My life has somewhat settled now that I have a steady job here in Quito. After an unpleasant incident in Guayaquil, which I’d rather not talk about, my mother and I decided to move to the Sierra. Benjamin is no longer with my mom, but I think she would take him back in an instant if he ever finds us.
I now work at the telegraph office. The days are long and tiring, but I like it, and at least I don’t have to travel anymore. Mamá and I rent a room at a boarding house in the center of the city. The house where we live is surrounded by churches. I’ve never seen so many in one single place! They’re so big, too! Sometimes on weekends, I like to visit them. I don’t pray, like my mother, who takes a list of favors she wants from God. But I find the silence and the smell of all those candles soothing. Mostly, I like to look at the artwork inside and the stunning domes and ceilings. Can you believe human beings can create such beauty?
If you’re ever in town, come see me. （Address attached.）
Elisa.
I skipped to the last letter; such was my impatience.
Papá,
Mamá died last week. The doctor said she had a bad case of pneumonia. I’m not sure how I’m going to go on with life after this. I haven’t been feeling too well myself. I’ve been locked in my room for the last couple of days with a fever and didn’t go to work, even though my boss had warned me that if I skipped one more day, he would fire me. But what was I supposed to do? Someone had to look after my mother. I couldn’t think about work when she was dying.
I don’t care about anything anymore. I wish I could’ve seen you one last time, but apparently, it was not meant to be.
Elisa.
Wait. Was this a goodbye? I reread the letter. That was all. I checked the return address. Elisa had been in Quito when she sent this last letter, but what could’ve happened to her? It had been sent almost four years ago. Had she died?
I skimmed through the letters I’d skipped but they sounded a lot like the earlier ones, where she told my dad about her day to day, the people in her life, etc. Nothing else about the “unpleasant incident” in Guayaquil or what had prompted the breakup between Benjamin and her mother. If I hadn’t been so immersed in resolving things here, I might have been tempted to go to Quito to find Elisa.
I returned the letters back to my father’s safety box and left the bank, submerged in thought. Why hadn’t my father ever written Elisa back? He always wrote to me. Was it an issue of fluency in Spanish? As far as I could recall, he always wrote to me in French. But no, he could’ve asked someone else to translate if he truly wanted to communicate with her. It seemed like he’d abandoned this daughter—even worse than when he’d abandoned me. Why her and not me? Was it an issue of class? After all, she was the daughter of the maid—someone who Elisa describes as having little education and who washed other people’s clothes for a living, a woman who traveled the country like a nomad with a man who wasn’t her husband. It was apparent that my father had been ashamed of this daughter, or else he wouldn’t have hidden her letters here. However, he had saved them, which meant he had some sort of emotional attachment with Elisa.
“Don Cristóbal!”
Someone touched my shoulder. It was Soledad Duarte, the curandera.
“I’ve been calling you for a whole block!” she said, her chest heaving, her cheeks as red as a bullfighter’s cape.
“I’m sorry. I’m hard of hearing,” I said as a sole explanation.
“Did you find out anything about my Franco?” she asked.
I hesitated. I hated to give her hope when I knew the truth about her son, but at the same time, I needed her help. Maybe I could strike a balance between giving her some information without disclosing my connection to Franco.
“Yes,” I said. “Apparently he went to the Caribbean.”
“What? Where is that?”
“Someone saw him aboard a ship on the island of Cuba.”
“What would he be doing there?”
“Well, didn’t you mention a favor for someone? Maybe it had to do with that.”
Soledad rested her hand on her forehead. “Cuba? I have to talk to the police.”
“Wait. The police didn’t tell me this. It was someone else, someone who wishes to remain anonymous.”
She studied me for a moment.
“Well, at least he’s still alive,” she finally said.
Why did the sight of this woman, this suffering mother, produce so much guilt in me? She was the mother of my husband’s killer, for God’s sake! I shouldn’t feel anything other than contempt for her after she’d raised a criminal.