Beyond the Ties of Blood by Florencia Mallon Read Free Book Online

taxi.”
    â€œThat’s not what I meant.”
    â€œWhat, then?”
    â€œI’ve never done this before. But it feels like we should know what comes next.”
    â€œIt depends.”
    â€œOn what?”
    â€œOn what you want.”
    â€œI don’t know what I want.”
    â€œWell, then we don’t know what happens next. The old problem of the script,” he said.
    She turned over with her back to him. “Don’t make jokes.” Her voice was muffled by the pillow.
    â€œIt’s not a joke,” he said, putting out the cigarette. He ran an arm under her neck and shoulders and pulled her gently back toward him so that her head was on his chest. “It’s kind of new for me, too.”
    â€œCome on. Even I know that’s not true.”
    â€œNo, no, I’m serious. For one thing, I’ve never been anyone’s first before. All the other girls … well, mainly they’ve been older, but … I don’t know, it was different this time.”
    â€œHow so?”
    â€œWell, one way to put it might be that I’ve never made love before. Until now what I’ve done is have sex.”
    â€œI might be inexperienced, but I’m not stupid,” she said into the hair on his chest. “We did have sex.”
    His laughter had a rich rumble to it, a tremor from deep inside that came up slowly to the surface. Her head bobbed up and down slightly. “Who’s joking now?” he asked. “Give me a break, Eugenia. What I’m trying to tell you is … well … it’s possible that I could end up falling in love with you.”
    â€œThat settles it, then,” she said. “What happens now is that we fall in love.”
    Boston, 1990
    Several weeks after she had begun writing in her journal, she accepted an appointment with a student who wanted to talk to her. Though Eugenia wasn’t teaching, the student had been in her class the previous semester, was the daughter of Guatemalan exiles, and spoke Spanish. She had introduced herself as Elena Manríquez and emphasized she was interested in learning more about culturally sensitive reporting. Her eyes sparkled as she sat in Eugenia’s office, and she seemed ready to write down anything Eugenia said.
    â€œI’ve been doing research in Mexican newspapers,” Elena said. “I ran across your article on the leader of the human rights group in Mexico, and then some of your portraits of survivors of the 1985 earthquake. I must confess, Professor Aldunate, I just don’t know how you do it.”
    The first thing that crossed Eugenia’s mind was that this student, a native Spanish speaker, was the only one who had known how to pronounce her name. But the young woman was looking at her expectantly, waiting for an answer.
    â€œI’m sorry, Elena,” she said, “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”
    Elena looked puzzled for a moment. “You know,” she finally answered, “how it is you get these women to talk to you so openly, from the heart. I’ve been reading a lot of politically committed journalism from the early-to-mid eighties. But there’s something different about your work, a spark, like empathy, or maybe vision. I don’t know. Somehow, you get women to talk to you like a friend instead of a journalist or interrogator. Do you have a particular strategy, a method, that you can share with me?”
    Eugenia leaned back in her chair. Elena’s long dark hair was pulled into a ponytail on her neck, showing off large silver earrings. She was dressed in jeans and a Guatemalan textile shirt, and wore no makeup. Eugenia felt a tightness in her chest as she realized she did not know what to say. She had to clear her throat several times before she felt she could answer.
    â€œI must confess, Elena, that I’m really not sure,” she began, her voice sticking slightly along her tongue. “I’ve