The Blue Line

by Ingrid Betancourt

  During her second visit, Julia informed her mother that the procedures for leaving Argentina urgently needed to be completed. Her asylum application had to be accepted before the baby was six months old. According to Julia’s calculations, the baby would be born in January. She would have to leave by July 1977.

  Her mother reassured her. She and Mama Fina were doing the rounds of the European embassies, but they still thought France was the country most likely to accept her. They had been told that a French consulate official had applied for authorization to meet with Julia in the prison. This was part of the procedure, and it meant the asylum process was already under way.

  This time Julia’s mother had brought her a bag of things. Julia had been wearing the same uniform ever since her arrival in Villa Devoto, even though the prisoners weren’t required to wear a uniform. There was also a selection of baby clothes, which her mother held up on the other side of the glass.

  Julia seized the opportunity to raise a thorny subject. “Mom, my baby won’t be able to take its father’s name.”

  Her mother looked up. “I’m relieved you’ve come to the same conclusion as us,” she said. “So it’ll be a little d’Annunzio. Your grandmother’s convinced it’s a boy. I’d like a little girl myself, but never mind. She says you should baptize the baby with a good strong name, something like . . .”

  “Like Josefina,” Julia interrupted mischievously, “since I’m hoping it’ll be a girl too.”

  Her mother refrained from comment. After a moment she said, “I don’t like this glass between us. It reminds me that I stupidly allowed distance to grow between us. You were always so strong and confident. Even when you were a child, it was hard for me to think of myself as your mother. I sometimes felt like you were already an adult.”

  She placed her hand on the partition. Julia did likewise. Their hands were identical.

  “I wanted you to know that.”

  —

  On December 21 a guard came to take Julia to the maternity unit. It was the first day of summer, which she took as a good omen. She would have liked to slip on sandals and wear her hair down. She collected her things and kissed her cell mates.

  The hospital was on the first floor of a separate building. They had to go through several gates and checkpoints to get there, as each floor was sealed off from the others. Julia crossed the large courtyard in which she had been “legalized” on her arrival and entered a long, gloomy corridor painted creamy yellow. She followed the guard in silence, her footsteps echoing in the emptiness, as if they belonged to someone else.

  The door to the hospital opened onto a fenced-in lobby area. Farther on, behind another barred door, was the maternity room. It was a sort of enclosed yard with a pillar in each corner, and between the pillars there were around thirty beds lined up along the walls in two rows facing each other.

  More than half the beds were empty. There were only about ten detainees in the room. Julia could take her pick and settled on a bed close to the barred door that separated the room from the lobby area. By leaning against one of the pillars, she could keep an eye on what was going on outside while remaining hidden from sight, if she wished.

  In the bed next to hers was another woman who looked to be just a few weeks away from giving birth. They exchanged a smile. The young woman helped her put her things away in a small locker between the two beds. At the far end, next to a sealed-up window, Julia counted three patients on drips. She could tell at a glance that they were in a critical condition. In another corner sat a mother with her back to Julia, rocking her baby, while other women chatted in low voices.

  The room was lit by a long, narrow plate-glass window at ceiling height, so it was impossible to see what was going on in the street outside. There was a row of six showerheads behind a partition wall. The bathroom consisted of two squat toilets.

  A short man in a white coat with a nervous walk made a conspicuous entrance. He headed straight for her without looking up from his papers, followed by three nurses.

  “I suppose this is Julia,” he said, reading his notes.

  “Yes, sir,” Julia answered.

  A pair of steel-blue eyes behind round glasses looked hard at her.

  “She’ll give birth at the end of the month,” he announced. “Or rather, she’ll shit out her runt. You lot don’t give birth, you shit.”

  Julia swallowed. “I’m due in January.”

  “We’ll see about that,” the little man replied with a fixed grin.

  He continued his rounds, instructing the nurses in a haughty tone and with deliberate and noticeable brevity, then left the way he had come.

  “You’ll have to get used to it,” Julia’s neighbor said when the procession had gone. “All the women in this prison have C-sections. We’re guinea pigs. They test drugs on us. If we don’t die, they put them on the market. Everyone wins: the pharmaceutical companies and the government, because it means more money and fewer opponents. . . . Oh, sorry, I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Valentina—Tina to friends. I’m with Poder Obrero.* What about you?”

  There were all kinds of women in the same room: women who had returned after torture, mentally ill women who had not recovered from the abuse, and a few pregnant women.

  “That poor girl in the far corner, the one who keeps humming to herself . . . she’s lost her mind. She’s just had a baby, born two months early. He’s in an incubator, but they’re going to give him up for adoption. She’s still waiting for him, poor thing.”

  “Isn’t she rocking a baby?”

  “No. It’s a doll.”

  Tina went on: “The nurses are quite nice, and the food is better than in the cells. There’s more of it, at any rate.”

  “When are you due?” Julia asked.

