The She-Devil in the Mirror Read online

  Horacio Castellanos Moya

  THE SHE-DEVIL

  IN THE MIRROR

  Translated from the Spanish

  by Katherine Silver

  A NEW DIRECTIONS PAPERBOOK ORIGINAL

  CONTENTS

  1. The Wake

  2. The Burial

  3. Novena

  4. The Balcony

  5. Thirty Days

  6. The Terrace

  7. The Crash

  8. The Stampede

  9. The Clinic

  TO TANIA MATA PARDUCCI, OTONIEL MARTÍNEZ AND PATRICIA ARDÓN, LUCRECIA ARDÓN, ANA TOMICO

  1. THE WAKE

  HOW COULD SUCH A TRAGEDY HAVE HAPPENED, my dear? I just spent the whole morning with Olga María at her boutique at the Villas Españolas Mall, she had to check on a special order. It’s unbelievable. I still can’t believe it; it’s like a nightmare. I don’t know why they’re taking so long to get her ready: it’s already five thirty, and they still haven’t brought her out. It’s that magistrate, he took his sweet time. He’s a disgrace. The poor thing, stretched out there on her living room floor, everybody and his brother coming and going through the house. How horrible. They let me know right away: Sergio, Olga María’s brother, called my house and said something terrible had happened, Olga María had been “mortally wounded” during an attempted robbery. That’s what he said: “mortally wounded.” I couldn’t believe it—I’d been with her just an hour and a half earlier. We left the boutique and walked to the parking lot together. She said she was going to pick the girls up at school and then she’d call me in the afternoon. No wonder Sergio’s call caught me totally by surprise. I asked him which hospital they’d taken her to. He said she wasn’t in a hospital, she was lying dead on her living room floor, and Marito had taken the girls to Doña Olga’s. I was in shock. I couldn’t even react. Then I said, “I’m on my way.” I drove like a madwoman, like I was on drugs, my dear, I don’t know how I managed to avoid having an accident. So many images of her raced through my mind, and the last words we’d exchanged that morning, about how happy she was that sales at the boutique were up and about how she was trying to patch up her relationship with Marito. And then something like this—it’s so unfair. Anyway, their house is in Colonia La Sultana, and I live in Santa Tecla, so it took me only ten minutes to get there. The police were already there. I dashed out of my car, I wanted to prove to myself that it wasn’t true, Olga María was still alive, and everything had been a terrible mistake. But there was her body, stretched out on the living room rug next to the sofa in a pool of blood, covered with a white sheet. I knelt down and lifted the edge of the sheet: the hole in her head was small, but all her brains had poured out the back. Oh, my dear, I felt horrible—I even felt like vomiting. But I was too upset to even cry. I covered her back up. Sergio placed his hands on my shoulders and told me he needed me to be with the girls, they’d killed her in cold blood right in front of them, they were still in shock when Marito came to get them. Imagine that: those murderers killed Olga María right in front of the girls. It’s unforgivable. They sure are taking their sweet time, they should be bringing her out any minute, a lot of people are starting to arrive. We chose a black satin dress for her, very elegant. I want to see how it looks. Doña Olga had her doubts, but finally she followed my advice: it is her prettiest dress, the one that looks best on her. Sergio insisted I go to their mother’s to help her with the girls, because Marito had to get back to the house to deal with all the legalities, after all he is her husband, the owner of the house, he’s the one who’s responsible for everything. Poor Marito, he’s devastated. I didn’t see him till later. We must’ve crossed paths, he on his way back to the house and me on my way to Doña Olga’s. I was so eager to give the girls a hug, protect them, somehow make them forget what they’d seen. But halfway there, I broke down, it was horrible, my dear, I was choking and I couldn’t breathe; I managed to pull off the road, then I started crying uncontrollably—my forehead on the steering wheel, I was crying for Olga María, for the girls, for Marito, for myself, because if I didn’t get it off my chest it would only get worse later. When I got there a doctor was talking to the girls. Doña Olga seemed composed, strong, she wasn’t even crying, though you could see in her body how tortured she was. She told me they’d just given the girls a sedative, they were very upset, the best thing for them now was to get some rest instead of going over what they’d seen again and again, that’s what the doctor recommended. I hugged them, trying to control myself: I didn’t want them to see me falling apart. Little Olga just turned ten, she’s so grown up, so pretty, just like her mother, the same expressions, intelligent like her, too; Raquelita looks more like Marito, and she’s a bit withdrawn, maybe because she’s the youngest. They’ve always called me Auntie, even though we’re not related, Olga María taught them to call me that: Auntie Laura. We were best friends, have been ever since we started at the American School—imagine that, twenty-three years ago. Finally, they’re bringing her out. Come on, come with me, let’s see how she looks. Look at those gorgeous flower arrangements: Marito’s advertising agency sent them over. I told you that’s her best dress—don’t you think she looks gorgeous, they did a good job on her, you can barely even see the hole in her head. Life is a catastrophe. How could this have happened to her? You went to her last birthday party, remember? She was so happy to be turning thirty—she said the best part of life was just beginning, always so optimistic, so vivacious. Those sons of bitches, those cowards, they should all be killed. Doesn’t her hair look great? It’s just like she used to wear it for parties, Mercedes herself came from the salon to do it. They’re truly evil, all they wanted to do was kill her, they didn’t steal anything, they didn’t even try to. That’s what little Olga told me this afternoon: he snuck up on them in the garage as they were getting out of the car, then forced them into the living room and there, without a word, he shot Olga María in the chest, then one to the head to finish her off. Disgraceful. Makes me so angry. More people are starting to arrive—let’s go sit down. Look, here