Knowing what he knew, Dobbs felt a rare sense of anticipation as he looked at the formidable intel strewn across the table that occupied one side of his office. He had asked for every available bit of data on Eduardo Allesandro Palmero. He was after the distilled essence of the man. Before, it had only lapped at the edges of his consciousness, as if his mind were a still ocean beach. Now, the waves were crashing, dominating in their power. He wanted to know more, if that were possible.
He did not merely want summaries. He wanted raw data as well, information gathered routinely or in white heat. Was he being professional, he wondered, or was it an unresolved frustration over his own miscalculation, his own inability to understand a motive. Is this what they call a crisis of confidence? It was not the wasting of a human life that burdened him, only his blindness to the possibilities of how it might have occurred.
Three women. Eduardo's women, Marie DeFarge, Frederika Millspaugh, Penelope Anne McCarthy. Moving a chair closer to the table, he settled comfortably and fingered the documents. Then he sighed and began sifting and shuffling until he found something-a tiny landmark, a detail in a map, something that might synthesize his own mind and heart with Palmero. It was important to know what had gone wrong. He had been so sure of his actions. The surveillance. The entire scenario had seemed so logical. Why had this happened? He looked at the mass of files before him. One must always go back to the beginning. He broke a seal, opened the file.
Born in Santiago, Chile in 1936, weighed eight pounds at birth, skin pink and healthy, wealthy family, land aristocracy on his mother's side, a huge home in Santiago's suburbs where apparently, the terrain sloped upward to the Cordillera and the view of the Pacific was spectacular. The elite always took the best regions of Chile to build their estates and pursue their diversions. His father, Manuel, had also been born in Santiago, and his father before him was a Neapolitan fisherman who arrived penniless in 1901. A migration of necessity, Dobbs mused, noting that the DINA analyst had suggested an escape from the Carabinieri rather than economic refuge. In those days, one did not bother with the subtle legalities of immigration.
Eduardo's grandfather had another family which he left behind in a Naples slum, and went on to find solace in the arms of Rosa, who at fourteen was rumored to have been bartered for labor aboard her own father's fishing boat. Eduardo's grandfather was fifty at the time. Dobbs imagined himself, fifty-five now, already dry. Comparisons were odious, he knew, wasteful. They were, in addition, improper. Rosa, Manuel's mother, had died of diphtheria before she turned twenty and somehow her husband had wound up with her father's boat. The mind could embroider lavishly, Dobbs knew. But antecedents carried clues and they were beginning to emerge.
The DINA material told of still another wife, Concetta, sixteen. Four additional children emerged, half brothers and sisters, duly recorded by the birth registrar at the Church of Cabrine, honoring the Saint of the fisherman. And there were two additional births recorded. Two different mothers. Apparently, Eduardo's grandfather was an honorable man, accepting the responsibilities of his affairs. Energies remained to acquire a fleet of fishing boats, moderate financial success, enough to send Eduardo's father to University, then to law school, to study marine law-no small thing in a land with little else than copper and two thousand miles of coastline.
Dobbs had never been to Chile, but he had read enough to imagine it; the Cordillera range stretching into the infinite blueness of the sky, the Pacific tide, the lush land in the south and the dry craggy earth to the north.
Palmero's father, Manuel, had married Carlotta Ramirez. The DINA dossier included clippings from the leading paper of Santiago, evidence of the lavish fanfare of the event. There was a picture of Palmero's mother, stiffly resplendent in her bridal gown, and a report of a reception for five hundred people. Their house, a gift from the bride's parents, their beachside villa, was a gift. Dobbs could glean an element of envy in the report. The reporting bureaucrat's eye view of the gentry: "They are newlyweds. He is twenty-four. She is eighteen and they have six servants," the analyst reports somewhat bitterly.
So, the stage was set, Dobbs thought, getting up to stretch his legs, needing some respite before plunging again into the mists of Palmero's past. Like his father, Palmero was the first son. Three daughters followed. Obviously, the DINA had interviewed all servants, gardeners, and maids, who gave their version of the early days of the Palmero household. Can one reconstruct a man's life from this, Dobbs wondered, continuing to read. Carlotta was spoiled, materialistic, short-tempered, aloof and cruel to the servants. Manuel was often away on business. The young Eduardo Allesandro Palmero was bookish and withdrawn, but athletic, excelling in sports as well as academics. Dobbs pictured him in his mind, this prince of privilege, his tanned skin glowing, his lean body graceful as it moved in the female-dominated household.
