XIII

It was shame. Dobbs recognized the emotion, the same secretive guiltridden feeling that he had when he reached behind the bookcase in his own home to bring out that pornographic magazine he had once purchased in a Washington bookstore. For days, he had worried that he had been spotted by them, the watchers of the watchers, as they referred slyly to CIA internal control. He had even fretted over whether or not he had erred in locking the magazine in the trunk of his car. And when he got it into his house, slipped between the pages of the evening paper, he had racked his mind for a good place to hide it.

The bookcase in his study was, he was sure, an excellent place, although he lived in fear that in a frenzy of inspired housecleaning his wife would find it. Sometimes he hoped she would, evidence of his guilty secret, the symbol of his vulnerability. It would prove his lack of impotence. It would show her that there was still the old craving. How then could he better tell her how she had killed it in him by her disinterest? Eduardo, you sly bastard, he whispered, sure now of his presence in the room. How I envy you your passion? That was the question which described the nub of his shame, his personal shame.

His professional shame was that he could not have foreseen what was emerging between Eduardo and the three women. Never mind that it had aborted his carefully planned surveillance. He had been betrayed by himself. That was why he was searching through these papers, the random words that strung together to describe a life which he could not touch with his understanding. It haunted him now. And he knew it would obsess him throughout the rest of his dry, barren life. Why? Why had he been unable to foresee?

He reached for a file marked "Palmero-Valdivia." He had seen it once, glanced over it with little interest or comprehension. Now he opened its pages and began to study the transcript.

"Translated from the Araucanian dialect," the line above the text read and under it was a brief history of the Araucanian Indians. No matter how many of them were butchered by the conquistadors and by later "liberators," they had never surrendered. They were the only Indian tribe in the Americas that had never surrendered, the writer had pointed out with, it seemed to Dobbs, unprofessional pride.

"And you first saw Palermo when he came to write a story about your village?"

The old man had nodded. He was small and wizened, the interrogator had pointed out. There apparently was an interpreter present, and the interview seemed choppy.

"It was for the party magazine," the interrogator added. "And your daughter first saw him then?"

The old man had nodded again. His face registered no expression.

"She was working for the mission," he said, pointing to the mission wall, beyond which rose the ancient steeple of an old Spanish church. "She was fourteen and somehow she had remained pure, a virgin."

"How did you know this?"

"We knew."

"And she simply disappeared with him?"

"He said he wanted her." The old man turned his eyes away, looking into the ground with guilt.

"What did he give you?"

The old man shrugged.

"How much?"

"Two hundred. It was more money than I had ever seen at one time in all of my life."

"And he took her away?"

"Yes."

"And then?"

"She came back."

"And where is she now?"

The old man shrugged.

"I have money," the interrogator said. The old man began to talk again.

Eduardo had expected his anger at Miranda, at himself, to abate in Valdivia. Instead, it intensified, and although he threw himself into his work with vigor and zealousness, he could not wipe it out. Perhaps it was the anger that added the fire to his speeches to the dock workers, the farmers, and factory hands and gave more bite to the articles he wrote for the party paper. Allende and the other party functionaries sent him long letters of commendation. He worked tirelessly, more out of fear that, if he should slow down, he would be tormented by his memories of Miranda. He saw her face everywhere, imagined her body, even as he copulated with the whores of Valdivia.

Since he had not the constitution to drink heavily, he found his escape only in women. Somehow it was the only way he could escape the torment, as if he could lose himself in the imagined womb of Miranda.

"Say nothing," he would tell them. "I will pay you double if you do not speak." They looked at him with thickly made-up, startled eyes.

He had rented a small house in a decaying neighborhood not far from the city's center and just a few blocks from the party headquarters. Because it was so close, it became another meeting place for the party workers, who swarmed over the house as if it were their own. Sometimes, if offered drinks or food, they would stay long into the night. He hated to be alone. Yet he was deliberately aloof, except when it came to party matters. Luckily, the level of intensity among the party workers was high and their absorption in these matters could sustain their interest.

Because he was wealthier than the others, he was treated with exaggerated respect and he was able to deflect any attempts at intimacy, especially by the women, many of them young students who formed the bulwark of the party's support, after the workers.

It was not that he didn't want them. With all women now, he could feel a sense of Miranda in them, but the prospect of intimacy, communication, thwarted him. He preferred the whores. He could pay them to be silent, to offer nothing but their bodies.