comes Marito. Sergio said he was going home to change clothes. Doña Olga and the girls will be here around seven, those poor dears, those girls have behaved so well, it’s amazing how grown up they are. The one I’m worried about is Marito, he seems fragile, I don’t know what he’d have done without Sergio. It’s been a crazy afternoon. I spent about an hour at Doña Olga’s, trying to distract the girls until the sedatives kicked in so they’d fall asleep. That’s when little Olga told me about the murderer and how all he wanted was to kill Olga María: she told him to take the car, whatever he wanted, just don’t hurt them, especially not the girls; but he didn’t want anything, he just wanted to kill her, like someone had sent him, like he’d been given explicit instructions. Something smells rotten, because Olga María couldn’t have any enemies. That’s exactly what I told those insolent policemen who came to Doña Olga’s asking for the girls; they wanted to question them, they said, because they were the only ones who’d seen the killer, they urgently needed a description of the murderer so they could make a composite sketch—they kept insisting it was very important. But the doctor said the girls shouldn’t be disturbed—I told them—and anyway they were already asleep, so they’d better put off their questioning till tomorrow. But they were pigheaded, especially the boss, the one who said his name was Deputy Chief Handal, what a pig of a man—that’s why we’re in the mess we’re in: the police spend their time harassing defenseless little girls instead of catching criminals. That’s what I told him. No reaction. He just repeated that the sooner they got a description of the suspect the easier it would be to organize a manhunt and capture him. But I wasn’t going to let those
rude men wake up the girls. I stood my ground and told them they would have to wait a couple of hours until the girls woke up, and if the girls ended up with some permanent psychological damage, I would hold them responsible—Handal and that other nasty man who said his name was Detective Villalta—and that wouldn’t be the end of it because I’d sue them, and I’m not just some nobody, they couldn’t mess with me, they’d better be very careful and show more respect or they’d soon find out who they were dealing with. But little Olga hadn’t fallen asleep yet, she was lying down and dozing—a bit dazed from the sedatives—and what with the ruckus those policemen were making, she woke up. She got out of bed and appeared in the doorway and asked what was going on, maybe she got scared that the policemen were murderers, like the one who’d just killed Olga María. These two gentlemen, I explained to her, were policemen investigating her mother’s death, and she should go back to bed because they were just about to leave. But that Deputy Chief Handal shoved his way in front of me and started interrogating little Olga—such a snake, they’ve got no respect for anybody, that pig—and they wanted to take advantage of little Olga’s innocence to get her to tell them what she’d already told me: that the murderer didn’t want anything, all he wanted was to kill Olga María. Three times the deputy chief asked little Olga to repeat every detail of the story, and he kept asking her questions—what a degenerate—then he called in some creep with a mustache who was supposed to make a sketch based on the girl’s information. Little Olga said the murderer was tall and heavy-set, a big huge guy, clean-shaven, with very short hair, like a soldier’s, and he was wearing blue jeans and white tennis shoes, like the kind astronauts wear, she said. The deputy chief asked her if she remembered any other details, anything out of the ordinary that would help them identify the suspect. Little Olga said he walked like RoboCop, that robot policeman on television. I warned the deputy chief to leave the girl alone, not to take advantage of her, who knows what damage it could do—she’d just taken a strong sedative. But that Handal creep kept at it: Was he alone? Did little Olga see the car he drove away in? Was she aware of anybody else in the street? Did the housekeeper show up before or after the crime had been committed? Oh no, not her, not our Julita, how could they possibly suspect her, I butted in, what a pig, Julita practically raised Olga María, and now she’s almost fifty, what are they thinking, she’s worked for Doña Olga and Olga María her entire life, she’s totally trustworthy, how could he be such an idiot. Doña Olga agreed. Little Olga explained that Julita came into the living room after the shots were fired, she was in the laundry room at the back of the house—she was the one who called Marito and Sergio and Doña Olga, and she was the one who ran to get help from the neighbors. You see those people coming in now: they work at Marito’s agency—don’t they look young? The tall one in the brown suit with curly hair and little round glasses, yes, the good-looking one, that’s the new marketing director Marito just hired. Olga María told me about him; she was right, he’s very handsome. Anyway, as I was saying, once they finished with little Olga, that Deputy Chief Handal said he wanted to ask me a few questions, alone, seeing as how I’d known the victim so well, seeing how I’d been her best friend, maybe I could help him, give him a few leads so he could find out what happened. But I suspected he had something nasty up his sleeve, people like that—so crass, so degenerate, so dirty-minded—I’ve always known about policemen like him, that’s why I was on my guard, I didn’t want him to think he could trip me up. And it was just as I’d feared: the deputy chief asked me if I knew of any enemies Olga María or Marito might have, or maybe they had a big debt, or if there was an employee who’d threatened them after getting fired, or, with all due respect—those were his words, brazen man, “with all due respect”—if Olga María had had any extramarital relationships, maybe there was a disappointed lover, someone who might want to hurt her. That’s when I got furious: he was a total idiot, I shouted at him, a complete boor, whatever made him think I was going to talk to some nobody like him, about my best friend’s private life, where could he possibly have gotten such an idea, how could he suspect such an honest honorable woman, someone so devoted to her family and her work, what