Laura Restrepo - Hot Sur

“What if they find out who you really are?”

“They won’t. We’ll put on the poor Latina act that we don’t speak English and just dream of sneaking into the US. It’ll be easy. They are convinced that all Latinos will give their lives for that. They can’t imagine the opposite. They go hunting for people desperate to get in, not determined to get out.”

Once parked outside the school, María Paz gave Rose some directions. He should be the one to go in and ask for Violeta. She couldn’t, afraid that the school may have heard about her troubles with the law and alert someone, or prevent her from seeing her sister; who knew what could happen. It was better not to risk it. It was a semi-open confinement, anyway; those who lived there were considered guests and not patients, and as guests, they were free to have any visitor they wanted, and even go out for a walk to the neighboring village. They managed their own spending money and could buy things at the local drugstore or 7-Eleven, or have lunch at one of the restaurants. They could leave to spend weekends and holidays with their families, provided they notified the school first. All Rose had to do was ask for Violeta at the reception desk and bring her outside.

“But she doesn’t even know me,” Rose objected. “It’s a crazy idea, like all the rest of them. She won’t come with me.”

“Show her this,” María Paz said, removing the necklace with the one-third-coin pendant and giving it to Rose. “It’s like a password. She knows what it is. She has a third of the coin also. Tell her that I’m waiting outside.”

“I won’t even know how to deal with her; you said she was a little weird…”

“Not a little, she’s weirder than a square-headed dog. But you have people skills. Just don’t talk much, and especially don’t touch her. Sometimes she bites when people touch her.”

“Same as Dix. That I can deal with. But just tell me specifically what she suffers from.”

“Some kind of autism, but I don’t really know. No one knows, not even her. If she does know, she hides things from the doctors. She’s always playing games to see how she can confuse them, so it’s not their fault if they can’t hit upon a precise diagnosis. What mental disorder does my sister suffer from? All of them and none of them.

“What do you want to know? Let’s see, Violeta likes to make her bed perfectly, smoothing it out and leaving not even a little wrinkle in the sheets, as if she were in the army, and at night, she barely moves so not to mess the sheets up. She has very sensitive skin, and hates when clothes scratch her or are too tight. She only eats white food — milk, pasta, bread, and stuff like that — and will vomit if she tries food of any other color. She speaks gently and prefers not to raise her voice, and she is also hypersensitive to noise. She calls me Big Sis and I call her Little Sis. Let’s see… What else is there? Don’t try to be sympathetic with her, or make any jokes, because she never understands. She likes to exaggerate, like she says she’s dying of hunger because she thinks she really is dying. Definitely do not ask her what she has done lately, because she will feel compelled to tell you everything she has done from morning to night during recent months. If it is small talk, do not ask her to shut up, or tell her, for example, that she’s talking up a storm, because she will become very frustrated and confused, trying to understand how someone can start a storm just by talking. One time, our mother was calling her to come and eat, and Violeta just ignored her. Our mother kept calling her but nothing, so she said, ‘This little girl is deaf as a post.’ Violeta was very offended because she said posts didn’t have ears. You know what I mean?”

“Sort of. I think I know what I have to do.”

“Just don’t do much; that’s the best way with her. Just show her the pendant and tell her I’m waiting outside.”

Rose reluctantly agreed to comply with the assigned task, or at least try, but when he was about to get out of the car, María Paz grabbed his arm.

“Wait, Mr. Rose. Wait a minute,” she begged him. “Let me take a breath. You have to realize, I haven’t seen Violeta in a long time. Since before Manninpox. My heart is pounding. Let me settle down a bit. Wait, I need some water. That’s better. Help me, Mami. Help me, Bolivia, up there in heaven, let everything go well today, I beg, I beg you, for God’s sake I beg you. Okay, I’ll be fine now.” She closed her eyes for a few minutes, then she sighed and said, “I’m ready. Go, Mr. Rose. Go and bring her to me.”

Rose was surprised with the look of the school. He had imagined something depressing and gray, but it was a Georgian house in the middle of a forest of maples and conifers; it had a Dutch roof crowned with a brick chimney, white pine siding, a double row of sash windows, and a central front entrance. There was no one outside, as to be expected because of the harsh cold, but Rose could imagine that when the weather was milder, visitors could relax outside with the kids. The interior was spacious and clean, rather empty except for what was necessary: function over form. Alright, thought Rose. Definitely a good place. Must cost a pretty penny to keep someone in here, though. Everything seemed great. Or maybe not everything. Something seemed off, as if the promise of the exterior was not fulfilled within, where the air was muggy with the breath of frustrated expectations. Every detail of the place seemed an attempt to convey the appearance of familiarity and normalcy, but for some reason this aim was never quite achieved. In spite of the marvelous house, inside there was an emptiness reminiscent of the halls of public school during after-school hours, giving rise to the feeling that the world went on ceaselessly outside while the hours remained stagnant within.

He was greeted immediately and cordially, and then offered a chair and some brochures so he could sit and read while waiting for Violeta. Thus he learned about the different types of rehabilitation programs, winter and summer therapy sessions, and special courses for families of autistic children. All this seemed very sophisticated, thought Rose. And yet, none of it stopped it from seeming like a sort of imprisonment. A benign Manninpox. A ghetto, an orphanage, a sanatorium. The Colombian sisters did not seem destined to enjoy the privilege of free and open spaces, at least not in America. While in the waiting area, Rose made an effort to stay focused on reading the pamphlets and not looking up, to avoid seeming nosy or rudely curious, but he could not help but sense the tension surrounding the troubled youngsters who happened to walk by, the feeling of misdirection and broken harmony, the impersonal metallic ring of their voices, the sour smell of their fears. Rose sat straight and stiff in his chair, as intimidated as one who had entered a temple of alien religion, and he startled when the receptionist announced Violeta’s arrival.

“Something utterly striking about that girl,” Rose tells me. “I don’t think she even noticed me. She definitely didn’t look at me, avoiding eye contact even after I said hello, which she completely ignored. Yet, when I showed her the pendant, the broken coin, she immediately realized that I somehow was connected to her sister. She became certain and assured, and walked out to the car with me, without me having to ask twice. She didn’t even put on a coat; despite the cold, she went outside with what she had on, jeans and a wool sweater. She showed very little emotion one way or the other about the fact that María Paz had come looking for her. Or I should say, she showed none at all. Never in my life have I seen such a beautiful face as expressionless as hers.”