His father, he discovered from others who came to the city on business, was so upset with him, his pride so offended, that one could not mention Eduardo's name in his presence. He had even forbidden his mother and sisters to communicate with him. This he had expected. Eduardo's betrayal had been deep, and he was certain that Miranda, who played the role of abandoned wife with great aplomb, had not helped the situation.

What did it matter, he told himself. Their lives were fantasy-ridden, dissolute with greed. The curtain was swiftly coming down on their way of life. It was tragic that they could not see it happening or, fearing its demise, did nothing to stop it. In his mind, he could wipe out much of his previous life. All except Miranda!

It was worse, surely far worse, than a physical affliction to ache for her, to want her. And yet she would do her "duty." To contemplate it made him ashamed of his manhood, his inability to control the focus of his desire. It was with Uno that he discovered the depths of his damnation.

He had seen her first in the mission, a child-woman not much older than her wards, emaciated children who played in a dust bowl at the far end of the mission wall. The old padre was showing him around the mission, his myopic eyes squinting into the sun-drenched courtyard. Eduardo had come to the village, a tiny hamlet wedged into the edge of the Cordillera about fifty miles north of Valdivia, armed with a writing tablet and his camera and bent on using the plight of the Araucanians as a symbol of the ultimate dehumanization of the Chilean ruling class. The government had declared the Araucanians a kind of protected endangered species, but that had done little to relieve their extreme poverty.

"They are children," the old padre sighed as his bent body labored to make the long hegira around the littered courtyard. It was the fashionable epithet of the Church, whose power had always been on the side of the oligarchs. Eduardo outwardly expressed sympathy with the old man's opinions. The objective, of course, was to portray the opposite view. He was beginning to learn the power of charm, dissembling to achieve a specific goal.

"The best they can look forward to is the kingdom of heaven," the old man said. As he approached the spot where the children were playing, they suddenly stopped and stood at attention. When he passed before them, they each bowed and kissed his ring, while he blessed them with the sign of the cross. Uno stood a few feet away, watching the spectacle approvingly. It gave Eduardo a chance to view her, a doll-like creature, barefoot, her skin the color of cocoa, hardly more than four and a half feet, but well proportioned. Her eyes watched him briefly, then turned quickly away as he concentrated his gaze on her. The ceremony over, she shepherded the children back to the dustbowl, where she seemed to be administering some kind of game with sticks and stones.

He continued to watch her as she moved. Considering her shabby gray smock, tied at the waist, there was an odd grace to her walk, and when she turned in a swift motion, her hair rustling as if a breeze had caught it, he knew why he had observed her with such interest. She seemed a tiny, dark replica of Miranda, a primitive doll carved from the petrified wood found beyond the last timber-line of the Cordillera.

The old man had moved away, and it was only when he called to Eduardo that he interrupted his concentration.

"I was curious about the game," Eduardo said, to cover his embarrassment. But his thoughts were with the small child-woman.

"A simple game," the old padre said. "They play it all their lives. They are the meek." he whispered. "The Son of God has put them in our care."

Eduardo checked his temptation to enlighten. Nothing had changed in this village for centuries.

"And do they still practice the old tribal customs?" he asked gently.

The old man shrugged. It was a question he deigned not to answer. A bell rang in the steeple and the children stopped their play and straggled into the church. Again he had an opportunity to watch the girl as she led the motley group toward them.

"May I take their picture?" Eduardo asked.

The old padre motioned to the girl, who came forward, her head bowed. He spoke to her in an odd-sounding dialect. She responded with a whispered word and lined the children against the sun-drenched wall, then stepped away.

"And her, too," Eduardo said. He motioned to her while the old man spoke to her.

He began to take their pictures, stepping closer as he snapped, finally capturing her alone in the lens as he moved forward. She seemed frightened, her lips tight, her eyes lowered.

"What is her name?"

The old padre mumbled her name. It sounded like Uno, but he knew that was not correct. It will be Uno then, he told himself.

"Tell her to smile," Eduardo requested, wondering how far he could go with the old man.

"She does not know what that means."

"Then tell her something funny that will make her laugh."

"They do not laugh," the old man said, his contempt showing now. Eduardo did not press the point, but snapped his pictures, then put his camera back in its case. The old man waved the children away and they continued their ragged march through a stone door, from which came the smell of food.