Young Eduardo was given anything he wanted, including the indulgence of his mother, whose meager fount of affection began and ended with her son. Even his sisters, motivated by jealousy, proved just as indulgent. Did he manipulate them even then? Dobbs wondered, feeling his figurative nose warm to the scent. As soon as the Palmero daughters were placed in convent schools, the mother began to travel. There was one maid, Isabella. The interrogators found her in a mountain town where the Trans-Andean Railroad chugs over the Cordillera to Buenos Aires. Dobbs paused, knowing that he had reached the first clearing in the trail.
***
In a house filled with women, Eduardo had not noticed her at first. Not that he was oblivious to the female form and the stirrings it could arouse at thirteen. But he lived mostly in his imagination in those days, and the women in his dreams were those he had met in books. Those were sweet and pure, while the women in the household with their pots of creams, their manufactured scents, hairpins and curlers, their sloppy bathroom leavings soured any ardor he might have felt in his adolescent heart. Attendance at a boy's only school nurtured an even more distorted view, and watching the older boys masturbate confused him further as his curiosity deepened as his body matured.
She seemed to have been employed only to keep fresh flowers neatly arranged in vases throughout the house. Young Eduardo had hardly ever looked at her, although he seemed always to come across her heavily laden with either fresh cut or decaying flower stems as she padded barefoot, like a frightened kitten through the house. She was taller than most of the other young servants, with jet black hair that fell gracefully, glowingly.
They were at the dinner table, a luxurious and long polished rectangle, his father's chair empty as usual, his sisters chattering, while his mother sat sullenly at her end of the table. It was vacation time, and the girls had brought home friends who raised the decibel level with their endless high-pitched chatter. Squat uniformed servants scurried about, pouring, serving the varied menu, carrying deep steaming dishes from which the family helped themselves in turn. When his father was absent, Eduardo was always served first.
He might have noticed her peripherally as she loitered at a vase at the far corner of the room, one of his mother's prized Mings in which Isabella placed yellow autumn flowers. His gaze had just floated upward as his mother reached, with her long silver spoon, into a bowl of steaming vegetables. Her general annoyance and ill-humor, combined with her abstracted indifference caused some of the vegetables to drop from the spoon onto the bare feet of the serving woman, who promptly dropped the dish with a resounding crash. It might have been a simple accident had it not triggered a reaction in Isabella, who turned suddenly, her fingers caught on a stem and lightly tipped the Ming vase on its side and onto the polished tile floor in a loud shattering crash.
The sudden explosion and the realization of its value drew all the anger and annoyance that had been congealing in Carlotta's mind. She stood up, the cords in her neck bulging as she stood towering over Isabella, from whose face the blood had drained, turning the pink glow to ashen white.
"You dirty little bitch," his mother screeched, slapping the girl repeatedly on both cheeks.
"Forgive me, mistress," the girl mumbled, lifting her face as if welcoming the blows as penance.
"That was priceless, you whore," his mother cried. "Look what this monster has done!"
"Clumsy little devil," one of his sisters said.
Eduardo's mother grabbed Isabella by the shoulders and began to shake her, her silken hair flowing as if caught in the eddy of a heavy wind.
"I will not have this! I will not have this!" his mother cried. Eduardo could see the harried faces of the servants poking out of the kitchen.
"You illiterate, incompetent little whore!" his mother screamed, repeating, "little whore" until her anger reduced the epithet to a long piercing shriek.
Finally, Isabella's stoicism crumbled, and a low cry seeped from her chest, stirring him to compassion. "Enough, Mama!" he cried, standing up and banging on the table. Perhaps it was the sound of a male voice or simply the authoritative crack of his fist, but it was enough to cause his mother to take her hands off the girl. She ran screaming from the room as Isabella slumped to the floor like a whimpering injured animal. Finally, one of the older servants lifted her from the ground and led her away through the kitchen door.
