“She’s probably talking with some friend from school. The days are shorter now, so it seems later. It’s only six thirty.”
“Juan, I already told you the child always comes directly home to me unless she stops off to see you. I thought she might be there playing with her sisters. Are you sure she’s not out on the patio behind the bakery?”
“No, Rosario and the girls went home early to decorate for Christmas.”
Engrasi hung up without another word. She put on a heavy coat, went outside, locked the door, and hurried down the street.
Juan was right. The early dark did make it seem later. The autumn had been long and mild, and the first frosts took the valley folk by surprise, prompting them to hole up at home. She saw the lights of vehicles in the distance crossing the bridge to Calle Santiago, but not a soul on the street. Gas lamps on houses cast their glow across the wet ground and created shifting orange patterns on the pavement. She couldn’t see the river, but she sensed it rushing through the darkness, cold but alive. She had to watch her step because sometimes the Baztán caused the pavement to buckle. She put one hand to her chest, fingered the tiny key, pursed her lips, and quickened her pace. She needed to locate the child; she hoped the girl wouldn’t be where Engrasi expected to find her.
Her brother’s house was on one of the finest streets in Elizondo. An archway gave direct access from the street to the front yard, where the previous owner had planted two weeping willows, one on either side of the walk. The willows had flourished and grown until their branches hung all the way to the ground.
Standing beneath the archway, Engrasi saw warm yellow light from the living room spilling through the window and illuminating part of the garden.
She didn’t see the child at first, which was a relief, though she was still worried. But once her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she made out an odd shape against the dark trunk of one of the trees. As she entered the yard, she realized the shape was really a girl embracing the willow trunk. Engrasi bent over and saw her little face through the dark branches that fell like cascades of tears. The girl was weeping too.
Engrasi stooped under the branches, went around the trunk, and covered the child’s hand with her own. She was surprised to find that it was warm despite the chill in the air. Engrasi now saw the scene from Amaia’s perspective.
Rosario had left the curtains wide open, so from the shelter of the willow, they had a clear view into the room. Behind the broad picture window, Amaia’s mother and sisters were decorating the Christmas tree. Engrasi remained by Amaia’s side, bearing silent, patient witness to the girl’s pain and trying to think of what to say. After a few seconds Amaia let go of the tree, pulled her sweater down over her hands, and wiped the tears from her face. She stepped back from their hiding place, held out a hand to her aunt, and asked, almost pleading, “Can we go home now?”
Engrasi didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. She kissed the little girl, nodded, and took her tiny hand to guide her on the short journey home.
Engrasi looked back before they stepped out of the cover of the willow. Rosario was watching them from the window. Her face was half obscured by the darkness of the night, but the twinkling Christmas tree lights were sufficient to reveal for an instant a broad wink and a delighted smile.
Engrasi held Amaia’s hand tighter and pulled her toward the street. The tenderness that had overwhelmed her an instant before had been transmuted into rage.
And, she had to admit, into fear.
14
THE HOUSE OF MANY COLORS
New Orleans, Louisiana
Late afternoon, Saturday, August 27, 2005
After he left the store, Dupree went up Ursulines toward Treme, then took a detour so he could pass by Saint Louis Cemetery. He knew he was too pressed for time to linger. Despite all the years that had passed, the impulse that directed him there was the same one that had guided his steps as a child. His internal compass was fixed forever on his parents’ graves.
Two cemetery employees were up on ladders at either side of the gate, taking down the canvas banner advertising guided tours. One of them noticed the man observing them. “We’re closing, mon ami!”
He was sure they’d mistaken him for a laggard tourist. “Just for a minute. Want to make sure the family tomb’s going to stand up to the storm.”
The employee brushed off his uniform and gave Dupree a suspicious look. “What family that?”
“Famille Dupree-Sabrier,” he said calmly.
“Oh! Of course, monsieur.” The man stepped aside.
Dupree went left and all the way to the back. The cemetery was strangely different from his childhood memories of it. Even so, he felt the same familiar dejection as he passed along the rows of stucco-covered tombs. Many had settled into the marshy ground and now were well below street level. He could hardly make out the names of those sealed inside. He cast about at the back wall and eventually located the family tomb.
The sight left him desolate. He remembered a white edifice five feet high with a marble plaque bearing the names of his parents. The side walls of the structure were now in such disrepair that brown brickwork showed through the stucco coating. Their broken plaque was propped against the front corner of the niche. Damp rising from the ground had stained the walls with mold. Filth covered every surface, and moss obscured the names, making them illegible to an outsider. He rubbed his fingertips along the grooved letters. He stood contemplating those names in silence, as if they were indeed indecipherable—even though they meant the world to him.
The cemetery employee rattled the heavy metal chain against the iron gate to remind him it was closing time. Having nothing else to offer, Dupree squatted, picked up a gray stone fragment that had fallen from the mausoleum itself, and placed it beneath his parents’ names. He hurried to the gate and thanked the employees on his way out.
Dupree walked past a succession of multicolored houses on his way to the lower part of the Treme quarter. Night was falling and streetlamps were coming on, but most of the windows along the streets were dark. Archways had been stripped of hanging ferns, potted vines, and the metal supports that had held them up. Chains and padlocks secured shutters where inhabitants hadn’t nailed boards across the windows. He saw people making last-minute escapes, their cars loaded with the things they couldn’t bear to leave behind.
That’s when he got to her house, one of the most eye-catching on the street. The place looked much smaller now than when he was a child. Nana had kept it carefully maintained. The walls were yellow, the window frames bright white, and the shutters were dark green. The two-storied house had four broad windows that looked out onto a narrow porch not much deeper than a balcony in the French Quarter. The space had been dedicated to a little front garden bordered by a low white picket fence. He pushed open the gate, marveling at the strings of Mardi Gras beads hung between the fence posts and swaying in the breeze. Nana preferred green, gold, and purple beads, representing the justice, wealth, and faith of her city.
He went up the steps onto the narrow porch, empty now of flowerpots and furniture. He saw no light inside, and when he tried to pull open the shutters across the front door, he found someone had nailed them shut. He crossed the front yard and took the alley to the back. He walked toward the kitchen, feeling the damp earth spongy beneath his feet. When he reached the back door, he heard a low wooden rumble, almost inaudible, followed by a distinct creak. Then another. He recognized the sound of furniture being dragged across the floor. He carefully put down the sack Meire had prepared for him and took out his pistol. He eased off the safety, slowly turned the copper doorknob, and felt the door give way. Someone yanked it from the inside and it flew open.