18 Cristina & Desiderio, Barrio Ávila, 1995
The hurricane gorged itself on warm Caribbean waters boiled by that hole in the sky. Still it found no reason to check out of Costa Rica. For something as large as a storm, whole countries are merely resorts. Juan Santamaría Airport grounded all flights, checked the sunburned gringo passengers into a hotel and casino down the highway. They played blackjack and pulled slots like veteran machinists. The ding-ding-ding of gambling drowned out the deluge. Just a few kilometers away from the airport, in the neighborhood of La Carpio, Nicaraguan refugees stood ankle-deep in the floors of their homes. The polluted Río Torres and Río Virilla overflowed with such enthusiasm, the dirt floors of corrugated tin houses were transformed into a muddy, clay-soft slop. Chased away by the horrors of the Nicaraguan Civil War and now neglected by the Costa Rican government, the residents of La Carpio would be left to their own rebuilding. The vulnerable are made only more so by the weather.
In Barrio Ávila, Desiderio watched from his studio window as Teresa reentered her house. She had returned from somewhere. An agonizing butterfly flew to the opening of his trachea, tickling his voice box with its feelers. Dust from its wings coated his throat in an analgesic film, calming any sounds that might disturb it. A whimper, a moan. A whispered I love you.
But for the pounding rain, the house remained quiet. La Lora Lorca asleep in his cage, the televisions muted. Cristina had gone out, but Desiderio didn’t wonder where she was or even if she was coming back. He watched as one by one the lights in Teresa’s home brought it back to life.
Bits of the statues Desiderio had smashed ten years ago lay in a pile in one corner of the studio. Hands and hips and lips and eyes belonging to Venus, Abraham Lincoln, David, and the Sphinx at Giza collecting dust and becoming dust. The only sculpture left whole and untouched was Desiderio’s exact replica of Bernini’s Ecstasy of Saint Teresa, which stood in the center of the studio underneath a giant tarpaulin. He pulled the fabric away. And where the saint’s face should have been, there was Teresa, her mouth hung open in rapture, unsure of what pleasured her so deeply. Desiderio had spent decades carving the life-size statue out of pure black limestone. Every wrinkle of her gown and curvature of her body expertly rendered. It was his masterpiece, but also his most stinging failure.
Desiderio had banned Cristina from ever entering his studio, so he had managed to keep the sculpture secret. It was the only thing keeping Desiderio alive all this time. If not for the statue, he would have joined Carmen after they sent Juan Julián to La Iglesia. He would have climbed the tallest building in San José and jumped. But that is not what craven men do, he thought. Only the brave ones jump. Cowards destroy their life’s work and sit in its ruins, allowing the past to keep them alive like an intravenous drip.
ACROSS TOWN, CRISTINA left the gourmet supermarket in an irked mood. It was owned by an old friend, and when Cristina called this morning, he’d said he had everything Cristina needed to make the party perfect: cumin and mint for the lamb, Argentine wine for the guests, a tres leches cake made from the finest milks in Europe. He repeated these items back to her, promised Cristina he’d be there waiting. But Cristina arrived to a CLOSED sign and almost tore the handles off the door when the owner didn’t answer. If the storm hadn’t killed him, she would.
Cristina returned to the pink Pontiac, and a guachimán with a glass eye was waiting, with a grin at first, and then a scowl as Cristina checked her hood for dents, her tires for slashes.
“With guards like you,” she said, “¿who needs thieves?”
The guachimán held out an impatient palm. He was a part of a mafia of human parking meters, watching cars even though no one had asked them to. Cristina was yet another client, had hired him against her own will. A conspicuous revolver winked coquettishly from his pocket. The guachimán knew it and so did she—there was no choice in the matter.
Lacking cash for the highway tolls, Cristina was forced to skid through the narrow streets, shut-down avenues, and muddy dirt roads from downtown all the way to Barrio Ávila.
Desiderio’s muteness clouded Cristina’s thoughts. She’d had insomnia since getting back from the hospital, made energetic phone calls to barely acquaintances, and ambled through the house talking to herself. Still, Desiderio hadn’t broken his silence for a second, not even long enough to ask her what was wrong.
She rolled down the window and lit a long gold-filtered cigarette. His reticence wasn’t in response to Juan Julián’s insanity—Cristina had figured that out years ago. First, because Desiderio never accompanied her to La Iglesia to visit their son. Not once in this eternal, infernal decade. Even in his body language, he made no reference to Juan Julián or his absence. Besides pulverizing his statues, Desiderio gave no indication that he felt anything for their son at all.
