“I doubt it. At least I know we can revive you, and it’s a risk we must take. But if you decide to kill yourself, we’ll have nothing left. Now that your wife is trapped, I don’t think you’ll do it, I think you will go on so that you can free her. The Darkness will reveal where she is.”
“Plus,” added Mercedes, “don’t think we will ever give up and stop testing my grandson’s abilities. Maybe Rosario lied to us and maybe she didn’t, it doesn’t matter. She was ambitious and wanted to inherit the Order, and I can’t blame her for that, but I never trusted her. Gaspar could reveal himself later.”
“Gaspar is not my heir. He’s not a medium.”
“Not yet,” said Florence. “If he is, he will be marked as you were. The left hand finds its way, its fingers have their reach. It cannot be hidden. It radiates. I know what you feel for the boy. I’ve seen you together. You are full of love for each other. We thought that the boy was talented. We still believe it, though he hasn’t manifested just yet. If he is, he will be your heir. If he’s not, I know it will be difficult for you to perform the Rite when the moment comes. But you will use his body, and you will want to. Who wouldn’t? It’s an act of love. We have children so that we can continue on, they are our immortality. I’m sorry the Rite is impossible now, with the boy still so young. I know the rules. It’s better if you are the one who takes his body, right? If you decide to kill yourself, someone else can take it. You don’t want that, of course you don’t.”
Juan took a deep breath before speaking.
“These next few years, until Gaspar is of age for the Rite, I want you to leave him alone. I don’t want him to hear anything from you. Nothing. I want him to be a normal child for what remains of his life.”
“Of course, my dear,” Florence said, and she shot Mercedes a warning look. Don’t anger him, her eyes said. “We won’t break the agreement we’ve had with you and Rosario up till now: life will be normal. A medium, as you well know, is revealed on his own terms. And it’s a powerful revelation. We will know. There are always members of the Order near you: they are already watching over your son, and they will continue to do so. If Gaspar reveals himself, they will inform us. A medium cannot be hidden indefinitely. Plus, he will be close to the girl, the black miracle. She will strengthen him, she has been touched. You don’t want to bring him with you every summer for the Ceremonial? Then don’t. I agree with you. It could be dangerous. What if the Darkness wants him, and we lose his body? It’s your decision, and I won’t oppose it.”
“None of you will come near him. He won’t have a relationship with Mercedes or Adolfo either.”
Mercedes rose from her chair. Juan saw the fury in her eyes.
“He will be watched over,” Florence went on, “and we will receive reports. It’s impossible for him to escape. He’ll have nowhere else to go. His body is precious and necessary. We will find ways to keep you alive until he is older and can receive you.”
“You never kept me alive. I owe this vile life to Bradford alone.”
“We will never agree about that. He has been fundamental. But we helped too.”
Florence kept talking, but Juan was no longer listening. He was too angry and exhausted to argue. His need for Rosario pierced him with brutal precision. They had won, and all he could do was submit. This time, he had lost. He felt the pain behind his eyes. They had Rosario, and he would have to find her. He had to, because she would have done the same for him. He stood up and walked toward the door.
“Don’t follow me,” he said. “I could kill you all. Mediums are suicidal, right? They go crazy, don’t they?”
He smiled at them. He summoned the last of his strength from beneath his pain and left the room. Outside, the sunlight was white like a desert.
Juan asked Stephen to leave him alone so he could rest in his room; the pain in his head wouldn’t let him think or even walk. He found Gaspar sleeping facedown. He smelled of pool chlorine and his hair was wet. Juan didn’t want to wake the boy. He always found it strange that the Initiates came to the Ceremonial alone. How many had come this time? Fifty, sixty? Where were their children? Because they all had children. Well, they were rich. They could pay for nannies until the kids were old enough to attend with them. And that time came soon enough, even leaving aside the case of Adela, which had been an accident. On one occasion, the Darkness, channeled through him, had torn a ten-year-old boy’s arm off at the shoulder. His mother, instead of reacting with the usual ecstasy of the Initiates, had gone into hysterics, threatening to expose everything, to denounce them. Florence didn’t tolerate that kind of rebellion. She had rocks tied to the woman’s feet, and she was thrown into the Paraná River. Let her join the many dead hidden along Argentine river bottoms. The dictatorship’s crimes were very useful to the Order, providing it with bodies, alibis, and currents of pain and fear—emotions that were easily manipulated.
Juan turned up the air conditioner a little and covered his son with a blanket. He got the syringe and the injectable painkiller from his bag: it was too late to fight the migraine with pills. He tightened his belt around his forearm to find a usable vein. He could hardly see what he was doing, the pain in his head was clouding his vision so much. Still, he managed to inject the drug, whose effects he no longer feared: he felt fully prepared to throw himself into the river, and the idea pursued him with a buzzing sound. But if he did decide to kill himself, he would have to take Gaspar with him. Or ask Stephen to find his brother in Río de Janeiro and leave the boy with him. But the Order would surely take Gaspar from Luis sooner or later. So that he could be a recipient for Mercedes. So that he could be the medium, once they discovered and destroyed the work Stephen and Tali had done and killed them both. They were in danger. He had designed the protection for his son with elements brought back from the Other Place, a zone of the Darkness that the Order didn’t know about. But he still needed the final and definitive protection, which was slow in coming. The Lord of Patience, he thought, touching his back. He waited with his eyes closed for the painkiller to kick in. It took a long time. It wasn’t going to take away all the pain, but it would allay the intensity of the pounding, the pressure in his temples, the heartbeats that seemed to pump hot iron instead of blood.
Once the pain had finally subsided a little, Juan slid a small flashlight into the back pocket of his jeans, closed the door softly behind him, and walked, trying not to make any noise, toward the entrance to the tunnel between the houses. Years ago, it had been put to all kinds of use: the servants used it when it rained, so that they wouldn’t track red mud into the guesthouse or the main one; unused furniture was stored there; clandestine encounters took place there; and at some point a kind of underground washing station for dishes and clothes had been installed. But after the flood there was hardly any tunnel left: the mud had carried the bricks away and caused an avalanche. All that remained was the first stretch, which still had the old iron door with its padlock.
Juan opened it without a thought: there wasn’t a door in existence that could withstand him. When he entered, he smelled the stench and sensed the suffering of the children who lived there. He switched on the flashlight and practically crawled along on his knees: the tunnel was low, and for a man of his height, it was very cramped. Then he came upon the first child.