a scandalous insinuation; Olga María didn’t have any enemies, nobody would ever dream of wanting to kill her, it had to have been a mistake or the act of a madman. I almost threw them out of the apartment, that’s how dreadful they were, like mangy dogs. Right then Cuca, Sergio’s wife, arrived: she was crying her head off, asking if the girls were alright, if Doña Olga needed anything. Here come Cheli and Conchita, Olga María’s assistants at the boutique, you know them, don’t you? They look so comment il faux, they adored Olga María, they’ve been working for her ever since she first opened the boutique, who knows what’ll happen to them now. Marito will have to decide, or Doña Olga, whether to sell or not. As I was saying, Cuca arrived and we left her to look after the girls so Doña Olga and I could go to Olga María’s house to make sure they fixed her up as best as possible. We took my car. Doña Olga had taken some strong sedatives—the poor woman is pretty old and unwell, and the doctor told her not to go to the scene of the crime, just the sight of it could do her great harm, she should wait till they took her to the funeral home. Sergio agreed and managed to convince her to wait. But when we got to Olga María’s house, her body was still there. That’s what I’m telling you: the magistrate is a stupid old drunk, he must have been out partying with his secretaries, I’m sure of it, that’s why he took so long and why we couldn’t prevent Doña Olga from seeing her daughter with her head blown to bits. But Marito and I took her by her arm and we led her into the master bedroom so she could help me choose the clothes to dress Olga María in, and the jewelry, and the right makeup, that’s what I said, but Doña Olga, who’s always so composed and on top of things, she was falling apart, sobbing, which is understandable, her eldest daughter, her most beloved daughter, lying there dead in the living room, and for no reason whatsoever. I opened the closet door so we could look through her clothes, I was trying to distract Doña Olga; that’s when I picked out that black satin dress Olga María is wearing. I called Mercedes at the beauty salon to tell her what had happened and ask her to come to the funeral home to do Olga María’s hair as best she could, and I suggested Doña Olga take her daughter’s jewelry, just in case the policemen started rummaging through her things and decided to steal whatever they could get their hands on. The magistrate finally arrived just as we were leaving the bedroom. Marito asked me to take Doña Olga to the funeral home so she could be there when the body arrived and help get it ready. So that’s what I did. Then I went home to change and make myself presentable once and for all because I’m going to stay here all night—Diana is arriving tomorrow morning, supposedly, that’s Olga María’s younger sister, the one who’s been living in Miami for years, that’s what she said, that she’d get on the first flight tomorrow, they’re three hours ahead, so there’s no way she could get here today. That one standing next to the coffin must be Memo, Marito’s second in command, he just started working with him; Olga María didn’t take to him very well, probably because he took Julio Iglesias’s job—that’s what we called the Spaniard who helped Marito start the agency. Now, he was a hunk, tall and gorgeous, though with a bit of a belly for my taste, but he drove Olga María crazy for a few months, that Julio Iglesias, she used to tell me she didn’t know what to do, he was her husband’s partner, her husband’s friend, but she had the hots for him. It’s not that she was unfaithful, on the contrary, that’s why it was so hard for her, because that was the first time she’d been attracted in that way to another man since she’d gotten married to Marito, it was the first time she went further than being her naturally flirtatious self, all Marito’s fault, I can tell you, because this was when he’d all but abandoned Olga María. We never found out who was behind it—just look at him over there, all meek and mild-mannered, but Marito’s a sneaky devil, I always suspected he had a few things on the side, and Olga María found out ab
out at least two of his sluts. That was right around the time Marito decided to start his own agency, and he asked Julio Iglesias, from Madrid, also an expert in advertising, to be his partner; he’d just come to San Salvador as a consultant for the company Marito was working for. But I knew right off the bat: I’d seen that same gleam in Olga María’s eyes when we were at the American School, when she started drooling over one of our classmates. Julio Iglesias began going over to their house for dinner, more and more frequently, and Olga María was getting hooked, little by little, because he liked her, too, who wouldn’t, and what with talking about the business and sitting around the table after dinner, they started finding opportunities to say things to each other, seducing each other right under Marito’s nose, because he was putting all his energy into starting his agency. There was no applying the brakes once Julio Iglesias showed up one afternoon at the boutique, casually, as if he just happened to be at the Villas Españolas Mall to do a little shopping and just happened to run into a friend—his partner’s wife—at her boutique. Olga María was totally nonchalant so Cheli and Conchita wouldn’t notice that she was melting for that man who invited her out for a cup of coffee, right there, in the mall, and once they were sitting in the café he told her he couldn’t stop thinking about her, he could no longer control his passion. And Olga María had to admit that she’d been thinking about him a lot, too, though she couldn’t say she loved him, nor that she was in love with him, just that it was something weird, something new. Julio Iglesias had an apartment across the street from the Sheraton Hotel, near Villas Españolas; he suggested they meet there, that would be best, he didn’t want to complicate things with Marito, his partner and friend. Olga María told him she’d give it some thought, it wasn’t so simple, even though her relationship with Marito was on the rocks, she loved him, and there were the two girls, she didn’t want to risk everything, throw away eleven years of her life. But Julio Iglesias kept at it: he called her at the boutique, came by every once in a while to