That night he relived the incident in his mind, feeling again the empathy and compassion for this girl who was hardly more than his own age. But beyond pity, beyond the knowledge of her suffering he recognized in himself for the first time a kinship with the servants. He felt ashamed of his mother's behavior, and he decided his father must intervene to stop any further abuse. What was a vase compared to a human being?
The next day he searched the grounds of their estate for Isabella. He found her lingering in a flower patch, kneeling in the soft earth. When she saw him, she stiffened and burrowed deeper in the earth with a trowel, ignoring his presence, her long hair spilling over her face, the ends almost touching the ground.
"You mustn't be afraid," approaching her. She continued to work, ignoring him.
"I apologize for my mother," he said kneeling beside her. "Really, she will forget all about it soon. I know she will." He doubted that. His mother held an endless supply of scorn, especially for servants, a fact well known in the household. Whatever enmity was left was reserved for his father, whom Eduardo adored.
"She will send me away," the girl said finally, swallowing hard to hold back her tears. Life in the poor villages was a terrible struggle. In a rich household, one ate regularly.
"It wasn't your fault," Eduardo said. He patted her arm. The touch of her flesh warmed him, confusing his motives. She was bent over her, developing breasts pressed tightly against her blouse. Despite his compassion, he was conscious of searching the fabric for the outlines of her nipples.
"I was not careful," she said.
"It was an accident."
He felt the power of his own protection, seeing her in a different way, confused by a new implication. She was beautiful, he had decided, as she glanced up at him, her large dark eyes reflecting her vulnerability.
"It will be all right," Eduardo insisted.
"She will send me away," the girl repeated. "Nothing can stop it." Servants were always being discharged, some for cause, others simply to reinforce the authority of the family over their lives. For Isabella, the fear was both tangible and logical. He stood up, towering over her. Still on her knees in the flowerbeds, she looked up at him.
"I will not let them," he said. It was a solemn commitment. "I swear on my life." Then he turned from her and walked swiftly back to the house. For the first time in his life, he felt the power of his manhood. Without turning, he knew her eyes were following him.
That night his mother did not come down for dinner and he took her dinner tray to her bedside. It seemed a perfect ploy for ingratiation. She was especially vulnerable when she was wallowing in self-pity. Reclining on a mountain of pillows, she was doing her nails. She wore a brocaded bed jacket and her hair had been fastidiously coiffed in an upsweep by one of the servants. Carlotta was beautiful, and she always pretended to be sick on the eve of her husband's return. Eduardo was still not of an age when he could grasp the complex relationship of his parents. When they were together publicly, they were stiff and polite. Privately, behind their bedroom door, they shouted and argued. Finally, his father's absences became increasingly longer and his mother's irritability increased. Dutifully, Eduardo kissed his mother's cheek after he had placed the tray securely over her blanketed thighs.
"How sweet, my darling," she said softly.
"Are you better?" he asked, perching himself carefully on the foot of the bed as she sipped her soup.
"Better, yes," she said between sips. "That incident with the vase unnerved me, I suppose. I am calmer now."
"You must not get so upset. It was only a vase."
"An old possession is not to be taken lightly," she said, pointing the spoon at him. "Considering that one day you will be the head of this family, we will all look to you to protect our possessions." Like her husband, Carlotta was obsessed with the idea of filial responsibility. The family, blood, ownership… that was her principal obsession.
"I understand that, Mama," he said. He waited for her mood to change. "It wasn't really her fault," he said finally, his throat constricting despite his strong attempt to appear nonchalant. He knew he was testing the waters.
"Not her fault?" Her spoon, poised in mid-air, dropped back into the soup. He had badly miscalculated. "Eduardo, you do not know about servants. Don't be fooled by their apparent humility. They would cut our throats if they could get away with it. Nothing is ever done by accident. In my father's time, they would be whipped."
He had heard that all before, but for the first time the imagery was clear. He shivered, thinking of the small, helpless Isabella kneeling in the soil. Behind his eyelids, he could feel the well of tears begin.
"We must never forget who we are," said his mother. "And we must never forget who they are."
He stayed for a while longer, then left, kissing his mother on both cheeks. He had bungled it. He had failed Isabella. He cursed his stupidity and cowardice. He should have demanded mercy for her. He was, after all, a man.
