The Woman in Red

by Diana Giovinazzo

  My heart sank as we rolled into the village that the Imperial army now occupied. Vacaria, much like Tubarão, the village of my childhood, was made up of gauchos and their families. Gauchos who were loyal to the rebellion. A loyalty that had cost them dearly. Most of the homes were burned to the ground. Only husks of what they once were remained. Hazy dust rolled across the remains and the smell of charred meat filled my nose. A sick thought crossed my mind: Where are all the people? Carts sat abandoned. Stray dogs gnawed on mystery meat that lay by the homes. I tore my eyes away from the gruesome scene and looked up to the fluffy white clouds that lazily floated above us.

  They brought me to the abandoned courthouse, now serving as the headquarters for the Imperial army. Inside what was once the constable’s office, papers lay scattered about the desk, interspersed with miniature cannons and saint statues collecting dust. My thoughts turned to José. Where is he? I placed my hand on my belly, where my baby kicked. I closed my eyes and pictured a panicked José in my head. Standing in the middle of the battlefield, realizing that I was gone. He was going to rescue me. I was sure he would be breaking down the door at any moment.

  Hearing the sound of voices on the cool August air, I ventured toward the window.

  “How much damage can she cause? She’s only a woman, and a pregnant one at that.”

  “Just let me do the talking. I have a plan.”

  So, they had a plan? This should be interesting. I settled into a chair and demurely waited for the officers to make their way to me. After a brief knock at the door, my captor entered the room. I inspected his suntanned face, from his dimpled square chin to the crinkled corners of his eyes. The gray hair peppered with light brown made him look almost fatherly. But I wasn’t fooled. The smile he flashed sent a shiver down my rigid spine. Clicking his boots together, he gave a small bow as a plump middle-aged woman slipped in with a tray of food. I watched her as she hurried away, head bowed, doing her best not to be seen.

  “It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Senhora Garibaldi.”

  “Boa tarde, Senhor…?”

  “Senhor Moringue.” He smiled warmly as he handed me the plate of bread and cold chicken. “I thought you might be hungry. Women in your condition need to keep up their strength.”

  I took the plate and thanked him. “Do you have children?” I picked at the food in front of me. The truth was that I was indeed hungry, but I didn’t want to seem too eager. I didn’t want to show any weakness.

  “No, God has not blessed me with a family. Not many women can handle life with a soldier, as I am sure you can understand.” He laughed to himself, not caring if I found his joke humorous. He pulled out a chair and sat across from me. “I have to admit that I am very excited to finally meet the one and only Anita Garibaldi.”

  “Senhor Moringue, you flatter me.”

  “No, really. I have heard all about you. The brave woman from Laguna who fought off thirty Imperial frigates,” he said.

  “Six.” I smiled politely. “There were only six Imperial frigates that we fought off and about six smaller vessels.”

  “Brave and modest! Such rare qualities for a woman.” He slapped his knee. “You’ll have to forgive me, senhora, my soldiers have been following your story. The old men say you are Atiola incarnate.”

  I laughed. “Atiola? The Indian earth goddess?”

  “Yes, the pagan mother who blessed us with cassava.” He held my gaze as we scrutinized each other.

  I shrugged. “I never cared for cassava.”

  “I do have one burning question. Did Garibaldi really throw you over his shoulder and sail away?”

  “Where did you hear this story of yours?”

  “It is the story the men tell of how you found yourself to be with a pirate. They say he spied you from his ship and declared, ‘She must be mine!’ Then in a fit of passion he dove straight into the water. He threw you over his shoulder and the two of you have been sailing the Brazilian waters since, living happily ever after.” He looked at me as if I were a child. “For really, why else would a woman leave her husband?”

  I openly laughed, accidentally spitting some bread out of my mouth. “Is that what they are saying? I will have to be sure to tell José when I see him.”

  Senhor Moringue smiled, reminding me how dangerous he was. “If we had met under different circumstances, I think I would be quite fond of you.”

