The next few days were days of waiting.
The fisherman didn’t get in contact, but there was tension in the house that you could feel in the air.
The three times I spoke with Dona Lu, I noticed that she kept the cell phone in her hand the entire time. And if it rang, she didn’t wait for the second ring and answered it with an anxiety that I knew very well.
I remember that my mother once went to take a bath and asked me to listen for the phone. I ended up falling asleep and awoke to hear her yelling, fallen on the floor, wrapped in a towel, crying. Why didn’t you answer? she screamed.
At the Berabas’ I also witnessed the moment when the rancher, returning from work, asked his wife if they had called. Nothing, she said. Nothing yet.
On another day, when I went in to deliver their mail, I found Dona Lu sleeping in the living room, with the phone in her lap. She was rapidly losing weight and no longer seemed to care about the white roots of her hair, which contrasted greatly with the dyed part. She had completely lost any vanity. She wore a faded blue robe and mustard-colored slippers. She looked like an old flower. With no fragrance. My presence woke her; she straightened up on the sofa and said she was doing that lately, sleeping anywhere. And at night, she said, I stay awake. She asked if I had brothers or sisters. I said no. You’re like Junior, she said. An only child. And her eyes welled with tears. I felt such love for Dona Lu that day that, if there had been any other way to get the money, I would have aborted the plan. There is no other way, over.
She’s hanging on by a thread, said Dalva in the kitchen. Now she only drinks milk. Nothing else.
Early Wednesday morning, the bomb exploded. As soon as the package that I had mailed from Puerto Suárez came, it was as if an alarm had gone off. José Beraba was informed by phone, and half an hour later parked his car in the garage. Dona Lu’s doctor also arrived hurriedly.
What’s happening? Dalva asked.
Later, I was called to Mr. José’s office. He asked if I was the one who had received the mail that morning.
I said yes.
Was it the same mailman as always?
The same, I said. Is there some problem?
No, he said, dismissing me.
In the kitchen, before I left, Dalva offered me a slice of the orange cake she had just baked. Something’s going on, she said. Something very strange. Have you noticed it? It was after you took them the mail, Dalva said.
That night, I told Sulamita everything.
We’re getting into Phase B of our plan, she said.
Sulamita had heard that an effective pressure technique used by kidnappers was to phone the family and, instead of making demands or threats, simply remain silent. Silence, she said, is a horrible threat. We have to destabilize them. We have to shake them up. We have to prevent them from moving.
For a long time, I believed that evil was a slow learning process. In those days, however, I finally understood that kindness is learned with great difficulty, through daily exercises that people sometimes call God or Buddha, depending on their beliefs. We are born with evil ensconced in us like a dormant virus only waiting for the moment to emerge. Otherwise, how to explain my behavior and Sulamita’s? How to explain that two good people could act so horribly?
There was no trace in Sulamita of the terrified woman of a few days before. It was she who thought of the details and made the decisions. Maybe because of that my internal radio, that voice inside me, spoke less now. It still spoke, but with gaps and interference. It no longer guided me. It just alerted. It was Sulamita who was in charge.
Getting back to what matters: our nights were long studies of probability. At times it was as if we were in a frenetic ghost train running off the tracks, as if that grotesque plan were a dark adventure that awoke a savage tremor in us. Sulamita’s eyes glowed with excitement. And mine burned. We have to study every detail, she said. Especially the cadaver. And the money. I would wake up in the middle of the night, think about this too, I remembered. And about that. And I slept and she would awaken me. One mistake, one single mistake and we’re fucked, she repeated. You know, she said, it’s like a game of chess. And she would ask questions for which I had no answer. The color of Junior’s hair and eyes, his height and weight. How am I supposed to know? I asked. Checkmate, she said. Find out. I need precise information. Think. Remember. How do you expect me to come up with a cadaver if I don’t even know Junior’s height?
The same night that the package was delivered, the fisherman phoned the family. We repeated the calls at various times on following days. Sulamita also phoned a few times while I was at work, so they wouldn’t suspect me.
Late Friday night I called four times. Dona Lu or Mr. José answered, in great distress, begging the fisherman to say something. You’re using our son’s phone, they said.
The fisherman made no sound, only breathing. A heavy breathing, rhythmical like that of an unhurried animal waiting for the right moment to attack – that’s how I felt on the other end of the line.
The last time, Mr. José lost control.
You cur, he said. You worm. You son of a bitch.
And hung up in my face.