"Why don't they laugh?" Eduardo asked, wondering if the question would end his interview. The old man looked at him through his myopic eyes.

"Would you laugh if you were them?" It seemed an incongruous answer. He had expected something like, "It is God's will." The walk had wearied the old man and he sat down on the steps at the entrance of the broken-down stone church. He had hoped that the old padre would be his interpreter. He wanted to visit in the village, to take pictures. He had already shaped the story in his mind. There was enough squalor to portray their plight.

"Is there someone in the village who also speaks Spanish?" he asked the old man, who was beginning to drowse, oblivious to the flies that swirled about his nose.

"Terrano," the padre said, pausing. "The girl's father."

"Where is he?" He felt his palms begin to sweat.

The padre pointed in the direction of the village, a vague gesture. The old man, he could tell, was growing bored with him.

He started to go. Then, hesitating, he halted, watching the old man, the eyelids heavy with fatigue, the gray hairs sprouting on his face. The image of the girl hung in his mind. Uno! Although he had long been an atheist, he felt the sense of blasphemy in his thoughts about the girl, a corruption in himself. It is Miranda, he assured himself. Part of her curse.

"Could you ask the girl to show me to her father?" he said. He had already dipped his hand in his pocket and when the old man opened his eyes he saw the money.

"And this contribution," Eduardo said, "for your trouble." His hypocrisy was an obscenity.

The sight of the money revitalized the old man, confirming Eduardo's cynicism. The padre clapped his hands a number of times in quick succession. The girl appeared and the padre spoke to her in the strange language. Without looking at him, the girl nodded and began to move away toward the courtyard entrance.

"He is an old fox," the padre said to Eduardo. "Keep an eye on your pockets." Then the aged eyes closed again, and looking back as he reached the courtyard entrance, he saw the ancient head reposing on the old man's chest.

Outside the mission, Eduardo followed the girl closely, watching her swift, graceful movements, the easy swing of her girl-woman hips, noting how well formed her legs were, tapered at the ankles, her feet not yet swollen like those of the other Indian women. They came into a clearing, a clutter of litter and rusting junk. The stink was abominable. A small, dark, muscular man sat in the entrance of a makeshift shack with a corrugated tin roof. From the interior of the shack came the cackling of women's voices in the strange dialect. Barefoot children roamed about the clearing with scrawny dogs. When they saw the girl, they clustered around her skirts, but she waved them away.

The dark man, his small body like rip cord except for a slightly distended belly, watched the oncoming man without interest. His daughter spoke to him and he looked up desultorily. The girl moved away and squatted some distance from them. Eduardo's eyes followed her. It was only then that he noted the man's engaging interest.

"You speak Spanish?" Eduardo asked. He did not use the same tone of deference he had used with the padre.

"Why?" the old man asked in Spanish. His teeth were rotted and his lips snarled as he spoke.

"I--" Eduardo hesitated, feeling the girl's father's eyes searching him. Is he reading my mind? Eduardo wondered. There seemed an edge of cruelty about the man's fierceness. "I am interested in telling the story of your village," Eduardo said. The words seemed hollow. He looked briefly at the girl, who turned her eyes to the ground. He tore his gaze away.

"What story?" the man said. He picked up a tin can from the hard ground and drank from it. It seemed a kind of beer, a greenish liquid that dripped from both sides of his chin. He did not bother to wipe it away, letting the droplets linger until they fell to his chest

"The Araucanians," Eduardo said stupidly. The man drank again. Eduardo felt Uno's eyes watching him.

The man's eyes narrowed. He emptied the can and threw it at one of the dogs. He was obviously drunk. The barefoot children had vanished into the air, along with the scrawny dogs. Eduardo took his camera out of its case and pointed it at the man, who put both his hands in front of his face. He had imagined that the man was ignorant of cameras. An old fox, he thought. The padre is right.

"I have money."

Eduardo felt his shame, looking briefly at the girl, who again turned her eyes to the ground. He fanned the bills in his hands.

At the sight of the cash, the man's eyes opened wide. "A story, you said," the man mumbled. It was obvious that he did not comprehend.

"For a newspaper."

