Purgatory

by Tomás Eloy Martínez

  Emilia is surprised. ‘On the news? It can’t have been me.’

  ‘It was you,’ Simón insists. ‘It was during one of the World Cup matches, the first or the last. Your father was seated on the main stand behind the comandantes, who kept turning round to talk to him. You were on the grandstand opposite yawning. You were wearing a blue-and-white scarf and a white wool cap. You were yawning and laughing.’

  ‘It was me? How embarrassing.’

  ‘It was you.’

  ‘No, during those months I had stopped being me. I started to lose myself when you left. Or, what is worse, I became someone I didn’t want to be. It’s too late, Simón. I’m sixty years old. You’ve already given me more than I deserve, you have made me happy. You can go now, you can save yourself. I’m not worth anything. I don’t even matter to me.’

  ‘That’s not true. If it were true, I wouldn’t have come back. You started to lose yourself, as you rightly say: that’s a different matter. You lost a part of yourself. With what remains, you can start again. Don’t undervalue yourself. I love you.’

  ‘I love you too, I love you so much, so much. I don’t know what to do with myself.’

  ‘What to do? The life you’re living has diminished you. I’ve seen the pile of useless coupons you collect to buy things you’ll never eat: money-off vouchers for pickles, Campbell’s soup, chocolate puddings. And the bingo cards. And the false nails. And the friends you’ve chosen. Instead of being your mirror, they are your humiliation. What have you done with your life, Emilia?’

  ‘Nothing, that’s the worst of it. I’ve done nothing with it. It is my life that has done everything to me.’

  Some weeks after the visit to Dr Schroeder, no trace of the mother’s tumour remained. The doctors who had recommended surgery performed two further sigmoidoscopies and incredulously admitted that the tissue now appeared to be healthy. In all other ways, she had got worse. She still did not recognise anyone, she confused the past and the present, her memories were muddled and she was doubly incontinent. Emilia had to go back to her job at the Automobile Club and could not continue caring for her. At the nursing home, she had met two excellent nurses, who were fond of her mother and agreed to care for her in alternating shifts. But Dr Dupuy had had enough. He considered that he had done more than was necessary to respect his wife’s unshakeable will to live and that it was now time to shut her away in a home to be cared for by professionals. Had Ethel decided to be immortal, there she would be able to enjoy a perfect eternity, with no memory, no world. She greeted all displays of affection with the same indifference. When Chela kissed her forehead her expression was exactly the same as when the Eel’s wife stroked her hands. She greeted everything with a beatific, meaningless smile. What difference did it make, then, whether she was cared for by her daughters or by nurses who were strangers to her? The nurses, at least, would clean her up more promptly. Chela insisted that a nursing home was the best place for her. Her friends knew nursing homes where patients were like guests in five-star hotels. Emilia, on the other hand, had heard horror stories about such places: old people left to God’s tender mercies, ill-fed, their sheets and mattresses never washed or aired, human beings tossed onto the scrapheap and left to die. ‘You’re both exaggerating,’ Dr Dupuy insisted. ‘I will make sure that Ethel is in the best facility in Buenos Aires. Chelita is getting married soon and what are we supposed to do with her on the wedding day, how do we protect her from the commotion, the telephone, the guests? I always know what’s for the best,’ said Dupuy. It was a phrase Chela loved to repeat: ‘You know me – whatever Papá decides is for the best.’

  In a country that had been many years divided, Dupuy had long since learned to predict the winning side and distance himself in time from those about to lose. When he confined his wife in the institution in Parque Chacabuco he was proud that he had never yet been mistaken. He had succeeded in persuading Marcelito Echarri to propose to his daughter Chela (he could hardly claim the boy was in love) and agree to marry her. Even her father could not deceive Chela. She was impulsive, thoughtless and at the least effort declared herself exhausted. Marcelito, on the other hand, had graduated from Wharton with honours and had the makings of a first-class son-in-law. He had worked as a financial adviser in Miami but wanted to move back to Buenos Aires. When Dupuy discovered this, he immediately hired him to write a financial column for La República. In his first article, Echarri advised state-run companies to take advantage of easy foreign lines of credit which offered advantageous rates of interest. Now was the time to take a gamble, was his advice. And he was right. The companies secured loans at no risk to themselves since the Central Bank acted as guarantor. They made fortunes and gave Dupuy unlimited access to the private jets and the villas in Europe. ‘The respect I enjoy now is fully deserved,’ Dupuy told Echarri. ‘After so many years without one false step, people finally respect and fear me.’

