The Disappearance of Irene Dos Santos (19 page)

There were other valid reasons to deliver the letter later rather than sooner; it gave them more time to plan for contingencies
and to better orchestrate an escape for Consuelo and Ismael, as well as for Lily Percomo.

Amparo said she had overheard Diego Garcia telling Alejandro that the P.E. had their own moles in the government, including
a man in the Seguridad Nacional. If that were the case, surely Alejandro must be privy to information on Ismael’s status,
or could acquire it through Diego Garcia. Lily said Amparo would have to obtain this information from Alejandro. At which
point, Consuelo finally spoke: “I would rather set myself on fire in front of the Presidential Palace than spend one more
day doing nothing.”

And so it was that they decided to implement their plan with immediate effect.

But that night, while Lily Percomo was in the process of stealing her husband’s stationery, Ralph had woken up and surprised
her in his study, the briefcase open before her. He had beaten her senseless. She was admitted to the hospital in a coma from
which she would never emerge. Her husband claimed she had fallen down a flight of stairs. She died within a week. And Amparo
confessed to Alejandro.

Since it could not be known how much information, if any, Ralph Percomo had been able to extract from his wife before she
lost consciousness, for the sake of her safety, Alejandro wanted Consuelo to leave Tamanaco immediately. But Consuelo insisted
she would not leave without Ismael, that without Ismael her life would have no value anyway, that without Ismael she would
rather be dead. And no one, not even Amparo, could change her thinking on this. The next day, she phoned to make an appointment
with Pedro Lanz. Her request was granted and she hired a taxi for the hour-long drive to the capital. She returned from the
meeting in a subdued state, saying that she had appealed to his sense of honor. She said she had given her personal guarantee
that Ismael would be no trouble to him in the future. He had assured her that he was a man of his word and had promised to
help.

“There is hope,” she said. “It is all I have.” Amparo and Alejandro were torn between admiration for her resilience and pity
for her faith in such a promise.

For nine more days they waited. During this time, there was no word from the mole at the Seguridad Nacional. They went about
their business as usual, but their nerves were on the point of breaking. On the tenth day, a car with darkened windows was
seen parked for several hours outside the Aguilar house. Alejandro said the situation was too dangerous, that Consuelo must
leave the city because the government might try to use her against Ismael. He had hit on the only argument that could persuade
her to leave the city, the terrifying thought that she might be the instrument used to break her husband. That very evening,
Consuelo exchanged clothes with Amparo’s housekeeper, covered her head with a scarf, and walked undetected to a taxi stand.
Alejandro had instructed her to get into a cab with a particular license plate number. The driver had already been instructed
to drive nonstop to the destination written on the paper Amparo handed him earlier in the day.

When they arrived in Yaracuy, the driver had refused payment.

“God bless you,” said Consuelo.

“God, and the P.E.,” said the driver, winking. And it was only then that she had noticed that the tattoo on his forearm was
a passion flower.

A week later, on New Year’s Day, thousands of people revolted against the dictatorship with the support of part of the Air
Force, but the revolt was put down. A massive general strike followed within days. When the Navy joined the rebellion, El
Colonel fled the country in a small plane in the early hours of the morning. All political prisoners were released. According
to Consuelo, when she heard the news on the radio, she ran out of the safe house into the moonlight, laughing and dancing
and crying all at the same time.

Years later she would name her only child Lily, with the English spelling, in memory of the woman who died trying to help
her get her husband back.

Amparo is crazy about Lily, which is why she has moved, bag and baggage, along with her best nurse, the former radio and telenovela
star Alegra Montemar, into the Quintanilla household. But also, it is because she wants to be a support to Consuelo, to make
sure she is all right. It is always harder for a mother with an only child; there is nothing comparable to that depth of attachment.
Lily is her world, and her anxiety about the delivery is palpable. Consuelo is depending on her, Amparo, who has never lost
a baby or a mother. Her closest call, where she almost lost both, was eleven years earlier, when she had delivered the love
child of a young mestiza woman called Coromoto. It was their friend Diego Garcia who had carried the woman in his arms, her
body too thin for childbearing, her arms scarred with tracks, to Amparo at midnight.

“It’s too risky, Diego,” said Amparo. “Take her to the hospital.”

“Amparo, the girl is destitute. No hospital in the city will accept her.”

“No, Diego.”

“Amparo, what do you think Lucrecia would do in your shoes?”

And still Amparo resisted, shaking her head.

“Let me put it this way, what would you do if you knew the child this poor girl was carrying is Lucrecia’s grandchild? Lucrecia’s
and mine?”

So of course Amparo could not refuse.

They had settled the young woman, delirious and burning with fever, in a back room of the clinic. Two weeks later, when labor
began, Amparo had struggled for hours trying to turn the breach baby. Every time she tried to reach inside, the woman would
arch her back and emit a spine-chilling scream, and Amparo would have to stop. It was the only time in all her years of practicing
midwifery that she thought she might lose a mother in the birthing process.

Amparo can still see the woman’s taut and exhausted face before her. “No hospitals,” she said through clenched teeth. “You
do it.”

