The Neruda Case (13 page)

In fact, he had not considered this possibility. He had turned certain things over many times in his mind, and considered the options, but had not imagined that the poet could have mistaken an herbalist for a doctor thirty years ago. But why not? When he couldn’t even remember Ángel Bracamonte’s second last name. Of course, the poet was not a man concerned with practical details; he cared a great deal about poetic details, but these were another matter altogether. Cayetano supposed that the reporter had no intention of helping him. In Mexico, Mónica had warned him, a yes often meant no, and a no often meant “depends.” Unlike the Medical Association secretary, the unobliging Cervantes seemed bothered by Cayetano’s presence.

“To be perfectly frank,” the journalist continued, “I’ve never really liked Cubans, since one of them stole my girlfriend in college.”

“Then we’re even. A Mexican took the love of my life in Miami. That is, the woman I thought would be the love of my life,” Cayetano Brulé said, thinking fast, like Roy Rogers in the comic books of his childhood. “But I don’t resent Mexico for it. Who knows, he may even have done me a favor.”

The journalist gazed thoughtfully at the street, as though watching his old girlfriend pass by the window. Cayetano wondered whether the man was right, and Ángel Bracamonte was no doctor, but rather someone who proclaimed his art to be a science, closer to the herbalists who hawked near the cathedral than to surgeons. Perhaps the illness was damaging the poet’s memory. But it could also be a defense mechanism. If modern medicine could no longer save him, as the oncologists of Paris and Moscow had already made clear, then it was perfectly understandable that the poet would seek out a shaman in the hope of eluding death for a little while longer.

“Isn’t there any way to find this guy?” he asked, picking up the
thread of conversation. “I’ve been assigned to write about him for a Chilean newspaper.”

“And those poor Chileans, with everything they’re going through, have time to worry about some charlatan?”

“I ask you to consider one thing: Bracamonte’s plants could save dying people in Chile.”

“I’m sorry. Everything is possible, you never know,” Cervantes acknowledged thoughtfully, as though Cayetano’s words had moved him deeply. “I have an assistant who’s quite bright and who may be able to help you. If we find anything, I’ll let you know.”

“I’d greatly appreciate your contacting me at my hotel, or through Mónica Salvat, of the Medical Association. Can I trust you?”

“Completely.”

“Are you sure? Here people often say yes just to keep people calm.”

“Where does that happen?”

“Here in Mexico, or so I’ve heard.”

“Really. Well, that all depends, sir. In any case, you can count on me.”

“I truly thank you. Many readers will feel their spirits lift when they find out Ángel Bracamonte is still alive.”

“Don’t worry, I’m on the case. But first, tell me this: How exactly did that compatriot of mine steal the love of your life?”

MARÍA
ANTONIETA

16

W
hat do you think about this?” asked Mónica Salvat.

In the din of Taquería El Encanto, in the Zona Rosa, they had just ordered Yucatecan
penachos
and three beverages each: tequila, sangria, and lemonade. A trio was playing a bolero for a table of outrageous, drunk North Americans in Hawaiian shirts who were roaring with laughter. Cayetano glanced at the newspaper clipping Mónica held. It was a typical photograph of diplomatic receptions, the kind that usually appeared in the social pages. In it, four men and three women smiled at the camera.

“Relatives of yours?” asked Cayetano. On the walk to the restaurant, Mónica had told him about her Russian immigrant mother, her Mexican father, and her upbringing in Coyoacán, near the house where Ramón Mercader had murdered Leon Trotsky with an ice pick.

“You see the man in the suit and bow tie?” she asked.

“Is that your father?”

“That’s Ángel Bracamonte. At the home of the Cuban ambassador, October tenth, 1941.”

Cayetano took a closer look at the clipping. He studied the features of the man at the center of the group, which dissolved into
infinite dots as he raised the page toward his glasses. He made out a gaunt face, large and tired eyes, receding gray hair, and a thick mustache. This was the man the poet was looking for, he said to himself, trying to contain his excitement.

“Where did you find this?”