  “I wish I could say the same for you.”

  His face grew stern. “I am sorry we cannot continue with this lovely conversation. I came to speak to you regarding a more serious matter.”

  I picked some more chicken. “Well, as you have said, I am only a woman. I would not know much about serious matters unless they involve mending clothes and cooking.” I spit the chicken I had been chewing into my hand before dropping it unceremoniously onto the desk. “That, by the way, is horrible. You should put your cook in front of the firing squad.”

  He said nothing as he continued to watch me. He gave two sharp claps, summoning an officer into the room with us. The soldier carried a faded poncho that he thrust at me. “Tell me, senhora, does this look familiar to you?”

  I felt the garment in my hands. It had once been bright red, so bright that it stood out in sharp contrast to the mossy green trees. Now, after so much use it had faded. My fingers traced the patch I had sewn on the sleeve.

  I had laughed when I first gave José his mended poncho back, saying that with the patch, he would really be the captain in the Ragamuffin War. I turned it over and saw a deep wine color blossom across the back. Gasping in shock, I lurched up, letting the chair clatter to the floor behind me as the poncho fell.

  “I hate to inform you, senhora, but your husband was killed in the battle.” Moringue looked at me as if he had won.

  Swaying a little, I reached out and steadied myself at the desk. There was no way that my husband could be dead. He was the Great Garibaldi. Men like him didn’t die.

  Senhor Moringue leaned forward. “I can help you. I can protect you.”

  “Protect me?” I cackled. “Protect me from what? From your men? From the Imperialist government? From you?”

  “Anita, your husband is gone. You have nothing left. Tell me what you know and I will—”

  I spit at him. The yellowish mucus landed on his cheek. It stuck there while he calmly removed a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping the saliva away. “You’re right, I have nothing left,” I said, trying to control my trembling outrage. “What do I care what you do? The only thing I care about is that José was able to meet his destiny before me!”

  He slammed his fist on the desk. A tiny statue of the Virgin Mary toppled onto the floor. “You are being hysterical.”

  I stared at him, making him squirm in his chair. He shifted his weight, reminding me of a mouse that knows it’s about to be eaten by a snake. I couldn’t trust a mercenary who was responsible for so much damage, but then again, I needed to know the truth. “I will tell you everything you want to know, as long as I see my husband’s body.”

  His eyes widened briefly in surprise. “The poncho is not enough?”

  I turned my head to the side. “Would it be enough for you? I want to see my husband’s body for myself. I want my right, as his wife, to bury him.”

  “I can’t send my men to search for his remains.”

  “Then I will search for them myself.”

  “I can’t let you do that.”

  “How badly do you want my information?”

  He got up and walked toward the door. “You drive a hard bargain, senhora.” The door closed with a snap. My knees gave out as I sank to the floor, clutching José’s poncho. My breath came in fast, short bursts as I held the tattered rag to my chest. The baby inside me kicked wildly as I wiped the tears from my face.

  Eighteen

  If José was alive, I would find him at the base camp the rebels had set up. He wouldn’t leave without me. He would keep the army nearby long enough to regroup and attack. W
hile it was there, the Imperial forces outnumbered the Farrapos, but this wouldn’t matter to José. I knew he would sacrifice the whole world to get me back, and I couldn’t let that happen.

  Running my hand over the frayed material, another thought came to me. A thought that initially scared me much more than José being dead. The soldiers knew who I was.

  My reputation preceded me. Usually it was only José that they all talked about; he was the rebel hero. At least, until now. They called me the Atiola. I started to entertain thoughts of living on my own. I could become a notorious renegade, even more notorious than my husband.

  I could run off into the woods. They would never find me. I could still seek out the Farrapos. A widow who lost her husband tragically, I could fight for José’s causes in his place. People would fawn over me much like they did for my deceased husband. Maybe even more. My heart fluttered at the thought.

