They had not had a problem of this kind with him since, but now Beatriz wondered what would have been had they allowed him to court her. Perhaps Lupita would not have gone out alone that night. Perhaps she would already have her own family. Perhaps right now she would be making her children lunch. But there was no sense in Beatriz allowing her mind to continue down such recriminatory paths.
It would never happen now.
Martín, on the other hand, had remained sitting in the kitchen, motionless, staring blankly, drinking—at Pola’s insistence—the hot chocolate originally meant for Simonopio. Nana Pola was trying her best to console him, but he did nothing to help her as she cried silently, without trying to hide it.
Beatriz left before her mouth and eyes could pour out her feelings—it would offer no comfort and serve only to darken the atmosphere in the kitchen even more.
She went to look for Nana Reja. Perhaps with her it would be acceptable to sit and say nothing. When she arrived, she saw that the nana had left her rocking chair, which now rocked by itself, as if missing the weight and shape of its habitual occupant. Beatriz, alarmed, went to look for her in the semidarkness of her bedroom: she found her lying in bed, her eyes closed as always, and not making a sound, as she never did. Beatriz did not know how, but it was clear to her that Reja knew what had happened. Her silence and motionlessness, the way she barely seemed to breathe, away from the air and light that she enjoyed from her rocking chair, were her way to express her grief: alone, as ever, but away from the hills that called to her. And in turning her back on them, she punished herself; she repented.
Too much pain for such a slight body.
“We’ll find whoever did this, Nana Reja.”
Beatriz made a promise without thinking. Later she regretted it: what right did she have to make promises of such magnitude, if she had not fulfilled such a simple one made years before?
The nana did not react to her words or her intentions. Maybe she did not hear, Beatriz thought with relief.
Mati was in her own bedroom, crying noisily. Though she was much older, she had shared her space with Lupita since the girl had arrived. Beatriz decided not to go in. What for? For now, she did not have any words of comfort. She was grateful, then, that Francisco Junior was not at home that day. Who would have looked after him? Who would have explained it to him? She did not feel up to it. They would do it when everything was over. In two or three days, when her voice regained its strength and steadiness.
Today she felt neither strong nor steady.
Practical as ever, though she had to try hard to remember that trait of hers, Beatriz made a mental list of what they would need that day. With everyone busy recovering the body or struggling with their grief, Beatriz decided to carry out all the tasks herself.
“I’ll be back soon.”
After informing them, she went out on foot in search of the doctor, whom she found easily at the clinic. There was no rush. It was not a health emergency, but in any case, Dr. Cantú promised her he would come right away.
Finding the new Father Pedro did not prove so easy: the cathedral and all the churches had been closed by order of the government. Now the priest lived and conducted services illegally, dividing his time between various houses, including the Morales Cortéses’, rotating his residence to avoid being an imposition or putting anyone at risk. Beatriz could not remember which family he was staying with at that moment, and while she did not want to speak to anyone, there was another visit she had to make: she knocked on her brother’s door, though she did not want to go in.
“You’d best tell Sra. Concha to come, yes?”
“She’s sleeping.”
“Tell her to come.”
She informed Concha succinctly, with no details, no drama, of Lupita’s death. Concha did know where the priest was.
“I’ll go find him. Please, keep Francisco Junior for a few days, until everything’s over.”
Then Beatriz went to look for the clergyman, who also gave his word that he would be there to receive and anoint the body. She thanked him, because it was no small thing: at that time, being a priest was a dangerous business, especially if the soldiers caught him administering a sacrament.
From there she went to order a coffin, whatever she could find: whatever was available that very day. She did not go to report the death to the Guardia Rural. She would leave that to Francisco.
When she returned home, she was surprised to find that, although the doctor and priest were already there, the men had not yet returned with the body. Later, she learned that they had stopped to clean it up a little by the side of a pool of water, so that, as far as possible, they would spare the women the horror of the appalling task.
Their well-meaning efforts proved futile: when a body had been subjected to so much violence, nothing could be done to clean it.
When the doctor arrived, he asked them to spread a blanket out on the kitchen table and lay the damp, half-naked body on top so he could examine it.
“Sra. Morales, if you do not want to be here, I can find someone else to help me.”
“I’ll stay. And Pola will too.”
Lupita had been found at the edge of La Amistad, on the road to La Petaca, under the little bridge where Nana Reja had found the newborn Simonopio covered in bees. They had thrown her there, perhaps hoping the body would never be found, devoured by every insect or animal that took a fancy to it.
Simonopio had found her, and she had returned home. Now, how could they not stay by the side of this girl who had clearly suffered so much in the last moments of her life?
Her dancing clothes had been shredded. Her hair, which Lupita usually wore in a braid, was untied, tangled, and full of leaves and clods of earth. Her face, beaten and scratched, was beginning to show signs of rigor mortis, so there was no way to deceive oneself by pretending that the girl was sleeping peacefully. What’s more, her eyelids, closed and bruised, no longer protected the absent eyes. Her neck was imprinted with marks from the murderous hands that had wrung it mercilessly. When they removed her clothes, they saw the bite marks on her upper body.
“Animals?”
“No. Human.”
“They did all of this while she was alive?”
“I don’t know, Sra. Morales. I don’t know.”
“Well, when they killed her, she was alive,” Nana Pola cut in, sobbing.
“Go, Nana. Yes, you’d better. Don’t worry. Go rest.”
But she stayed, though for the rest of the examination, no one spoke.
In the end, after washing it, the usual shine had been restored to Lupita’s hair, clean and carefully brushed, as if its owner were still alive. But it was a brief illusion: the body was growing ever stiffer, and if they did not shroud her very soon, they would have to wait for it to pass.
“Fix her hair how she liked it, Pola. I’ll go fetch a sheet.”
Beatriz opened the cupboard where they kept the whites and took out a sheet made from the finest linen, the sheet that Lupita would have spread out on her mistress’s bed early that morning, had it been a Tuesday like any other.
Now it would serve another purpose.
When she returned to the kitchen, Simonopio was there. Seeing her come in, with an urgent look, he handed her a bloody handkerchief. Beatriz braced herself: when she unwrapped it, she was horrified to discover Lupita’s dead eyes.