Of Love and Shadows (3 page)

Digna Ranquileo had a soft spot in her heart for her husband. For him, she set aside the best portions from the stewpot, the largest eggs, the softest wool to knit his sweaters and socks. She brewed herbs for his kidneys, to clear his thoughts, to purify his blood, and to help him sleep, but it was evident that in spite of her care Hipólito was growing old. At that moment, two of the children were fighting over the last of the scrambled eggs and onion and he sat watching, indifferent. In normal times he would have cuffed their ears and separated them, but now he had eyes only for Evangelina; he followed her with his gaze as if he were afraid he would see her transformed into a monster like those in the circus. At that hour the girl was merely one more in a jumble of shivering and uncombed children. Nothing in her appearance gave any indication of what would happen in a few hours, precisely at noon.

“Heal her, Lord,” Digna repeated, covering her face with her apron so they would not see her talking to herself.

*  *  *

The day dawned so mild that Hilda Leal suggested they eat breakfast wrapped only in the warmth from the kitchen stove, but her husband reminded her that she had to be careful and not catch cold because as a girl she had had weak lungs. According to the calendar, it was still winter, but the color of the early mornings and the song of the larks heralded the arrival of spring. They should save fuel. It was a time of shortages, but in consideration of his wife's frail health Professor Leal insisted on lighting the kerosene stove. Day and night, this ancient contrivance circulated from room to room, accompanying the movement of the occupants of the house.

While Hilda was setting out the crockery, Professor Leal, in overcoat, muffler, and slippers, stepped out to the patio to put grain in the bird-feeders and fresh water in the bowls. He noted the minuscule buds on the tree and calculated that soon branches would be covered with leaves, like a green citadel to shelter the migratory birds. He liked seeing them flying free as much as he hated cages, and he considered it unforgivable to imprison them simply for the luxury of always keeping them in sight. Even in small details, he was consistent with his anarchistic principles: if freedom is the first right of man, with even greater reason it should be the right of creatures born with wings on their backs.

His son Francisco called from the kitchen, announcing that the tea was ready and that José had arrived for a visit. The Professor hurried in, because it was unusual to see his son the priest so early on a Saturday, as he was in such demand in his never-ending task of giving succor to his neighbors. He saw José sitting at the table, and noticed for that first time that his hair was getting thin at the nape of the neck.

“What is it, son? Is anything wrong?” he asked, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Nothing, Father. I wanted to eat a decent breakfast, one prepared by Mama.”

José was the sturdiest and least polished of the family, the only one without the long bones and aquiline nose of the Leals. He looked like a Mediterranean fisherman, and nothing in his appearance betrayed the delicacy of his soul. He had entered the Seminary as soon as he graduated from high school, and—except for his father—that decision surprised no one, because from the time he was a boy he had had a Jesuit's outlook on life and had spent his childhood dressing up in bath towels, pretending to be a bishop and saying mass. There was no explanation for his inclinations; in their house no one openly practiced religion, and his mother, although she considered herself a Catholic, had not gone to mass since she was married. Professor Leal's consolation in the face of his son's decision was that his son wore a workman's clothes instead of a cassock, lived in a proletarian barrio instead of a monastery, and was closer to the tragic alarms of this world than to the mysteries of the Eucharist. José was wearing a pair of pants passed down from his older brother, a faded shirt, and a sweater of thick wool knitted by his mother. His hands were calloused from the plumber's tools with which he defrayed the expenses of his existence.

“I'm organizing some little courses on Christianity,” he said in a sly voice.

“So I've heard,” replied Francisco, who had every reason to know, since they worked together at a free clinic in the parish and he was well informed about his brother's activities.

“Oh, José, don't go getting mixed up in politics,” Hilda pleaded. “Do you want to go to jail again, son?”