  “Rubens is the one who determines the due dates here. I’ll reach full term in mid-January, but he’s decided it’ll be earlier. I don’t care. I just want to make sure my baby is healthy. As for the rest, I know he’ll butcher me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Rubens is a nasty character. A torturer in the making. It’s a good thing we’re in the hands of the PEN, and there are nurses around. But don’t expect him to stitch you back up nicely.”

  —

  Dr. Rubens scheduled Julia’s delivery for December 31, one month before her due date. He seemed to have a fixation on dates, since Tina was scheduled to give birth on Christmas Day. It was rumored that he was taking revenge on a group of nurses who had denounced the maltreatment he inflicted on the inmates, two of whom had died after he’d operated on them. He had immediately given their babies to his colleagues to adopt.

  To prepare as best as she could, Julia began to read out loud, as Tina had suggested, so the baby would recognize the sound of her voice. She wove a tiny bracelet to put around the baby’s wrist as soon as it came out of her womb. She sifted through the things her mother had brought her. She wanted only white cotton linen for the baby at first. She washed it, rinsed it, and hung it to dry next to her bed. She filed her nails right down so she wouldn’t accidentally scratch the baby. Finally, she asked Tina to cut her hair to shoulder length and washed herself thoroughly on the night before the big day.

  A nurse came to get her after lunch. She was made to wear a green hospital gown that tied up the back and to swallow some pills that made her head spin. Then she was led into a large, cold room. There was a rudimentary birthing bed, old and rusty, in the middle of the room, with a spotlight on either side of it. Julia was alarmed. She didn’t understand why she was being made to put her feet in the stirrups if Rubens was planning to do a C-section.

  “Be quiet and do as you’re told,” a nurse told her as she filled a syringe.

  Dr. Rubens made his appearance, impeccable in his white coat. He looked at Julia lying on the bed, her feet in the stirrups under a sheet that was too short, as he pulled on his gloves
. “Filthy Trotska,” he murmured. “This is the last time you’ll be shitting a Bolshevik into the world.”

  26.

  THE YOUNG KOREAN

  Boreal Summer

  2006

  He saw her come in wearing her gym clothes, a towel around her neck. She glanced at her watch and walked over to the exercise machines. Theo pretended to be tying his shoelaces so he could observe her at his leisure.

  He had seen her once before at the company’s annual staff conference. A young Asian version of Julia, he’d thought. Theo had taken advantage of a break in the program to stand behind her in the drinks line and then offer to pour her a cup of coffee. They’d exchanged a few words before she went back to her seat. He now knew that her name was Mia Moon and that she had recently joined the accounting department.

  The young woman tossed her towel into a corner, hopped on one of the few empty treadmills, adjusted the settings, and began her workout. She was wearing a black crop top that showed off her toned stomach and a pair of matching capri leggings. Her black hair, pulled back into a ponytail, accentuated her athletic appearance. Theo, who was busy lifting weights, couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  She got off the treadmill in a sweat and passed him on her way to the water fountain. Theo seized the opportunity to do the same. He acted surprised to see her as he said hello.

  “I saw you when I came in, but you looked busy,” she said jokingly. “I’ve forgotten your name. It’s Tom, right?”

  “Almost. It’s Theo. Theodoro, really. But Theo’s easier,” he said before downing a plastic cup of cold water.

  “Oh, right. I remember now. You’re Italian.”

  “No. Despite the name and the accent, I’m actually American.”

  “Yes, of course. I meant to say of Italian origin.”

  “No, wrong again. And I bet you that you won’t be able to guess where I’m actually from.”

  “Aha! I like bets. But I should warn you there’s a strong chance it’ll end in a tie. You’ll never guess where I’m from.”

  “With a name like yours?”

  “You remember my name?”

  “Mia Moon. Hard to forget such a pretty name.”

  “Good memory—one point for you.”

  “And I don’t think I’d be too far off the mark if I said you were of Korean origin.”

  “That’s what everyone thinks.”

  “Does that mean yes? If I’ve won, let me buy you a drink.”

  “You’ve lost.”

  Theo made a gesture of disappointment.

  “But you can still buy me a cup of coffee after work,” the young woman added, picking up her towel to leave.

  They met at the end of the day in the parking lot and drove out of the office complex one behind the other. There was a pub near the train station that Theo liked. It was always packed, but hardly anyone from the office went there. They sat down at a small table that had just become free, wedged in between the restrooms and the bar.

  “You’re even prettier than you were this morning,” Theo said, pulling his chair closer to hers.

  “I’m married,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

  Theo burst out laughing. “That doesn’t change anything. You’re still beautiful!”

  “What about you?”

  “Are you asking if I’m beautiful?”

  “No, if you’re married.”

  “I see you’re really applying the recommendations made at the annual conference.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The speaker said that it was important to know how to ask the right questions.”

  “He also said you have to know how to listen. So. I’m listening.”

  “Okay, but first we have to resolve our little bet.”

  “It’s over. You lost,” Mia replied, laughing.

  “I’d say we’re equal. I’m not Italian, and you’re not Korean. Give me a hint.”