The man looked at him blankly, but held out his hand. Eduardo gave him two bills. The girl's father looked at them closely, folded them, and put them in the band of his pants. Then Eduardo lifted the camera and began taking pictures of the hut, the rusting debris. Turning, he captured the girl in his lens again.

"You want to fuck my daughter," the man said, his face a blank. He looked at the girl and spat into the ground.

"You filthy bastard," Eduardo said. He was not sure the man had understood. His features registered no reaction.

"She has had no man."

"No thanks to you." He was still not sure that the man understood him. He had put the money back into his pocket and began to move toward the girl. Her father stood up and followed him. Standing over the girl, he lifted her to her feet. Her face, like her father's, was mute. Or he did not know how to read their signs?

"The padre keeps the men away," the man said. "I am her father. I can give her to you." He spoke to the girl in the strange language. The girl merely lowered her eyes. He could not determine what he loathed more, his own temptation, or the man's callousness.

"I will tell the padre," Eduardo said. The man ignored him. He moved the girl in front of him and squeezed her breasts.

"Good," he said.

Eduardo grabbed him roughly by the shoulders and pushed him away. But the man kept his balance and snarled at Eduardo.

"She is only a woman."

"And you are an animal."

"But I can see that you want her." He had lowered his voice. His eyes blazed like coals. "And you have money."

Eduardo wavered. He looked at the girl, felt his own desire, and his own compelling need to understand what was driving him. Yet, he could tell himself that she was in need of protection from this vapid life on which she was impaled. There are good instincts in that, he assured himself. Who is the greater monster, he wondered, watching the man who eyed him now.

Eduardo thrust his hand in his pocket and threw all the bills on the ground, scattering them. The man groped for them like a bird pecking at a handful of scattered feed. Eduardo watched him with contempt, waiting until he had gathered all of the bills in his hand.

"Tell her," he commanded, his voice harsh.

The man looked at his daughter and spoke to her. She looked at Eduardo, but her face told him nothing.

"I will be good to you," he said gently, knowing that she could only understand his tone, not his words. Despite his disgust with himself, he felt special joy in the knowledge that he could possess her.

"And that." The man pointed to the camera, which Eduardo unhitched from his shoulder and gave to him.

"You bastard," he said again, unable to look at his face, moving away, but first making sure that Uno was following. He heard her soft padding walk behind him as he followed the path in the direction of the mission. At the edge of its wall he retraced his steps down the burro path he had ascended earlier. Balancing himself on the jutting rocks that lay on the trail, he turned back occasionally to observe her following him. She was watching him now, he knew, and her eyes no longer looked downward when he looked directly at her.

In two hours, they reached his car, parked along the dirt road that led to the main highway, ten miles to the west. She sat beside him in the front seat, watching the roadway. He was certain she had not been in a car before.

It was, he knew, the most bizarre act of his life. It offended every moral bone in his body. In many ways, it was an offense against himself.

"I will not hurt you," he said. She showed no emotion, her eyes steadily watching the roadway as night fell slowly over the Cordillera where she had spent the whole of her previous life.

"I will be good to you," he pleaded, not looking at her. "I need someone to love." It seemed a cry from the depths of himself and, for a moment, he felt the power of his confession. He was certain that she did not comprehend.

The car slowed in traffic along the two-lane highway as they moved closer down the coast to Valdivia and he did not arrive at his house until nearly dawn. She had dozed fitfully, but in an erect position, and was instantly alert when the car had stopped.

"This is my home," he told her. "Your home."

He had not touched her up till then. Now he took her hand, surprised at its smallness, and led her into the house. She showed no fear, her face reflecting the same even expression, as if she lived behind a veil that screened out emotion.

He felt stiff and exhausted, his energy sapped. Because he was not sure of her and was genuinely frightened that she might run away, he brought her to his own bedroom. He could not bear to let her sleep on the couch, like some dog. He pointed to the bed and she walked toward it. Then she dropped to the floor and stretched out at its foot.

"No, not there," he cried, bending over and lifting her onto the bed. She lay there, flat, her arms folded like a corpse. He smiled down at her gently, bent over and kissed her on the forehead. Then he locked her in and stretched out on the couch. Luckily he was exhausted, his mind drained of intelligence. Plunging into a vacuum, he felt his body slip into a deep, dreamless sleep.

