Of Love and Shadows by Isabel Allende Page B

to the sensation of nightmare. On the bed, Evangelina Ranquileo writhed and twisted, the victim of impenetrable hallucinations and mysterious urgencies. The father, dark-skinned, toothless, with his pathetic sad clown’s face, watched glumly from the threshold, without moving closer. The mother stood beside the bed, her eyes rolled back in her head, perhaps attempting to hear the silence of God. Inside and outside the house, hope seized the pilgrims. One by one they drew near Evangelina to request their small, humble miracles.
    â€œCure my carbuncles, santita. ”
    â€œDon’t let them take my Juan off to the Army.”
    â€œGod save you, Evangelina, full of grace. Heal my poor husband’s hemorrhoids.”
    â€œGive me a sign—what number should I play in the lottery?”
    â€œStop the rain, handmaiden of God, before my goddam seeds rot in the ground.”
    Those who had come motivated by faith, or simply as a desperate measure, filed by in orderly fashion, pausing an instant beside the young girl to offer their plea, and then moved on, transfigured by the confidence that through His intermediary they would be favored by Divine Providence.
    No one heard the Army truck pull up.
    They heard commands, and before anyone could react, the soldiers invaded in a body, occupying the patio and rushing into the house with weapons in hand. They shoved people aside, scattered the children with their shouts, used their rifle butts to beat anyone who stood in their way, and filled the air with loud orders.
    â€œFace the wall! Hands behind your head!” bawled the bull-necked officer in command.
    Everyone obeyed except Evangelina Ranquileo, imperturbable in her trance, and Irene Beltrán, frozen in her tracks, too shocked to be able to move.
    â€œYour documents!” bellowed a sergeant with Indian features.
    â€œI am a journalist and he is a photographer,” said Irene in a steady voice, pointing to her friend.
    They frisked Francisco, slapping his ribs, armpits, crotch, and shoes.
    â€œTurn around,” they commanded.
    The officer they would later come to know as Lieutenant Juan de Dios Ramírez stuck the barrel of his machine gun in Francisco’s ribs.
    â€œName!”
    â€œFrancisco Leal.”
    â€œWhat the shit do you two think you’re doing here?”
    â€œWe’re doing an article, not shit,” Irene interrupted.
    â€œI’m not talking to you!”
    â€œBut I’m talking to you, Captain,” she smiled, ironically raising his grade.
    The officer hesitated, unaccustomed to impertinence from a civilian.
    â€œRanquileo!” he called.
    Immediately, a dark-haired giant, armed with a rifle and with an addled look on his face, stepped forward from the troops and stood at attention before his superior officer.
    â€œIs this your sister?” The lieutenant pointed to Evangelina, who was in another world, lost in tenebrous copulation with the spirits.
    â€œAffirmative, Lieutenant!” the man replied, rigid, heels together, chest expanded, eyes front, face like granite.
    At that instant a new and more violent rain of invisible stones lashed the roof. The officer sprawled face-down on the floor, imitated by his men. Stupefied, the others watched them slither on elbows and knees to the patio, where they sprang to their feet and zigzagged to take up positions. From behind the laundry trough, the lieutenant began firing in the direction of the house. It was a prearranged signal. Maddened soldiers, crazed by uncontrollable violence, squeezed their triggers, and in seconds the air was filled with noise, shouts, sobs, barking, crowing, and gusts of gunpowder. The people on the patio threw themselves to the ground; some took shelter in the irrigation ditch or behind trees. The evangelicals attempted to rescue their musical instruments, and Father Cirilo ducked beneath the table, clutching the rosary of Santa Gemita and crying out to heaven for the Lord