The North Face of the Heart - Dolores Redondo Page 0,156

perched over the child’s bassinet. He tried to convince himself this was simply her mother’s instinct, the concern that impels so many fathers and mothers to get up at night to make sure their baby is still breathing. But there was something in Rosario’s face, in her eyes, something that had nothing to do with care and protection; it was the anxiety provoked by an unfinished task. He saw it and was devastated. Though deep down he knew it would do no good, he whispered words of encouragement, assuring her the baby was fine and nothing was going to happen. He put his arm around her shoulders and persuaded her to return to bed.

He’d made his peace with it by convincing himself night after night that she wouldn’t do the unthinkable. Waiting, sitting up in bed when she got up and went to mumble obscure words over the baby, hoping the child was sleeping and wouldn’t understand, until finally all those threats erupted into the darkest, blackest catastrophe. On that night, he’d had to remove his own little daughter forever from his house.

Juan was conscious of his own limitations. He was a simple, calm, organized man whose concerns were his work, his family, and delivering on his promises. He’d been like that since early childhood. But some things he couldn’t handle, because they were beyond him.

Juan had difficulty with words, and he found it agonizing to identify things by name; he was overwhelmed by the very fact that every object had its own unique name. He was one of those who thought things existed only when they were spoken of, so he could exclude horrors from his life and home by refusing to put them into words. He’d adamantly reproached Engrasi for saying Rosario had been intending to kill Amaia ever since the day the child was born. He hadn’t even been aware he was shaking his head in rejection of that thought, for it was too horrible to imagine.

Haunted by fear, he picked up the yellow envelope and lifted the flap to reveal the dark plastic frame that held the X-ray. He pulled it out, dropped the envelope, and held the image against the light. His daughter’s skull stood out in profile against the dark background, marred by two wicked white blobs at the points of impact, each surrounded by pools of dark gray showing the extent of the internal hemorrhaging. He squeezed his eyes shut and broke into sobs, flung the X-ray on the bed and got up, resolved to act.

Just as on that night twelve years earlier, he sent up a silent prayer that he’d discover her nearby. He was appalled to find himself hoping she might have broken a bone, have injured herself, or be lying unconscious on the floor of the bakery workshop, anything at all, provided only that she hadn’t started going out again at night. He checked every corner of their home, knowing he’d find nothing. He took the keys to the bakery and pulled on his coat over his pajamas. He left the house and walked through the night of a silent, dreaming Elizondo, disturbed only by the sounds of the flowing river. He went to the bakery, seeing from a distance that it was totally dark, but even so, he unlocked the door and looked around. She wasn’t there. He slumped against the door, knowing there was nothing more he could do.

He dried his tears, shaken by the clarity of his perception. He had to say it. He was resolute, but even so, when he tried to speak, his voice was inaudible because he was choked with anguish. “Rosario . . . ,” he said in a quivering whisper, “Rosario is going to murder our daughter.”

Astonished by the brutality of that statement, he covered his mouth with his hands as if trying to hold the words back. Finally, yielding to the inevitable, his arms fell to his sides and a furious animal bellow broke from somewhere deep inside. He realized that he’d always known, and the atrocity had lived in him, trapped only by his refusal to name it. By putting it into words at last, he had conjured it up in all its terrible cruelty. He didn’t bother to lock up. He rushed outside, his feet slipping on the wet cobblestones as he raced toward his sister’s house.

55

ENGRASI

Elizondo

Ipar’s ears perked up when Engrasi peeked into Amaia’s room. He was up on her bed again, even though Engrasi had provided the