The Island of Last Truth by Flavia Company, Laura McGloughlin Page B

deeply, as if in place of air he seeks comfort. “He went to Saint Helena; he called it the prison island. And you see it was a prison, he never came back. He had a girlfriend there. She never heard from him again either. His shipmates told her he was lost at sea during a storm.”
    I understand that when he speaks of Nelson’s shipmates he is referring, and I don’t think he is aware of it, to the pirates.
    The mother, naturally, cries. How many times must she have cried without realizing it, while she made a meal, or the beds, or did the laundry. As though she were coughing or sneezing. Her children don’t look at her. Her husband, on the other hand, moves a hand closer to her and she takes it as if he were passing her the salt or the bread, in any case something that she has asked for because she needs it.
    When I am about to speak, to open the bag and give them the letter, the mother suddenly rises and disappears; we hear the sounds of drawers being opened and closed and after a while, she returns with a photograph album. She sits down with an awkward movement, moves her chair closer to mine, dragging it, opens the album, searches and finally finds the place where she wanted to be. She shows me a photo. She moves the glass of wine, which I haven’t touched, to see it. Miguel says:
    â€œThat’s Nelson, just before he went to Saint Helena.”
    I look, and what I see takes my breath away, because the person appearing in the photograph they are showing me is Dr. Prendel alone, young, smiling, with that characteristic expression of his, the expression that came over his mouth every time he was up to one of his old tricks.
    I drink the entire glass of wine in one gulp. I look at the photograph again. The silence surrounding me is like the silence streaming through me.
    I hear Miguel, still standing, ask me:
    â€œAnd how did you know my brother?”
    I think quickly. I remember what my grandfather used to say: “Little one, one lie always leads to another; it’s better to tell the truth from the beginning.” But now I am the one with a secret and I want to keep it to myself. Did I know Nelson Souza? I am aware that everyone is waiting for an answer. And the impulse comes on its own, and I give myself up to it as I bury the letter in the bottom of my bag. I say:
    â€œI am the widow of the only man who came to really know him. It is a long story.” And I realize I will have to invent it, rewrite his life while I speak.
    The mother rises, says:
    â€œYou’ll stay for lunch, of course.” And she asks Lidia to put on the floral tablecloth and Miguel to go down and get nice wine and dessert. And turning to me she clarifies, “We used to have a grocery store but not now. We’re retired.”
    It is clear that I cannot refuse. The family machinery has begun to function and it can’t be stopped.
    I leave that house when it is already dark. I told a lot of lies. Anyone, once their back is to the wall, can do it. I made up a story that consoled them. I told them that Nelson had saved Prendel and in saving him had died. It is, when you get right down to it, a truth told in a particular way.
    I walk through the streets of the Alfama neighborhood, erect as the truth that has been revealed to me and that I have decided to keep for myself alone. I feel I have that right.
    I find a wastebin, stop, take Nelson Souza’s letter from my bag, tear it up, and throw it away. I don’t know if it is an act of love or revenge.

    ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

    To Esther Rovira, who never puts off till later what we need now.
    To Eva Gutiérrez, “doctor of me,”­ for her generosity.
    To my sister, Marina Company, for her unconditional support.
    To María Schjaer, for one more book.
    To my editors, Silvia Querini and Josep Lluch, for the trust and common path we’ve started down together.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
    Flavia Company was born in Buenos Aires in 1963 and has lived