Often were they wounded in the deadly strife.
Heal them, Good Physician, with the balm of life.
The eulogies were delivered in both English and Spanish, heartfelt and even a few humorous stories about a compassionate man, a doting husband, a loving father. For the moment, Mayor Mendoza had officially joined the ranks of those beleaguered souls who had escaped the wrath and judgment of mere mortals through the expedience of untimely death.
Invited guests gathered for food and refreshment at the Mendoza house after the ser vice. Parked cars lined both sides of the street for several blocks. The press was not allowed on the property, but they blanketed the neighborhood. It was as if the local media had decided to hold the tough questions until the mayor was buried, and now they were ready for the real dirt. Editorials called for a complete investigation. Talk radio was buzzing with all kinds of theories, some of them crackpot, some not. A local television station did a segment on the Disappeared and the Argentine Dirty War. The Tribune dispatched its Pulitzer Prize-winning investigative reporter to Buenos Aires. It would only be a matter of time before the mayor’s dark past came to light.
Police officers stood outside the front gate at the end of the driveway, directing traffic. There were more guests than expected, and many of them flocked to the mayor’s widow and daughter the moment they entered the house. Alicia accepted the sincere condolences of several well-wishers and then quickly excused herself.
“Are you okay?” Vince asked. They were standing outside the carved double doors to her father’s library.
“Yes, I’m all right. Really.” She could tell that he wanted to speak with her alone, away from her mother. Vince had been supportive all week, but something was clearly weighing on his mind. Whatever it was, Alicia wasn’t ready to deal with it. “I just need some time to myself.”
“You go ahead,” he said. “I’ll get something to eat.”
She thanked him with a little kiss, then retreated into the library and closed the door behind her.
As long as Alicia could remember, it had been an unwritten house rule that the library belonged to Mr. Mendoza. Rules, however, were made to be broken, and Alicia was the biggest offender. There was something uniquely comforting about a room filled with books, and Alicia had always felt drawn to this place. Celebrated Argentine author Jorge Luis Borges once said that he could not sleep unless surrounded by books, a sentiment that sang to Alicia from the country of her birth. Just a quick glance at the titles was like a trip down memory lane, a reminder of the various stages of her life-Alice in Wonderland, Don Quixote, The Great Gatsby. Her prized collection of Argentine comic strip Mafalda, however, had disappeared years ago. Apparently, Mr. Mendoza didn’t like the political leanings of the artist who created the smart little girl that couldn’t help speaking her mind. Still, so many times over the years, the library had been Alicia’s escape, and she could still feel some of the magic within these four walls. No other place on earth had the power to suppress the negativity of the past week. Had she succumbed to that power or magic or whatever it was that energized this roomful of memories, she might have found a better place-an emotional equilibrium where, despite everything that she’d learned recently about her father, it would have saddened her to see the empty chair behind his desk. She would have remembered climbing up into his lap as a little girl and promising to go to bed if he would read her just one more story. She might have even smiled at the sight of the humidor on the credenza, recalling the only time in her life that he’d offered her a cigar. It was on the night she’d graduated from the academy, and she would never forget the look on his face when she took it. They laughed and drank twenty-year-old scotch until the Monte Cristos were reduced to a pair of smoldering nubs.
Strange, but those memories didn’t even seem to belong to her anymore. They felt more like somebody else’s musings about a man very different from the one her father had turned out to be.
The door opened, stirring Alicia from her thoughts. It was her mother, still wearing her black hat and veil.
“There are people here you should see,” she said.
“Can we talk for a minute?”
Her mother balked. All week long, she had been dodging a one-on-one conversation, which Alicia figured was the reason she’d given the okay to invite Vince along for the family-only events. “But we have guests.”
“They can wait a few minutes,” said Alicia.
The older woman paused to consider it. A houseful of guests offered her the perfect excuse to cut things short, but she seemed to recognize that she’d put off Alicia long enough. “What is it that you want to talk about?”
At Alicia’s lead, they sat in the matching leather armchairs in the center of the room, separated by an antique marble pedestal that had been in the family for generations and that now served as a cocktail table. As a young girl, Alicia got into serious trouble for wrapping herself in a bedsheet, covering her body with talcum powder, and then climbing up on the pedestal with arms pinned behind her back à la Venus de Milo. This room was so full of conflicting emotions.
She looked at her mother directly and said, “Do you think I should forgive Papi?”
“For what?”
“Surely you don’t need me to answer that.”
“Your father loved you more than most men love their own natural offspring.”
“His whole life was a lie, and he made me the center of it.”
“His love for you was not a lie.”
“That’s not the point,” said Alicia.
“What else matters?”
“Truth,” said Alicia. “The truth matters.”
“The truth is that your father was destroyed by some crazy terrorists who exploded a bomb near a crowded café and murdered his wife and daughter. It took him a long time to find a reason to go on living, and he found it in you and me.”
More of those conflicting emotions. Alicia backed off just a bit, her tone softening. “Why did you adopt?”
“We desperately wanted a child. We tried on our own, but I couldn’t get pregnant.”
“Did you know about my parents?”
“Of course not. I thought you came through normal adoption channels.”
“But Papi knew everything.”
She struggled, as if the answer were better left unstated. “Like I said, those people destroyed his life. He must have justified it that way.”
“Wait a second. Are you saying that my biological parents planted that bomb that killed his family?”
“No, no. I don’t know anything about them or what they did. But they were part of the insurgency.”
“Guilty by association, is that it?”
Her mother didn’t answer, but Alicia waited, refusing to let it drop. Finally, her mother said, “You have to understand the times. I’m sure your father’s only thought was that he was providing a loving home and a bright future for the innocent child of not-so-innocent parents.”
Alicia nodded, not because she agreed with what her mother was saying but because she understood her position. “For the moment, let’s put aside the question of whether that rationalization holds water or not. I still have a real problem with what you’re telling me.”
There was a sudden uptick in the noise level outside the closed doors. More guests were arriving, and apparently, no one was leaving. “We really should get back,” her mother said.
“I’m almost finished.”
“We can talk more about this later,” Graciela said, rising.