.” He’d been trying to warn her indirectly through the bullfight, its legacy of bloodshed. He could never tell her straight, “Bearing witness is a huge risk, beware.” It was a repeat of that afternoon in 1990 when they’d gathered around the table in the student lounge, Flaco, Alma and their friends, to plan the next issue of Voces acalladas. Flaco had argued that it had to denounce the junta. Opening a file of manuscripts, he’d decreed, “Your poem, Alma, and Armando, your essay.” What had they done to Armando? She’d seen his photo in César’s binder among the disappeared. Flaco had never stopped to consider the risks, had never spoken directly of the dangers. And he himself had not written any of the words that had cost them all so much. Had it been worth it? Armando’s essay, “These Darkest Nights,” had become their short-lived manifesto before the crackdown. In the end he’d died for nothing. She had to have it out with Flaco, could not allow herself to be intimidated by his eloquence and passion.

  A Canadian official came on the line. Alma booked a meeting for December, explaining that her mother had died and she required officially certified copies of the death certificate translated into English. And she asked that her presence in Luscano be noted, dictating her phone number and address.

  Then she went about preparing the house for Roma’s arrival. It seemed easier to empty her bedroom. She filled the suitcases on the floor, then ferried them into the room next door. Alma sat on her mother’s bed. It bounced a little too easily. She’d have to get over it, the queasiness of sleeping on the deathbed. Despite Xenia’s airing out, smells lingered — a sour milk odour of disinfectant, medication and residue of her mother’s night sweats — conjuring the memory of Hannelore’s face, her pallor of surrender, that dawn when Alma had returned from the beach. She’d never seen a dead body before, had never imagined her mother so deflated, her great spirit dissipated.

  Alma opened the wardrobe and packed up the clothes that Xenia had not taken with her. Silks and linens, the dresses of past celebrations, slid into a box where they lay intermingled, a collage of happier times. She emptied the drawers of stockings and scarves, panties and bras, feeling voyeuristic, almost trashy.

  In a bottom drawer, she unearthed a stack of files labelled with the names of Hannelore’s students. Inside, her mother’s notes on their progress, the texts covered, payments received. Near the bottom of the stack, one file stood out by its name. Alma opened it and read her mother’s telegraphic notations. “A mess, can’t concentrate, possibly anorexic.” Beneath another date of tutoring, “French voc. poor, comprehension vague. English slightly better. Assigned her a Storni poem to translate. Brought me her poems instead, said I should keep them. Heartbreaking, her mother’s murder, the poems all about death and she’s only 16.” In the same file, Alma found the poems written on looseleaf in a childish handwriting. A sonnet about an imaginary conversation with a horse, two poems on the sea and a third entitled “My Mother” describing the recurring visions of a female ghost. The poems were not all about death, that was Hannelore’s typical exaggeration, but they provided the pretext.

  Before leaving for the university, she found Hannelore’s address book and dialled. A long pause followed her request to speak to Celeste Pindalo. “No, Señora, vive en Miami.”

  “I have something of hers. Her father may want it.”

  The muchacha, her voice as young as a teenager’s, explained Patrón Pindalo was away on business, due back tomorrow. “Come by at five. He’s usually home by then.” A stroke of luck, the maid’s insouciance. She didn’t ask for Alma’s name.

  Emilio and the singer were already rehearsing when Alma arrived. She sat down at the piano and watched them. Susana was striking, a tall woman with black hair as long as Isabel’s, and dressed in layers of brightly woven fabrics. Her mezzo voice sounded like the sea, primordial and self-aware. Emilio put down his violin. “We better start. Susana has a gig tonight.”

  Alma ran though a quick scale, then she nodded. The violin began but Alma missed her opening and they started again. She got it right the third time and Susana’s voice joined the instruments. Melancholy as a fado singer’s, her voice suited the piece, balancing the frequencies of the piano and violin. Susana had a good ear and agility, quickly adapting the rhythm of the poem to the phrasing. Although Alma played as well as she could, she was clearly the weakest of the three. “Let me hear the two of you do the piece.”

  She listened, feeling an internal echo to the question, “Who are you?” posed in that needling voice. Some bars later, contemplating Roma’s generosity and love, her willingness to drop everything to help her, Alma heard the answer, “Soy yo.” I, the one who survived.

  “Testigo de tanques en la Plaza, ¿por qué nos has fallado?” Witness to tanks in the Plaza, why have you failed us?

  “En el humo de libros quemados tu silencio nos ha lastimado.” In the smoke of burning books your silence has wounded.

