Free The Invisible Mountain by Carolina de Robertis Page A

reeked so strongly of drink and women’s musk that she sent him out to sleep on the living room floor so she could lie alone, free of his scents, and miss his body.
    She bore a third son. Tomás. Who looked so much like her brother, Artigas, that it hurt to look at him. Those same lean bones and bright eyes. She went to séances at Clarabel’s house and asked about her brother. Nothing came. He couldn’t be dead, couldn’t be dead, couldn’t be alive and not have written.
The pile of pesos Ignazio brought home each week slimmed down. It was too thin, barely stretched to feed the boys. She cornered him on a Sunday morning at the kitchen table.
    “Ignazio. You’re not bringing home all your pay. You have three sons,
querido
. You have to stop.”
    She had thought, she could have sworn, that he would fight; that his jaw would tighten, his voice would raise, his fist would crash on the table. Instead he stared at her, then out the window, toward the lighthouse hidden behind the prison-almost-finished. He was quiet. She waited. His profile stood crisp against striped wallpaper.
    “Remember,” he said, “when we first came to the city? How we walked along the shore of the river? As if it had no end. As if we could walk and walk and find only more waves, more sand, more water. I always wanted to put gondolas on that water. I’m going to do it. A peso per ride. We’ll have more than enough for all of us.”
    Pajarita let her hands rest on her lap. They grasped each other. “How much would it cost to build them?”
    Ignazio shrugged. “A sum.”
    “And where would that sum come from?”
    “Leave that to me.”
    That night he was voracious with her, even more so when she dug her nails into his back and broke the skin.
    Three days later, the prison across the street opened to great fanfare.
Montevideanos
from all parts of the city came to see. El Penal de Punta Carretas, it was christened. The mayor appeared on the steps and cleared his throat.
    “My fellow
montevideanos
, we are here today to celebrate progress, to celebrate this formidable new building, but above all to celebrate this city.” He wiped his forehead, rich with sweat, and adjusted his wool suit. “Montevideo is one of the most beautiful and modern places on the continent. Our climate, our beaches, our literature are unparalleled, and in the past twenty-five years, we have become a world-class city. Immigrants from Italy, Spain, France, and other nations have found a home here. We have established a democratic system inspired by the highest humanitarian ideals—the ideals of
batllismo
, the ideals at the heart of Uruguay.” The crowd clapped, and the mayor paused, his chest puffed out like a sparrow’s. “Yes, yes, we have accomplished this—while our giant neighbors, Argentina and Brazil, only dream of such stability. We may be small, but we are an exemplar of a nation; we are claiming our place in the world!” He pointed his index finger vigorously at the sky, and held it aloft as applause washed over him. “And so, my dear
montevideanos
, as we mark this day, as we open this state-of-the-art facility here in Punta Carretas, let us also look to the future. With all we have achieved in this century so far, just think of what awaits us in the rest of it. Our children and our children’s children will stand on the foundations we have built for them, and carry us forward to our destiny. We are a city of the future. The future belongs to Montevideo!”
He sliced the red ribbon that hung across the gate, dripping sweat, beaming in a deluge of applause. Sarita Alfonti shouted behind Pajarita. She felt the crowd’s excitement, its hunger and pride. Champagne corks popped. An accordion pushed out chords. El Penal’s cream-colored walls loomed, high, clean, unmoved.
    That night, Ignazio did not come home. Pajarita awoke at 4 a.m. in a still-empty bed. She stared at the ceiling until it grew pale with dawn. Then she rose and made breakfast for the