invite her out for coffee (always making it seem proper, needless to say, even though Cheli and Conchita must have suspected something), and when he ate at the house he’d whisper sweet nothings in her ear. Until she couldn’t resist and said she would, she’d come to his apartment, but they had to plan it very carefully, there were a lot of obstacles to overcome, because he couldn’t pick her up at the boutique and she couldn’t drive to his apartment—what if Marito or one of his friends saw her car parked in front of Julio Iglesias’s apartment, how would they explain that, huh? That’s where I came in, Auntie Laura, who else? Best friend, confidante, the only one who could make this whole thing happen. You can’t imagine, my dear, how nervous Olga María was at noon that day; the story was that I’d invited her out for lunch at a new vegetarian restaurant, so Marito should pick up the girls and then she’d go straight back to the boutique after lunch without going home. That was the story. The idea was that I’d pick her up at the boutique around twelve fifteen, then I’d drop her off at Julio Iglesias’s apartment, I’d go eat lunch at my cousin’s, and at two fifteen I’d pick her up. The poor thing was terrified when I got to the boutique—she was still unsure; it was her first time. But as soon as we got in my car, she relaxed a little. She was dressed casually—a green miniskirt, I remember it perfectly—but very elegant, classy, as usual. She stepped confidently out of the car, and I was the one left biting my fingernails, wondering how things would go, if finally they’d make love or if she’d only let him kiss her—she wasn’t even sure herself. I’m telling you, that’s the guy who took Julio Iglesias’s place as vice president of Marito’s advertising agency; look how the other employees greet him, with such respect, not at all like they treated that guy from Madrid I’ve been telling you about. Anyway, at two fifteen on the dot I was parked in front of Julio Iglesias’s apartment; I honked the horn and saw her come out—happy, glowing, on cloud nine. I wanted her to tell me everything, all the juicy details, immediately. She told me she had the best time, better than she’d ever expected: he’d made a delicious salad and opened a fine bottle of white wine, ice cold—the way she loved it. He started kissing her the minute she stepped into the apartment, and he never stopped kissing and touching her, so tender, that’s why she couldn’t resist, and right there in the living room she let him undress her, and he kissed her all over her body, so gently, a marvel, dear me—those were her very words. Then he picked her up and carried her to the bed, but the poor guy was kind of nervous, tense, so he came really fast, no warning, before they even got to the good stuff. Then he felt terrible, poor thing, and apologized. But that’s no big deal, you know, my dear, it being the first time and all and with a man who caresses you so affectionately. That’s what Olga María told me before I dropped her back off at the boutique. There’s Sergio and Cuca now. Sergio’s a handsome devil, I can’t figure out how he ended up with Cuca, even though she is nice, but she’s not woman enough for him, don’t you think? The problem is that Julio Iglesias started to fall in love. The second time—I dropped Olga María off at his apartment another afternoon—not only did he declare his love and tell her he was thinking about her constantly but also that he wanted her to be his forever, she should divorce Marito, it didn’t make sense for her to stay with him if she didn’t love him anymore, he wanted to marry her and give her everything she could ever want, on the spot, right then and there. Can you imagine? Men really are brutes, my dear: there he had her all to himself, ready and willing, to be enjoyed to his heart’s content, but no, he had to start in with his demands, with all that possessiveness nonsense, as if Olga María would be fool enough to leave Marito, the father of her children, just for the sake of going off to live with some Spaniard. That Julio Iglesias turned out to be a real cretin: he was so obsessed he didn’t even care that Marito was his partner and friend, he’d call her with no discretion whatsoever, and then he’d show up at the boutique acting like a lunatic. That’s why there never was a third time. Olga María got desperate, being stalked like that, such pigheadedness: she asked him not to call her anymore, to forget about what had happened between them. She reminded him she was a married woman and had two daughters—he couldn’t just ignore all that—and she told him there was absolutely no way she would leave Marito to live with him. You know what that dimwit said? My dear, he said he had a flat and a Mercedes Benz in Madrid and she could start a new life there, they could just slip away so there wouldn’t even be a scandal. Yes, my dear, handsome but dumb, that Julio Iglesias. He finally calmed down, resigned himself to the situation, but not before trying to blackmail her—can you believe it?—he threatened to tell Marito. A few months ago he went back to Madrid for good. He and Olga María were distant, cold, civil to each other when Marito was around—and as it turned out, Julio Iglesias was nothing but a sham, he had a wife in Spain and a few weeks after his affaire, as they say, with Olga María, he fell head over heels in love with some accountant who worked at the agency. That’s what I’m telling you: you can never trust a man. He even tried to seduce me, the brute. He was still going on about how much in love he was with Olga María—and then he leapt at the first opportunity to ask me over for dinner, with the excuse that he wanted to talk about her. I wasn’t buying a word of it, my dear. The way he looked at me when he asked me over, and then again, at a soiree at Olga María’s, let’s just say it wasn’t exactly the way you look at your confidante. But he was very handsome, that Julio Iglesias, so I played along. He told me he wanted me to see his apartment; after all, we could speak freely there, and he promised to whip up a fettuccini al pesto, his own special recipe. He’s a really good cook, my dear. I made it clear from the get-go that the only reason I’d accepted his invitation was out of friendship with Olga María. I swear the minute I entered his apartment I didn’t let him change the subject; I asked him what Olga María thought of his furniture, the pictures on the walls, the décor in general. I hung out with him in the kitchen, because he hadn’t finished cooking, and he poured me a glass of delicious Rioja