  Her husband was of Korean descent, but he had never set foot in Korea and he didn’t speak the language. He and Mia considered themselves American. They had met in college, while she was studying accounting and he was getting a master’s in finance. Now he worked for an investment bank.

  “All right, so he’s Korean, but you’re the one I’m interested in. And I’m still none the wiser.”

  “You haven’t told me much about yourself either. You’re not Italian, but surely you’re of European descent.”

  “I’ll give you that. Not that it’ll help you.”

  “Oh, okay. Is it really that complicated?”

  “Not really. I’m from a country that experienced massive European immigration.”

  “In that case, shall we say . . . Argentina?”

  Theo looked at her with admiration. “Wow, I’m impressed.”

  She opened her eyes wide and leaned toward him, resting on her elbows.

  “Don’t tell me you’re Argentine.”

  “I am indeed. I was born in Argentina.”

  “But that’s impossible,” Mia said, crossing her hands over her chest. “It’s too much of a coincidence.”

  “A coincidence? What do you mean?”

  “My maiden name is Mia Matamoros Amun.”

  “Matamoros Amun . . . Amun? That’s an indigenous name, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. My mother was Mapuche.”

  “So you’re Argentine on your mother’s side!”

  “Yes, and Spanish on my father’s side.”

  Mia’s cell phone started to ring.

  “Oh, my goodness, it’s really late. Where did the time go? I have to get home.”

  Mia stood up, picked up her bag, gave him a little wave, and left.

  —

  The gym became Theo’s number one priority. Every day he would track Mia down there and then head back upstairs with her to heat up his lunch. They would sit at a small table by the vending machines and drink coffee.

  “What’s that you’re eating?” she asked him one day.

  “Why? Doesn’t it look good?”

  “Sure, I guess so, but I’m not sure it’s all that good for you.”

  “I’m not on a diet.”

  “Me neither, but I still watch what I eat.”

  “So what exactly is wrong with my lunch?”

  “Too many carbs, not enough protein.”

  “I don’t need more protein!”

  “Yes, you do, to build muscle,” Mia said, pointing to her flat stomach.

  “But they say meat clogs your arteries.”

  “There are other sources of protein. Egg whites, for example.”

  “I don’t see myself becoming a connoisseur of egg whites.”

  Mia burst out laughing. “You have no imagination.”

  “Do you have any recipes?”

  “Tell you what: why don’t you come over to my place for dinner? Kwan went to New York this morning. He won’t be back till late. I’ll make you my specialty. Egg-white curry. It’s delicious.”

  Theo gave her a sidelong glance.

  “And besides,” she went on, “I hate eating alone.”

  —

  Back in his office, Theo called Julia from his cell phone and told her not to wait for him. He was going out for dinner with some colleagues. Luckily, Diane had just called to invite her to the movies.

  Theo had gotten into the habit of keeping some clean white shirts in the bottom drawer of his desk. He went down to the gym to take a shower and change.

  It had been a long time since he’d felt this pleasant sensation. He couldn’t wait to be alone with Mia in her apartment. He lingered under the shower to prolong the pleasure and lost track of time. On his way out, he ran into Ben, a coworker and neighbor, who had just finished his workout. His wife, Pat, who also worked for the company, happened to be out
of town.

  “Let’s go for a drink,” Ben suggested.

  “Not tonight. I’ve got dinner plans,” Theo replied, eyeing his watch.

  The gym door slammed open. Mia burst in, said a quick hello to Ben, and pulled Theo aside.

  “I’ve been looking for you. I left you a voice mail. Then I saw your car was still in the lot.”

  Mia was fiddling nervously with her keys. “I’m really sorry. I have a project that’s due tomorrow morning and I need to pull an all-nighter. Shall we see each other tomorrow?”

  “No problem,” said Theo with a broad smile.

  She rushed out of the gym, leaving a trail of perfume in the air.

  “Well . . . looks like we can go for that drink after all,” said Theo, staring at the door.

  —

  The weeks that followed were a torture. They saw each other only at the gym. Theo had to make an effort not to call Mia. He had wanted to send her flowers at home and talked himself out of it just in time. Instead he bought an anthology of Argentine poems and left it on her desk with a bookmark tucked inside marking a sonnet by Francisco Luis Bernárdez. The last lines were underlined:

  Porque después de todo he comprendido

  Que lo que el árbol tiene de florido

  Vive de lo que tiene sepultado.*

  Unable to understand it, Mia sent the three lines to her father. He wrote back straightaway with a translation, adding a note at the end: “This was one of your mother’s favorite poems. Where did you get it?”

  Mia sat down. Her hands were shaking. She had to stop seeing Theo. Finally she picked up her cell phone.

  “Let’s have dinner tonight.”

  —

  Mia made a reservation at a sushi bar in the center of Westport, a ten-minute drive from the office. It was also one of Kwan’s favorite restaurants. She felt safe there. She planned to tell Theo that she needed some space.

  Instead she found herself talking about her life throughout the evening.

  “My mother died soon after I was born. I have no memory of her. Dad hardly ever talks about her. I think he resents her for committing suicide.”