The servants who had taken it upon themselves to protect Isabella kept her out of the house. It was not uncommon for them to wait out their mistress' wrath. Carlotta had the memory of an elephant, and she was known to be brutally vindictive and unmerciful. Meanwhile, Eduardo visited her in the garden, reassuring his commitment.
"As soon as I am noticed, she will send me away."
"Not as long as I am here," he bragged.
"You are still only a boy," she mocked gently.
"I am a man."
Manuel's return was always an event in the household. They had been told he was away on business. Since he was Chile's foremost authority on marine law, and a sought after lawyer, it was a logical story. Much primping and polishing would ensue and his handsome father's presence at the end of the table was always celebrated. However, it was not long before the tension between his mother and father would resurface.
"Rio is glowing," said his father, describing the city from which he had just returned. "At night the skyline looks like a mass of fireflies."
"Fireflies are not the only insects that come out at night," his mother would snap, and the girls would lower their eyes in embarrassment. His father's eyes would smolder and he would pat his lips nervously with his napkin.
After a few days of the escalating domestic warfare, Eduardo knew that his father was contemplating another trip. His lips would grow tighter than when he had arrived and the pinched look under his eyes was more noticeable.
But while he consciously measured his parents' temper, young Eduardo spent most of his time with Isabella, either sitting near the remote flowerbeds that edged their estate or accompanying her on trips to gather the wild autumn flowers that crept up the foothills of the massive Cordillera. In the distance, the craggy frost-tipped peaks watched over them like sentries.
She was a simple girl from a small village in the remote upper reaches of the Cordillera. She could not read or write, but she was intelligent and quite beautiful with her long silken hair and dark eyes that peered up at him from under heavy curling lashes. She insisted on calling him "Se?or Palmero."
"I am Eduardo," he would say proudly, holding her hands as they paused in their walk, looking into her eyes.
"I cannot call you that," she said shyly, her head bowed.
"But that is my name."
"I am Isabella, but you are Se?or Palmero."
"I am Eduardo." He brought his face closer to hers, their noses almost touching, "Eduardo!" he shouted. "My name is Eduardo!" When she did not respond, he shook his head and smiled. But he could not keep his eyes off her, watching her walk away as she moved swiftly up the slope trails.
"You must stay away from the servants," his mother had warned, concentrating her most formidable admonishment on him after one of her numerous lectures to her daughters. She had drawn him aside. Vaguely, he could remember an incident preceding her warning. A servant girl had been dismissed for pregnancy.
"They are filthy and diseased. They will make your parts rot."
He was only ten at the time and it was a long time before he would know what "parts" meant. At the time, he thought it might be his eyes.
"Do you get it by touching?" he had asked innocently. His mother had contained a smile for a moment, then burst out laughing.
"Not by touching," she said, between side-splitting howls.
There was an element of danger in consorting with Isabella, he knew, although he was still not completely certain how one crossed the Rubicon to this physical hell. Isabella, too, sensed the fear in him and the danger to herself.
"You should not be with me," she would say, when others could be heard on the trails, and they would hide in the brush, their heads close, their hearts pounding, as the footsteps would come toward them and fade again. Once he had kissed her hair and an elbow had brushed her breast.
"No!" she had hissed, like a cornered cat.
"I'm sorry."
She began to cry lightly. He wondered what had upset her.
"They will surely send me away," she whispered between sniffles.
"Never!" he vowed, enjoying his sense of bravado. Tentatively, his arm reached out for her shoulders and she let him briefly caress her. Then she stood up and led him back to the trail. The touching had enthralled him.
"Will you be my girl?" he asked as they paused again. She put a finger on his lips.
"They will send you away as well."
"Me?" he chuckled. He turned and looked back at the house, the Pacific sparkling in the distance. "I am the firstborn," Eduardo said with imperial seriousness, as if the idea had been intoned by his parents. He beat his breasts like Tarzan and shouted across the expanse, "I will be the master here."
"You are scaring me, Se?or Palmero."
He turned toward her.
"I am Eduardo Allesandro Palmero," he said. He reached for her. Whatever resolve she might have had vanished. He gathered her close to him, feeling her breasts against his chest. "And you are Eduardo's girl." She nestled closer for a long moment. He felt the hardness begin. She must have felt it as well. Then she broke away and ran swiftly down the trail. He could not catch her though both of them slowed as they drew closer to the house, the act of chasing a servant girl was, after all, inappropriate to the firstborn.