, then he started rattling on about his great love for Olga María, his passion, the most amazing thing he’d experienced in El Salvador; he even rolled his eyes, that Julio Iglesias, when he repeated that nonsense about how he was willing to do anything to save his relationship with her. Yes, my dear, men are disgusting. Just imagine, when afterward I found out he was already going out with the accountant at the agency. But that evening in his apartment he was playing the same old tape: Olga María’s indifference was killing him, I needed to help him, convince Olga María to get back together with him. I just let him talk; the wine was delicious and so was the dinner. It was during dessert when I told him I was envious of the intensity of his love for Olga María, nobody was in love with me that way. Why did I say that, my dear? Suddenly, he changed: he was quiet for a moment, then he started playing a new tape, and now it was as if Olga María had never existed, he started off saying he couldn’t believe me, he absolutely couldn’t believe that somebody wasn’t deeply in love with a woman like me, he’d noticed how beautiful I was the first time he saw me, but he’d always thought I looked down on him or just wasn’t interested. He took off from there, my dear, seducing me, absolutely shamelessly, not taking at all into account the fact that I’d come to his apartment to talk about his relationship with Olga María, and pretty soon he was brushing up against me, flirting, whispering in my ear, holding my hand, trying to kiss me. But I didn’t let him, no, my dear, I didn’t. I told him to behave himself. But he kept pushing himself on me—so pigheaded. At one point he almost managed to kiss me. That’s when I stood up and told him I was leaving, he wasn’t showing me any respect. To tell you the truth, though, that Julio Iglesias was gorgeous, and I was plenty tempted to let him have his way with me, and maybe, my dear, he read my mind, because he sure didn’t put the brakes on, he just kept insisting. Men are not to be trusted. That’s why I divorced Alberto, and I have no regrets: it’s the best thing I could have done, and I said as much to Olga María at the time: it isn’t worth complicating your life, it’s better to be with one man or none at all. I’m glad they’ve already started serving coffee, my throat is dry, and I’m so exhausted I’m afraid I’m going to collapse. Pass me a cup. If you want, let’s go out on the terrace for some fresh air. There are so many cars parked in front and half the people haven’t even arrived yet. This place will be packed later tonight, my dear, with everybody from the advertising world and Sergio’s friends from the association of travel agencies. I wonder how many of our classmates from the American School will show up. It’s been so long since we had a class reunion. Chele Yuca will be here, that’s for sure, considering how in love with Olga María he’s always been. You know him, don’t you? His first name is Gastón: he was the handsomest boy in our class. Did you see my mother, she’s standing next to the coffin talking with Alberto? Those two always got along well. I don’t know how my mother can stand him. No, my dear, I’ve got nothing to say to him; we were married for a year, and in that time we said everything we had to say to each other—and there was plenty of time left over. Alberto is the most boring man you can imagine. I don’t know how I managed to put up with him for a whole year. He’s always at his computer, for hours and hours, the whole day if he doesn’t have anything better to do. It can drive you to despair, my dear, he doesn’t want to go out, or meet people, or go to the movies—it’s atrocious. I practically had to drag him out to dinner parties. But my mother says he’s very intelligent and that’s why his business is doing so well, and she says he’s the most knowledgeable person in the country not only about finances but about everything that’s going on in the world, and that’s why he has so much money, all her friends assure her that he’s the number one financial consultant. As far as I’m concerned, let him make all the money he wants, my dear, let him go to Wall Street with his computers for all I care, but don’t let him dare get anywhere near me—he’s like the plague, he infects you with boredom in a matter of seconds. The problem is that my mother still doesn’t accept the fact that we’re divorced, she just can’t understand how someone can send a man packing who makes that much money, even if he does bore you to tears; as far as she’s concerned, you’re supposed to live with the same man your whole life. No, my dear, I’m not going to change her this late in the game. I guarantee you, the moment she hears I plan to marry someone else, she’s going to come to me with a ton of objections, unless, that is, he’s got more money than Alberto. Olga María didn’t believe it either when I told her I was divorcing Alberto; I told her I couldn’t stand him anymore, I’d rather go back and live with my parents than be so unbearably bored any longer. She told me not to leave him—our problem was we didn’t have any children. Can you imagine? I wasn’t about to have kids with somebody like that. Pure madness. No, I don’t think my father will come: he’s at the finca dealing with no end of problems. Now that I see what he has on his plate, I’m convinced Doña Olga did the right thing to sell the fincas Don Sergio left her. Owning coffee plantations isn’t what it used to be, there’s one setback after another these days, first the communists taking them over and not allowing the harvest, and now the drop in prices. It never ends, my dear. That’s why Doña Olga was right to get rid of them, it was for the best. My father should do the same, and I’ve told him so, but he’s pigheaded, very attached to his land. Hey, look who just arrived. I can’t believe it, it’s José Carlos, that crazy photographer, I thought he’d already left the country, what a surprise. He was working at Marito’s agency until a few weeks ago. He takes beautiful photographs, a real artist; he studied in Boston, then stayed there for a few years and took photos of famous artists, of afternoons on the beach