  There was only one mistake for which he reproached himself, but he never spoke of it to anyone. It had happened when, against his better judgement, he had allowed his eldest daughter to marry an insignificant cartographer whose background seemed so disreputable that he did not even bother to have it checked out. This was a serious mistake. The young man had been a student leader in the geography department, a member of the youth wing of the Montoneros and a left-wing idealist so arrogant he had dared to expound on his ideas at family gatherings. Out of force of habit, he initiated an investigation, but the files with the relevant information arrived too late, after the wedding Mass, when it was no longer possible for man to put asunder what God had joined together.

  All his life, Dupuy had remained true to his Christian principles and he was convinced that this was why God was showering him with blessings. He expected surprises from Emilia, from his lunatic wife, but not from Chela. And yet it was she who put his faith to the test.

  A few months before the date set for the wedding, she began waking up with dark circles under her eyes, she would wander around the house not bothering to get dressed until late in the afternoon, lock herself in the bathroom for hours at a time, she did not even bother to answer the telephone, which rang at all hours of the day and night. The telephone had been her passion, there was nothing she enjoyed more than talking to her girlfriends about the details of her trousseau, about what to wear on the beach, how many pairs of sandals to take, whether Bahía or Ipanema was the more romantic place for a honeymoon. The wedding day was drawing near and still Chela sat staring at the television, watching soap operas all afternoon, as though she had decided to retreat from the world. There was little difference between her and a nun. She only got to her feet when Marcelo Echarri arrived, as he did punctually every day after work at La República. She would shut herself away with him in her room, which smelled of damp and dirty laundry, and they would talk and talk for hours. Emilia was intrigued to know what kept them so occupied and finally resolved to ask her sister with whom she had not exchanged a word for several months.

  ‘I don’t know what sort of reaction you’re waiting for,’ she said. ‘Whatever is going on can’t be so serious that you have to lie around in bed all day as though you were dying. If you’re not in love with Marcelo any more, that’s easily fixed. Postpone the wedding, or cancel it. A mistake like this is something you’ll end up paying for your whole life. He’s strong, he’s intelligent, he’ll get over it—’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Chela interrupted her. ‘It’s serious, it’s really serious. I can’t get married. I’d be a laughing stock. I’m pregnant. If you look hard, I’m already showing. I’ve been wearing loose dresses – luckily, the peasant style is in fashion right now, ruffles and flounces and overskirts, but this fucking bump just keeps growing.’ She sobbed inconsolably. ‘Who’s the father?’ Emilia asked, alarmed. ‘Who do you think it is?’ Chela shouted. ‘It’s Marcelo. What do you take me for, a whore?’ ‘So, what’s the problem then? He doesn’t want to marry you any more? He doesn’t want the baby, doesn’t
want you?’ ‘No, no, God, it’s so difficult trying to explain things to you. It’s hard to believe we’re sisters. I’m the one who doesn’t want the baby. I want to have an abortion before it’s too late. My last period was three months ago. I can’t get married like this, I don’t want four hundred people watching me walk down the aisle with a big belly. Can you imagine the gossip, the whispering? Just like you a minute ago, people will wonder whether Marcelo is the father, whether Papá is forcing him to marry me. Can you see me walking down the aisle in a white dress seven months pregnant? It would be in all the magazines, I’d look like a fool.’ ‘No one will dare publish a thing,’ said Emilia. ‘Papá will quash any rumours. You need to get a grip. Children are not something to be hidden or aborted. You need to tell Papá before your gynaecologist does.’

