Beyond the Ties of Blood (13 page)

“Hey, Manuel. What's the deal with the guys from the Catholic University?” Hernán was standing at his elbow.

“Your guess is as good as mine,
compadre
. One thing we know for sure. Those manicured mama's boys aren't about to appear anytime soon.”

“No kidding,” Hernán snorted, lighting a black tobacco cigarette and trying to anchor his beret more firmly on the nest of unruly chocolate-colored straw that sprung out in all directions from his scalp. He offered Manuel a cigarette, brought out a box of wooden matches, and cupped his hands around his friend's to protect the flame. “Especially that Sergio what's-his-name. Real piece of work, that guy.”

“No argument here.” Manuel blew out a cloud of smoke. “But we have to work with them anyway, at least for now. They have a big following, and besides, with the Left in power we have to play nice.” The two leaned on the fence, right hiking boots over left. “Good news is,” Manuel continued, “we get the place to ourselves for a while. We set the tone, and when they get here, they won't be able to take over.” He slapped his friend on the back and they both got back up, preparing to turn on the megaphone and begin warming up the crowd.

“The early bird gets the worm, my friend.”

Manuel put down the megaphone and limped slowly down the stairs, the last of the adrenaline draining from his limbs. No matter how many times he led a demonstration, the feeling was still the same. It began to build slowly, as the growing throng answered his chants, and then he was riding on the crest of the collective roar, controlling its ups and downs yet being controlled by it. And then, once it was over, the quick collapse, his body a punctured balloon.

“Excuse me.
Compañero
.” She was standing right in front of him. She was trying hard to look like she belonged, with the black turtleneck, faded jeans, and worn-in leather jacket. But the shiny, pointed boots, lost look, and expensive haircut screamed upper-class.

“
Compañera
.” He tried to straighten up, his arms and legs resisting as if he were a puppet with broken strings.

She seemed nervous, shifting her weight from right to left on those ridiculous boots. “Sorry to disturb you, but …” she cleared her throat. Her eyes were almost turquoise. He felt a familiar warmth rising through his legs. He leaned slightly sideways, right elbow on the fence, and noticed a small rivulet of sweat inching its way down her left temple. “Do you know Sergio Undurraga?” she finally blurted out.

He crumpled back down, the promise of sexual adventure collapsing around him. She held out a small, square-fingered right hand. “Eugenia Aldunate. It's just that he was supposed to meet me here at ten-thirty.”

“Manuel Bronstein.” He shook her hand briefly. Even he, freshly arrived from the provinces, knew her name had a pedigree. There were a couple of Aldunates at the University of Chile, from branches of the family that had ended up on the skids. It wasn't unusual for this to happen in huge clans like the Aldunates, which had a bit of everything. Yet the Aldunates he'd met at the university, who didn't have the money for a decent lunch at the subsidized student cafeteria, still looked down on those like him whose last names marked them as recent immigrants. He looked her over once again. She didn't look like her branch had done any suffering lately.

Annoyed by what she represented, he made some reference to how Sergio was always chasing skirts. She'd been angry, of course, but in the midst of it all she managed to exude strength and a surprising dignity. And she didn't just walk away. He had to admit that most girls, no matter what social class they were from, wouldn't have pulled off such dignity after some random stranger told them their boyfriend was cheating on them. So he offered to buy her a juice and they talked for a while.

When it came time to go back to the demonstration, he was pretty sure that nothing else would come of it. She'd find Sergio, they'd make nice, and off she'd go. Even as she played at being radical, she was so much like the girls at his fancy high school in Temuco. She and Sergio deserved each other. And yet. Was it the turquoise eyes? Was it that dignified attitude, not letting him get away with anything?

In the end, the truth was probably a lot simpler. Ever since he'd gotten to Santiago, he'd felt like one of his legs had grown longer than the other. He was constantly tripping over himself with the girls. The minute he said he was from Temuco, they'd get this strange look in their eyes, a cross between pity and disdain. This was especially true of the more political girls, who in Temuco had fallen over each other trying to get close to him. Ironic. So what was it with Santiago chicks? Maybe he'd have to settle for a greener upper-class one, more like the girls at his school.

When he finally got Eugenia back to his apartment, it took him forever to get the key in the lock. After they climbed up the stairs he pulled her into his room and pressed her belly and thighs into him. He unzipped her jacket and pulled the turtleneck up over her head. He fumbled with the hooks on her bra, the girls he'd been with before never wore them. But then it was off, her breasts free, their large dark nipples rising up against his tongue. Only then did he see the door was still open, and managed to slam it with one kick. He turned and swept her onto his bed, removing her jeans. His large hands took off her panties and spread her thighs, her thick, musky scent inviting him in. Then she gasped and drew back.