and in forests, of old buildings. He published a book of his photographs: Olga María showed it to me, inscribed with a poem José Carlos wrote to her. He’ll be going back to Boston in a few days. He could only stand this country for a year. He says he’s bored here. Just look at him, all scrawny and awkward looking, but still, there’s something attractive about him. Olga María went out with him, for only a few weeks, but enough to get to know him. It was sort of the same story: Marito and José Carlos went to grammar school and high school together at the San José Externado, best friends growing up, until the war, then they each took a different path, but as soon as José Carlos decided to return, Marito offered him a job at the agency, and they became thick as thieves again. So José Carlos started coming over to their house a lot, whenever he felt like it, and he got to be better friends with Olga María, it was only to be expected—she was the wife of his best friend and they already knew each other, though not too well, from school. For Olga María it was a revelation of sorts. José Carlos is so laid-back, nutty, he’s got all kinds of exotic ideas, even sort of half-communist ideas sometimes. At first, she wasn’t attracted to him physically, but little by little she realized how amazing the guy was, he knew about so many things, one of those super-sensitive artist types, he’s traveled all over the world, been part of the artistic milieu in the States. That’s what Olga María told me. There it was again, that gleam in her eyes I was telling you about, that same gleam I saw when we were at the American School, that she got whenever she’d start to get interested in a classmate, the same gleam I saw with that Julio Iglesias. I couldn’t quite fathom that my best friend could be interested in such a bizarre-looking guy. You wouldn’t have believed it, either, would you? Look at him over there: in blue jeans and a sports shirt at a wake, no jacket, only he would dress like that. I’ll introduce him to you a little later so you can see that he’s a little off his rocker. I admit he could be interesting as a friend—it’s always like that with artists—but not to fall in love with. It was just like what happened with Julio Iglesias, there came a moment when Olga María decided to visit José Carlos’s studio, but this time she didn’t need me to give her a ride because she had the perfect excuse: José Carlos was going to take a series of photographs of her to include in his next exhibit. That’s what she told Marito, and me, too. But I already knew what she was going for.
José Carlos did take some gorgeous pictures of her—very suggestive—for what it’s worth: in the pictures Olga María is made up like she’s Oriental, and she’s wearing nothing but a semi-transparent silk tunic, and she’s carrying exotic-looking crucifixes of some kind and is surrounded by mirrors. It was hard for me to get her to tell me what was going on, because during that period, for a number of reasons, but especially because of her constant visits to José Carlos’s studio, we barely saw each other. I was afraid Olga María was going to fall in love, get herself mixed up in some mess she wouldn’t be able to get herself out of. I told her it was none of my business and I didn’t want to stick my nose in where it didn’t belong, but she should be careful, calm down, take more precautions, I reminded her it wasn’t in her best interests for Marito to find out what was going on or even suspect anything. One afternoon, finally, I found her at the boutique, and she invited me out for a cup of coffee and told me not to worry, her relationship with José Carlos wasn’t going to go any further, she was sure of that. She liked him a lot, but she could never live with someone like him, he was too unstable, and she told me that even he was aware of that and from the get-go he’d told her straight out that he loved being with her, making love with her, but that was all—he would never take his best friend’s wife away nor was he in any position to live with her and the two girls. Hearing that reassured me, and that same afternoon Olga María showed me the first photographs José Carlos had taken of her, and she told me he was very professional—he’d made her pose for several hours and when he finished shooting, he took her to bed—and he was a great lover, not like that Julio Iglesias, who shot his wad before the word go. But you know what men are like, my dear, don’t you? Turns out a month later, Olga María completely lost interest, and out of the blue she told José Carlos that enough was enough, she wanted to end their relationship, Marito was getting suspicious, and she wasn’t willing to take any more chances, it would be better for them to stop seeing each other, and they should just be friends like before. And that’s when José Carlos lost his head. It’s like I told you: you can never trust anybody or predict anything. He started going on about how much he was in love with her and there wasn’t any reason for them to stop seeing each other—he’d never had a relationship like that, he’d never fallen in love with a woman like her or in that way, so intensely, he’d never experienced such intimacy. Can you believe it, my dear? He was the one who said it was only about friendship with sex thrown in, and now here he was, singing the same tune as Julio Iglesias: he was willing to give up everything for her, he even suggested the stupid idea that they go live in Boston together, the girls would get a better education there. But she put her foot down, she told him in no uncertain terms to cut the crap, there was nothing between them anymore, she had no regrets, she’d had a great time in bed, and she was grateful for the pictures, but he should get it into his head that their relationship was over, finished. One thing was different, though, one way he wasn’t at all like Julio Iglesias, and that was the way they each got over their heartbreak. You know what I mean? José Carlos, maybe because he’s an artist, I don’t know, or whatever, he couldn’t get over being in love with her, even though he stopped calling her and almost stopped visiting her (he went to their house only a few more times—mostly for business dinners—and only after Marito insisted that his best friend and star employee show up). He had a chip on his shoulder, as if Olga María had cheated