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By Root 2135 0

youth like a dark-hued Dejah Thoris (one of the chief reasons Abelard had pursued a girl so beneath his class) and was also one of the finest nurse practitioners he had ever had the honor of working with in Mexico or the Dominican Republic, which, given his estimation of his Mexican colleagues, is no small praise. (The second reason he’d gone after her.) Her workhorse-ness and her encyclopedic knowledge of folk cures and traditional remedies made her an indispensable partner in his practice. Her reaction, though, to his Trujillo worries was typical; she was a clever, skilled, hardworking woman who didn’t blink when faced with arterial spray hissing from a machete-chopped arm stump, but when it came to more abstract menaces like, say, Trujillo, she stubbornly and willfully refused to acknowledge there might be a problem, all the while dressing Jacqueline in the most suffocating of clothes. Why are you telling people that I’m loca? she demanded.

He spoke of it as well with his mistress, señora Lydia Abenader, one of the three women who had rejected his marriage offer upon his return from his studies in Mexico; now a widow and his number-one lover, she was the woman his father had wanted him to bag in the first place, and when he’d been unable to close the deal his father had mocked him as a half-man even unto his final days of bilious life (the third reason he’d gone after Socorro).

Last he spoke with his longtime neighbor and friend, Marcus Applegate Roman, whom he often had to ferry back and forth from presidential events because Marcus lacked a car. With Marcus it had been a spontaneous outburst, the weight of the problem truly pressing on him; they’d been cruising back to La Vega on one of the old Marine Occupation roads, middle of the night in August, through the black-black farmlands of the Cibao, so hot they had to drive with the windows cranked down, which meant a constant stream of mosquitoes scooting up their nostrils, and out of nowhere Abelard began to talk. Young women have no opportunity to develop unmolested in this country, he complained. Then he gave, as an example, the name of a young woman whom the Jefe had only recently despoiled, a muchacha known to both of them, a graduate of the University of Florida and the daughter of an acquaintance. At first Marcus said nothing; in the darkness of the Packard’s interior his face was an absence, a pool of shadow. A worrisome silence. Marcus was no fan of the Jefe, having more than once in Abelard’s presence called him un ‘bruto’ y un ‘imbécil’ but that didn’t stop Abelard from being suddenly aware of his colossal indiscretion (such was life in those Secret Police days). Finally Abelard said, This doesn’t bother you?

Marcus hunched down to light a cigarette, and finally his face reappeared, drawn but familiar. Nothing we can do about it, Abelard.

But imagine you were in similar straits: how would you protect yourself?

I’d be sure to have ugly daughters.

Lydia was far more realistic. She’d been seated at her armoire, brushing her Moorish hair. He’d been lying on the bed, naked as well, absently pulling on his ripio. Lydia had said, Send her away to the nuns. Send her to Cuba. My family there will take care of her.

Cuba was Lydia’s dream; it was her Mexico. Always talking about moving back there.

But I’d need permission from the state!

Ask for it, then.

But what if El Jefe notices the requests?

Lydia put down her brush with a sharp click. What are the chances of that happening? You never know, Abelard said defensively. In this country you never know.

His mistress was for Cuba, his wife for house arrest, his best friend said nothing. His own cautiousness told him to await further instructions. And at the end of the year he got them.

At one of the interminable presidential events EI Jefe had shaken Abelard’s hand, but instead of moving on, he paused — a nightmare come true — held on to his fingers, and said in his shrill voice: You are Dr. Abelard Cabral? Abelard bowed. At your service, Your Excellency. In less than a nanosecond Abelard was drenched in sweat;