The Rhythm of Memory (30 page)

Octavio had picked him up in his orange car, and the two of them sped to Independencia Avenue without speaking a word to each other. Father Cisneros could tell by Octavio’s expression how tense he was. His lips were bitten and cracked, his fingers white as they wrapped around the steering wheel.

“Do you know this general personally?” Octavio finally asked.

“No, I don’t.”

“How did you arrange this meeting, then?”

“I wrote a letter on the official stationery of the United Nation’s Church and received a reply within three days.”

“Unbelievable.” Octavio slowed down the car. “What’s the name of the man who we are seeing?”

“Martinez. According to some of my colleagues who read the newspaper more religiously than their Bibles, he was appointed to his position less than a month ago.”

“I see.”

“Just let me do the talking. I have what I am going to say all planned out.”

“As you wish, but please stress that we want my wife released immediately. You understand how dire her situation is, Father, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes, of course, I do,” the priest muttered. “I understand all too well.”

“What can I do for you gentlemen…for you,
Father?
” Martinez corrected himself.

“I come here on official duties, General. As a priest associated with the United Nations,” Cisneros said firmly, looking the general squarely in the eye.

“Is that so? Could you please elaborate, as your letter is a bit vague.” Then, strangely, Martinez added in a quiet voice, “I apologize. Perhaps I have just been ill-informed. It is no reflection on you, of course, Father.”

The priest smiled as even he saw that he appeared to have the upper hand with the general.

Martinez’s politeness surprised Octavio. He had expected a more brutish man, with a sterner voice and a more intimidating presence. Martinez, perhaps because he only had been a general for less than four weeks, seemed almost apologetic.

“Well,” Father Cisneros elaborated, “it has come to my attention that a woman—a wife and mother of three small children—has been abducted by the military police and has remained wrongfully imprisoned for over a month without a trial, without contact with her family, and with no other recourse than to remain incarcerated indefinitely.” The priest cleared his throat. “This is clearly an outrage, a human rights violation.”

“And why was this woman arrested, Father?”

“For no reason at all.”

“And whose opinion is that?”

“Do you need any other opinion than mine—a man of God, one who is affiliated with the United Nations, in case you have forgotten?”

The general once again seemed embarrassed and apologized for his tone. “I am sorry. I just find this very hard to believe that this woman would be taken without evidence of her wrongdoing.”

“It is the truth,” Octavio said firmly, but without raising his
voice. “She has done nothing except be my wife and the mother of my children.”

“And your name?”

“Octavio Ribeiro.”

“Ah, the actor.” The general nodded his head and penciled some notes on his pad. “Of course! I thought I recognized you, though now you’re sporting a beard.” He smiled. “I used to be a big fan of your movies.”

“Is that so?” Octavio replied nervously. Small beads of perspiration were forming just above his temples, but he fought the urge to wipe them away, fearing that the general might see his trembling hands. He slowly turned toward the priest, beseeching him with wide eyes to recover control over the conversation.

“You know, General, next week I am attending a conference in Lima for all of the priests who are assigned as temporary clergy in Latin America. There will be many government officials there from all over the world—from the United States to Great Britain. There is even a rumor that the pope is planning to attend as well.”

“Yes”—Martinez nodded—“and…?”

“And at this meeting, I will be asked—as I have been in the past when I attended such meetings—‘How are things in Santiago, Father Cisneros? Tell us, how is the situation there?’

“And, General Martinez, I beg of you, what am I to tell them? I will have to tell them that things are not well in Santiago. That women are being abducted from their very homes, right before the eyes of their children. To be imprisoned for no wrongdoing and held without a trial, without evidence of their crime!”

“I can’t believe that such a thing could happen.” The general shook his head.

“But that is what
has
happened,” the priest said firmly. “I have
seen this with my own eyes. And what are we to do about my suspicion, General Martinez?”

“I suppose I should investigate your complaint.” The general motioned for one of his aides to come closer and whispered something in his ear. Moments later, the young soldier left the room, leaving the general alone with Octavio and the priest.

“I can give you my word,” Martinez assured the two men, “if Señor Ribeiro’s wife is being held with no evidence, without clearcut proof that she committed a crime against the state, I will have her released immediately.”

“That is what I hoped you would say.” The priest smiled.

The general extended his hand in a gesture of goodwill to the priest.

“But remember,” Father Cisneros added over their handshake, “next week is the conference, and I expect either Salomé de Ribeiro to be returned by then or for you to have news of her trial.”

“Absolutely, I intend to look into it immediately.”

“We believe she is being held at the Villa Grimaldi in Peñalolen.”

“Ah, the recreation center?”

“Is that what you call it, General?”

“I believe that is how it is described in our reports.”

“Well, perhaps you should pay a visit when you need some ‘recreation’ and see for yourself,” the priest said, his voice betraying his disgust.

The general stood there in his unflattering brown uniform with its burnished badges. His eyes were beginning to show the first stages of fatigue. His skin was a pale shade of bronze.

“Please write down the exact spelling of your wife’s name and the date she was taken into custody,” the general requested before the two men departed, and Octavio quickly complied.

And as Octavio and Father Cisneros exited, each man’s eyes met those of the other. Silently, they were each thinking the same thing: their only hope now was that the priest’s threats were enough to make the general a man of his word.

“Do you really have a conference next week, Father?” Octavio asked the priest when they’d returned to the car. The accomplished actor was astounded when the priest admitted that he had been bluffing the entire time.

