Guanacolía: Excerpt 2
SPRINGTIME IN PARIS
Marisol del Rey y Cueva, a happy-go-lucky Salvadorian woman from an upper-class family “escaped” San Salvador and her dreaded role as solterona—old maid. She ends up in Paris and there she hears of two shocking events: the 1980 assassination of Monseñor Romero as well as the fact that her cousin Nidia, whom everyone presumed had been kidnapped by the guerrilleros, had in fact joined them of her own free will. In this segment, Marisol is still her ditsy self, but things will change dramatically for her after this scene when she sees Walter—the man she has been infatuated with for years, a friend of the family and a death-squad leader.
Listen to "Springtime in Paris"
There wasn't a free table at the Brasserie. The waiters floated above the crowd, gliding from table to table, lifting their trays high above their heads. Marisol imagined them like birds soaring, gliding, and swooping down. She asked for a Diablo-menthe, but Walter insisted they have champagne. “Très bien, monsieur.” The waiter flew off.
“I didn't know you spoke French.” Marisol’s eyes twinkled.
“I don’t. But money does.” Walter winked at her, then leaned toward her and cupped his hand over hers. “It’s nice to see you. And how you’ve changed.” He grinned. “So sophisticated. And your dress!”
“You like it?” She beamed. “I’ve admired it for months. And finally . . .” The waiter brought their champagne and set up a small table with an ice bucket.
“To you. To your red dress. And to Paris!” Walter held up his glass.
She gave him a mischievous grin and took a sip. “I really never drink.”
“Wouldn't you say this is an occasion? And champagne is for occasions.” He held up his glass again and this time Marisol finished hers.
“I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve been so confused. With Monseñor’s death. This morning when you called, I just knew you could explain . . .”
“I’m as shocked as you. Who wouldn't be? But I’m afraid I have no explanation.” Walter looked straight into her eyes and refilled her glass. “Naturally I feel the same about Nidia. I presume you’ve heard? Who would have thought such a lovely creature could go off and fight against her own?” He raised his empty palms. “There again, we have no explanation.” A woman carrying a basket of roses made her way through the café and stopped at their table. Walter reached for a red rose, handed her a franc note, and waved away the change. He turned to Marisol and offered her the rose. “To go with your dress.” Marisol blushed, too thrilled to speak. “Maybe you can explain what happened to Nidia.” He looked straight at Marisol, he wasn’t smiling. “What twisted her?” His face turned hard. “After all, she is your cousin. And I recall you were best friends.”
Marisol shook her head. “How can anyone understand?” She felt like giggling.
His face was still set in a frown. “Well she’s a traitor. And when we—when they—find her they’ll let her know what they think of traitors. As for what I think . . .” He leaned toward Marisol. “Even the most insignificant traitor—even an illiterate peasant—should not be discounted. ¡No hombre! Insignificant cracks, if there are enough, can cause a very significant fault. A breach that can seriously undermine us.” He winked at her. “I have a theory. The guerillas are like termites. They work in colonies. Invisible, but lethal. So you can see why I keep a sharp eye out for them. And do me a favor. If you hear from Nidia . . .” He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a monogrammed wallet, took out a business card, and scribbled on the back. “Call me. I’ll be here a few more days.” He handed her the card.
Marisol looked at the card and squinted. She saw the address was Cincinnati where José Antonio, one of her brothers, lived. “Do you still see José Antonio?”
“Of course. We’re like this.” He crossed his fingers and grinned. He refilled their glasses and emptied his in one gulp then glanced at his watch and motioned to the waiter for the check. “I’ll tell him I saw you. And how great you look.” He fidgeted with the ashtray. As soon as the waiter placed the check on the table, he picked it up and pulled out his wallet. “But I have to go. Plans. A client.”
Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shone. She watched him pocket the change the waiter had placed on the table. “This woman.” She shook her head, as if in a daze. “This woman I met.” She looked up at Walter who now stood. The champagne had bubbled up to her head and she saw two of him. “I wonder. If her stories are true. Such atrocities . . .”
“What woman?” Walter barked the question.
“Just a . . . peasant. A Salvadorian . . . . But what stories . . .”
He reached over, grasped Marisol’s elbow, and helped her up. “This sounds interesting. Why don’t you tell me more over dinner?”
Her feet felt wobbly. “I thought you had plans.”
“I did.” He smiled. “But I can change them.”
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