  This must have been what Eve felt like just before she took the apple. For the first time in my life I had the opportunity to be my own person, and the temptation to take it was great.

  A young soldier in a baggy uniform stepped into the room. “Senhora Garibaldi, come with us.”

  “Where are you taking me?” I asked, still clutching José’s poncho. He ignored me as he led me to a wagon, gently pulling me along by the elbow. Another soldier sat on the driver’s bench, and two others sat in the back with me. They said nothing as we took off. It was late in the day and I could feel the cold weather setting in. I slipped on José’s poncho. The faint smell of the man I loved was bittersweet.

  The wagon came to an abrupt halt on the edge of the battlefield. “What are we doing here?” I asked.

  The driver turned around to face me. “You wanted to find your husband?” He motioned toward the field. “Go find him.”

  The sun hung low in the sky as the cold night air moved in around me, bringing with it the scent of decay. I heaved myself out of the wagon and walked through the remains of what had been. Breathing into my hands, I rubbed them together in a vain attempt to keep warm.

  I bent down to get a closer look at the faces frozen in their time of death. The first group contained no one that I recognized, just poor nameless souls who had gone on to meet our maker. I moved down the field to where a pair of boots stuck out from under a bush. I pulled the body by his boots, my breath coming out in fierce white clouds. It wasn’t my José but another soldier in his regiment. Moving on, turning over stiff, bloody bodies, I continued my search.

  Using my skirt, I wiped the muddy faces of soldiers to get a better look at them. I had to find my husband. I had to know for sure. I moved on to the next group of dead soldiers.

  As I got down on my knees, the weight of my stomach threw me off balance. I stumbled a little, catching myself on another mass of dead bodies. There were five men piled like broken dishes; the one at the very top rested facedown. I grabbed him by his shoulder and heaved him onto his back with all my strength. My stomach lurched as he slid down the mound, his face infested with maggots.

  My stomach wanted to empty its contents right there all over the poor men. I scrambled back, filling my lungs with cold air that stung my nostrils. I looked up at the orange sky, watching as the vultures made elegant circles over the field. Gracefully they dipped down and came back up with a prize. If I was to find out the fate of my husband, I had to keep moving. I refocused on the task at hand, reaching down and pulling another body out of the decomposing pile. My stomach wrenched, and I spit bile into the muddy earth.

  I stood up and nearly fell over as a spasm seized my back. There were so many bodies. Leaning against an abandoned wagon, I surveyed the wreckage around me. The remains lay slumped like abandoned playthings. Clutching at my stomach, I wondered how I was going to find my husband. One of the vultures swooped down and walked across the field, huffing as he went. My feathered comrade watched me. Taking a few steps forward, he turned his head from side to side, his black eyes meeting mine. He dipped his head, pulling out a juicy red treasure from one of the soldiers. Dry heaves racked my body as I looked away from the gruesome scene playing out before me.

  Turning to the tree line, I realized how close it was, just a few steps away. I could disappear into the woods before my captors would even notice I was gone. The young soldiers in their tattered, dirty uniforms sat at the cart playing cards by torchlight on the other end of the field. They would never find me. I knew how to live in the wilderness a lot better than those boys ever could.

  “Hey, senhora!” one of my guards called to me. “Are you going to finish anytime soon?”

  “Not until I find my husband!” I called back to him. “Do you want to help?”

  The men wrinkled their noses and went back to their card game. They were under strict orders to let me search, but those orders weren’t needed. They seemed to enjoy their time playing cards and drinking from a communal jug.

  I picked up my skirts as I stepped over the dead bodies I’d already examined. Leaving now would be the easy way out, the coward’s way. I wiped away some hair that clung to my cold, sweaty face. I was no coward.

  Moving methodically along the battlefield, I continued my search, stopping only when I saw a soldier I knew. I recited a short prayer for his soul before moving on to the next poor bastard. Not a single one was José, nor did any of them resemble him, with his auburn beard and curly hair. None of them had his soft eyes. I breathed into my hands and lifted them to my nose and face to soak in a bit of warmth. The field was large, and I was only one woman with a poncho, searching through the bitterly cold night for my husband.