him, emotionally, and whenever he saw her he put on this pathetic expression, like he was the victim, the innocent babe she’d taken advantage of. That’s when he started saying he was going back to Boston, he was bored in this country, he had contributed everything he could to Marito’s agency. I told Olga María that José Carlos’s little song and dance about returning to Boston was nothing more than a subtle form of blackmail, his way of complaining that she’d forsaken him, she never paid any attention to him anymore. Olga María agreed with me, and she was so naughty she even got it into her head to throw José Carlos a goodbye party, a surprise party, this was about three weeks ago, but I think he smelled a rat, and when Marito invited him for dinner on that Saturday—just to chat about his work at the agency—José Carlos made up some excuse, said he was working on a project of his own that he wanted to finish before leaving for Boston, lunch the following week would be better, because he was busy every night, trying to be disciplined and work on his art. No, my dear, Olga María’s plan didn’t pan out, but that would have been something, don’t you think? Now he looks very upset, poor guy, just look at his face, he really was in love with her, he’ll be better off going back to Boston and taking all his strange notions with him. I’m sure he was involved with the subversives, even though he does come from a good family, just goes to show what those Jesuit priests did to some of those boys, a lot of Marito and José Carlos’s classmates ended up being terrorists—those priests brainwashed them, indoctrinated them. They say José Carlos went to the States so he wouldn’t get killed, his parents sent him away when they realized he was mixed up in shady goings-on, that’s why he didn’t come back until the war was over—he was scared. Olga María told me José Carlos never talked about politics, he spent all his time in the States working and studying, but as you know, my dear, in this place, everybody knows everything about everybody, and I heard he was involved with one of those solidarity committees, taking photographs and working with them. I wouldn’t be at all surprised. Now it’s really getting crowded, so many people I don’t know. Any minute now Doña Olga will arrive with the girls, those poor dears, so young and they’ve already lost their mother. It’s going to be very difficult for Marito, he was such a good husband, but Olga María deserved him, she was also totally devoted to him, it was a two-way street, she never complained much, not even when she heard the rumors about him and one of his secretaries, Olga María was always so discreet, so modest, so reserved, never had those fits of hysteria, she defended her home and was totally devoted to her husband and children, that’s why her death makes me so angry, my dear, what’s the point, so many bastards they don’t bother killing and a woman like that—a paragon, so hard-working, look how she started that boutique from scratch, all with her own hard work. Those two coming in now, they’re the two policemen who came to Doña Olga’s to harass us, the one with the dark jacket is the one who says his name is Deputy Chief Handal: riffraff, my dear, they’ve got no respect for other people’s pain, what’s wrong with these people, how dare they come to a decent person’s wake, their heads must be full of rot—imagine: they wanted me to reveal all of Olga María’s secrets, as if any of her friends or acquaintances would have planned her murder—they even suspect Marito. I think it was simply a mistake, or most likely a thief who got nervous and didn’t know what to do, so he shot her, it wouldn't be the first time that’s happened, a fiend like that, the only thing he knows how to do is kill people. Nobody I know would have been capable of even imagining doing Olga María any harm, it wouldn't have crossed anybody’s mind to even think badly of her, such a good woman, so generous, she never stuck her nose into other people’s business. Look, here come Doña Olga and the girls, let’s go, come with me, they look so lovely, they’re going to sit next to their daddy, they are the apples of Doña Olga’s eyes, her only two granddaughters, because Sergio and Cuca—I’m pretty sure—they can’t have children, and Diana is still too young and who knows what kind of life she leads in Miami, you know how they are, women there don’t necessarily have kids right away anymore, and Diana’s practically a gringa, she’s been there almost twelve years. I hope that brute Handal doesn’t think he’s going to interrogate the girls here, then I really would get mad, they’ve got no right; anyway what are they doing here instead of out looking for the murderer, they have the description little Olga gave them, what more do they want? What infuriates me most is that in the end, I bet you, they won’t catch anybody—they’re so incompetent it’d be a miracle if they did. When have you ever heard of the police catching anybody who is t
ruly guilty of anything? Never. I didn’t even notice when dear Julita arrived, probably right after Doña Olga and the girls, but with all these people I must’ve missed her. Dear Julita is so good, so trustworthy, she loved Olga María more than anything, like her own daughter, she took care of her for twenty years, can you imagine, that’s a lifetime. She came to their house when Olga María was ten years old, from a little Indian village, Tacuba, way out there in Ahuachapán. You can’t find servants like that anymore, I’m telling you, my dear, everything has changed so much, now they’re all prostitutes and thieves, or both—you can’t leave the house alone for a minute because they’ll ransack it. Horrible, my dear, you can’t trust anybody anymore, even if they do have references and recommendations, they’re always up to some mischief. That was a different world: servants used to be part of the family, like our dear Julita, who is now going to have to finish raising little Olga and Raquelita; Marito will need her now more than ever, and Doña Olga will, too. That’s what I told Julita this afternoon. The poor thing must be very distraught, but you know how Indians are, you can’t tell what they’re feeling, with that face they’ve got, like a mask. Hey, I told you, and I was right: look who just arrived, my dear, Gastón Berrenechea himself, the one and only Yuca, look how handsome he