When he awoke he felt the panic of strangeness and it took him a few moments to regain his sense of place. Remembering Uno, he felt the pores of his body open. What had he done? He felt the enormity of the crime against himself, against her. He had bought her as if she were a commodity to be traded or bartered against her will. Was it his own selfishness? The need to replicate Miranda? Or was he subconsciously delivering her from the life of drudgery and despair, the futile charade before she would enter the kingdom of heaven. If that was the truth of his motivations, he could live with that.

And, after all, he had not touched the girl, not invaded either her body or her soul. It was a cleansing thought. Enough to provide the courage to open the door of his bedroom.

She was still there on the bed where he had left her, looking darker against the sheets than he remembered her yesterday. Her eyes were open and, as before, expressionless.

"Good morning, Uno," he said pleasantly. At the sound of his voice, she got off the bed and stood before him, a small, perfectly proportioned doll. He observed her closely, seeking to discover what in her had reminded him of Miranda.

"Come here," he said gently, moving his hands in pantomime. She drew closer to him, barely inches away, and he could smell her odor, like that of an animal. Then it occurred to him that she had not relieved herself. He took her arm and guided her toward the bathroom, realizing that she had never seen a plumbing appliance. Even the priest had used the outdoors, as the animals did. Taking her arm, he led her gently to his overgrown garden, a miniature forest. She understood and squatted behind a bush, and discreetly he turned his eyes away.

It was Sunday and, for the first time, his consciousness absorbed the sounds of the bells clanging around the city. She heard them, too, hesitating as she came toward him again, her ear cocked in attention.

"They are calling the slaves for their shot of subjugation," he said. Guiding her to a chair at the kitchen table, he searched the cupboards for food. He found bread, cheese and fruit and made some tea. She did not begin to eat until he sat down at the table. He watched her and she reminded him of a squirrel, nibbling away with her front teeth, looking blankly ahead of her.

"Later, I will take you back to the village," he said. "I can't imagine what possessed me." He drank his tea and watched her.

"If only you could be Miranda," he said, the idea inflating him. "My little dark, ebony Miranda." He paused. "Why is it such a complexity?" He reached out and patted her head. She continued to eat. "I shall tell you all about my private hell. Then I will take you back to the village, where you will live yours."

When she had finished everything on her plate, she looked down, contemplating its emptiness. The smell of her filled the room, running out of her pores, a gaseous presence. Leaving her there at the table, he got up, went to the bathroom, and filled the ancient tub with warm water. At least, I will send her back clean, he thought, but the idea of her small naked body in the tub had begun to move his sensuality. He felt his penis begin to harden.

When the tub was filled, he brought the girl to the bathroom and undressed her. At the sight of her perfectly formed body, his penis rose to fullness. Her breasts were small, but high, the nipples protruding from large, dark puddles. He felt them, kissed them, watched them harden. He deliberately averted his eyes from her face, wondering if she felt anything.

"Are you frightened?" he asked. She had worn nothing under her gray smock, and although the scent of her disgusted him, it also excited him. She had a tiny thatch of hair at the base of her motte and he could not resist kissing that as well. Lifting her, he put her in the tub and, soaping his hands, moved them over her body until her skin slickened. His fingers gently probed and cleaned every part of her body. He could not understand his passion to suddenly cleanse her. Perhaps it was his own heart, his mind, or his soul that he wanted to cleanse. What am I trying to wash away? he wondered. The girl was docile under his touch. He wondered again what she felt.

"What do you feel?" he asked, remembering Miranda. Was it this lack of response that reminded him of Miranda? He washed her hair, soaped her again, titillated the tight, small crevice between her legs, massaged her nipples until they stood.

"So there is something inside," he thought joyously, lifting her from the tub. She was light, hardly an effort, and he wrapped her in a towel and patted her, watching her eyes now. They looked at him blankly.

"You are my little doll," he said, drawing him to her, enveloping her in his arms, wondering if she had ever received such love, such warmth.

"You must feel that I love you," he said, hating his ridiculousness. "Will you be Miranda?" he asked, as a supplicant.

Carrying her to the bed, he unwrapped the towel and put her on it. The old smell of her was still on the sheets and soon her body was immersed in it again. Undressing, he stood before the edge of the bed. Her eyes watched his erect penis.

"So here is something," he said, sensing the madness of it. He looked about the room. Was someone watching? He walked to the window and pulled the blinds. The light in the room was muted.