It was too late to call an ambulance; it would be too dangerous to move the girl at that stage. For a moment, Amparo’s mind
went blank. As she struggled against the wave of panic, the words of her teacher came to her rescue.

“Indigenous people have been using coca leaf for centuries for medicinal purposes and in rituals. When a child is born, relatives
celebrate by chewing coca leaf together. When a young man wants to marry a girl, he offers coca to her parents. Coca leaf
is harmless when used in the traditional way. For the most part, it is used medicinally, mostly to dull hunger. But coca has
another beneficiary use: it both hastens labor and eases pain.”

Between contractions, she gave the girl an infusion of coca leaf. Then she handed her an entire bag of leaves to chew at will.
During the next break between contractions, she smeared her hand and arm again with a mixture of aloe vera and olive oil.
Closing her mind to the screams, she reached into the womb and finally coaxed the baby around. There had been a lot of blood—Amparo
had never seen so much blood before or after this one delivery—and she had feared for the lives of both mother and child.
The woman had a tear so long and so deep, it took Amparo half an hour to stitch it, and the baby was yellow with jaundice.
The first twenty-four hours had been critical. But Amparo had used all her skill in treating them and they had survived. It
was still ill-advised for them to be moved—and, in any case, where would they go? They made their recovery on a cot in the
back room of the clinic. After eight days, a young Guajiro man with a perpetually running nose had come to take mother and
child away. And Amparo had been relieved.

A few days later, when she had checked her supplies, she saw that her entire stock of coca leaf was missing. God only knows
what happened to the woman and her baby in the end. She sometimes wonders about them.

Even though Amparo is a practical person, even after witnessing exactly one thousand six hundred and fifty-two deliveries,
the marvel of birth has never failed to humble her. Three years earlier she had participated with reverence at the birth of
her own granddaughter, and in a matter of days she will experience the joy of seeing Lily’s baby come into the light.

Whatever eccentricities Marta might exhibit, she is certainly right about one thing; too much anxiety at Lily’s bedside is
not good for Lily or the baby so precariously lodged in her womb after so many years of trying. Even unborn babies need to
be surrounded by joy and good cheer, much more so when their mothers are frightened of losing them. That is why she thinks
Marta’s Novena is a good idea. What harm could there be to mumble a few incantations and tell stories at Lily’s bedside?

No harm at all.

Amparo is sitting in the study with her back to the door. She glances nervously over her shoulder to see if anyone is there,
but they are all in the kitchen, listening avidly to a football game on the transistor radio. During commercials, they break
into a heated discussion about football and why Venezuela has never made it to the World Cup.

“Who said that?” whispers Amparo to the air. The voice is familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. “Look at me, por Dios,
talking to an imaginary voice! It must be senility coming on. May the Virgin protect me.”

Your pale and tedious Virgin has lost her ability to imagine. She could never envisage such an extraordinary development.
Now, pay attention, por favor, because there is something I need you to do. Go to the Quinta Consuelo. In the lower right-hand
drawer of the dressing table in the master bedroom you will find a photograph. Bring it here
.

“But what for?”

For remembering.

Amparo thinks her mind is playing tricks on her, tired out as it is from so much emoción, so much effort to create just the
right atmosphere for bringing this special baby into the world. Of course it is just her apprehension about Lily, about the
awesome responsibility of bringing Consuelo’s grandchild into the world alive and well.

The evening before, after Ismael had taken off for his own house in his decrepit Lancer to get a change of clothes, Consuelo
had suddenly sent Amparo after him.

“Amparo, please follow him home and bring him back in time for dinner,” she said, “I don’t think he’s eaten all day.”

“Of course, querida,” says Amparo, although she does not understand why Consuelo does not go herself, take the opportunity
to spend some time alone with her husband after being separated for the past six months. Now that they are together in their
daughter’s house, Consuelo’s continued use of intermediaries between herself and Ismael seems crazy.

Crazy or not, it is the reason Amparo finds herself half an hour later ringing the doorbell of Quinta Consuelo, where Ismael
and his wife had spent thirty-five years of their lives together.

Ismael opens the door with what Amparo has come to refer as his hard-boiled look. “I don’t need any meddling mother hens around
here,” he says. But then his features soften, and she knows he is joking.

“Ismael, kindly address your complaints to your esposa. She sent me to make sure you are back for dinner,” she says.

“Está bien, mujer,” said Ismael. “But don’t try to keep me there. My daughter’s house is overflowing, and her sofa is not
very comfortable for sleeping. I have been on the road for most of these past six months, sleeping on the ground in the open
air. I am due a few nights of comfort in my own bed.”

Amparo laughs, for Ismael is a man who is perfectly comfortable sleeping on the ground in the open air, and possibly even
prefers it.

“Would you mind if I use your bathroom?” she asks. Ismael gestures politely toward the master bedroom.

In the bedroom, which is preserved in a state of disarray, Amparo notices that the side of the bed where Consuelo used to
sleep is the only side that is rumpled. And her heart aches for Ismael. With all their bravado, men are lost without their
women in the end. She is glad Alejandro went before her, even though she misses that old malandro so much it makes her teeth
hurt.