  Then a pause, tapped out on the piano by Emilio’s bow, during which Alma had a vision of herself. It wasn’t blurry or incomplete, like that of a victim. There was a wholeness to it that had her thinking she’d finish the book on Agustini. She’d finish speaking out. She’d confront Patrón Pindalo. Courage sourced from her father’s music.

  Emilio dropped her off in his car. Every room was lit in the house, usually the darkest and quietest on the block. Inside, the aroma of roasted tomatoes and peppers, cheese, onions and garlic filled the hallway. Roma greeted her in one of Xenia’s aprons and gave her a massive hug.

  Out in the courtyard, the long table had been dragged to the centre, rows of candles flickered among plates and cutlery. A group of women, sitting on chairs, was playing an assortmen
t of drums, guitars and an accordion. Alma helped carry a pot of sauce from the kitchen and they sat at the table, breaking the fresh bread, eating Roma’s pasta, drinking wine. Roma’s friends argued and lamented, they complimented the cooking, told anecdotes and described adventures. Some of them were artists, a few were shop owners and teachers, most of them were gay and none of them were strangers to suffering. That simply, the house was transformed, Alma’s habitual sparse evening meal usurped by a feast.

  After clearing the dishes, they sang, danced and played drums. Alma watched mostly, happy to witness Roma’s exuberance. Past midnight, when everyone else had left, she helped Roma wash the dishes. She hung the damp dishrags on Xenia’s clothesline by the back door and followed Roma into the courtyard for a last glass of wine.

  “Look how clear it is.” Roma traced the stars of the Southern Cross with the wine glass in her hand.

  Alma thanked her for coming. “It’s been a long time since this courtyard witnessed a party. Hannelore would so approve.”

  “My friends loved it!” Roma regarded her. “They’re gay, you know.”

  “Are they open?”

  “Most of them aren’t. The Church…still too powerful. Gay marriage is going to be a long time coming to Luscano. But Chichi, she sat next to you at the table, she’s a lawyer and active in the community.”

  Chichi had told Alma she’d learned about the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms at a conference, and was working on getting a similar charter passed here. Alma repeated this to Roma.

  “She’s got a big fight ahead of her.”

  “Everyone has the right not to be arbitrarily detained or imprisoned.”

  “Say that again, my English is rusty.”

  Alma repeated the line from section nine of the Charter which she’d learned in preparation for immigration proceedings. “That’s it, the whole section, one line.”

  Roma’s round glasses enlarged her dark eyes and lashes. “And they follow that rule to the letter?”

  “No.” Innocents resided in the prisons in Canada and they suffered unfairly. Injustice was not Luscano’s invention. “But it’s in the most important legal document in the country and that means something.”

  “All power to Chichi, then. Anything worthwhile requires a battle, doesn’t it? Either you survive by muddling through and accepting things as they are or you risk a fight and learn to cope with fear.”

  “How?” Alma remembered the beatings in the eighties when gangs of skinheads went after the few gay bars in Luscano. She and Roma were teenagers then, and didn’t have the money to go to bars much, but she’d still worried for her friend.

  “You work on yourself to stay grounded. You get up and greet the day as if it’s yours. ‘Hey, thanks for showing up, I’m going to make the most out of you.’ It sounds lame but that’s what my younger self used to think in ’91 on my way to work. Every so often, the owner of the bookstore gave us a list of books and told us to box them up. It was crazy, the titles they banned. One week the poets, then the Argentines, especially Sábato for his work on the truth commission, Chileans, Cubans and local writers. We were supposed to destroy the books but we stored them in the basement. A person would come in, ask for a banned book and I’d talk to them, get a sense of who they were. Then a decision. You look into the stranger’s eyes. ‘Will you betray me? Will I be tortured for selling you this book?’ At the same time you’re thinking ‘do I want to be an accomplice to insanity?’ So to hell with fear, you sell them the book they want. I guess if you’re born gay in Luscano, being a dissident comes naturally.”

  Alma leaned towards Roma and described her sessions with Lalo Martín, explaining that the envelope Roma had agreed to hide in the bookstore contained her testimony of La Cuarenta. And then she spoke of the need for secrecy and the dangers Roma might face living here with her.

  Roma did not flinch. “I’ll stay as long as you want me to. We just have to establish some ground rules. There’s one thing I wanna know. Did you think of asking Flaco to live here?”

  “Actually, no. He might have misconstrued.” And, Alma thought, I need to confront him and I can’t if he’s living with me.

  “He’d have come, I’m sure of it. I always thought you’d end up lovers. So did your mother. The way you both quote poetry when you’re stressed. He’s crazy about you.”