Armando had been right. These bourgois greenhorns were something else. She was crying. Yet when she spoke her voice was as dignified as if she had just accepted a cup of tea. Again he was off balance. What was it about this girl?

In the first few days after the fiasco with Eugenia, Manuel spent more and more time at the café. He hadn't been going to many of his classes anyway, but as he sat drinking red wine by himself, hours would go by and he started missing political meetings. After his buddies came by his apartment one morning to find him lying in bed, Manuel turned to the “A's” in the telephone book, wondering idly how many Aldunates would be listed. As he thumbed through, his eyebrows slowly went up. One … two … three … five whole pages. Just out of curiosity, he told himself, to see what would happen, he started dialing from the top of the list, calling a few names a day.

What he mainly got was irritation. Wrong number! No Eugenia here! Occasionally the person on the other end stopped for a second, then said, wait, I'll get her. But then the voice on the other end clearly was not hers, and he would hang up. On the fourth day, twelve names in, he hit pay dirt.

“Aldunate residence.” He could tell it was a maid.

“
Buenas tardes
,” he began.

“
Buenas tardes
,” she answered.

“Is Eugenia there?”

“May I ask who's calling?”

“I'm a classmate of hers at the university, I sit behind her in one of her classes. I seem to have misplaced my notebook, and I need the homework for tomorrow.”

“
Niña
Eugenia is doing her homework right now. May I tell her your name?”

“I'm in her grammar class. I'm not even sure she'll remember me by name.”

“All right, young man,” the maid answered. “I'll go see if
niña
Eugenia is willing to talk to you.”

For a long time he waited. If it hadn't been for the sound of the maid's retreating footsteps, he would have been sure she'd hung up on him. Then—

“Hello?”

“You're exactly the twelfth Aldunate in the phone book. I've been calling four a day.”

“I can't talk very long right now.”

“I've missed you, too.”

“No, Manuel, you don't understand, I—”

“It's okay. I think we should meet, at the same place at the Plaza Baquedano. I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

“You know it'll take me longer, plus it's getting late already, I don't know if—”

“It's only five in the afternoon. You can tell your mom that I'm a stupid classmate who needs your help. Play up your generous side.”

“Mama just got back from shopping. If she's willing to have the chauffeur drop me off, I can be there in twenty-five minutes. If I'm not there by six, it means I couldn't get away.”

“I'll wait till six-fifteen. And Eugenia?”

“Yeah?”

“If you don't make it, I won't call you again. But you know where to find me.”

She did make it, and he'd waited until she arrived before he started drinking. He needed to be in control, he'd decided. And this time they made love. It was the first time he'd called it making love instead of having sex. She made fun of him for that. Not that he'd admit it to anyone else, but maybe that was part of why he fell for her. It was nice to be teased. The Revolutionary Left girls might be freer spirits than Eugenia, but they definitely took themselves a lot more seriously. After she lost her virginity, he was sure she'd be fishing for declarations of undying love, when am I going to see you again, that kind of stuff. Instead, she made fun of him. And when he got her clothes off, she put the Revolutionary Left girls to shame.

August gave way to September, and Allende approached the first-year anniversary of his election. Cherry and apple blossoms bloomed merrily against an incandescent blue sky, and the Mapocho River swelled with the early melting snows of the Andes. The mood in the city was also springlike. People who didn't know each other smiled in greeting on the streets and buses.

“The shops are full and prices are so low,” Eugenia said one day when she came back to Manuel's place with a beef tongue for dinner. “Everyone has plenty of money in their pockets.”

Most weeks, Eugenia stayed downtown several times, saying she was sleeping at her sister's apartment. Manuel's organization had brought in another activist to help with the land takeovers along the edges of the city, and they managed leisurely meals most evenings she stayed over. Sometimes they'd invite Irene and her friend Gabriela and share the preparations of a chicken or lamb shank stew served with fresh bread from the corner bakery. It was the most domestic Manuel had been since David died.

But spring was short, and things heated up everywhere as summer approached. With the Christmas holidays around the corner, the right-wing newspapers began to carry horror stories about the lack of basic goods, such as toilet paper, oil, and soap. Mainly it was propaganda, of course, an attempt to whip up a fear of shortages. One headline after another screamed about children not getting toys that year and that it was Allende and his government's fault. In the week before Christmas, the rumored scarcity of flour, sugar, and eggs sent everyone into the stores to stock up, and thus real shortages did develop.

“When I was home last week, I told my mother that hoarding had actually created shortages where none existed before,” Eugenia commented shortly after the New Year. “But she asked me when I'd become such a leftist, and accused me of thinking the government was doing a good job.”