Standing beside her again, he lifted a fragile hand and put it on his penis, making it stroke him.

"This is my manhood," he said. "It has a life of its own, mindless ... like you." He wondered if she was really mindless.

Then he disengaged her hand and spread her legs, putting his tongue in the little crevice. He could not distinguish whether she was wet from him or herself.

"Does it move you?" he asked suddenly, watching her.

"Would you feel anything if I cut your heart out?" he said. He squeezed one of her erected nipples. Her expression did not change.

"You don't feel pain either?" he asked.

He lifted her to a sitting position and put his hard penis between her breasts, pressing them around it. He moved her arms around him so that her hands held his buttocks, and leaned her head against his belly, caressing her hair.

"Do you love me, Miranda?" he asked the silent room. He could feel the coolness of her breath against his skin.

"You must love me forever," he said. "I insist on that. You must not let me love alone." Then he made her lie flat on the bed, as he kneeled over her, directing his swollen penis against the tiny pink gash.

"Surely you have seen this before," he said suddenly, oddly clinical, absorbed in the process. "Sooner or later it all comes to this," he said, feeling a sob gather in his throat. He moved forward, feeling her small opening part, wondering why she did not cry out.

"You must love me," he cried, feeling a sob gather deep inside him. "Miranda," he cried, moving forward, the weight of his body plunging the hard penis forward, slowly penetrating, feeling the pain of it.

"Feel something," he shouted. "Anything, pain, pleasure, disgust!" He continued to move forward, her tissue yielding, beginning to lubricate the passage. He felt her heartbeat's speed, the pumping of her blood. Or was it his own. Then her body began to twitch, her lips parted slightly as she gasped for breath. She was fully penetrated now, her body opened like a flower, moving on its own power. Her eyes had closed. He could not tell if it was pleasure or pain, or both. Was he feeling the power of her race now, he wondered, the brutality of the unconquered, dominating by their submission. He moved his body ruthlessly, feeling her squirm beneath him.

He felt his pleasure begin, a suffusion of energy at the base of his spine, focusing its center in his loins, his hard piston moving without mercy in the fragile form below him, vanquishing, self-contained in its awesome power. Then she screamed, a long wail of anger, like an animal being quartered while still alive. It was impossible to believe the sound could come from such a tiny figure, but it continued, both frightening and exciting him, urging his energy. Then he felt the pleasure come, an ejaculation that shook him as if his blood had become a gusher, pumping through his veins with an intensity that he had never felt before. Only then did her screams stop and he lay on top of her, his pores dripping with the liquids of himself, their odors mingling.

He could not tell how long he lay over her, still penetrated. When he opened his eyes, she was watching him. Was the mindlessness gone? Did he detect some communication? He disengaged himself and lay flat beside her, staring at the ceiling. He could feel her eyes watching him, but he did not turn toward her.

"Did I rape your soul as well, Miranda?" he said. "And you, Uno, what did it matter who opened your womanhood? It would have been done sooner or later. Genetic programming, some inchoate force that sustains the race of humanity, the mysterious push of life. Do you know what I'm talking about? Do I know? What is self-perpetuation?" He paused, moved his hand to feel her flesh.

"Who am I, you ask?"

"I am Eduardo searching for the missing part of himself. We are all searching for the missing part of ourselves."

"And have I found it?"

"I thought it was Miranda. It is a delusion. As you know. You are not Miranda. You are a primitive. One step above an animal. And if I have given you my seed, we will propagate a strange race. Whose genes will dominate? What does it matter?"

"Have I been unjust to you? Exploited you for my own pleasure?"

"Yes, I admit that. I am just as vulnerable as the next man."

"Did I enjoy the manipulation."

"Yes, I took pleasure in it."

"And did I move you?"

"We shall see."

He got up, gave her her smock. She dressed and they drove north again. He did not talk to her and she sat, as she had sat yesterday, watching the road, her eyes expressionless. He no longer wondered about his motives. He wanted her away from him. She had somehow become the focus of an evil in himself, a terrible vulnerability. He wondered what she might tell the old padre.

Darkness came. He moved the car off the highway and onto the dirt road, bumping along, headlights ablaze to light the way. He drove cautiously. Occasionally an animal would find itself trapped in the circle of the headlight's illumination. There was a full moon, which helped his vision. When he felt he was close enough to the trail that led upward to the Cordillera, he opened the car door and signaled for her to leave. Obediently, she stepped out of the car, and for a moment, like a trapped animal, she appeared in the circle of light. As he backed the car away, the beam moved and Uno disappeared. The car headed back toward the highway.

