The Disappearance of Irene Dos Santos Read online

  Pointing to the car, Ismael turned to his wife and said, “Happy birthday, mi amor! Now you’ll be able to do your shopping for the whole week at one time.”

  “You know I can’t drive,” said Consuelo, kissing her husband on the cheek.

  “I will teach you,” said Ismael. “Come, we’ll practice right now.”

  For an hour, Consuelo practiced taking the car in and out of the driveway, while Lily watched from the window. Then Ismael drove them all to the Plaza Altamira, where they bought bread from the Panadería Sosa.

  “Nice car,” said Señor Sosa, coming out to admire it and running a gnarled hand along one of its shiny fins.

  They ate the warm bread in the car, while Ismael drove. As they turned onto the highway and the car accelerated, Lily screamed with excitement and wet her pants. Then she cried, while her mother attempted unsuccessfully to console her. It was only when her father assured her that everybody peed in their pants their first time on the highway that her tears dried.

  “What about Mami?” she asked, as they drove at a more leisurely pace through the gated residential park of Lagunita. Pulling up in front of the Aguilar mansion, Ismael whispered in her ear, “Mami has her own special powers. One of them is the power to hold her pipí even in the most dire of circumstances.” When Lily laughed through her tears, he said, “That’s better, we can’t have you wet on both ends, can we? Now, we will clean you up and then your padrino and I have another special surprise for your birthday.”

  While Lily, wrapped in a giant beach towel and eating an arepa stuffed with Diablitos, sat on Alejandro’s lap, Amparo threw her soiled clothes in the American-made washing machine. Within twenty minutes they were dry, and moments later Lily was dressed and on her way to the Lagunita stables with her father and godfather.

  “She’s groomed and ready, Señor Alejandro,” said the stable boy when they arrived. Holding Lily’s hand, Alejandro led her to a stall in which stood a magnificent silver filly, puffing and stamping her feet. “Señorita Lily, allow me to introduce you to Luna,” said Alejandro.

  “Ay, Padrino, she is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen!” Lily said, her voice trembling with both fear and marvel. “Where did you get her?”

  “She is a gift to you from your father’s friend, Diego Garcia. But since you have no place to keep a horse, she will live here, in my stable. When you are a little older, your father will teach you to ride her.”

  Lily stared at her father. He was simply full of surprises that day.

  Late in the afternoon Lily sat on the sofa in front of the black-and-white TV in the living room watching the one program her father allowed, El Zorro. “Mira, Papi,” said Lily, “El Zorro’s horse, Tornado, looks just like ours.”

  “Can you keep a secret?” Ismael asked.

  Lily nodded solemnly.

  “Well,” said Ismael, “our horse looks like Tornado because she is the daughter of Tornado.”

  Lily’s jaw dropped in admiration, because if her father’s horse was the daughter of Tornado, it meant her father must be amigos with El Zorro. Then she frowned. “But, Papi,” she said, “how can our horse be Tornado’s daughter if she is in Padrino’s stables and Tornado is inside the television?”

  “Ah,” said Ismael, “you’re a clever one, aren’t you? But there is an answer. And the answer is that El Zorro is a brujo with a magic horse who can be in two places at once. And how do I know this? I know because El Zorro is my secret identity. And it is only fitting that the daughter of El Zorro should ride the daughter of Tornado. Not only that, but your Tío Alejandro also has a secret identity; he is Speed Racer and drives the Mach 5.” Alejandro Aguilar had recently replaced his red 1954 Corvette with the 1968 version in metallic blue.

  “Ay, por Dios, Ismael,” said Consuelo, who had come in during the revelation of Alejandro’s secret identity, “don’t tease her and fill her head with mentiras like that.” But she was smiling.

  Ismael turned to Lily, placed a finger to his lips and winked. And Lily understood that this meant the true identity of El Zorro was a secret only she and her father and her godfather shared. She winked back and whispered, “Can we tell Mami the secret?” And Consuelo had rolled her eyes as Ismael replied in a stage whisper, “Only if she swears to keep it under wraps, and learns the secret Zorro Code. I’ll have to teach the both of you.”

