“And what was his job?”
“He has big job. He work for Chile, for gobierno… the government, si? He is embajador… ambassador… diplomat. I meet him here. No… there,” she said, pointing down the mountain to La Paz, “and we marry there. Celebración grande. Very grande. And ’nother one in Chile too, for him family. I very pretty girl,” she said, dropping her eyes as a petite smile curled her lips.
“When your husband sent you to America, did he know you were pregnant?”
“Si, is why he send me… because bebé is coming.”
“Because you’d be safer?”
“No, was…” She paused, trying to find the right words. “…was menos peligroso—less dangerous, yes?—after we leave from here.”
“But that’s not what you told your daughter, is it?”
“?Qué?”
He repeated the question slowly.
“I no want her to feel abandon by her father. So I tell her lie. I lie to her about many things; to protect her feelings. I pretend to her my husband is very pretty, but he short and fat… like Maria Rosa now,” she cackled, the camera exposed briefly to the breathtaking spectacle of her toothless mouth.
“Is this a picture of your husband?” He passed Maria Rosa the grainy print Elia had given him. It was taken from the 1968 newsreel when the Chilean diplomat met LBJ.
“Si, mi marido,” she sneered, spitting a large gob of yellow out of her mouth onto the paper.
Reynolds was ecstatic. Only a star interviewer could extract such passion, and the camera was getting it all.
“I don’t understand, Se?ora Diaz. Why spit on him?” Come on. Do it again, he hoped. Tear it up. Burst into tears. He glanced up to see the second camera was framing her face but was pulling back the zoom enough to get her hands too. Marcus, the chief cameraman, was a professional.
“Because he throw me away,” she said, her flabby arms suddenly gesturing so extravagantly she almost knocked the pitcher of water over. “I pregnant and he send me to America for get rid of me. Bye-bye me. And bye-bye bebé. He say, Lloqsiy wasiymanta pantasqan qanwanqa karani.”
“Excuse me?”
“In Quechuan language means: Get out of my house, I make mistake with you.”
Elia could sense Reynolds’ next question; it was as though a hangman’s trapdoor was dropping open in the pit of her stomach. She saw Marcus preparing for it too, tightening his zoom in on Maria Rosa for a full-screen face shot.
“But why would he say such bad things to you?” asked Reynolds.
“Because his amigos tell him he is cabrón…”
“?Cabrón?”
Her hands flew to either side of her head, her forefingers pointing upwards like horns. “Cabrón … because bebé is not his.”
“Hernandez Diaz… he was not Isabel’s father?”
“He is husband, si. But no father. He go crazy with me. He tell me get out, but I say, ?Y la guagua?… and what of bebé? He say to me, he shout, I remember clear, ?No estoy ni ahí! ?Vete al carajo! I no care! Go to hell! Hernandez he say more very bad things to me.”
Reynolds solemnly looked up to the lens, “As you’ve just heard, while Isabel Diaz’s mother was indeed married to a Chilean diplomat, that man was not Isabel Diaz’s biological father.” He turned back to Maria Rosa. “Maria Rosa, tell me… who was Isabel’s real father?”
“Jardinero. Can you believe…” she said, stretching her arms wide to take in their destitute surroundings, “I once has gardener work for me?”
“The embassy gardener?” asked Reynolds, feigning shock since he already knew the answer from their run-through.
“Si. He nice to me. But my husband go red. He say, tú eres más falso que una pirata boliviano—you are faker than a Boliviano pirate. He say that to me! Him… a Chile dog!” She spat into the dirt, just missing the rug. “He throw me papers and little bit money and he say ?Vaya! Go! Get to America. ?Vete al carajo!”
Elia’s lips, dry from the cold, had split badly from grinning so much, but she couldn’t care less. And nobody, not even Reynolds, was noticing the smells any more.
Eventually, Maria Rosa turned the questioning back on Reynolds, “Why you has interesting in Maria Rosa?” She’d asked this earlier, during the prep, but they had fended her off. Elia wanted her to hear the answer for the first time with the cameras shooting.
“It’s your daughter, Maria Rosa. She was recently running for President of the United States.”
“?Mi Isabel?” Maria Rosa’s eyes glazed over, then she smiled weakly, sadly, and for a moment she fell silent.
Elia imagined that all kinds of memories and what-could-have-beens were flooding Maria Rosa’s head, details she’d long forgotten, or wanted to.
“Se?or Reynolds,” she said eventually, a tear running down her cheek, “Isabel want to be presidente since very little girl.”