He arrived back at his house as the sun poked its way above the peaks of the Cordillera. Exhausted, he threw himself on his bed. The smell of her was still pervasive, and although it triggered the memory of her, he fell into a deep sleep.

Three days later he found her squatting in his doorway, a fragile lump of flesh. Her feet were raw and bleeding, and he carried her into the house, washed and bandaged them. It was different now, he knew. Somehow what he had done to her had exorcised him, and although he felt a sense of shame, he no longer felt any desire for her. Something had come over him, he decided, and until he saw her in his doorway, he had almost begun to believe that it had all been part of a dream.

He had thrown himself with renewed vigor into the party's work, and Miranda seemed less of an obsession than she had been. Until now, he had actually imagined that he was free of her.

He let her sleep on the couch, fed her, and allowed her to stay in the house when he was off at party headquarters. During the next few days, he kept his co-workers away and did not answer any phone calls. He did not talk to her as he had before, and when her feet had healed, he again drove her to where the trail began. It was daylight then, and when he let her out at the foot of the trail, he motioned with his arms for her to leave.

"You must go back," he cried. She stood immobile, her dark face a mask. In the way the sun angled over her face, he could see the harbinger of her future face, wrinkled, prunelike, lined and dry like burnt cork. He motioned furiously with his arms.

"Go back."

Finally he got into the car and angrily reversed it, moving it over the road. The wheels had kicked up a huge cloud of dust and he could no longer see her in the rear-view mirror. Stopping the car, he let the dust settle, waiting to see if she had gone. In the thinning cloud, he saw her, squatting now, a speck beside the road, immobile, waiting. Another curse, he thought, as he put the car in forward and slowly approached the girl. She watched him come, stood up and waited, while he got out of the car and slammed the door, hearing the echo in the hidden canyons.

Looking up, he squinted into the peaks of the Cordillera, the snow-capped wonders glowing like platinum swords stabbing into the sky. He felt his own smallness, his inability to control his own destiny. Annoyed with himself, he started up the trail. She moved with him now, a few feet behind, her legs surer than his on the rocky trail. If there was pain in her newly healed feet, she showed no visible signs. After three hours, he reached the village, saw the steeple of the ancient mission in the dusk and retraced his steps to her father's shack.

The father squatted near the glow of a fire, outside of the shanty, the flames playing a shadowy dance on his face. As before, Uno squatted a few feet off, watching them, showing no expression in her face, although the reflection of the fire made her eyes glow like embers.

"I've brought her back," Eduardo said. Her father looked up at him. Only his head moved, the sinews of his neck etched by the firelight. He shrugged.

"And I want you to keep her here."

Her father looked at the girl.

"She did not suit you. You should beat her."

"I'm not a savage."

The father shrugged. "Then I shall tell the padre to keep her. The padre knows."

"Knows what?"

"That she has become your woman."

"She is not my woman."

The father looked at her, rattled some words in a foreign tongue.

"She is your woman," he said.

"I have no woman," Eduardo answered, looking at the girl, her primitive foreignness disgusting him. "Is it money you want?"

The father nodded.

"And you must keep her here. She is not to follow me like you made her do last time."

He looked at the girl, then at Eduardo, who could tell from the man's apparent confusion that the long hike to Valdivia was her own idea.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a neatly folded pile of bills. Squatting beside the man, he showed him the money, which he divided in half.

"You will get this now," Eduardo said. "And the other if she does not return."

The man nodded. Eduardo looked briefly into Uno's face. It told him nothing.

"In three months. Remember, if she comes, you will get nothing."

He did not look back, walking swiftly away, groping through the brush to the downward trail, lit only by the light of the moon. It was after he had been walking for nearly an hour that he heard the scream. He told himself it might be a beast in the throes of a deep pain. But he knew better.

In three months, he sent one of the young men among the party workers into the village with the other half of the money. When the young man returned, he confirmed the delivery. If he wondered why it was done, he said nothing. As for Uno, Eduardo blocked her from his mind, although sometimes in his dreams he would hear the scream again and would awake in a cold sweat.