Navidad & Matanza by Will Vanderhyden Carlos Labb Page B

she knows something. I stopped and she stopped. She was beautiful, I remember: she was about to go through puberty. I thought that her name must be Alicia or Violeta—a strong name, tinged with adventure. And that she must’ve seen the others leave the laboratory and run to the beach. The girl must have an important message. Alicia, tell me, where are they? Who? She asked with an expression of distrust. Please, can you get out of the way? I need to get past. And she was gone.
    This is the end of the message, my dear. I am going to press send, I’ll run circles around the room until I gather enough courage to smash my head against the mirror. I hope I don’t die.
    If I wake up, I hope I’m not alone.

100
    T HE BRILLIANT IDEA had been Bruno’s. That afternoon, when the journalist showed up at the beach, the oldest Vivar had said: Now I know where we can get some cash. Then he looked his sister gravely in the eyes and she noticed his lips were smeared with sand. You’re disgusting, Alicia said to him. He smiled and slid his hand under the towel.
    It’d be simple: they were relying on the fact that after sixteen years, the journalist wouldn’t have forgotten them.
    He’s a writer now, it might not matter to him what happened in the past or what stopped happening, murmured Alicia, sunning herself. Those are the bad writers, the ones who call themselves poets, her brother said, as he watched the man undress his little girl and put on her bathing suit. Alicia lowered her dark sunglasses and gave Bruno a glacial look: What’re you trying to say? Well, you write poetry, you should know, replied Bruno. Disgusting, she repeated, and smiled. Better save that smile for the lovely interview that awaits you.
    The next day, at five in the afternoon, Alicia got up off her towel. They’d spent the entire night inventing and disguising the sordid story that she’d tell the journalist. Why we ran away from our parents, who tied us to our cribs, and abused us. The more I cried the redder my father’s face got and the more painful his blows. Or worse: they never even touched us. They wouldn’t say our names. On weekends they locked us in the attic with bags of dog food, this is why the only living human I can tolerate is my brother; it’s not that I love him. That’s why we stole the Porsche and headed north: something eye-catching, bright, a toy for us andno one else. At Christmas they let us open presents, but only open them. Then they’d take the toy away and put it on a shelf, at a height we couldn’t reach.
    Alicia set down the book she was reading and wrapped her body in a thin blue dress. A few meters away the journalist was sitting on the wet sand, his legs stretched out in front of him. Every now and then the surf splashed the soles of his feet, which must’ve felt delicious, but the intent, serious expression never left his face. Except when the little girl came running toward him from the sea, where she was swimming with her mother, and yelled something to him. Then he smiled, although he didn’t answer her. Just a smile.
    Alicia started walking toward the journalist. Some vacationers were playing paddleball and the sounds of conversations mingling with the murmur of the sea, formed the same uniform mass of sound she’d heard so many summers throughout her life. She remembered a childhood afternoon in Zapallar, in her aunt and uncle’s house. She was nine years old. After lunch she took her book and went alone down to the beach. She didn’t sit on the sand, but on the grass between the parking lot and the shore. She sat there reading and watching people for hours, until the sun began to drop and she got hungry. Then she walked back to the house, always the same. Thinking about what she’d tell her mother when she asked the same questions as always (“Did you have a good time?” “Did you eat a lot of ice cream?” “Did