  That night, Emilia talked to her father. She began by minimising the problem. She told him it was their duty as a family to support Chela. ‘Marcelo?’ Dupuy sounded surprised. ‘I can’t believe he betrayed me.’ ‘What he did is only natural, Papá, it’s not a betrayal. Mamá was ill and we left Chelita on her own all the time. One thing led to another.’ ‘What are they going to do now?’ ‘Chela wants to have an abortion to avoid the shame, but I’ve already managed to get that idea out of her head.’ ‘How could she even think of such a thing? Abortion is a mortal sin, it’s worse than murder, and I won’t have hell coming into this house.’ ‘What if we brought the wedding forward?’ Emilia suggested. ‘I don’t know,’ her father replied. ‘The monsignor wants to perform the ceremony himself. The date has already been set, and who knows what other commitments he has. How far along is the little fool?’ ‘Not far, but the wedding needs to take place as soon as possible.’

  ‘I’ll ask for an audience with the monsignor, though as you know he’s terribly busy with good works – things no one but a saint would do. Every day, he visits the prisons, takes confession, comforts the prisoners, gives them the last rites. But I’m sure he’ll make time for me. You will both come with me. Chela needs to take responsibility for her actions, and I don’t want you leaving her on her own.’

  The monsignor received them in the palace which the government had recently put at his disposal. The armchairs in the great hall where they were asked to wait were large and upholstered in maroon velvet. Young priests and seminarians in soutanes came and went carrying heavy files. The monsignor was wearing a business suit. When they entered, he extended his hand bearing the Episcopal ring. Emilia and Chela bowed and kissed it.

  ‘What a pleasure to have you all here, what a privilege,’ the monsignor sighed. Emilia, who had not seen him since the dinner with the Eel, noticed he had grown fatter and balder. His bald head glittered.

  A seminarian came over and whispered something in his ear.

  ‘Tell them I’m busy. They may wait for me if they wish. They must wait their turn like everyone else. Put the files on my desk under the others.’

  ‘May we speak in private, Monsignor?’ Dupuy asked. ‘We have come on a rather confidential matter.’

  ‘Very well, come with me into the library. If it is confidential, then I shall treat the matter as though administering the Sacrament.’

  He led them into a room filled with scrolls and handsomely bound books. A spiral staircase carved from a single block of wood rose to the gallery above. He put his embroidered stole about his shoulders, kissed it. ‘Reconciliatio et Paenitentia,’ he intoned. ‘I trust you have truly searched you consciences.’ Dr Dupuy interrupted him: ‘We won’t take up much of your time, Monsignor. We need to bring forward the date of Chela’s wedding. You offered to perform the ceremony. We were hoping you might give us a date that suited you.’

  ‘What has happened, my child?’

  Chela started to cry. ‘Why is this happening to me, Monsignor? You can’t imagine how much I was looking forward to getting married.’ After her fashion, she told him what had happened. Her tale was interrupted with sobbing, and it was difficult to understand what she was saying. Emilia took her sister’s hands in her own and finished explaining.

  ‘What does Marcelo think?’ asked the monsignor.

  ‘He wants to get married as soon as possible,’ said Dupuy.

  ‘In that case, I can’t see the problem.’

  Chela again started to talk about the shame she would feel appearing before her guests, the rumours that would hound her and her unborn child for the rest of their lives.

  ‘Have you repented of your sins?’ the monsignor wanted to know.

  ‘Of course I have. I confessed and I said ten rosaries as a penance.’

  ‘Well, my child, there’s no need to make so much out of such a little thing. I know some nuns who will make you a wedding dress finer than anything in Paris. I’ve seen them. They can hide a pregnancy, however advanced it is, and what’s more they use the latest fashions. Dry your tears, now, and don’t worry your head about it. Your papá and I will set a date.’

  He commanded Chela to kneel and gave her his benediction. Ego te absolvo in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.

  ‘Amen,’ father and daughters replied as one. Dupuy made to get to his feet, but the monsignor stopped him. He wanted to ask him what the comandantes thought of his work in the military prisons.

  ‘They think it is invaluable, Monsignor.’

