That detail would be important for Flaco, for his career. And of course, the information was duly processed. From then on, as soon as a safe house came up, they headed over there with magnifying lenses to look for cigar ash. The Spartan (“Prince of Wales,” to Central) would fall because of that, he would fall because of me.
THIRTY-FOUR
Gato wanted “Gladiolo” and he wanted him alive. That’s it. In Flaco’s flow chart, “Gladiolo” appeared now as the leader of one of the cells under “Prince of Wales.” Where had that information come from? They had watched the house on Calle Los Gladiolos, but the man never turned up there. The tone of that terrible order was peremptory. I understood very well. What could I do? Those were the rules of the game. I asked for time. How much? They gave me a month. There were three weeks until Teruca’s birthday, and I’d heard she was going to celebrate at her mother’s house in Ñuñoa, a few blocks from Irarrázaval. Through Teruca, maybe I could get close to poor Rafa.
I dropped in that day with a tray of Chilean pastries that I knew she loved and a light blue blouse that would look good on her. Her mother let me in very solicitously, but said she wasn’t sure if her daughter was coming. At around 6:30, Teruca arrived. “You’ve let your braid grow again,” I said. “I love it like that.” She was surprised to see me. I’d even say she hugged me with a trace of distrust. Her mother came in with a mil hojas cake, and after singing, blowing out the candles, and eating our slices, the two of us went out onto the terrace. Then she loosened up. She told me, enraptured, that she was engaged to Rafa now. Her mother knew. Not Francisco, no, it wasn’t worth telling him. Because, how do you explain something like that to your son in a letter? Francisco was still living in a group home in Cuba. In spite of her efforts, Teruca couldn’t keep in regular contact with him. Of course it didn’t make any sense to tell him. So why was she telling me she just didn’t know how to break the news to him? I knew Teruca bore that pain every day: having abandoned her son to avoid putting him in danger, so she could have more freedom and fight without being tied down. And I knew, too, that the few times they had met, in Mexico City, it hadn’t turned out welclass="underline" “I try to understand you, Mom, I try because I love you and that’s exactly why I can’t understand. Why can’t you stay here with me?” That’s what Francisco said to her.
That’s where we were when Rafa came in carrying a gift. He let out a great bellow of laughter when he saw me, and he hugged me with the frank affection of earlier days. “What’s up, sweetie?” he said. He kissed Teruca effusively on the mouth and he sat down next to her on the sofa, holding her thick black braid in one hand. “This way I can control who she looks at,” he laughed. “I guess you already know, right? This little gossip must have told you, I’m sure.” The three of us hugged.
I offered to go buy a bottle of champagne, and in the end all of us went to the liquor store. I insisted on paying. Back at the house, when the champagne had run out and we had started in on pisco and Coke, I steered the conversation to mention that I was finding more and more frequent red chalk marks on the edge of the sidewalk on the corner. I was lying. “So you’re being reincorporated,” said Teruca.
“It’s about time,” Rafa stated roundly, his tongue loosened from the pisco. And he added with no prompting from me: “Two red lines, parallel?”
“Exactly,” I said.
“Unmistakable.” He gulped down a big swallow and laughed: “My cell, on the other hand, uses gum.” He laughed again, a laugh that was strange in him. He threw back another swallow. It’s fear, I thought to myself, fear. “They leave a piece of gum on the leg of a bench in Plaza Manuel Rodríguez. The Spartan’s idea, I’m sure,” he laughed, looking at me with glassy eyes. Teruca furrowed her brow and stayed quiet. Then she told me that Cuyano had fallen, that since Canelo’s death Rafa had been in charge of his cell, the one that used to be mine, too, and that this had left her shocked and very sad; frightened, too. I covered my face with my hands.
“I worry about serial arrests like that,” she said to me. Teruca had been disconnected as a precaution. A thick silence fell over us.
“An angel went by,” joked Rafael.
The doorbell rang and a tall, thin, very blond man came in wearing jeans and cowboy boots. “The Gringo!” exclaimed Rafa. He and Teruca got up to welcome him. He handed Teruca her gift and hugged me. “It’s been so many moons!” he told me. “So long since Nahuelbuta! Right?. . you haven’t changed a bit.” We toasted. He and Rafa seemed to be good friends. I liked the way his gray eyes turned toward me, left, and came back. He clinked his glass against mine and laughed for no reason, with something of the child who laughs from pure joy. Then he started talking to Rafa. Teruca asked me about my French classes, the latest art openings. The bottle of pisco went quickly, and Teruca and I went to get another from the pantry.
“Handsome, isn’t he?” she said as soon as we were alone.
“Mm,” I said.
“Mm,” she replied, smiling. “He remembered you from Nahuelbuta, at the camp. .”
“Mm.”
When I was ready to go, the Gringo looked at his watch and exclaimed in surprise over how late it was. We left together, walking toward Irarrázaval. I don’t remember what we talked about. When we got to the bus stop I felt his gaze holding mine again. “I want to see you again,” he told me. “Give me that chance. The last time we saw each other was years ago and there was a fire between us. .” My mouth filled with laughter and I trembled a little. My bus pulled up and from the landing I said: “All right, let’s talk soon.” I gave him a wave and the bus pulled away.
THIRTY-FIVE
Plaza Manuel Rodríguez was empty and all the shops had closed. It was eleven thirty at night. Plenty afraid, I circled around checking the plaza’s benches, in search of a piece of gum. I kept thinking I heard Rafa’s steps behind me, and the sweat was rolling down my back. When I had only two left to check, on the bench under a big, bluish cedar tree I saw a little white-tinged spot on the green-painted iron leg. I didn’t touch it.
Plaza Manuel Rodríguez is small and secluded. It’s bordered by four streets: Calle Plaza Manuel Rodríguez to the north, Grajales to the south, Almirante Latorre to the east, and Abdón Cifuentes to the west. And I have to mention a fifth, Teresa Clark, a short alleyway that runs north to south between Almirante Latorre and Abdón Cifuentes and ends at the plaza. Before dawn, twelve men and six vehicles distributed themselves on those streets, blocking off the plaza. Only the old Peugeot taxi parked on Teresa Clark had a direct view of the benches. We were in that taxi: Indio driving, Iris as copilot, and me, wearing a mask. The day passed in vain. “Gladiolo” didn’t show. Macha ordered sandwiches and drinks, but he didn’t change the stakeout team.
At a quarter past one in the morning, the silence was broken by the motor of a car stopping, the slam of a door, and then footsteps coming closer. I ducked down in the back seat as Indio and Iris embraced like lovers. The man was walking on Calle Grajales. On the southeast corner of the plaza, he stopped and observed the solitude of the place and the calm of the adjacent streets. From that corner, close to the palm tree, he had the best view of the scene. But because of the curve of the street that bordered the plaza, the Daihatsu on Abdón Cifuentes was out of his visual field. The same was true of a Toyota parked south of the plaza on Almirante Latorre. None of them could see him, either. As I said: only we, in the old Peugeot taxi in the alleyway Teresa Clark, were in a position to observe the “illicit activity” that the man in the plaza was about to initiate. Did he notice our Peugeot?