Plaza Requiem Read online

  I go back to the table and write Rosa. A chubby girl, with curly hair and incredibly white teeth; an only child. She lived with her dad, an old-fashioned man who wanted her to get married and have many children. She’d have none of that, Rosa… In English there are so many names and words for everything, but back home and in those days we used mostly one: mierda. Instead of saying, “The regime is corrupt,” we would say, “El régimen es una mierda.” Instead of saying, “We need to solve this problem,” we said “Debemos resolver esta mierda.” And of course, instead of saying someone had been “traumatized,” we said “lo hicieron mierda;” they had turned him to shit.

  And so, as I work down the list, and begin to write the letters, with every word I shape I tremble, I fight the urge to cry. I must not cry. By the time I’m finished I know I have to leave to meet Farah. It’s so hard, however, to get up, put on my coat and my scarf and mittens and boots. I feel weak, scared; what if I don’t go? I can call her and cancel. The storm would be a good excuse, she’d understand. But when I look at the envelopes I have in my hand, I know I must go. I don’t want to bundle up, though. A sweater should do. I fold the documents, put them in my pocket, take my keys and leave without looking back.

  The cold is numbing, yet, on this frigid noon as I walk through the snow, I feel surprisingly alert. I give myself strength by remembering Farah’s laughter when I told her how Pedro and I would climb the mango tree in my mother’s backyard and make a mess of our clothes eating all the mangoes, sitting there on a branch, and how my mother and Aunt Clara smiled at us and said we were the most beautiful monkeys they had ever seen. She had similar stories from back home, near the Caspian Sea, but they used to eat dates over there. So one day she brought in dates and I brought in some sliced mangoes and we shared our lunch quietly; we never did that again because we felt so sad. We decided tuna sandwiches are easier to share – no memories for either of us. Aunt Clara would have said we were silly girls, and perhaps she would have been right. What will she think when she learns that in this woman, from another faith, another language and another part of the world, I have found not just my only friend but the solution to my plight? Maybe getting to know her was why destiny brought me to live here.

  January is a good time for new beginnings. Back home it’s summer, and history is being written, as they said on the radio. Except I don’t think they know, those Canadian radio hosts, that history is usually not written down in my country without first being beaten into the people. I wonder what is truly going on, but don’t really want to find out. As I approach the café where I am to meet Farah, I think of Aunt Clara. She used to say that hope and calm always come together. I think she must have been wrong, because even though I have found hope, I am not calm. I’m shivering and my teeth are chattering and some people stare at me like I come from another planet. One woman even offers me her scarf. Why would I want a stranger’s scarf? What difference would it make?

  As I walk, I can’t help but think of how I put my story into words for Farah to read. I cannot fight anymore and begin to cry, and the cold air mocks me and threatens to freeze my eyes but I don’t care.

  There were five of them around me, soldiers, laughing. They were new, I had never heard their voices before. I was tied up to the smelly, sticky operating table where they used to bring us in for questioning. The whole room stank of blood and sweat and mould. It was humid and cold and echoey, like basements usually are. The soldiers stank of cheap cologne. I always felt the urge to vomit when they brought me in, but how many times can you vomit on an empty stomach? I was expecting an electric shock, a beating, or being raped again. I never knew what would come first, my entire body was on alert. All of a sudden I felt something cool and heavy on my stomach. They informed me it was a small, metal cage. I heard a slight screech and then felt some cool paws and tiny claws scratching my skin. What is this, I asked, not daring to move. They removed my blindfold and the light hurt my eyes. After a few moments, I saw it: a big, black rat on top of my naked chest. It was sniffling, exploring me. I tried not to breathe. I didn’t want it to bite me. The soldiers laughed and put minced meat on my breast, just a handful. It felt cold and wet. One of the soldiers said that the rat hadn’t had anything to eat for days. My body was shaking against my will, and even though I was holding my lips closed tight I must have scared the rat because I felt its teeth pinching my skin. I started to scream and squirm. The rat scratched me before falling on the floor. The men were pissed off. They had to catch the rat again and they didn’t like that, so one of them hit me while another put the blindfold back on. Once they caught the rat one of them said he felt like masturbating: it was a pity the rat was going to have me, and not him. “You can squirm all you want, cunt, but this little rodent wants his mamma.” I was crying, pleading for mercy – please, let me go, please, I’ll do anything, please. Another said it would be worse once they forced the animal inside my body. “Rats get scared and sometimes they get trapped in the uterus, then there’s nothing we can do.” I felt someone’s fingers inside my vagina: “Yes, there’s room enough here for that little critter for sure!” I couldn’t handle it, I yelled and I promised I would tell them everything they wanted to know. All the names I knew, all the aliases, everything. Yes, we had a plan to kill the Generalísimo. Yes, there were many of us involved. “My breast hurts” was followed by, “Your cunt will hurt more!” and when I was done talking they punched me in the stomach, “You traitor, you make us sick!” they said, and gave me an electric shock. “Because you deserve it, you coward, you piece of rat shit.”