  Every day, when her father dropped her off at the Academia Roosevelt, Lily winked at him as she stepped out of the car and flashed the secret code, which consisted of writing a big Z in the air with the index finger of her right hand. She was almost nine before she understood, with the sorrow of one who discovers that it is the parents who put the Christmas presents under the tree and not San Nicolás, that her father was not really El Zorro—and that El Zorro himself wasn’t even a real person. She was even more disappointed to learn that El Zorro wasn’t even Criollo, but an import from gringolandia. But not long afterward, she discovered such a wonderful thing about her father that it didn’t really matter that he wasn’t El Zorro; she discovered that Ismael really was a brujo who could be in two places at one time.

  For Lily’s fifteenth birthday, Ismael announced a family trip to the jungles of Maquiritare during the Christmas holidays. He told Lily she could invite anyone she chose, and she disingenuously chose Irene Dos Santos. At first both her parents resisted, but later, yielding under their daughter’s relentless onslaught (“You said anyone”), they agreed. After all, what real harm could come of it, with both girls under their direct supervision for the duration of the trip? But Lily’s gladness at finally being reunited with Irene was marred by what she had seen, or thought she had seen, when she went to Prados to fetch Irene: her mother’s red satin shoes.

  Since traveling by road to Maquiritare would take days, the four of them—Ismael, Consuelo, Lily, and Irene—flew in a propeller plane that belonged to Alejandro Aguilar. The plane’s choppy movements turned Lily’s stomach and made her spew her lunch on the tarmac when they landed.

  It was dusk by the time they were installed in their cabaña at the government-run tourist outpost in the province of Maquiritare. Everyone voted to have a dinner immediately and make it an early night. The girls slept in hammocks on the porch. But before they fell asleep, to make up for her humiliation on the tarmac, Lily whispered to Irene, “Tomorrow let’s swim across to the island in the middle of the lagoon.”

  “I’ll race you,” Irene whispered back.

  Early in the morning they took a hike through the forest and then a canoe trip through the estuaries with their Pemon Indian guide, and Irene seemed far more interested than Lily had thought she’d be, asking about the flora—what is this and what is that. And Ismael had obliged her, rattling off a list of names until Lily felt her head spin. “Perhaps I will be a botanist when I grow up,” Irene said.

  When they returned at two p.m., the girls were ravenous and ate two chicken sandwiches each. Afterward, Consuelo and Ismael withdrew to the cabaña for a nap, while Lily and Irene lay dozing in the hammocks on the veranda. Her eyes heavy, Lily said sleepily that they should forget about swimming to the island. “Besides, our swimsuits are inside.”

  “We don’t need swimsuits to swim,” said Irene, jumping up and grabbing her by the arm. “Come on!” They stepped onto the sand, but it was too hot. Lily had her sandals, but Irene’s sneakers were inside the cabaña. Not to be deterred, Irene walked along the stone pathway to the neighboring cabaña, which was rented out by a single man. She plucked a pair of flip-flops from the porch and waved them triumphantly in the air before slipping her feet into them. They were a perfect fit.

  Together, the girls ran to the beach and stripped to their underwear. Wading in until the water reached their chests, they surveyed the distance to the island.

  “It’s not that far,” said Lily, though she was starting to have her doubts.

  “Bueno, gafa, what are we waiting for?” said Irene, throwing up the challenge.

  Both girls had joine
d the junior swim team at Academia Roosevelt the year Irene decided she wanted to be a professional swimmer, and the team was a contender for the national championships. Lily was then transferred to the convent school, which had no swim team, and Irene had gone on to captain the Academia Roosevelt team to victory. Lily had concentrated on riding Luna who was stabled at the Valencia Riding Club, taking the first prize in three equestrian events for two consecutive years. But her blue satin riding ribbons had no relevance in the world she had shared with Irene before they were separated, and Lily wanted to prove that she was also still as good a swimmer as her friend.

  They started swimming on the count of three, making rapid progress to the midpoint between the camp shore and the island, marked by a buoy. But it was a longer distance than it had seemed from the shore and, after a hundred and fifty meters, both girls began to tire, their strokes becoming uneven.

  “¡No puedo más!” Irene panted, just as Lily felt her stomach cramp. She instantly regretted the chicken sandwiches consumed not half an hour earlier.

  Treading water, Lily said, “I can make it.”