Second, Cristina had found Desiderio’s hidden sculpture. The one of Teresa. She stumbled upon it one day as Desiderio slept off a hangover. She sneaked into his studio like an art thief in a museum heist. Out of curiosity, she pulled off the gargantuan tarp that shrouded the most beautiful statue she had ever seen in person. She recognized Teresa’s face immediately, carved out of dazzling black limestone. The orgasm on her face.
Cristina had gone all these years without mentioning it. Even if she had the energy to confront either of them, after so many losses, Cristina couldn’t fathom losing her husband and her best friend too. She decided long ago to play along, wanting nothing more than to keep her world from shattering any further. With no verbal corroboration, Cristina could only speculate, but her belief was that Desiderio’s mourning came not from their son’s madness but from Teresa’s grief. Her grief from having lost Carmen so suddenly, so tragically. He empathized more with Teresa than he did with Cristina or with their own son. Cristina was convinced that as long as Teresa’s heart carried this sorrow, Desiderio wouldn’t utter a word in solidarity.
Especially not to Cristina.
But now Teresa might die. Desiderio might fall deeper into his muteness, plunge forever without hope, and Cristina would have no one left to talk to. Only Juan Julián, who listened like a grave, and La Lora Lorca, who knew only five words in response to her voice. Yet again, her universe was in danger of devastation.
She tossed out the half-finished cigarette and swerved the pink Pontiac to hit a skeletal dog crossing the road. But Cristina heard no thud or yelp. Just the metronome of her car’s wipers clearing the windshield of rain.
When Cristina entered the house, so, too, did her anger, jealousy, and hurt. The silence was as thick as a wall, and Desiderio, her beloved husband, the coldhearted bricklayer. Today, Cristina decided to smash the silence to bits, just as Desiderio had his own sculptures. She refused to spend her future completely alone.
She climbed the stairs and swung open the door to Desiderio’s studio. He pulled himself from the window and jumped up. Cristina inhaled dust and exhaled rage. Then she looked upon the statue of Teresa, its black stone twinkling in the rain-light.
“She’s dying,” Cristina whispered, admiring the statue.
Desiderio’s eyes squinted.
“She’s going to die,” she said, looking back down at her husband. They both stayed at opposite ends of the room, as if they, too, were statues. Stuck in this triangle with Teresa.
Desiderio opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Cristina went into the retelling she’d gotten so good at: the clinic, the nurse, everything.
“Teresa’s going to die,” she repeated, clenching her teeth. Cristina said it until she felt numb, until the look on her husband’s face resembled the one she’d seen in the mirror for far too long. Cristina walked over to Desiderio and pushed him into the armchair. She whispered the phrase into a blade. Cristina was close enough now that she smelled Desiderio’s sour breath and his aftershave. She looked into his eyes and remembered they were blue. Cristina was so close now that her lips touched Desiderio’s, and into his mouth she begged him to speak.
“Please, Desi. Please.”
AMERICAN FRUIT COMPANY
GENERAL OFFICES, 588 20TH STREET NW, WASHINGTON, D.C.
CABLE ADDRESS
AMERIFRUITCO { SAN JOSÉ D.C.
VINCENT RICHARD SMITH, M.D.
ATTENDING PHYSICIAN
MARGARET SMITH
COSTA RICA DIVISION
SAN JOSÉ, COSTA RICA
March 23, 1968.
Dear Mother:
Thank you for your letter. I am glad to hear you and Father are well. If his health is getting better, then my mind is at ease. Though, in this place peace of mind is scarce, I must say. For Janet mostly, as she hasn’t adapted to the culture yet. It has been almost a month, and she has made no friends. I haven’t either, but that isn’t surprising. I am here on an assignment, as you know. Uncle is cryptic in his responses. If you could, please reinforce that I am doing a good job. I need him to know that.
I dream of toads as of late. They inflate and make an awful sound I have never heard before. There were toads at the lake house, small, bulge-eyed creatures Sarah and I would cradle and sneak into the house to keep. I’m sure you remember that; you tossed them back into the woods. But these toads in my dreams are not those from the lake house, they are so much larger and louder than you could imagine, Mother. I am losing sleep from their croaking. Janet says I am going mad, and I need more rest. These dreams are bleeding into my days.
As for the locals, you have never met such a surly, ignorant bunch. You would laugh, Mother, or be so aghast you would buy a plane ticket home. Janet is often so scandalized by their behavior she locks herself in her room. They treat us like second-class citizens. How they scoff and whisper behind our backs. My Spanish is not masterly, but I know gossip when I hear it. Perhaps they are the root of my bad dreams. I hope Uncle does not have me here much longer. I wish to finish my work as quickly as possible. Uncle has not answered my last few correspondences. Please contact him as soon as possible, as perhaps they have been misplaced.
Your son,
