“What’s his name?” asked Lucia, so taken aback at the news that her father had been a bigamist that she could hardly get the words out.
“Enrique Maraz, like your father and brother. I’ve tried to find him, Lucia, but he and his mother have vanished. I need to know if that boy in the cemetery is your father’s son by that other woman.”
“It doesn’t matter, Mama. He’s hardly likely to be my half brother; that only happens in TV soaps. What’s most probable is what they told you at the Vicariate, that the identity of the victims gets mixed up. Don’t burden yourself searching for that young man. You’ve been obsessed for years with Enrique’s fate. Accept the truth, however horrible it may be, before you go crazy.”
“I’m perfectly sane, Lucia. I’ll accept your brother’s death when I have some proof, and not before.”
Lucia confessed that as children neither she nor Enrique had completely believed the story about their father’s accident, which was so shrouded in mystery it seemed like fiction. How could they believe it, when they never saw any expression of grief or visited any grave, but had to make do with a brief explanation and a cautious silence. She and her brother used to invent alternative versions: that their father was alive somewhere else, that he had committed a crime and was on the run, or was hunting crocodiles in Australia; any explanation was more reasonable than the official one: he’d died and that was that, don’t ask any more questions.
“You two were very young, Lucia. You couldn’t understand how final death is; it was my duty to shield you from that pain. I thought it was better for you to forget your father. I know that was a sin of pride. I set out to replace him: to be both father and mother to my children.”
“You did that very well, Mama, but I wonder if you would have behaved the same way if he hadn’t been a bigamist.”
“Most likely not, Lucia. In that case maybe I would have idealized him. I was motivated more than anything by rancor and shame. I didn’t want to contaminate you with the ugliness of what had happened. That’s why I didn’t talk about him later on, when you were of an age to understand. I know you missed having a father.”
“Less than you think, Mama. It’s true it would have been better to have a father, but you brought us up wonderfully.”
“The lack of a father leaves a hole in a woman’s heart, Lucia. A girl needs to feel she is protected; she needs masculine energy to develop trust in men and later to be able to give herself in love. What’s the female version of the Oedipus complex? Electra? You didn’t have it. That’s why you’re so independent and jump from one love to the next, forever searching for the security of a father.”
“Oh please, Mama! That’s pure Freudian jargon. I’m not looking for my father in my lovers. And I’m no bed-hopper either. I’m a serial monogamist, and my loves last a long time, unless the guy is a hopeless case,” said Lucia, and the two of them burst out laughing when they remembered the guerrilla she had abandoned in Montreal.
Lucia, Richard, Evelyn
Brooklyn
Ten minutes later Lucia came down from the bathroom to find Richard in the kitchen toasting bread, the coffeepot full, and three mugs on the table. Evelyn entered from the yard with Marcelo shivering in her arms, and proceeded to devour the toast and coffee Richard served her. Swaying on the stool with her mouth full, she looked so ravenous and young that Richard was touched. How old could she be? Most likely older than she looked. Maybe she was the same age as his Bibi.
“We’re going to take you home, Evelyn,” Lucia told her when they had finished their coffee.
“No! No!” cried Evelyn, standing up so suddenly that the stool toppled over and Marcelo fell to the floor.
“It was only a small dent, Evelyn. Don’t be frightened. I’ll explain what happened to your employer. What’s his name again?”
“Frank Leroy . . . but it’s not just because of the accident,” stammered Evelyn, ashen faced.
“What else is there?” asked Richard.
“Come on, Evelyn, what are you so afraid of?” added Lucia.
Then, stumbling over the words and trembling severely, the young girl told them that there was a dead body in the car trunk. She had to repeat it twice for Lucia to understand. It took Richard even longer. Although he spoke Spanish, he was much more comfortable with the lilting Portuguese of Brazil. He could not believe what he was hearing: the enormity of her declaration froze him to the spot. If he had understood correctly, there were two alternatives: either the girl was raving mad or there really was a dead body in the Lexus.
“A body, you said?”
Evelyn nodded, her eyes on the floor.
“That’s impossible. What kind of body?”
“Richard! Don’t be ridiculous. A human body, of course,” Lucia cut in. She was so astonished she had to struggle to suppress a nervous laugh.
“How did it get there?” asked Richard, still incredulous.
“I don’t know . . .”
“Did you run over the person?”
“No.”
Faced with the possibility that they really were dealing with an anonymous dead person, Richard started scratching with both hands at the hives that broke out on his arms and chest in moments of tension. A man of unchanging habits and routines, he was ill prepared for unforeseen events like this. Although he was not yet aware of it, his stable, cautious existence had come to an end.
“We have to call the police,” he decided, picking up his cell phone.
The young Guatemalan girl gave a shriek of terror and began weeping with heartrending sobs for reasons that were evident to Lucia but not to Richard, even though he was well aware of the constant state of uncertainty most Latin American immigrants lived in.
“I suppose you’re undocumented,” said Lucia. “We can’t call the police, Richard. We would be getting this poor girl into trouble. She took the car without permission. She could be accused of theft as well as homicide. You know how the police treat undocumented immigrants. They always go for the weakest link in the chain.”
“What chain?”
“It’s a metaphor, Richard.”
“How did that person die? Who is it?” Richard asked.