She’d rather it be at their home, if they didn’t mind and if that wasn’t considered rude in their country. She still didn’t understand their customs. If not, someplace where there were other things to drink besides wine and where they could eat with their hands, not like the place they’d taken her to speak to strangers about her experiences ever since starting her search. The food there had tasted strange and wasn’t filling. By the end of dinner, she didn’t feel like there was enough in her stomach to keep her going. The forks were also an issue. She’d never taken to them, and there were too many. She didn’t see the point: one fork was enough. They agreed. It must be a cultural thing. Yes, she thinks.
10
Her daughters don’t understand how the other girl could reject her, after all that’s happened to her, all the time she’s been looking for her, and all the money she’s spent to go see her on the continent where she lives. True, their mother hadn’t paid for the ticket, but she’d funded a lot of other stuff and would be pinching pennies for months until they were stable again. They want to love her, but, right then, they can only hate her. She strikes them as a bad person even though their mother says she isn’t, that they have to try and understand, that it’d be difficult for anyone, that everybody responds differently. She asks them to keep writing her whenever they can so she gets used to the idea that she has a family. She begs them never to ask her for anything, nor to ask if she’ll come visit them or when it will be. They should just tell her about themselves, like in the letters they sent when she met their mother. Even if she doesn’t find someone to translate them, she’ll understand they were written with affection. In time, her heart will soften. She believes this because her daughter hugged her at the end of her trip, even though she’d refused to when they first met and while they were in the hospital together. It was only when the investigator and the interpreter told her that her mother’s time in the city had come to an end that her manner changed. She asked if she wasn’t meant to stay for a month, or a month and a half. She’d misunderstood: the month or month and a half were on that continent. They had to take her to other cities to discuss their work finding her country’s lost children. There were so many more children to find. She could never imagine just how many. It was important for their partners to have the opportunity to hear directly from her and ask questions about her personal process. There were meetings scheduled and train reservations. The person who’d donated the money knew all this. She often partnered with the organization. She was most helpful in collecting small donations from her friends or from people she met through work. The money for the plane ticket was from some people who’d come from Japan on a humanitarian mission. They had to send proof that their contribution had been used as they’d said it would. They would have liked for things to be different, for her to have time to address things at her own pace, but they could offer her only the hours between the woman’s return to the city and the departure of the plane that would fly her back to her country. That was when she hugged her. When she was about to walk through the departure gate and the queue supervisor wasn’t letting passengers loiter so as not to delay others. She said something in her ear that the interpreter didn’t catch and that she hadn’t been able to recall to ask him later. People said her language and her daughter’s were part of the same family, but she didn’t see any resemblance herself. She couldn’t understand a single sound, couldn’t distinguish the tone of people’s voices. This was an advantage for the interpreter. He thinks she would’ve suffered more had she grasped the language as instantly as she had the layout of the city. She could’ve gotten around without him just fine. In fact, sometimes she corrected the way he read the map, or showed him different routes to take, always delicately, as if it were all more an inkling than a suggestion. Her years in the mountains had taught her not to give orders. She’d often been reprimanded for it. They’d tell her she wasn’t much of a revolutionary—or, worse, that she wasn’t her father’s daughter.
It would have made her father happy to meet her. He’d probably even have helped track her down. Then she might’ve found her faster and scraped the money together earlier. He would’ve celebrated the news of their reunion. Optimist that he was, he would’ve said her daughter was lucky to have everything they’d fought for, even if it was someplace else. Things could’ve been worse. She could have been raised in a terrible country that didn’t share their values. The French were of their kind. They’d also had a revolution. So they were told during one of their training sessions. Which is why he was glad she’d been given a French nom de guerre, even though he couldn’t pronounce it properly either. In any case, he didn’t have to: he always referred to her as Daughter and said he was proud she was still fighting. After the war ended, he’d no doubt also have helped with her other girls and been proud of them, too. But he’d died before meeting them, and before the end of the war. Long before. He was blown to bits after kicking a land mine.
It was with this conviction that he and his compañera walked the route drawn for them. As always, he had someone check the path three times to see if it was clear. He was told three times that it was. The civilian in charge of the final inspection was to alert them if circumstances suddenly changed, but he didn’t because he saw nothing. He swore as much to her whenever they saw one another, during the war and after. And she believes him. He’s always been loyal, plus he’s a civilian. In that place named after insects, it would’ve been impossible for him to detect either the landing operation or the land mines with remote detonators that had been planted there.