But that did not stop him from thinking about her and wanting to fulfill his commitment to protect her. He determined to enlist the help of his father to prevent her dismissal. Indeed, it was his father who provided the opportunity one night at dinner.
"I do not see the Ming," his father said, as his eyes searched the sideboard where it had stood for years. Eduardo felt his heart stop.
"Oh, so you noticed," his mother said. "One of the clods of a servant dropped it and it broke into a million pieces. Now you see what I go through in your absence?" She began to work herself up. It was an accident, Eduardo wanted to scream, but he held his peace. "If I ever see that little snip, I will kill her!" his mother cried.
"Well, it was quite expensive," his father mumbled, as if the outburst required a reply to assuage it.
"Expensive? It was priceless!" she said maliciously, as if his father's observation had merely been perfunctory. "I simply will not put up with such conduct."
His father lowered his head and shrugged, his mother's venom continuing to spew in an endless cacophony, the litany of her personal frustrations in which Isabella was only a handy, and dispensable conduit.
Later his father retired to his ornate study. Finding his courage, Eduardo followed him in. The study was Manuel's sanctuary with its endless rows of law books and high windows which, when opened, as they were now, brought in the sounds and smells of the Pacific.
"Father?" It was, he knew, the voice of the supplicant. When he entered the sacrosanct study, it meant that important things were afoot.
"Eduardo?" His father looked up over his glasses. He had been slumped over his desk scratching at a pad, an opened law book at his elbow.
Noting his son's seriousness, Eduardo's father removed his glasses and leaned back in a heavy leather chair. Eduardo, following the direction of his father's extended palm, sat on a straight-backed chair beside a huge carved desk. In that position, his father looked stately, a god, with the power to grant mercy. He must, Eduardo decided, make a clever presentation.
"I must talk to you about the Ming," Eduardo said, his voice cracking, as it was doing frequently these days.
"The Ming." his father nodded, remembering. Eduardo noted how quickly he had put the subject out of his mind.
"It is a matter of simple justice," Eduardo said, knowing that such a thesis would draw his father's attention.
"I saw it happen. It was purely an accident," Eduardo said, the words coming too fast. He urged himself to slow down, but he could not control the flow. "The serving maid had dropped this dish and the crash frightened the girl who turned and a stem caught on her sleeve and the Ming fell to the floor and broke."
His father's eyes narrowed over thick eyebrows, a sign of his concentration. He has been engaged, Eduardo thought happily. Indifference had been his principal fear.
"And Mama attacked the person." He was cleverly avoiding the use of her name, attempting to simulate his own distance as an observer only. "It was wrong. Unjust." He emphasized the word, letting it sink into the salt-tinged air. "It is our responsibility to deal with the matter justly!" he concluded, mimicking his father.
His father smiled, perhaps proud that his son had absorbed the lesson.
"Has she been dismissed?"
"No," Eduardo said, hastening an explanation. "She has stayed out of sight and the housekeeper has not yet acted. But there is no doubt that Mama will erupt when she sees her again. Mama does not forget."
"And have you discussed this with your mother?" Eduardo could sense his father's lawyer's mind turning over.
"How could I?" he answered helplessly. Then quickly: "It is a matter of justice. There is genuine fear in this house. I am sure all of the servants are troubled and the poor girl must be living in hell."
His father pondered the young face before him. Eduardo was conscious of the clear eyes caressing him. He loves me, he told himself. Not that the matter had ever been in doubt. And I love him. He wanted to tell his father, but held back.
"I am asking you to give this woman justice, Father," Eduardo said, warming to the request. "To do what is right." He knew that, despite the growing animosity with his mother, his father's word was law in the house. No servant would dare go against his orders, regardless of what his mother might do.
"I believe you should speak to her," Eduardo pressed, hoping that his father, seeing Isabella, would observe her helplessness, understand her vulnerability. And, more importantly, it would prove to Isabella that Eduardo had kept his word, that he had protected her.
His father stirred, stood up and pulled the bell rope to summon a servant, who arrived quickly.
"What is this person's name?" he asked.
"I am not sure." He wondered if his hesitation had been duly noted. "Isabella, I think." His father turned to the servant.
