I returned the letters back to my father’s safety box and left the bank, submerged in thought. Why hadn’t my father ever written Elisa back? He always wrote to me. Was it an issue of fluency in Spanish? As far as I could recall, he always wrote to me in French. But no, he could’ve asked someone else to translate if he truly wanted to communicate with her. It seemed like he’d abandoned this daughter—even worse than when he’d abandoned me. Why her and not me? Was it an issue of class? After all, she was the daughter of the maid—someone who Elisa describes as having little education and who washed other people’s clothes for a living, a woman who traveled the country like a nomad with a man who wasn’t her husband. It was apparent that my father had been ashamed of this daughter, or else he wouldn’t have hidden her letters here. However, he had saved them, which meant he had some sort of emotional attachment with Elisa.

“Don Cristóbal!”

Someone touched my shoulder. It was Soledad Duarte, the curandera.

“I’ve been calling you for a whole block!” she said, her chest heaving, her cheeks as red as a bullfighter’s cape.

“I’m sorry. I’m hard of hearing,” I said as a sole explanation.

“Did you find out anything about my Franco?” she asked.

I hesitated. I hated to give her hope when I knew the truth about her son, but at the same time, I needed her help. Maybe I could strike a balance between giving her some information without disclosing my connection to Franco.

“Yes,” I said. “Apparently he went to the Caribbean.”

“What? Where is that?”

“Someone saw him aboard a ship on the island of Cuba.”

“What would he be doing there?”

“Well, didn’t you mention a favor for someone? Maybe it had to do with that.”

Soledad rested her hand on her forehead. “Cuba? I have to talk to the police.”

“Wait. The police didn’t tell me this. It was someone else, someone who wishes to remain anonymous.”

She studied me for a moment.

“Well, at least he’s still alive,” she finally said.

Why did the sight of this woman, this suffering mother, produce so much guilt in me? She was the mother of my husband’s killer, for God’s sake! I shouldn’t feel anything other than contempt for her after she’d raised a criminal.

She gripped my arm.

“I found something,” she said, “but I don’t know if it has anything to do with his disappearance.”

“What?”

She looked down the block before speaking. “Come.”

We walked a couple of blocks to her place, which had acquired a particular stench reminiscent of mud and moist grass. There seemed to be even more clutter than before, if such a thing were possible.