Her father didn’t stand a chance. Otherwise, he would’ve fought with his very last breath. She wasn’t just presuming: she’d seen him perform in combat, even alone and when all he had on him was a small, sluggish weapon, as was the case that time with the woman. It had been thanks to her father, who’d told her to remain some distance behind him when the civilian signaled they could pass, that she hadn’t been blown up. He always said they should never assume. She ran. They surrounded her. She jumped into an irrigation ditch and shot at them from down there. They told her to give herself up, that it was pointless to resist, to turn herself in and tell them where the rest of her compañeros were. She kept on shooting. They killed her in the end.
That year, she was alone. It was only later that she married the partner of the woman who’d died with her father. She believes the episode stood in for a common past and helped them have a stable relations
hip, even though at the time neither of them would have considered it, nor seen in one another any companionship or relief. They barely met each other’s eyes and, when they did, preferred not to speak more than strictly necessary so they wouldn’t end up talking about it, so they wouldn’t be exposed. It wasn’t the time for that sort of thing. They could talk once the war ended, two years later, and they were given a home and land for the both of them, their daughters, and the memory of the people they’d lost that day.
A pity the girl hadn’t asked about her grandfather. It would’ve made her happy to tell her she came from a man with the strength to live. Maybe that would’ve given her some of the strength she needed, just as it had back when she felt lonelier than ever. She hadn’t had a life partner in those days. And if they hadn’t made her a radio operator, charged with facilitating communication between her group and the men who held their fate in their hands, she could’ve spent the rest of her life in silence. Her superior at the time thought it might help her pull through. He said she should be proud of the man her father had been. He said the same when news arrived that her brother, the one who’d wanted a boat, had died in combat. When he saw her stumble and let herself go, he reminded her that she had a kid, that she had to power through and fight for her. She thinks those words might do her daughter some good, too. She’s overjoyed when she finds out through the third daughter under her roof that her girl is pregnant. She thinks being a mother will help her push on. She hopes for a girl, one that looks like her. She hopes this will bring them closer, or at least that she’ll hear from her more often. But it’s the opposite. With pregnancy, her daughter grows more distant. Her adoptive brothers say her depression has deepened, in a way that can only remind her of the rising tide in the bay. They tell her not to worry, assuring her she’s already in treatment. Due to her special circumstances, she’s switched doctors. They think this is a really good thing. They promise to update her often, for her peace of mind. She asks them to stagger their calls: she has no phone at home and an interpreter only at the organization. It’s not that she doesn’t want to hear from them, but she doesn’t have the money for so much travel. She asks the interpreter not to tell them that. She wouldn’t like them to think she needs anything from them, even though she knows that’s not how their minds work. It’s more a matter of dignity, something the interpreter is well aware of. He says not to worry: he’ll answer the calls and take down messages. He’ll get them to her through whoever is tasked to go to her region. He’s sure it won’t be a bother. He tells the boys she’s grateful. He adds that they’re bringing her immense comfort. He offers to assist when needed and says he’ll let them know if they hear anything about their relatives. They’re still on the lookout. The boys ask whether one of her daughters has gone with her to the capital.
The littlest is in the office that day. She giggles at how they speak and says she can’t understand them. They ask her to sing one of those songs her mom said she knows. The interpreter notes that she’s dancing, too, as if they could see her. She dances at the phone. She’s awfully funny. They hope their niece will grow up to be like her. It’s the best thing that could happen to their sister. She’d never have another blue day, they think, at least not until the baby who’s about to be born becomes a teenager and goes through what everyone does around that time. Dog years is what they call it there. Some never recover from them. They think their sister might if she went abroad. They’ve offered to pay for her ticket and expenses. She turned them down. She thinks they can make better use of the money. Have they considered going on holiday? They probably need it. Maybe they’ll visit her mom. She seems like a decent person. They’d like to meet the girls before the littlest one stops dancing all the time.