"Send Isabella here." The servant looked at Eduardo briefly, a stab of fear in his eyes, then hurried away.
Manuel embraced his son. He was still a head taller than him. He pressed Eduardo close, kissing him on the cheek.
"I am pleased with you, Eduardo," his father said, patting Eduardo's back. "You have the sensitivity to understand. We are all God's creatures and He laid down the rules for our meting out justice. I understand."
He wanted to kiss his father's hands but hesitated since he had often seen the servants do that. Instead, he settled for an abrazo and left the room quickly. Heading out to the long patio that adjoined the study's high windows, Eduardo settled himself in the shadows, braced in a corner against the chilly breeze floating in from the ocean.
He did not have long to wait. His father had resumed his work, replacing his glasses on the bridge of his nose and scratching his pen along the pad. Isabella's knock was furtive, barely audible to his father, although Eduardo had heard it clearly. Then it came again, a bit more assertive, and his father raised his head. "Come in," he called. He looked over his glasses as the pale and frightened Isabella entered the room. Although barefooted, she had apparently put on her best dress, and brushed her long hair. Eduardo's heart lifted when he saw her. His father waved her forward and carefully, calculatingly eyed the young servant. Her head was lowered, her eyes watching the floor shyly. But her carriage was straight and her young breasts strained against the tightness of her dress. If only he could hold her now, Eduardo thought. Surely, when Isabella sees how I have protected her, she will let me hold her in my arms, he thought with excitement.
"You are Isabella?" his father asked gently.
Isabella nodded. He took off his glasses and moved slowly in front of his desk, standing over the frightened girl. Reaching out, he put a hand under her chin and lifted her face.
"You are quite charming," he said. Isabella stood rooted to the spot. Her face was visible now, the eyes still lowered.
"You must not be afraid," his father said gently. "I am here to help you, to protect you."
Why doesn't he mention me, Eduardo thought. His implicit faith in his father's wisdom was not shaken. He will tell her soon.
"I believe it was an accident," his father said. "Am I correct?"
Isabella nodded, her eyes still lowered.
"I believe it was not your fault."
Isabella moved her head from side to side.
"And I know that you would not like to be sent back."
Isabella moved her head from side to side again.
Manuel paused, his eyes moving furtively around the room. He stepped away and slowly moved toward the door, talking as he walked.
"Sometimes the mistress becomes overwrought when she sees her possessions broken. It is perfectly natural," Manuel said, returning to face the girl, who had lowered her head again when his palm had removed its support.
"You must not be afraid," he said quietly. "I am the master of this house and I will not hurt you. Do you believe that?"
Again he reached out and cupped her chin in his hand.
"Do you believe that?" he repeated.
Isabella nodded. What is he doing? Eduardo thought. A panic seized him as he saw his father's hands reach Isabella's breasts, fondling them lightly. Isabella's eyes continued to look downward, but she did not move. Father! he shouted silently.
"You understand I will not hurt you, Isabella?" Manuel continued. She could not nod now, his hand under her chin prevented her from doing so. Then his hand moved downward to her crotch, caressing her, slowing lifting her dress, exposing her bare legs.
Eduardo felt his heart pumping. He watched, riveted, as his father lifted the girl's dress over her head, revealing the small body, her flesh like light burnished copper, the thatch of hair at the crotch jet black. His father worked his hand between the girl's legs now and she began to undulate, hesitantly, then with greater abandon.
"I will not hurt you, Isabella," his father repeated again and again, unhitching his belt, then lowering his pants, revealing a phallus in full erection.
"Have you seen one before?" he said. A deep flush had risen on his face. He did not wait for her response. "Have you ever had this in you?"
The girl shook her head. Her eyes were open now and she looked at the object with some interest.
"You must kiss it, then," Eduardo's father said, as the girl got on her knees and began kissing and stroking with hesitation.
A sense of brutal betrayal began to emerge within Eduardo. He wanted to run, but his legs would not move. He wanted to cry, but tears would not come. He wanted to shout, but he couldn't find his voice. Worse, he could not look away. Eduardo's father's eyes were closed now and Isabella was moving instinctively, mesmerized, her tongue licking the shaft of his penis. Finally, Eduardo turned away, sensing the beginning of an emptiness in his stomach.