The last worry in José Leal's mind was for his own safety. He hardly had enough energy to keep count of the misfortunes of others. He carried on his back an inexhaustible burden of sorrow and injustice and he often reproached the Creator for so severely putting his faith to the test: if divine love existed, so much human suffering seemed a mockery. In the arduous labor of feeding the poor and sheltering the homeless, he had lost the ecclesiastical polish acquired in the Seminary, and had been irreversibly transformed into a rugged man divided between impatience and piety. His father favored him above all his sons, for he could see the similarity between his own philosophical ideals and what he qualified as his son's barbaric Christian superstition. That assuaged his sorrow; he had come to forgive José's religious vocation, ceasing to grieve at night with his head buried in the pillow, so as not to worry his wife as he vented his shame at having a priest in the family.

“In fact, brother, I came looking for you,” said José, turning to Francisco. “I want you to come over to see a young girl. She was raped a week ago, and since then hasn't spoken a word. Use your knowledge of psychology because God can't cope with such problems.”

“I can't come today. I have to go with Irene to take some photographs, but I'll come see the girl tomorrow. How old is she?”

“Ten.”

“My God!” Hilda exclaimed. “What monster could do that to a poor innocent child?”

“Her father.”

“That's enough, please!” commanded Professor Leal. “Do you want to make your mother ill?”

Francisco poured tea for everyone, and for a while they were all silent, searching for a topic of conversation to ease Hilda's anguish. The only woman in a family of men, she had succeeded in imposing her sweetness and discretion. They could not remember ever having seen her irritated. In her presence there were no boyish wrangles, no off-color jokes, no vulgarity. When he was a child, Francisco had suffered from the fear that his mother, worn down by their harsh life, might be imperceptibly disappearing, and would one day dissipate like the mist. Then he would run to her side, hug her, cling to her clothing in a desperate attempt to retain her presence, her warmth, the smell of her apron, the sound of her voice. Much time had passed since then, but his tenderness for her was still his most unswerving emotion.

After Javier married and José left for the Seminary, only Francisco remained in his parents' home. He lived in the same room he had as a boy, with pine furniture and bookshelves crammed with books. Once he had thought of renting his own place but, deep down, he enjoyed his family's company and, besides, did not want to cause his parents any unnecessary sorrow. For them, there were only three reasons why a son would leave home: war, marriage, or the priesthood. Later they would add a fourth: flight from the police.

The Leals' house was small, old, modest, greatly in need of paint and repair. At night it creaked softly, like a weary, rheumatic old woman. Professor Leal had designed it many years before, convinced that the only indispensable features were a large kitchen where they could live their lives and where he could set up a clandestine printing press, a patio where Hilda could hang the clothes and he could sit and watch the birds, and enough rooms to hold beds for their children. Everything else depended on largeness of spirit and liveliness of the intellect, he said when anyone complained of the cramped quarters or unpretentiousness. They were comfortable there, and there was space and the good will for welcoming friends in trouble and relatives from Europe escaping the war. Theirs was an affectionate family. Far into adolescence, even after they grew a mustache, the boys still crept into bed with the parents to read the morning newspaper and to ask Hilda to scratch their backs. When the older boys moved away, the Leals felt as if the house were too big; they saw shadows in the corners and heard echoes in the hallways, but then the grandchildren were born and the habitual hubbub returned.

“We need to repair the roof tiles and replace the pipes,” Hilda said every time it rained or a new leak appeared.

“Why? We still have our house in Teruel, and when Franco dies we'll be going back to Spain,” her husband replied.

Professor Leal had dreamed of returning to his homeland from the day the ship steamed away from the coast of Europe. Outraged by the Caudillo, he vowed never to put on a pair of socks until he knew Franco was dead and buried, never imagining how many decades would pass before his wish was fulfilled. His vow produced scales on his feet and created difficulties in his professional dealings. On occasion he had to meet with important figures, or was commissioned to administer examinations in various schools, and his bare feet in the large rubber-soled shoes stirred a certain amount of prejudice. He was extremely proud, however, and rather than offer an explanation, he preferred to be considered an eccentric foreigner or a penniless wretch whose salary did not allow him to buy stockings. The only time he was able to take his family to the mountains to enjoy the snow, he had to remain inside the hotel with his feet as blue and frozen as herrings.