“So you blackmailed him into believing that he had no other choice than to protect the integrity of the state?” Octavio laughed out loud. “That was brilliant! I only hope he believed you.”

They did not have to wait long to see that the priest’s bluff had indeed worked. Four days later, Salomé was released in a park. A blindfolded, bruised shadow, tumbling from a van.

S
ANTIAGO
, C
HILE

F
EBRUARY
1974

That first morning after Salomé returned to her home and awakened in a freshly made bed, the smells of verbena permeating her room, she thought perhaps the past two months had been just a terrible nightmare. But her reflection in the standing mirror betrayed her. She had not laid eyes upon herself in weeks. The image of her bruised face, swollen upper lip, and sunken eyes shocked her. Never in her life had she seen such a horrific sight.

She did not recognize herself at all. It was as though a stranger were gazing back at her in the glass. A frail, frightened woman who seemed incongruous and ill-fitting, as if she had never belonged in her marital carved-rosewood bed.

Octavio arrived, interrupting Salomé’s thoughts. “I’ve brought some chamomile tea and warm biscuits for my precious Fayum,” he said delicately. His voice was soft and low, as one would use with the sick or the infirm.

He sat down on the bed and looked at her. His eyes were wet and his expression pained with compassion. “I’m so sorry, Salomé. I never wanted any of this to happen.”

“Of course you didn’t, Octavio,” she whispered. Over the past two months, she had become an expert in masking her emotions. Each of her words now resonated with a hollow stoicism.

“But you’re home now, darling. I…” he stuttered. “The children
and I, your parents,” he corrected himself, “we’re so thankful that you’ve been returned to us.”

Salomé nodded, her head turning slightly to see the tip of the avocado tree bending in the wind.

“I love you,” he said as he extended his arm and reached for her hand under the covers. His fingers searched to grasp those of his wife.

However, Salomé did not respond as he had anticipated. For as soon as his flesh grazed hers, she shuddered. It was as if any human contact was enough to make her recoil.

Salomé was also surprised by the intensity of her response. It seemed that even her own husband’s touch triggered memories of how she had been violated at the prison. She didn’t want him even to brush against her. Instead, she wanted to be left completely alone. To sleep in her own space, with nothing against her skin except her nightgown and the cotton sheets.

In an ideal world, Salomé wished she could wrap her arms around her husband, embrace him, and let out one giant sob into his strong shoulders. But instead, she felt paralyzed. She couldn’t even cry. She had returned, but not as the woman she had once been. Not as the wife Octavio had once known. She felt like a living corpse: devoid of emotion, incapable of human contact. It was as though her blood had frozen in her veins.

“Darling…” he said in the voice he had always used with her, but now she found it weak and cloying. “We must leave this place. You, me, and the children. I am already making arrangements so that we can go where it’s safe.”

“But where will we go, Octavio?” she sighed. “Chile is our home.”

“Not anymore. Not after what they did to you. More importantly, they could take you again. We will have to leave as soon as
possible. I’ve already sent applications for political asylum in the U.S., Canada, Sweden, and New Zealand. Whoever makes us an offer first, we’ll go there.”

“And my parents too?”

There was silence. Octavio lowered his eyes. “They cannot come with us, my darling. Their lives have not been directly threatened, so their request would be denied.”

“I see.” Octavio could tell by his wife’s voice that she was concentrating hard to appear strong.

“We will start over, Salomé. We will make a new life, and things will be good again.”

Salomé feigned a smile.

“Things will work out for us,” he said as he brought her hand close to his chest. “I promise they will.”

Salomé would have preferred that Octavio had said nothing that first day. If only he had let her have some time to readjust. She wanted to be able to do simple things around the house. Little things, like savoring the air that wafted in from the garden. She had taken it for granted before. Now its fragrance of wildflowers and herbs seemed so exotic to her. She wanted to cup her hands and inhale it like perfume.

But, no, right from the beginning, he told her that she should not get too comfortable. That they would soon have to leave their beloved Casa Rosa and start again, go somewhere foreign and strange.

Her body would barely have time to heal before she would have to start packing up the house and selecting the few things they would be able to take.

There were things that she had not anticipated bringing with
her from the prison—memories she hoped she had left behind. But her terror could not be forgotten so easily; it could not be packed away in a box with folded tissue and rolls of bubble wrap. It amazed her that Octavio was so certain that all would return to normal. She too wanted to believe that it could be that simple.

To that end, she had promised herself never to speak of her torture. There was no reason to burden either Octavio or the children with her pain. She would never wish upon anyone—let alone her family—the terrible nightmares that had plagued her since her release. No, she would keep them to herself and hope that, eventually, after things had settled down—after the move was over and their new life had begun—maybe then she would feel better.

Her love for her family would triumph over all she had endured, she told herself. After all, during those nights when she’d slept in a dank cell with no light, the sound of wailing mingling with the sounds of opera, the barking of the guards, and the dragging of the bodies through the channels, she had thought of her family with her eyes shut and her fists packed to her side. She had called for them in hysterical moans, and she had imagined her children as they had been when she had held each of them to her breast, their tiny faces looking up at her in their first gazes of life.

But if she were honest with herself, she would have to admit that while incarcerated, she had thought of her husband with far less frequency than she had her children. Octavio, the man whom she had loved since she was seventeen; the only man she had ever loved.