  ‘Perhaps, but this is merely the tip of the iceberg,’ said the monsignor. ‘I need reinforcements. From morning to night, I listen to extremists and to their families, I tell them to make a clean breast of things, to confess everything they know. In doing so, I do no harm to anyone, quite the reverse.’

  There was a knock at the door and a seminarian popped his head round. The monsignor, clearly irritated, waved his hand. It was enough. The terrified messenger fled. ‘Don’t they understand orders? Can’t they leave me in peace?’ He gestured to a pile of abandoned files next to the spiral staircase. ‘The priests here are mere novices, they do not know how to offer succour to so much human misery. Now, if you’ll forgive me, Doctor. You can rely on me to marry that silly girl Chelita as soon as you wish, in the Basílica de Santísimo, the Iglesia del Pilar, El Socorro, in the cathedral, wherever you choose. It can wait another two or three weeks, don’t you think? Might I suggest the newly-weds spend as little time as possible at the reception to avoid any prying eyes. They can simply greet the comandantes and leave. The comandantes will be attending, will they not?’

  ‘I shall be inviting them, obviously.’

  ‘Ah . . . well, when you do speak to them, don’t forget to tell them that you’ve seen how overworked I am.’

  Chela and Marcelo Echarri were married with all pageant that the bride had ever dreamed of. The security cordons operated without a hitch, Emilia did not leave her sister’s side for a moment; stood in front of her whenever she noticed someone staring a little too insistently. Dupuy, for his part, banned magazines – even those loyal to him – from taking photographs. No one gave a thought to Señora Ethel’s absence; there was a rumour that she was suffering from terminal cancer and had been sent to a clinic in Switzerland where the family visited her every month.

  The honeymoon lasted three months. Chela had an uncomplicated labour in a clinic in Uruguay (a boy, eight pounds, eleven ounces). When she got back, she was bored to tears changing nappies and watching soap operas while Marcelo went to La República first thing and came back shattered when it was dark. Marriage was exactly what she had expected it to be: a routine from which there were no distractions and no reprieve, which snuffed out any spark of love before it appeared. As the months passed, her husband wrote less and less for the paper, allowing himself to be caught up in the new businesses now thriving in Argentina fuelled by cheap credit and a weak dollar. He began importing things as useless as they were baffling, selling them on calle Lavalle where people mindlessly lined up to buy them. His father-in-law was his guide. It was Dupuy who advised him, long before the announcement, that the government was going to abolish import duties to force Arge
ntinian companies to learn to compete. Excitedly Marcelo started buying up watches from Hong Kong, screwdrivers from Malaysia, shirts from Taiwan, coats in fake fur and astrakhan from France. However outrageous the merchandise he imported, shopkeepers ripped them out of his hands, paying him in hard cash, determined to satisfy the greed of their insatiable customers. Though the son-in-law barely slept, he made sure not to forsake Dupuy. Every day he spent an hour in the offices of La República, dictating to various copyists optimistic predictions about the state of the economy which he insisted was now safe from speculators and prophets of doom. Industries were collapsing but nobody cared about their downfall. The secret of wealth consisted of leaving money with companies in the financial sector and waiting for it to multiply by itself, which is what Marcelito did, though this was something he did not mention in his articles, which recommended restraint and prudence and endlessly repeated the fable of the ant and the grasshopper, while he took the fortunes he was earning and invested them with the banks recommended by his father-in-law: those which paid 12 or 13 per cent interest monthly, sailing full steam ahead, secure in the knowledge they were protected by the state.

  Chela found it difficult to accept this transformation in her husband. She too had changed. She was fat, she permanently carried around a box of chocolates and she would go for days without taking a bath, putting on make-up or even looking at herself in the mirror. She was still breastfeeding and her huge breasts spilled out of her nightdress. She was three years younger than Emilia but now she looked older; she even began to get grey hairs which she forgot to dye. At the height of her bitterness, she told Emilia that she spent nights lying awake, waiting for her husband, the baby in her arms, while he sat up, yoked to the calculator, the telephone and the teletype machines.