  Alma braced herself. “Gabriel’s been calling me. I’m going to an asado at his mother’s house next weekend.”

  “You’re kidding me.” Roma laughed. “Remember, I’ve been his confessor. I know his baggage and he’s another case of…never mind. You’ll figure it out. Neither of you are kids.” Then she laid out the rules. “I can’t pay much in the way of rent but I’ll cover the food and cook for you. Here’s the deal: a closed bedroom door means out of bounds. If we stay out late, we let each other know or leave a note. Secret handshake?”

  Roma spit on her right palm and held out her hand. Alma did the same. They shook and snapped their fingers, a high school ritual for sealing a promise. Then, before going to sleep, Roma double-checked the locks on the windows and doors.

  21

  It descended over the Bay of Luscano like a predator with a giant blade attacking the coastline. Patrón Pindalo breathed through his nausea as the helicopter dropped vertically onto the concrete pad. He stepped out first and ran towards the clubhouse, straining to lope with the same lightweight steps he imagined Javier Martinez taking behind him. Couldn’t lumber like an old man with his youthful protégé gliding in his wake, not with the Saturday lunch crowd in the Barrio Norte Yacht Club watching from the windows.

  A waiter accompanied him to his table in the alcove. Javier slid onto the banquette across from him and set his briefcase on the floor by his feet. The lawyer made a good impression, young and fit in his gabardine grey. Patrón Pindalo could feel the eyes of the diners boring into his back, imagining the whispered innuendo that, in less than six months, he’d already replaced his own son.

  Patrón Pindalo ordered a salad and sparkling water. Javier hesitated for a split second, probably wanting a steak or something substantial. But he ordered the same. Good call. The lunch, a debriefing on the morning’s meeting in Uruguay, would not be happy.

  “What was learned today, Javier?”

  “Looks like they might put up a fight.”

  “We knew that was coming. What did you learn today?”

  Javier loosened his tie, then thought the better of it, and tightened the knot. “Patrón, I’ve spoken to those guys in the commission. They assured me — ”

  “During one phone call, maybe two? You should’ve met with them personally before dragging me to Punta del Este to be embarrassed by our lack of preparation. Jorge Centavo had no inkling, assumed we’re opening a line of casinos here, in Uruguay, Brazil, God knows where. I wasted my time undoing his misconceptions and laying the groundwork you should have handled weeks ago.”

  “It’s not my fault their internal communications are — ”

  “Had you actually gone there, you’d have seen what you’re up against, entered their heads. My friend Jorge fears competition. But he’s too full of himself to admit that a boutique hotel in this provincial outpost could pose a threat. Our one casino, small compared to his, emphasis on the hotel and golf club, that’s what you capitalize on, Javier.”

  The waiter brought the bottle of sparkling water and a plate of lime slices. Patrón Pindalo made sure to continue berating the lawyer in front of the waiter. The flush in the young man’s neck, his hands rubbing his pant legs, the anger was there under the surface when he ordered a Campari and soda.

  Patrón Pindalo rose to make the rounds of tables, letting Javier seethe on his own. He shook hands and doled out abrazos, greeting the bridge crowd, the polo set, his tennis partners and the retirees. The Galtí widow placed her talons on the sleeve of his blazer. “How are you these days?” The ner
ve she had, after all he’d done to cover up her husband’s suicide. He couldn’t take the pity in her eyes.

  Javier was tearing a slice of bread into pieces, his scarlet cocktail half empty. The salads were served and Patrón Pindalo, still queasy from the helicopter ride, half-heartedly speared a wedge of tomato.

  “What about the environmentalists?” Javier asked. “The demonstration the other day — ”

  “Who was behind that?”

  “A bunch of students, as far as I could tell from the news reports.”

  “So you weren’t there.”

  “I was in my office working, Patrón.”

  “I heard it was a large crowd, not just a bunch, but hundreds of hooligans. These so-called green activists? You were probably in Yale at the time, but they took on a construction project a few years ago. I sold some land up the coast to a developer who planned to build some low-rise condos. When the activists got wind of it, they installed themselves in tents on the beach, tried to prevent the construction. After a week or two of media coverage, their numbers dwindled. When the builders arrived with bulldozers, a couple of activists tried to stop them. They were arrested, kept in prison a few days, enough to scare them off.”

  “So we wait them out. Postpone the prison’s demolition.”

  “Why should we? Here’s the thing, Javier. The protest last week was large. Luscano hasn’t seen dissent on that scale in a long time. Even though the military bungled things, one of the junta’s accomplishments was to remove the population’s taste for protest. But I’m worried things have swung back.”