“Put on some socks, dear. After all, Franco doesn't know about your vow,” Hilda implored.

He shot her a withering glance overflowing with dignity and sat in solitary splendor beside the fire. Once his mortal enemy had died, he put on a pair of brilliant red socks that embraced all his existential philosophy, but within half an hour was forced to remove them. He had gone sockless far too long, and now could not tolerate them. Dissembling, he swore to continue to go without socks until the fall of the General who ruled his adopted country with a fist of iron.

“Dammit, you can put them on me when I'm dead,” he said. “I want to go to hell in red socks!”

He did not believe in life after death, but any precaution in that direction was no strain on his generous temperament. Democracy in Spain had not persuaded him to wear socks, or caused him to return, because his children, his grandchildren, and his roots in America held him there. The house, however, went without the needed repairs. Following the military coup, more urgent matters occupied the family. Because of his political ideas, Professor Leal was placed on the list of undesirables, and forced to retire. He lost none of his optimism when he found himself without work and on a minimal pension, but printed leaflets in his kitchen offering literature courses, and distributed them wherever he could. His few students helped stabilize the family budget, and allowed them to live simply and still help Javier. Their eldest son encountered serious difficulties in providing for his wife and three children. The Leals' standard of living declined, as it did for so many in their situation. They gave up season tickets to the concerts and theater, books, records, and other refinements that had cheered their days. Later, when it was evident that Javier could not find a job, his father decided to build a couple of rooms and a bath in the patio and take in the whole family. The three brothers worked on weekends laying bricks under the direction of Professor Leal, who derived his knowledge from a manual bought in a secondhand book sale. As none of them had experience in masonry, and as several pages were missing from the manual, the predictable result, upon completion of the work, was a building with tortuous walls that they attempted to disguise by covering them with ivy. Javier opposed to the end the idea of living at his parents' expense. He came by his pride naturally.

“What feeds three will feed eight,” said Hilda, imperturbable as always. Once she made up her mind, there was seldom room for argument.

“Times are bad, son. We have to help each other,” added Professor Leal.

In spite of the problems, he felt satisfied with his life and would have been totally happy had he not been tormented from his earliest years by the devastating revolutionary passion that shaped his character and his life. He dedicated a good portion of his energy, time, and income to spreading his ideological principles. He educated his three sons in his doctrine, he taught them from the time they were small to operate the clandestine printing press in the kitchen, and he took them with him to hand out pamphlets at factory doors behind the backs of the police. Hilda was always at his side in union meetings, with her tireless knitting needles in hand and her knitting wool in a bag in her lap. While her husband harangued his comrades, she drifted off into a secret world, savoring her memories, embroidering affections, reliving her happiest recollections, totally divorced from the clamor of the political discussions. Through a long and gentle process of purification, she had succeeded in erasing most of the privation of the past, and guarded only the happy moments. She never spoke of the war, the dead she had buried, her accident, or that long march toward exile. Those who knew her attributed her selective memory to the blow that had split open her skull when she was young, but Professor Leal could interpret the small signs and suspected that she had forgotten nothing. She simply did not want to burden herself with ancient woes, and for that reason she never mentioned them, nullifying them through silence. His wife had accompanied him down life's road for so long that Professor Leal could not remember his life without her. She marched steadfastly beside him in street demonstrations. In intimate collaboration, they raised their sons. She helped others more needy than she, camped outdoors on nights during strikes, and rose at dawn to take in sewing when his salary would not stretch far enough to support the family. With the same enthusiasm with which she had followed him to war and into exile, she carried him warm meals when he was arrested and put in jail; she had not lost her equanimity the day their furniture was attached, or her good humor as they slept trembling with cold on the third-class deck of a refugee ship. Hilda accepted all her husband's eccentricities—and they were not few—in uninterrupted peace, because throughout their long life together her love for him had only grown.