Read Online Beyond the Ties of Blood by Florencia Mallon - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Florencia Mallon
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about it all? The interview with the human rights leader had been a stroke of luck. She could definitely understand the other womanâs loss, that sense of seeing her loved one through a veil, not quite able to make out what he believed in and what it meant.
Through her interviews, she realized, she had tried to make sense of her own loss. What was so important, so powerful, so overwhelmingly just, that heâd had no choice but to abandon her? Perhaps her grief, her desire for Manuel, her sense of being left aloneâthese were the things people connected to. But how could she say these things to her students? No, she had to forge a different explanation to satisfy the motivated ones like Elena, who came asking uncomfortable questions. Elena had been the first one to really put her on the spot, and she had not been prepared. How ironic that she had played the culture card, the unique experience card, so completely contradictory to everything she had ever taught them. But how ironic, too, that the truth was exactly the opposite. It was her hunger to know something she didnât know, her desperation to explain something that had no explanation, that made her interviews stand out. A hunger, a desire, so intense that it was almost sexual.
Even now, just thinking about it, her body awakened to a desperation she hadnât felt for a long time. Sheâd spent fifteen years as the widow of a revolutionary hero, tending his flame, but she was an impostor! Aside from sexual pleasure, all theyâd really had together was a mutual desire for romantic love. Sure, she raised his daughter to know his sacrifice, but it was all a story she concocted to prevent people from knowing the truth. And that was why she trembled now in her darkened office. It wasnât the air conditioning. It wasnât even the memories, or her inability to answer her studentâs simple question. She was afraid she would finally be revealed as the liar she really was.
The doorbell rang about nine in the morning, an hour after Laura had left for school, in a greater hurry than usual because it was the first week, still gobbling down her breakfast on her way out the door. The temperature had shot up again on Monday, threatening the hundred-degree mark by ten in the morning and making it hard to remember that school had already started. Ignacio Pérez had called the night before when he got to Boston, and she was expecting him any moment. Eugenia did not have class that day, so she had been taking advantage of the time to continue writing in her journal. In this latest entry she was focusing on the coup itself, on what had happened immediately afterward.
She pictured herself and Manuel in that last one-room apartment. She remembered the morning the soldiers burst in. The crash of the door, pulled halfway off its hinges, mixed with the downstairs buzzer, wrenching her back into the moment. Eugenia jumped. It took her a split second to separate the past from the present. She pressed down the button on the intercom.
âHello?â
âEugenia? Itâs Ignacio Pérez.â
âOh. Hi, Ignacio. Just push on the door when you hear it buzz.â
Almost immediately she heard his quick steps taking the stairs two at a time, all the way to the third floor. She opened the door before he could knock, and found a young man with black hair and blue eyes. His hair was very straight and he wore it relatively short, except for a single lock that hung over his right eye, almost like a curtain meant to screen out the sorrow in his stare. That deep-rooted suffering was the only thing about Ignacio Pérez that made him look older than twenty-three. Perhaps for that reason he dressed formally, in a full summer suit and, despite the heat, a dark blue tie with wine-colored stripes. He was sweating and his face was flushed. Eugenia felt an almost maternal concern.
âPlease come in, Ignacio. Itâs so hot out there, and Iâm sorry
Through her interviews, she realized, she had tried to make sense of her own loss. What was so important, so powerful, so overwhelmingly just, that heâd had no choice but to abandon her? Perhaps her grief, her desire for Manuel, her sense of being left aloneâthese were the things people connected to. But how could she say these things to her students? No, she had to forge a different explanation to satisfy the motivated ones like Elena, who came asking uncomfortable questions. Elena had been the first one to really put her on the spot, and she had not been prepared. How ironic that she had played the culture card, the unique experience card, so completely contradictory to everything she had ever taught them. But how ironic, too, that the truth was exactly the opposite. It was her hunger to know something she didnât know, her desperation to explain something that had no explanation, that made her interviews stand out. A hunger, a desire, so intense that it was almost sexual.
Even now, just thinking about it, her body awakened to a desperation she hadnât felt for a long time. Sheâd spent fifteen years as the widow of a revolutionary hero, tending his flame, but she was an impostor! Aside from sexual pleasure, all theyâd really had together was a mutual desire for romantic love. Sure, she raised his daughter to know his sacrifice, but it was all a story she concocted to prevent people from knowing the truth. And that was why she trembled now in her darkened office. It wasnât the air conditioning. It wasnât even the memories, or her inability to answer her studentâs simple question. She was afraid she would finally be revealed as the liar she really was.
The doorbell rang about nine in the morning, an hour after Laura had left for school, in a greater hurry than usual because it was the first week, still gobbling down her breakfast on her way out the door. The temperature had shot up again on Monday, threatening the hundred-degree mark by ten in the morning and making it hard to remember that school had already started. Ignacio Pérez had called the night before when he got to Boston, and she was expecting him any moment. Eugenia did not have class that day, so she had been taking advantage of the time to continue writing in her journal. In this latest entry she was focusing on the coup itself, on what had happened immediately afterward.
She pictured herself and Manuel in that last one-room apartment. She remembered the morning the soldiers burst in. The crash of the door, pulled halfway off its hinges, mixed with the downstairs buzzer, wrenching her back into the moment. Eugenia jumped. It took her a split second to separate the past from the present. She pressed down the button on the intercom.
âHello?â
âEugenia? Itâs Ignacio Pérez.â
âOh. Hi, Ignacio. Just push on the door when you hear it buzz.â
Almost immediately she heard his quick steps taking the stairs two at a time, all the way to the third floor. She opened the door before he could knock, and found a young man with black hair and blue eyes. His hair was very straight and he wore it relatively short, except for a single lock that hung over his right eye, almost like a curtain meant to screen out the sorrow in his stare. That deep-rooted suffering was the only thing about Ignacio Pérez that made him look older than twenty-three. Perhaps for that reason he dressed formally, in a full summer suit and, despite the heat, a dark blue tie with wine-colored stripes. He was sweating and his face was flushed. Eugenia felt an almost maternal concern.
âPlease come in, Ignacio. Itâs so hot out there, and Iâm sorry
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