  “No you can’t, you ate as many sandwiches as I did,” Irene panted.

  “Yes I can.”

  “You’re lying.”

  That was how it started. There in the middle of the lake, Lily confronted Irene about the red shoes.

  “You’re the liar,” Lily screamed back. “You told me my mother’s shoes were stolen after the play, but I saw you wearing them when you were with your father in the study before you hid them behind the door. Además, I’m sure that charm bracelet you have been wearing belongs to Luz. I should never have invited such a ladrona mentirosa. I wish you were dead.” Lily turned around, facing the distant shore where their swim had begun. Her arms, legs, and chest were aching. A few feet away, Irene was swimming toward her, her face furious, her arms slapping the water. The next thing Lily knew, Irene had seized her by the shoulders, dunking her, climbing onto her back, locking her legs around Lily’s waist. Lily sank deeper with the weight. Twisting, she managed to slip from Irene’s stranglehold, come up for air, and start paddling toward the shore. But Irene ferociously grabbed her by the hair and pulled her backward, her other arm clamped against Lily’s windpipe. As Lily clawed at Irene’s arm, the charm bracelet came loose in her hand. She clutched it in her fist, beating at Irene’s arm that continued to press into her throat.

  “Take it back,” Irene yelled, as Lily went under again. “Take back what you said.”

  Just as Lily’s lungs began their silent scream for release, she heard her father’s voice. “Calma, mi amor. Remember what I taught you.”

  Summoning every reserve of strength she had left, she coiled and pushed, spun around in the water, drew her arm back, and hit Irene full in the face with the heel of her hand. Irene’s head snapped back and blood spurted from her nose. Then Irene began to sink. Lily tried to reach out to her, but exhaustion made this impossible. And she, too, began to sink.

  Lily said she remembered waking up in the hammock on the veranda of the cabaña, with Irene next to her.

  “I dreamt that we were swimming in the laguna. We had a fight in the water and we almost drowned,” she said.

  “Don’t be silly,” said Irene. “Why would best friends fight?”

  “I said I wished you were dead. But it’s not true.”

  “It was only a dream. Forget it. Now, listen, I want to tell you a secret. Remember the guy I introduced you to that day we met at the Hotel Macuto last year? The reason I came here with you is because he’s going to meet me here.”

  “When? When is he meeting you?”

  “Right now.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, now. I’m supposed to walk about one hundred meters down the path into the forest. If anyone asks you where I am, say that I went for a walk, okay? Delay as long as possible.”

  “Okay.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  Irene embraced her, saying she would write when she and her indio got settled. And Lily watched her walk into the forest. Then she fell back asleep, waking only when her parents emerged from the cabaña just before sunset.

  “Where is Irene?” her mother asked.

  “She went for a walk.”

  “Why is your hair wet?”

  Her father interrupted before Lily could answer. “Let her be, mi amor,” he said.

  Lily believed then that her father was special; that he could hear her thoughts and visit her dreams. She still believes it. That is why nearly twenty years later, as she fights against the doctor’s recommendation of a Cesarean in the hospital room, she is not surprised to see her father appear like a vision, to find herself in his arms, being carried out of the hospital. And so, at the age of thirty-four, she is finally forced to acknowledge that there are times when her father’s unpredictability has its advantages.

  Carlos Alberto pulls into the driveway, and Marta, having returned an hour earlier to a mysteriously empty house, opens the door with a furrowed brow. Though visibly shaken she quickly takes charge, guiding Carlos Alberto, who is carrying Lily, to the living room sofa, where he sits, still holding her too tightly against his chest. Marta touches the bruise on Lily’s forehead lightly, peers into her face. “What happened?” she asks.

  Lily closes her eyes; the burden of explaining is beyond her. Carlos Alberto answers on her behalf, “She fell and hurt herself. At the hospital they wanted to deliver the baby by Cesarean section, to be on the safe side, but she refused. And then...” He gestures wordlessly toward her father, Ismael, who stands framed in the doorway.

  Her mother says, “Lily wanted to come home and wait for Amparo to arrive before making any major decisions. It is only a matter of a day or two. In the meantime, Doctor Ricardo will come to check on her in the evenings. We’ll make up the daybed in the living room so that we can keep an eye on her and she on us. Come, Luz, you can help me.”