“Cervantes, the reporter, gave it to me. The text doesn’t refer to Bracamonte as a doctor, and, what’s worse, his name isn’t in the association’s register. Either he never joined, or he wasn’t a doctor. But there you have it. He exists. He’s not a phantom. Cervantes found this in the social pages of a magazine that came out around that time.”

“Do I owe him anything?” he asked, without taking his eyes off Bracamonte’s face.

“He’ll be fine with a couple of books from the publisher Quimantú and a bottle of Chilean red wine.”

“I’ll send him all of that, don’t worry. How did he find the photo?”

“Looking through the celebrations for the National Day of Cuba.”

“And where is Bracamonte now?” He drained the glass of tequila, then drank the sangria so that the tequila wouldn’t sting his insides. He felt like celebrating. This Mexican night was turning out to be perfect.

“We don’t know. But at least you know the face of the man you’re looking for.” The trio was now singing “Nosotros.” Mónica added, “And we know he may not have been a doctor.”

Suddenly he was flooded with worry. If Bracamonte was one of those charlatans who traveled around Latin America promising miracle cures, the poet would be devastated. A waiter refilled his tequila glass. “Do you know anything about the people around him?”

The women had Rita Hayworth hairstyles and gleamed in low-cut dresses. They seemed sure of themselves and their lives. The men
were smiling, sporting dark suits, with a wineglass or Cuban cigar in hand. They were all older, except for the young woman next to Bracamonte.

“His daughter?” asked Cayetano.

“His wife. She must be about twenty years old there. She looks like his granddaughter. At this point she’s probably in her fifties. Impossible to find her, since we don’t know her maiden name. Your friend doesn’t remember a Beatriz?”

“My friend knew the doctor, but I don’t think he knew his wife.”

Beatriz had light-colored hair, which she wore pulled back, and a melancholy gaze. She looked like a ballet dancer. She was by far the youngest and most beautiful member of the group, the least arrogant, and, judging by her jewelry, Cayetano thought, also the simplest.

“Did you take a good look at the caption?” asked Mónica.

“The gentlemen are identified by first and last name, the ladies only by first name. They’re celebrating the National Day of Cuba.”

“You missed that it also describes an upcoming dinner to benefit a foundation against cancer …”

“Then it must be him,” Cayetano exclaimed, rereading the text. “This man has to be the Dr. Ángel Bracamonte I’m looking for! Mónica, you’re a genius. Did you also find the phone number of the association?”

“I tried, but it no longer exists.”

That news hit him like a bucket of ice-cold water. He returned to his tequila.

“Well, can’t we find the other people in the photo?” he asked, with a resurgence of hope.

“They’re dead. Except for the woman on the edge.” Her finger landed on the photo. “She’s the widow of Sebastián Alemán, the bald man on her right, a major stockholder in the biggest beer brewery in the country. She’s still alive.”

“So what are we waiting for to talk to her?”

“The hard part will be getting access. In this country, business tycoons are like Hollywood stars, Cayetano. They live behind huge walls, travel in cars with tinted windows, and are surrounded by bodyguards. But let’s give it a try and see how it goes.”

17

D
on Pablo?”

“Speaking.”

“I’m calling you from Mexico City. Can you talk right now?” Cayetano put Neruda’s book down on the bed, an anthology of poems he’d borrowed from Laura Aréstegui. It lay open to a page that began:

“I’m in my chair, my Nube, young man. I just returned from my treatments, wrung out like a rag. Your call woke me. Have you found the man?”

“Almost, Don Pablo.”

“What do you mean, ‘almost’?”

“I mean, I don’t know his whereabouts. But soon I’ll be talking to someone who might know where he is.”

“So you still don’t know where he lives?”

“Nobody knows him. He isn’t registered as a doctor. He may have gone abroad. Are you sure he was a doctor?”

Silence. A cough. Then the same tired voice.

“I thought he was. But now that I think about it, I don’t know whether he was technically qualified in the eyes of the law. It’s a good question, young man. …”

“Don’t you think that, being Cuban, he might have gone to Havana, lured by the revolution?”

Another silence.

“We all feel drawn to the revolution at some point.” He said this rather evasively. “But him …I don’t know what to say. He also had a beautiful wife, much younger. You didn’t happen to learn anything about her?”