The Blue Line by Ingrid Betancourt Page A

alive. He’ll have one moment in his life to escape death, one single moment, like Anna and Señora Pilar and Commissioner-Major Angelini, and all the other people you helped. You shouldn’t despise life!”
    â€œ
Mi amor!
Don’t be judgmental. No one can measure someone else’s thirst for life. Knowing what’s in store for us a little ahead of time gives us greater responsibility, not less. Whether it’s now or later, everyone has the same choice in the face of death: to desire it, accept it, or try to escape it. I’m telling you this because it’s important for you to learn not to feel guilty about the choices your sources make, even if you think they’re wrong.”
    â€œI think I’m mad at him more than anything else. I’m disappointed in him. I thought he’d be more of a fighter.”
    â€œI have a lot of admiration for Father Carlos. I’ve seldom seen anyone so passionate. I can assure you he doesn’t despise life. On the contrary, I think he holds it dearer than anybody else. But I also think he’s made a fundamental choice, namely to give his life for others. Leaving the comforts of the Recoleta neighborhood to go into the slums is as powerful a cry of freedom as refusing to be afraid.”
    â€œHe could refuse to be afraid and park his car somewhere else.”
    â€”
    They left together, knowing exactly where they were going without the need for discussion. They made their way through La Boca, boarded a bus in San Telmo, and drove past the Obelisk as far as Plaza San Martín, where they got off and walked the rest of the way to Villa 31.
    Father Mugica was playing football with a group of teenagers on the vacant lot behind the church. It had rained the previous day, and the ball kept stopping dead in puddles. The players were spattered with mud from head to toe. Large covered trucks moved along cautiously, swaying from side to side across the huge holes that littered the dirt road. Small children covered in soot, bare chested, and wearing battered shoes, backed away laughing and holding their noses, caught in the cloud of black smoke coming from the vehicles. A few older women stood looking on, hands on hips.
    Mama Fina and Julia soon reached the health center. Therewas no one there. Julia began to make an inventory of the drugs while Mama Fina went through the account books. The routine tasks masked the horrible sensation of watching over a person condemned to death.
    In the afternoon they went back the way they had come, to attend Father Mugica’s service. Sitting in the very last pew of San Francisco Solano, they observed every new arrival at the church. They stayed there until the little blue Renault had left calle Zelada. They took the same route each day that week, careful to keep out of sight so they wouldn’t cause trouble for Father Mugica.
    On Friday Theo was waiting for them as usual in Mama Fina’s kitchen with cups of bitter maté. He usually got there before them, found the key in the flowerpot, and made himself at home. He had added a few leaves of fresh mint to the boiling water and was stirring it with a
bombilla
. As always, they ended up talking about politics.
    â€œYou never know what to think,” said Theo. “Take Allende’s death, for example . . .”
    â€œWe’ll never know if it was an accident, suicide, or murder,” Mama Fina replied.
    â€œThe justice system will never know because it doesn’t want to know. But the people know.”
    â€œIt’s not impossible that he decided to kill himself, you know,” Mama Fina added. “Perhaps he’d already considered it, and when he was faced with the facts, he took it as confirmation of what he’d planned.”
    â€œI don’t believe that. There were far too many reasons for him to carry on living. The people loved him. . . .” Theo paused, then went on: “Closer to home, take