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Martina had chosen an ambush, it seemed, so I steeled myself in preparation for battle.
“What is this?” I demanded. Martina de León smiled even wider and reached back into the envelope before pulling out a whole sheaf of papers and placing them on the table. There was a gentle hiss as she smoothed them out with her hands.
“Ah,” she cooed, and picked up a document. “This is a copy of your birth report from the Médico.”
The silence was powerful. My team had supplied me with false records during our first few meetings, but I knew from the glint in her eye that these were different.
“Carmen Asbaje Torres.” She observed me as I swallowed. My name spoken aloud—after several long months of fearing the words—felt liberating.
Her head dipped into her shoulder, an elegant little move. “We almost didn’t find this. Apparently, all the original documents were burned at the Registo Público in Puerto Dolores. However, one prudent little Trabajadora took a few boxes back to her home for safekeeping. Isn’t that remarkable?”
“Hmm.” I was terrified and angry. Antonio had told me he had taken care of everything, but I doubted there was any way to plan for something as serendipitous as this. I didn’t want to think about what that Trabajador must’ve gone through while the Guardia was searching her home.
Martina continued, like she was telling me the juiciest piece of gossip, not unraveling my carefully guarded secrets. “At first glance, when sifting through all the information, it might appear obvious that you were from a working class family based on the names of your parents and where you were born.”
I stood up, the tulle from my dress rustling. Martina had effectively backed me into a corner. The only thing I could think to do was fight back. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Señora de León.” As soon as the words were out, I knew I’d made a mistake.
“I’m not finished.” She watched me, curious, and leaned forward. “Sit down, Carmen, or I’ll call the Guardia right now.”
I remained standing, but my hands were shaking, my knees weak from a mix of adrenaline and fear. I knew the secret about the little black pills, but that meant nothing if I was killed before I could speak.
It was as good as having no chips to bargain with.
“Call the Guardia. I will not be falsely accused of something I did not do. I knew nothing of this,” I said, my voice gaining volume.
“Oh, you didn’t know?” Martina said. She picked up another paper. “Allow me to enlighten you, then.”
I gulped, and my face burned. I felt so stupid. Why hadn’t Antonio told me more? I should’ve asked more questions.
“You were born in Puerto Dolores, in a small house in the shabby dock district. You were the daughter of a fisherman, Pedro Asbaje, and his equally mysterious wife, Cintia Torres.”
Her words were like stones hurled at my head, one after another. “Why was Cintia mysterious?” I asked.
Martina’s cruel attention went back to her papers. “I was hoping you’d help me solve that. You were an unwanted child, or so it seems, from your birth certificate. Your mother already had given birth to a boy that night, and according to my sources, your father was not fond of you. He was an abusive man, and he was routinely heard to say he’d rather eat poison than have another woman in his home.”
I wanted to scream, wanted to deny every word she said. I felt like I was being swallowed up by the earth, like I was in the middle of a smoldering volcano.
She kept going, happy that she’d been able to ruin my life. “Look at the date on your birth certificate, Carmen. You were born the same day your brother was born. Cintia Torres had barely turned twenty-three years old when giving birth, and she had been married for less than a year. I know Trabajadores marry later, but there are no records of her before that day. She showed up out of the blue, searching for a husband.”
A brother? My breath caught in my throat. I didn’t have a brother. Slowly, I sank to the couch once again.
There were glimmers of memories coming to life. My confidence from seconds before slowly sank away. I had been so small all those years ago when I’d been placed in the orphanage. I didn’t want to listen, but it seemed this woman knew more about me than I knew about myself.
Martina tapped a gloved finger to her mouth. “It is suspicious, no? Getting married in a hurry, and giving birth less than a year later?”
My mouth pressed in a tight line. I wasn’t inclined to agree with her, but there seemed to be an easy narrative that could be teased out of the clues.
Martina shrugged, then pulled out a new stack of papers. “It seems that Pedro was a drunk, which I imagine was quite unfortunate for his wife,” she continued. “On the night of your fifth birthday, Pedro stayed out all night at the tavern, leaving Cintia alone to care for you and your brother. When he returned home, he was furious.”
Fury.
I knew something about fury.
A flood of nightmares crashed into my consciousness. They were ugly, and I was afraid of the dark. Running for my life away from someone. They were about my father. Or rather, my mother’s husband. I wasn’t sure which title was correct.
“According to this report, Pedro came home drunker than ever before. He was angry that Cintia was not asleep, angry that he didn’t have enough money, angry that he had you to take care of. The brute struck her across the face.” Martina paused, all fake sympathy and pursed lips. “That must’ve been so hard for you to hear, mija. Don’t worry, we’re almost done.”
I was shaking, my breath coming out in ragged gasps. I pressed my hand to my chest, trying to get enough air into my lungs. My brain had blocked this out, trying to protect me from everything I was feeling now.
