The second time she went out, he was so worried that he could think of little else for days. Where had his wife gone, carrying her shoes and with her coat thrown on over her nightgown? Where could a pregnant woman possibly go in the middle of the night in a town where everything closed at nine in the evening? The torment of doubt was driving him crazy. Unable to sleep at night, irritable all day long, he consumed meals that had no taste and became bitter bile when he vomited them up. After Rosario’s third nighttime disappearance, Juan decided to consult the doctor.
“Given the unusual nature of this pregnancy,” Dr. Martínez had tried to explain, “she may well be finding things very difficult.”
“Is it endangering her health?”
“No,” the doctor reassured him, “she’s healthy, and she’s taken my diet advice very seriously. Besides, she’s getting a lot of exercise by walking and she hasn’t gained too much weight, which would be counterproductive for a pregnancy like this one. The last test results were excellent, but a pregnancy like hers, with its unusual aspects, is not only a challenge for the woman’s body, it stresses her spirit and mind as well. But don’t worry. Rosario is a healthy woman, and she can handle it.”
One night after she returned and her body was beginning to warm the bedclothes, he overcame his inhibitions and whispered in the dark bedroom, “I’m your husband, and I love you. Wherever you go, I’ll go with you.”
Rosario didn’t answer right away. It took so long that he thought she might have already been asleep. Or perhaps she felt so ashamed that she couldn’t find the courage to reply. Then with a decisive, alert voice, Rosario replied. “Never!”
He remained awake the rest of the night, staring at the ceiling and turning that word over and over in his mind, wondering what it could mean and what threat it implied. Rosario left the house at night at least once a week during the last three months of her pregnancy, but Juan never said a word to her about it again.
Then she gave birth. His world fell apart, and he knew he was to blame, no one else. Amaia was born as one of a pair of identical twins; Rosario made sure the other one never woke up. Though he’d wanted to believe the horror had been an accident or, as Dr. Martínez said, the result of a postpartum depression that would fade away like a bad dream, there’d been many times in the following months he’d found his wife perched over the child’s bassinet. He tried to convince himself this was simply her mother’s instinct, the concern that impels so many fathers and mothers to get up at night to make sure their baby is still breathing. But there was something in Rosario’s face, in her eyes, something that had nothing to do with care and protection; it was the anxiety provoked by an unfinished task. He saw it and was devastated. Though deep down he knew it would do no good, he whispered words of encouragement, assuring her the baby was fine and nothing was going to happen. He put his arm around her shoulders and persuaded her to return to bed.
He’d made his peace with it by convincing himself night after night that she wouldn’t do the unthinkable. Waiting, sitting up in bed when she got up and went to mumble obscure words over the baby, hoping the child was sleeping and wouldn’t understand, until finally all those threats erupted into the darkest, blackest catastrophe. On that night, he’d had to remove his own little daughter forever from his house.
Juan was conscious of his own limitations. He was a simple, calm, organized man whose concerns were his work, his family, and delivering on his promises. He’d been like that since early childhood. But some things he couldn’t handle, because they were beyond him.
Juan had difficulty with words, and he found it agonizing to identify things by name; he was overwhelmed by the very fact that every object had its own unique name. He was one of those who thought things existed only when they were spoken of, so he could exclude horrors from his life and home by refusing to put them into words. He’d adamantly reproached Engrasi for saying Rosario had been intending to kill Amaia ever since the day the child was born. He hadn’t even been aware he was shaking his head in rejection of that thought, for it was too horrible to imagine.
Haunted by fear, he picked up the yellow envelope and lifted the flap to reveal the dark plastic frame that held the X-ray. He pulled it out, dropped the envelope, and held the image against the light. His daughter’s skull stood out in profile against the dark background, marred by two wicked white blobs at the points of impact, each surrounded by pools of dark gray showing the extent of the internal hemorrhaging. He squeezed his eyes shut and broke into sobs, flung the X-ray on the bed and got up, resolved to act.
Just as on that night twelve years earlier, he sent up a silent prayer that he’d discover her nearby. He was appalled to find himself hoping she might have broken a bone, have injured herself, or be lying unconscious on the floor of the bakery workshop, anything at all, provided only that she hadn’t started going out again at night. He checked every corner of their home, knowing he’d find nothing. He took the keys to the bakery and pulled on his coat over his pajamas. He left the house and walked through the night of a silent, dreaming Elizondo, disturbed only by the sounds of the flowing river. He went to the bakery, seeing from a distance that it was totally dark, but even so, he unlocked the door and looked around. She wasn’t there. He slumped against the door, knowing there was nothing more he could do.
He dried his tears, shaken by the clarity of his perception. He had to say it. He was resolute, but even so, when he tried to speak, his voice was inaudible because he was choked with anguish. “Rosario . . . ,” he said in a quivering whisper, “Rosario is going to murder our daughter.”
Astonished by the brutality of that statement, he covered his mouth with his hands as if trying to hold the words back. Finally, yielding to the inevitable, his arms fell to his sides and a furious animal bellow broke from somewhere deep inside. He realized that he’d always known, and the atrocity had lived in him, trapped only by his refusal to name it. By putting it into words at last, he had conjured it up in all its terrible cruelty. He didn’t bother to lock up. He rushed outside, his feet slipping on the wet cobblestones as he raced toward his sister’s house.
55
ENGRASI
Elizondo
Ipar’s ears perked up when Engrasi peeked into Amaia’s room. He was up on her bed again, even though Engrasi had provided the dog his own bed on the floor. The sleeping girl had one arm curled around her dog, her hand nestled in the thick fur of his neck. Engrasi knew that as soon as she had left the room earlier that evening, her niece had encouraged Ipar to come into her bed.
Smiling indulgently, Engrasi lifted a finger to her lips as a sign to him to keep quiet. Ipar seemed to understand, for he settled back into place. She leaned against the doorframe, enchanted by the sight of her sleeping niece. A low-wattage nightlight cast its dim glow across the sleeping figure. Amaia must have left it on so she could sleep, or, actually, so when she awoke suddenly in the middle of the night, she’d know instantly where she was and not be scared.
Amaia’s hair glinted in golden-blond waves across the pillow. That beautiful hair cascaded to her shoulders, and Engrasi planned to let her grow it out until Amaia asked to have it cut. Such abundant blond hair, like Engrasi’s own, was rare in their family. They’d inherited it from Juanita, her mother, Amaia’s grandmother. It made the girl stand out from her dark-haired sisters. Rosario had first woven it in long, tight braids and later chopped it off with ragged scissor cuts that left the child looking miserable and abused. That brutality should have set off alarms even then. Engrasi had seen the threat of violence hovering over Amaia: the clothes her mother forced her to wear, the food the child was compelled to eat, the way Rosario had hacked Amaia’s hair short to destroy that banner of individuality. Engrasi shook her head slowly, bitterly regretting her own failure to intervene. So often our failure to speak out against horror makes us accomplices.