“Why can’t you learn to speak like an Argentine? You spend several months a year here. How’s your missionary boyfriend?”
“Splendid. What did you do in the Corrientes cemetery?”
“Were you following me?”
Stephen dropped a folded newspaper page on to Juan’s bare stomach. Juan opened it. The photo was of terrible quality—a local rag with cheap printing—but he understood that Stephen’s educated eye could distinguish the scratched-out symbol on the ground. The candles weren’t incriminating—all the cemeteries in the region had their areas of candles and Brazilian cults; in all of them, chickens were beheaded and offered up on cardboard trays with bread and fruit.
“You didn’t even cover your tracks.”
Juan started to read the article, but instead he asked:
“Are there consequences?”
“The guard is dead.”
“That wasn’t my intention.”
Stephen narrowed his eyes, took the paper from Juan’s hands, and started to tear it into strips.
“I already took care of sending something to the police and the dead man’s family so they won’t continue the investigation.”
Juan didn’t thank him. He asked whether Mercedes, Florence, and the others knew anything. Stephen said no, they never read the local papers.
“What were you trying to find out?” Steven asked.
Juan didn’t answer: “We’re not in danger?” he asked instead.
“Not you two. The people who live around the cemetery will never have a good night’s sleep again.”
“What do I care about people.”
Stephen didn’t need to tell him they should start to speak in secret, and he made all the effort himself, unlike with Tali.
It takes a lot of energy to invoke. One day before the Ceremonial, in your condition, it’s suicide.
I needed to know if Gaspar could see it.
You’re perfectly capable of finding that out without such a vulgar and unnecessary display of power.
Stephen sat at the foot of the bed. Juan could sense his anger, as well as that unconditional current that joined them together. He shook his head and pulled Stephen toward him. Stephen moved his head just enough to delicately kiss Juan’s lips. Juan ran a hand through his graying hair.
It’s all done. Tali started her work, too. Besides my mother, there are two other British people in the house who know what they’re doing. The rest are minor Initiates. Tali will get here tomorrow. We’ll meet at three in the afternoon, early, near the place of the Ceremonial.
Do I know the British people?
They’re scribes, both of them. I think you do know them.
If I die after the Ceremonial, I want you to take my son to Brazil, leave him with my brother. I still haven’t found the seal that will protect him.
Stephen looked at him with his small, sharp eyes.
You won’t die tomorrow. And I can’t do that. They’ll go after him. You’ve summoned in worse conditions.
Juan remembered the year before. Yes, it had been much worse. To keep him on his feet, Stephen had had to tie him to a kind of improvised cross. It was the second time he’d done that. His body hanging from the wood, covered by a tunic; his blond hair longer than it was now and falling over his face. Juan didn’t remember what had happened after the Ceremonial. He hadn’t woken up at home: they’d taken him to the hospital, first to one in Corrientes, and later, once he was stabilized, to one in Buenos Aires. He’d had to wait six more months for the surgery that had saved him, a triple bypass. He had turned twenty-eight in intensive care.
Do you think it’s safe for me to leave my son with Marcelina?
Certainly. I need to tell you some things. But I want you to get him out of here first.
Juan buzzed Marcelina again and asked her to come up. So as not to embarrass her, he covered himself with the sheet and told her to pull up a chair next to the bed. Stephen stayed where he was.
“I need you to take care of Gaspar until Sunday.”
“That’s a long time, sir.”
“Don’t call me sir.”
“First I want to give you my condolences for Rosario. I loved her so much. We’re very sad.”
“It’s okay, Marcelina.”
Propped up in bed by all the pillows he’d been able to find, he told her that Gaspar already knew how to read and enjoyed it, and that he knew how to swim but she should take him only to the pool. Yes, sir, the river is treacherous and he’s still very little. All his clothes are in that bag over there, on the armchair. He’ll eat anything. If his head hurts, give him an aspirin and try to get him to sleep. If he asks about me, tell him I went to work. Take him to see the butterflies; he might get scared, but I don’t think so. He’ll love the zoo.
Juan felt reassured by the fact that Marcelina, her husband, and their children lived in the small, very pretty house at the entrance to Puerto Reyes: they had been the estate’s caretakers for years now. Gaspar would be insulated from whatever happened in the mansion, and at the same time, he would only be two hundred meters away. And well cared for.
“Tell me, Marcelina, how much is Se?or Adolfo drinking? The truth.”
“Well, a lot. I’d say he goes through two bottles of whiskey a day. At night I find the bottles.”
“So, he’s drunk all the time.”
“That I couldn’t say.”
“Is he taking the boat out?”
“Yes, but he doesn’t sail it anymore, my husband does.”
“If you go out on the river, you can take Gaspar. But only with your husband. Tali tells me there are two new dogs.”
“They’re huge. I won’t let them get near the little one, I’m terrified of them too.”
She told him that Gaspar also liked the walkway that led to the lookout, the big one that was built above the trees. His mother and I took him out there and he asked if it could fly, said Marcelina. I’d prefer him to stay far away from the house, said Juan. Make sure nothing stings him. Don’t worry. They keep the zoo up very well, and I know how to take care of children.
Juan called Gaspar over. One of his hands was balled into a fist, and Juan slowly extended each finger and massaged the palm of his hand. I’m going to work for a couple of days, he said. Gaspar peered at him uncertainly, but he nodded. And while you wait for me, Marcelina is going to take care of you. You remember her? Gaspar nodded again. Don’t be scared: I’ll be back in two days. That’s not a long time? asked Gaspar. No, it’s not long. Two nights. Count them.
“And I have my uncle’s phone number.”
Juan kissed Gaspar’s forehead, then indicated which bag Marcelina was to take, along with the backpack and the paper. He was surprised that Gaspar didn’t ask where he was going, what kind of work he had to do, if he was going alone—all the questions that, he was sure, the boy wanted to ask and for which he had made-up answers at the ready—but he let them go without another word. Marcelina left silently. Her long hair was tied back in a ponytail that swayed, heavy and dark. She reached out her hand to Gaspar, but he didn’t take it because he wanted to carry his backpack.
Stephen lay down beside Juan and imitated his posture, arms behind his head, eyes closed. They had been inseparable ever since they first met, and they had conspired and failed together. Growing up, Stephen had spent half his time with his father in Cadaqués and the other half in elite English schools. He had lived his whole life in mansions and with the utmost privilege, but he always felt a little foreign and a little orphaned.