Emilia rose to greet Carlos as the Maître’d, led him to the table. Brother and sister hugged warmly.
They made small talk over their appetizers. As the plates were cleared Carlos looked at his sister, her brown eyes bright and clear. “So, I need to ask you about Abuela Soto.”
Her smile slipped. “Not this again, Carlos. Sylvia said you were past it.”
“Well, I’m not. I had an interesting visit from a Mr. Muccio of the State Department. He had a lot to say about our Abuela. The things you know, did they come from him, or from Abuela.”
Emilia sat quietly while the waiters placed their entrées down. She picked her fork up and pushed the rabbit cannelloni around the plate. “She told me everything.”
“Everything?”
“What did this Muccio tell you?”
“That, before she married Granddad Soto, she had a fiancé who died, she spied for the U.S. and when Pinochet came to power she called in markers to get our parents out.” He took a mouthful of lobster, chewing it slowly and keeping his eyes on his sister.
She sipped her wine, nodding slowly. “It’s the barest skeleton of the story, but it’s about the same as she told me.”
“Was I ever going to be told this? I’m assuming that’s why you insisted on going through the guest bedroom that day, you expected Abuela’s photo album to be in there.”
“She kept it in a box in the old wardrobe. I don’t know why she’d moved it. You were never meant to know. It was her secret, and she… It was her right to ask it remain secret.”
“You really think that? All the years of hassle our parents got for being socialists, and it could have been swept away if Abuela the spy just spoke to her C.I.A. boss. The lies about who and what we are, where we come from. Don’t you think I had a right to know?”
“Stop being so melodramatic, Carlos. You are not about to have some existential crisis because you discovered something new about your grandmother. She loved us enough to get us out of the country so that our parents, and our father’s parents didn’t disappear into a stadium of death. Without her doing that, there wouldn’t even be a you sitting here. Think on that well you’re getting all worked up.”
They finished the course in silence.
As the desserts arrived Emilia spoke again.
“Carlos, you need to understand just how lucky we are. Here we sit, in one of the top restaurants in the country, we both have good careers and nice houses. We are not victims, you are not deprived. Abuela did this for us, and she never asked for anything. Not even the love a grandmother could expect, because her only grandson, was kept at arms length by parents who didn’t approve of her politics. Well, her politics gave you your life, and she didn’t regret it.”
Carlos swallowed his mouthful of brûlée. “Out of interest, Emilia, when did she tell you all of this?”
“The year I graduated college, I stayed with her while I interned the first summer.”
“Great. My sophomore year. You know, I’d probably have assimilated it all by now if I’d know for over twenty years! Six weeks ago I knew none of it. Most of it I didn’t find out until a fortnight ago. So please, excuse me for having difficulty taking it all in.” He stood, dropping his napkin on the unfinished dessert. “Thanks for dinner, Emilia, but I have to go.”
#
Outside he started to walk. The sidewalk was mostly empty, and he pulled his collar up against the cool night air. Without thinking he headed along Massachuessets, making for the Letelier and Moffit memorial on Sheridan Circle. The flag flapped fitfully in the breeze as he passed the Chilean embassy. He turned to look through the door, as if doing so would allow him to see back in time the forty plus years since his family had fled their homeland.
He stood at the memorial, trying hard to distinguish between memory and stories. He remembered Orlando Letelier, a tall man with a mustache, who would sit and talk politics and social responsibility with his parents and grandparents - Fellow Chileans, exiled from a home they would never see again.
But memories of being bounced on his knee felt unreal. The recollections were all second hand, the pictures in his head were of seeing himself, not being himself. He couldn't remember when the car bomb killed Letelier, apart from a sense of a sad time. But memories of his grandfather bringing him here, to the memorial, on a regular basis were clear.
He tried to remember what Abuela Soto was like at the time, but all his memories of her were the same. Smartest clothes and best behavior for the periodic visit, writing a thank you card after receiving a birthday or christmas present. Nothing personal or revealing of who she really was.
It struck him that she was exactly the same now. For all the recent revelations, there was no extra connection with her. Maybe if he had received the same opportunity as Emilia, to hear the story from her, to speak with her about it. But it was as Sylvia had said, Abuela’s story changed nothing. Only now he had added hinterland, a graft of knowledge to be incorporated into the family mythology.
His cell phone rang.
“Hello.”
“Honey, are you okay?” asked Sylvia.
“I’m fine. Just having a little walk.”
“Emilia called. She was worried.”
“I’m fine. I just needed to think things through a little.”
“Are you at Sheridan Circle?”
He smiled, tension lifting out of him. “You know me too well.”
Sylvia laughed, “Well, be careful. Don’t get mugged, and drive home safely. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
story by stuartcturnbull, picture by FranDuque via Pixabay
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