  As the pink morning sunlight cast its first rays over the valley of death, I moved along the northernmost perimeter of the battlefield. I turned to survey the work that I had done. In the course of the night I traveled north, going back and forth along the field. I stood there, shivering against the cold. José was alive, and I needed to escape.

  But that was going to have to wait. I made my way back to the wagon. One of the soldiers yawned, opening his mouth wide and showing his rotted teeth. “Are you satisfied, senhora?”

  “Yes.” I smiled. “My husband is not dead.” I got into the wagon willingly as the men exchanged nervous glances.

  Nineteen

  Back in the village, the Imperial officers brought me to a small shack where another man stood guard. “Only one?” I asked. He wasn’t much of a soldier. He was fat and old with thinning hair that had thick white flakes stuck in it. One of my captors pushed me into the house. I turned to look at him. “Careful, I am with child.” He looked back at me with disdain before turning on his heel and leaving.

  After the men left, I paced the room. I hummed mindlessly to myself, an old wordless lullaby my mother used to like to sing. Looking out my window, I watched as my guard slept. Unfortunately, there were still too many soldiers wandering the village for me to make my escape now. I yawned, feeling utterly exhausted.

  As I began to settle on the small cot pushed against the wall, Senhor Moringue came in. He slammed the door open and stood there with his fists digging into his hips.

  “I hear you had some problems finding your husband’s body.” His eyes gleamed as he looked down on me.

  “Yes, well, it’s hard to find something that isn’t there.” I sat up and arranged my skirts as I watched the color on his face change from white to red and back to white.

  Senhor Moringue stepped toward me, puffing out his chest, trying to take up as much space in the room as he could. “That poncho you wear begs to tell otherwise.”

  “My husband’s not dead.”

  “I have fulfilled my side of the bargain. Now it’s your turn. Tell me what you know of the rebels.” Moringue’s eyelid twitched.

  “I know you haven’t actually killed their captain.”

  “Don’t play coy with me, Anita Garibaldi. I have my ways.”

  “As do I,” I said, turning my head to the side. “There is nothing worse than a mouse who thinks he has bested a snake
.”

  Moringue raised a hand to strike me but thought better of it. “I never thought of you as a woman who would go back on her word.”

  “I’m not. I said I would tell you everything I know, if I found my husband’s body.” I spread my arms out. “Clearly, I have not found him.”

  He pointed a finger at me. “You are an infuriating woman!”

  “I know, my husband tells me every day.”

  “I’ll find out everything that you know, senhora, mark my words.” Moringue left the room with a huff. The sad little cot felt like the most comfortable bed in the world. I curled up, letting sleep overtake me, knowing I had a long journey ahead of me.

  My usefulness was running out. At some point Moringue would tire of my games. If I continued to resist I would wind up like the poor souls that used to live in this village. I needed to escape.

  * * *

  The next day I paced around the meager room, with its drafty plain walls. As I moved, I took stock of what was around me. A small lumpy cot was shoved against the back corner. My fingers traced a bloodstain that splattered the wall, and I wondered what had happened to the previous occupant. The dresser, leaning to one side, shuddered as I ransacked it. Disappointed in its lack of treasures, I made my way to the lone window that looked out over the remains of the village.

  I waited patiently, watching everything that I could. The men came and stood at their posts. Hours later the shift changed, and another man would show up. Each one cared even less than the last.

  The same guard from the previous evening appeared the next night, a large balding man whose stomach pushed against the buttons of his shirt. Before long he was snoring with his chin resting on his chest. This time I tested my luck. I opened the door and stepped outside as quietly as I could. My guard didn’t move at all. I looked around, taking stock of the other soldiers, where they were and what they did. Only a few yards from my cabin was a pathway into the forest. I could take it, heading south to where I hoped the rebel forces remained encamped.