“It’s all under control until one day he gets mad at your children and beats the shit out of them. Where the hell are your priorities?”
And when Luis went to reassure her, Gaspar had wiped his tears and his runny nose with a hand that he rubbed on his jeans and left that house, planning not to come back for a long time. The next day he’d gone by his uncle’s work to apologize and listen to the same lecture as always: you have to control yourself, son, you have to learn to manage that rage or work on it more in therapy. And: Julieta changed a lot after the babies were born, I don’t know if it’s the hormones or if this is what being a mother is or what, but she’s gotten more fearful. Gaspar had thought about skipping Negro’s birthday and just calling, but he didn’t want to offend him. He decided to take a seat at the table and wait and applaud the grillmaster. The babies weren’t there, which was good: their grandparents were watching them so their parents could have an adult party, with wine, fights, and maybe some tears at dawn.
“Guess who I ran into? Josecito Viola. He was visiting Buenos Aires. He lives in France. You remember that fight we had?”
“In Plaza Francia, coincidentally.”
“I was giving him some shit about how rock music was the culture of big business—my god! What a jackass I was. Well, he lives there now and apparently he’s teaching sociology. He looks good.”
Marita wanted to know more, and the two men spent half an hour enthusiastically regaling her with tales of the seventies. Gaspar had already heard almost all the stories, but he was vaguely entertained at seeing them so excited to get attention from a young girl who “was no dummy” （that’s what they always told him: “Your girl’s no dummy”： that’s how sexist they were, though they swore otherwise）， and who also had a marked and sustained interest in politics, which was rare （“they’re just not engaged” was their most common complaint about their students）。 She participated in their arguments and wasn’t condescending, and nor was she in their thrall: she used them as information sources, thought Gaspar. And they enjoyed it.
The after-dinner conversation drew out and Negro even sang a little, but he couldn’t coax the others into what he called “the chorus situation.” When he got too wasted and started to pick fights—he was an ornery drunk—the others moved away and let him grumble to himself and, finally, start to nod off. That was the moment to invite him to sleep over, and he always said yes. Gaspar led him to the room under the pretext of helping, but really he just wanted to be alone for a while, have a little silence before reentering the fray. Julieta was being nice to him, for the moment. Negro’s daughter had left early because she didn’t like to fight with her dad when he was drunk. Things weren’t so bad. When Gaspar came back from the bathroom, people were starting to say goodbye. Negro’s students, the workers from Luis’s building. Gaspar rummaged around the grill and made himself a belated sandwich with a little skirt steak. Julieta announced she was going to sleep. And in the early morning only Luis, Gaspar, and Marita were left, plus all the dirty dishes on the table and three full ashtrays.
Gaspar was waiting for Marita’s signal to leave. A little bored, he started to play with the dog, who was still excited by the meat, the smells, and the people. With all the rolling around and pretend biting, Gaspar missed the beginning of a conversation. But then he distracted the frisky dog with a bone from the barbecue. He’d heard something that piqued his interest.
“So, you left through Paraguay?”
“Through Brazil. Two months after the coup, more or less. Gaspar’s parents got me out. His mom, really. She drove me in her car.”
Gaspar sat upright and lit a cigarette.
“My mom got you out? She was the one who got you out of the country? You’ve never told me that before. Why not?”
Luis looked a little ashamed. He had said too much. He was drunk, and excited as he always was when he talked about his past with someone who was interested in listening.
“I don’t know, son. Those were hard things.”
“Why is that hard? She helped you, I don’t see the trauma. I can’t stand secrets. You know they drive me nuts.”
“Don’t get carried away, now, you’re blowing this out of proportion. We’re not going to fight about this.”
“We’ll just see whether we fight or not. Why did you never tell me?”
The silence in the yard was heavy and pensive, weighted with drunkenness and exhaustion. Gaspar had come closer to the table with his arms crossed, and Marita rested a hand on his shoulder.
“My mom got you out of the country and it never occurred to you to tell me. In fifteen years. Nothing, not a word.”
“I’m telling you now. Some things aren’t so easy.”
“You’re not telling me, you’re showing off for Marita. I’m sick and tired of you all and your harrowing lives. For real.”
“Stop it, you two,” said Marita. “Gaspar, if he couldn’t tell you, he couldn’t, okay? You keep quiet about things, too. We all do.”
Luis decided to cut the tension by telling the truth.
“Your parents were living in Misiones, in your mom’s family’s house. I met up with your dad here. Well, not here, but in Buenos Aires. It wasn’t a coincidence, he called me and we set up a meeting. He’d come to do something else, I think he went to the doctor, but maybe that was a lie. He didn’t tell me much of anything. You know how he was. Well, straightaway he told me to pack a bag and that he was getting me out of the country. I don’t know how he knew I needed to go. Those weren’t things you said over the phone, and I hadn’t told him anything. We took turns driving all the way to Misiones. It was a demented trip, and his health was bad.”
“I took that trip with dad, too.”
“I know. Maybe that’s why I didn’t tell you.”
“What does that have to do with it? So you’ve been to the house.”
“I was there a few hours. Long enough to take a shower and eat something. We crossed during the day. Your mom knew the soldiers at the border because she was working in Asunción, and also because your family on her side, well, they had a good relationship.”
“My mom drove you out. My mom. You never told me about her or about the house. You knew I dream about that house, or I hallucinate it, or whatever the fuck happens to me with that house, and you never thought to mention that you’d been there. You know I want to know about my mom, that I hardly remember her, that I miss her. And you met her. You’re such a traitor. You’d better tell Julieta my mom got you out, maybe then she’ll get over her bitch fits and quit judging me and my family.”
“I will not allow that, Gaspar.”
“You won’t allow it. Why didn’t you tell me? Tell me the truth.”
Luis lowered his head and sighed.
“Juan asked me to never tell you, and I respected his wish. He didn’t want you to have any references of your mother’s family, nothing.”
Gaspar picked up an empty glass and Marita grabbed him hard by the elbow to keep him from throwing it, to keep that night from ending in violence. The glass fell on to the table, but didn’t break.