11
Her mother’s life story doesn’t fit in the assigned box on the university’s financial-aid application form. The woman who hands it to her says she just needs to write that she’s an ex-combatant: the people responsible for selecting the recipients will understand. She doesn’t want to tell her that her request will be approved no matter how she puts it or how much information she provides. Instead, she explains that the committee is keenly aware of its obligations toward society, and of the country’s recent history. She asks her to be sure to send in the completed form before the deadline, that’s all. The earlier the better. The team takes note of the order the applications arrive in, though this isn’t mentioned in the instructions. They think it’s proof of a candidate’s interest. She doesn’t share their view. She’s met students in her office who’d only heard about the available benefits at the very last minute, as well as others who needed them so much they couldn’t afford the necessary transportation to request them. She’s said as much before, and received only a condescending smile in return. They keep on doing things the way they feel is right. She’s resolved to provide students with guidance when sending in their forms, even though they don’t ask for it. She knows students won’t ask for something they don’t know exists. It’ll be a sort of preselection process. Since she’s the one who hears their life stories and has learned to tell liars from truth-tellers, she chooses to improve their chances of being selected. She knows there isn’t much funding available and that often, due to mere technicalities, it doesn’t go to the candidates who most deserve it. But she’s different. Going forward, what she will do is look after the aid. Once it’s approved, she’ll advise the girl on how to find accommodation (better with a family than with friends from university—she’ll eat better that way and there’ll be fewer distractions when it comes to studying) and how to manage her stipend. It’s remarkable how easy it is to waste money. Many have ended up blowing it on cookies and sweets. This will remind her of something her mother said about the compensation they got when the war ended: some people used it to buy themselves a hamburger, and were left with nothing. She doesn’t think this will happen to her because the amount she’s receiving is different. Even though it isn’t much, to her it seems like a lot. A fortune. More than she could ever have dreamed of. Enough for her to get to university every day, buy whatever booklets are assigned, eat three meals a day, and travel home once a month. If instead of buying books she checks them out from the library, she might be able to send her mom a monthly contribution. Then she wouldn’t have to dip into the child support she gets from the littlest one’s father to feed the rest of her daughters. They could even fix up the house a little. Or think about buying chickens again, if only one at a time. Not a Pelibuey sheep, though, that’d be too great an investment for an animal no one thereabouts purchases, not only because they’re expensive but because the meat isn’t particularly tasty. At least not to the people where she’s from. She’s heard of other places where it’s worked. Where people eat it without grumbling about how it’s chewy like rope. She’s also heard of women who, thanks to Pelibueys, have gained financial independence. Women who, due to good sales, have managed to leave husbands who hit them and have taken over providing food for their children. Again, in other parts. Nobody likes Pelibueys where they live. Besides, no one has enough land to raise them. What little they have is allotted to their milpa, which keeps them fed all year round.
Their milpa is excellent. And appreciated. It doesn’t need much to flourish. Whenever there hasn’t been enough food, it’s been because of people thieving. Knowing there are no men at home, they break into their barn at night and steal a sack or two at a time. They don’t know exactly who it is, but they have their suspicions. They’re well aware of who has enough to eat all year without once going out to sow. But they haven’t seen them, so they can’t point fingers. They’ve never seen them. Their mother has told them to not go outside or peep through the windows, even if they hear noises. Who knows what state they might be in, the men who’ve come to wring them dry, or what they’d be capable of if they were caught. She knows cowardice is rash. She tells them to pretend they haven’t woken up, and to feign surprise the following day when they exclaim that there’s this or that much mi
ssing. She tells them to say they heard nothing, even though they stirred at the sound of the first step and lay there upset and listening until they left. She doesn’t want any trouble. She knows it’s not her they’ll get even with, but her daughters. She doesn’t think it’s worth fighting over such a trifling amount of corn, corn she’d have given willingly if only they’d asked. Instead, she sets some aside for her and her girls. Keeps it in the house because she knows they won’t come looking for it there. They know that if they did, she could kill them and, legally, nothing would come of it. They think she still has the gun she was forced to sell in an emergency, and that she could use it to kill them. They know she knows how, and that she wouldn’t hesitate if they forced her hand, even though she’s said over and over that she would never do it in front of her daughters. They were in the same camp once, so they’re aware she’s a good shot and that she’d consider it fair game. They agree. They wouldn’t steal under other circumstances, but right then they feel they’ve no other choice. Their children are hungry. They’ve nowhere to sow. No land. They had to sell off the parcels they’d been allotted after the war ended, piece by piece, to cover the expenses of all their fruitless harvests. And, little by little, the money had run out.