  When I woke up, I wasn’t in my cell but in a convent. I have no idea how I got there. And will probably never know how or why either. I didn’t ask questions, and neither did the nuns. I know it sounds strange, Farah, but it’s true: they helped me get out of the country and start a new life. How involved with the regime were they? Who knows? Thanks to them and the good people in a Toronto parish, where I only went to Mass once, I came to this land of new beginnings and second chances. I don’t think God exists. If he did, he wouldn’t have created rats, or people who are willing to put rats up a woman’s vagina, or people like me, who rat out their friends and family. No, I didn’t want to call anyone, or see anyone before leaving. How could I? Forgive me, my dear Pedro. I was no match for you. Forgive me, Aunt Clara; I caused you more suffering when you already had enough. And please do forgive me, mami, for bringing such shame to our family. Tomás, Rosa, Liliana, Ismael, José, Blanca; Tomás, Rosa, Liliana, Ismael, José, Blanca; forgive me for what it is they did to you because of me. I say your names over and over again: they are my litany, almost a prayer. Only those whose names have been spoken can exist.

  I’m crying so hard when I come to the café that I can’t say anything to Farah. I just reach for the envelopes in my pocket, and give them to her. She wants to hug me, is shocked, tries to hold me back but I don’t let her. People are staring. Who cares? I need to leave. If I’m numb enough from the cold it won’t hurt. It will be brief. Fast. I run until she can’t see me anymore. Tomás, Rosa, Liliana, Ismael, José, Blanca. It hurts to breathe even more than before. I force your names out into the icy-cold air – I can’t run anymore, I’m so tired. I have the packages of powder from the hardware store in my pocket, the warfarin. I know what I must do, how I will finally break us all free. Saying my name over and over again: Marcela, Marcela, Marcela. My prayer, before I became Maria.

  Acknowledgements

  First of all, I would like to thank Barry Callaghan for opening Exile’s door once again for me, and for his careful edits of my manuscript. The revision process was a wonderful learning experience for me. Barry, I’ll be forever grateful for your patience and generosity.

  They say it takes a village to raise a child, but I also know it to be true that it takes a village to have a manuscript ready for print. And before this book landed on Barry’s desk I received very helpful feedback from several dear friends without whom I would have been lost. Debra Bennett,
my dear amiga, thanks for staying up so many evenings reading through the early versions of my stories and offering kind and generous advice. Christina Kilbourne, I don’t know what I would have done without your support in shaping the story that gives this book its title, thank you so much!

  Gillian Bartlett, you hold a very special, unique place in my life, and in my writing. As my Fairy Godmother you have guided my hand with such patience, and have taught me so much, that I know I’ll never be able to repay you. I love you. Thanks from the bottom of my heart.

  Nina Callaghan, thank you so much for your careful revision of my manuscript in its last stage. You are a brilliant reader and your comments, questions and suggestions were enlightening and truly helpful.

  Michael Callaghan, thank you for your trust and patience during what has been the hardest period of my life.

  Gabriela Campos, you have been such a loyal, generous friend since we first met that I feel blessed to have you as my cómplice y confidente. Gracias, amiga.

  I would also like to thank my writer friends, whom I deeply admire and respect and who have been incredibly generous in offering me, and this book, their words of support. Muchas gracias to Beatriz Hausner, Hugh Hazelton, Pura López Colomé, Hugh Hazelton, Gilbert Reid and Néstor Rodríguez for your kind words, your generosity, and your confidence in my work. I’m in your debt.

  After the passing of my mother in February 2017 I found it extremely challenging to focus. I was very lucky, however, to have those people who are closest to me offering support and encouragement as I struggled to regain a sense of normalcy, not only as a writer but as a human being. I need to thank my friends for their sweetness and solidarity. Miriam López Villegas, gracias por siempre estar conmigo, por tu cariño y por echarme porras. José Antonio Villalobos and Juan Gavasa, gracias por la complicidad. Don and Jan Cross, thanks for your constant love and support, you’re amazing. To all my friends near and far, thank you for holding me close to you and giving me strength.

  And last, but not least, I need to thank my family.

  Mamá, gracias por haber sido tan grande ejemplo de disciplina y profesionalismo. Si pude terminar este libro es gracias a lo que aprendí de ti. Te voy a extrañar siempre.

  Enano, gracias por sostener el fuerte allá, para que yo pueda hacer cosas – como este libro – acá.

  Pigo, gracias por tu apoyo y por tu amor constantes. Eres mi faro.

  Edgar, love of my life, thank you for your loyalty, your patience, and your love. Without your support, I wouldn’t have achieved anything. Te amo.

  And I also want to thank my beloved children, Ivana, Natalia, and Marco, for their patience when I work. You make me happy every day and I love you more than anything.