  The living room is the hub of the airy modern bungalow she has designed for herself and Carlos Alberto. It is her second favorite room, after the kitchen, with a high ceiling and large French doors leading to the patio and garden. In the living room she will never be alone and she will be able to see and know what is going on in the house. She realizes her decision to leave the hospital is virtually incomprehensible to Carlos Alberto, who thinks that doctors know everything. But she is certain, from the way her womb had clenched at the word Cesarean, that the doctor is wrong. She might not have had the strength to convince Carlos Alberto to take her away, might still be there, might at this very moment be under the surgeon’s knife, had her father not materialized out of nowhere, plucked her from the hospital bed, and simply spirited her out of the hospital. Suddenly, the thought of Dr. Ricardo Uzoátegui running after them waving assorted papers, in a panic over the breach in hospital check-out procedure, makes her want to laugh out loud, an impulse she controls out of loyalty to Carlos Alberto, who she is sure does not find any of this amusing.

  “Someone has cast the evil eye on you,” says Marta, propping Lily with pillows on the daybed. “We must seek divine protection.” She fingers the string of extended rosary beads she habitually wears around her neck. In the place where a crucifix should be, there is an image of Maria Lionza.

  Lily smiles. Marta is never hesitant to include Maria Lionza in mortal matters. Her candles and offerings and spells for every domestic crisis and national calamity have been a peripheral part of the household life for as long as she has worked for Lily’s family, a family whose primary religion has always been individual expression. It would not occur to anyone to ridicule Marta’s devotion or interfere with it in any way. They indulge its marginally obtrusive manifestations in their lives—the rope of garlic hanging in the kitchen window, the small statuettes on their bedside tables, the burning of colored candles and herbs, the murmuring of incantations. Even Carlos Alberto has come to regard Marta’s magical beliefs with indulgence and has, on occasion, been persuaded
to carry a charm for protection in his pocket. Her diagnosis comes as no surprise to anyone.

  “We will start a Novena to Maria Lionza this very night,” Marta decides.

  According to Marta, nine days before a baby comes into the world, its soul is born and wanders between the human world and the world of spirits, looking for the body it has been destined to inhabit. If the evil eye is cast before the soul finds its home, it continues to wander, lost between worlds. In order to guide the soul to the body, it is advisable to seek the help of Maria Lionza, for it is she who lights up the path for souls that are lost.

  “How do we go about it, Marta?” asks Lily agreeably, glad for the distraction, but hoping that Marta’s remedy doesn’t involve anything grisly such as chicken’s blood or pig’s feet.

  “Go about what?” says Luz, returning from the kitchen with her third beer.

  Lily pats the side of the bed for Luz to sit next to her, then holds her hand up, saying, “Let’s wait for Mami.”

  When Consuelo joins them in the living room moments later, Marta says, “Every night for nine nights, beginning tonight, we will say the Rosary of Maria Lionza and ask for her blessings.” Luz, a self-proclaimed atheist, rolls her eyes and groans, but stops when Lily shoots her a beseeching glance. Marta ignores her daughter and goes to the kitchen to look for candles.

  The sight of Carlos Alberto walking up and down on the patio is distracting, and Lily wants to divert him. When Marta leaves the room, she says loudly, “Carlos Alberto is the expert on Maria Lionza, aren’t you, darling? Come and tell us about her.”

  Carlos Alberto stops pacing and returns to the living room, where he draws a chair up to the daybed. With Lily nodding encouragingly, he explains that unlike the traditional rosary, the rosary of Maria Lionza has seven decades instead of five. Each decade, he says, is dedicated to one of the seven courts of the goddess, which comprise a pantheon: the Court of Maria Lionza, led by herself; the Medical Court, led by an early twentieth-century physician; the Court of the Juans, composed of various members of popular folklore; the Teacher’s Court, led by a late nineteenth-century writer; the Black Court, led by a martyred African slave; the Celestial Court, led by the Madonna; and the Malandro Court, led by Yoraco, a rogue who steals from the rich and gives to the poor and has never been caught by the authorities. Each court has various subdeities, some real, some mythological, some even derived from comic-book characters. And since there is no central authority among believers in Maria Lionza, lesser deities are constantly added to the courts.