is, and just as charming as ever, always so elegant, look how impeccably dressed he is, in that suit with that tie, beautiful, I’ve never seen that design in black; I swear, at the American School we all thought Yuca and Olga María were going to get married, they would have made the perfect couple, both so good-looking, as if they were made for each other, but they only went out for a few months, such a pity, we couldn’t understand why it didn’t last, but even then Yuca was too much of a womanizer—unmanageable. I met both of them even before that, can you believe it, my dear, about twenty years ago, even more, twenty-three years ago, when we started first grade, it’s been forever and a day. Now Yuca is a VIP, you know, he owns a chain of superstores, and he’s a deputy in the government and a high-ranking party official, it’s so weird, I never thought Yuca would end up in politics, they’re even pushing him as a candidate for president, my dear, but he’s still pretty young, he’s still got to earn his stripes. You know he married Kati, Don Federico Schultz’s daughter, filthy rich, they’re drowning in money, and she’s the apple of Don Federico’s eye; it’s largely due to Don Federico that Yuca has done so well. He’s supported him in everything, not only business—starting up that superstore chain—but also politics, he’s treated him like a son, without Don Federico’s support who knows how poor Yuca would have ended up, my dear, his family lost almost everything during the agrarian reform, what a disgrace, the Berrenecheas were the richest cotton growers in the country, but those communists with their agrarian reform pretty much left them penniless, practically in the streets. That’s what I mean when I say Yuca owes so much to Don Federico, there are even people who say terrible things about how Yuca married Kati for the money, people are so spiteful, my dear, and now that he’s a politician they just want to sling mud at him. Yuca is a very hard worker, you’ve got to give it to him, and if he got involved in politics it was because they took all his family’s fincas, I remember it well, my dear, right at the beginning of the war, Yuca was up there with Major Le Chevalier, taking a stand against the communists. He hasn’t had anything handed to him on a silver platter, on the contrary, that man has worked like a dog to get where he is, that’s why Don Federico lent him a hand. Quite a man, Yuca: nice, good-looking, intelligent. He’ll be president in about five years, definitely, no doubt about it, his rise is meteoric, he’s getting more and more popular all the time. He’s got loads of charisma, my dear, people will vote for him, people like to have a leader who’s successful, in business, I mean, someone who knows how to speak in public, and it’s even better if he’s handsome, even very handsome like Yuca. He’s so different from that idiot we have for president now, that stupid fat old man, his own mother doesn’t even like him, I voted for him just so the communists wouldn’t win. Imagine what a terrible situation, my dear: we had to choose between that moron and the communists. With Yuca it would be different; he’s so distinguished. You just saw him: nice, don’t you think? He’d have as much pull as Major Le Chevalier, people simply adore him. The communists are already afraid of him, that’s why they’ve started a campaign to try to discredit him, saying he was a member of the death squads, he put bombs in some ministry or other during the agrarian reform—the same old accusations—he’s taken advantage of his contacts with people in the government to make millions off those superstores—the same nonsense they pull out of their hats whenever they want to ruin an honorable person. I really like Yuca, my dear, I always did, ever since we were small, at the American School, and Olga María did, too, even though all they ever did was say hi when they ran into each other at the club, their teenage romance already long forgotten, but even though they’d both gotten married, made separate lives for themselves, and taken different paths, Yuca always carried a torch for Olga María, I’m absolutely sure of it, and Olga María always carried a torch for him, that’s why I wasn’t at all surprised three months ago when she told me she saw him again, apparently they ran into each other in the parking lot of the Villas Españolas Mall; as usual she was rushing to the boutique, and he was surrounded by his bodyguards on his way to pick up a suit at Chaín the Turk’s shop. I could see it in her eyes as she was talking about him, she had that same gleam I already told you about. I didn’t want to ask her too much about it, my dear, because Yuca is so important, but I understood that the two of them had some unfinished business from fifteen years ago, having been boyfriend-girlfriend as teenagers, just kissing and touching, but no sex, something that now, who knows why, they decided to finish. The problem was, how to meet: Yuca’s always surrounded by bodyguards—a big show of security, what with so many kidnappings, my dear, it’s a good thing, and anyway both of them being married and all. It wasn’t easy. For days on end all they could do was talk on the phone, just waiting for their chance. Olga María was excited, she was acting like a teenager, she wanted him so badly, she wanted to be with Yuca, but at the same time she was afraid of getting into trouble, not only with Marito and Kati, but because of Yuca’s political activities, he has a lot of enemies, even in his own party and the government, and you know how dirty politics can be, my dear, which is why Olga María was afraid her relationship with him would be used against him by his enemies or to blackmail her, these days nobody feels safe. So, surprise surprise, my dear, what do you know? It was Auntie Laura, once again to the rescue, so once and for all Olga María could get together with Yuca, so they could abandon themselves to their passions, do whatever they had to do. One afternoon I picked her up at Villas Españolas and drove her to a secret hideaway in Miramonte, where Yuca was waiting for her. She was super-excited, and she looked gorgeous. I came back to pick her up two hours later. She was totally disappointed—she barely answered my questions, in monosyllables. I figured Yuca must not have been at the top of his game. I kept at her to tell me the details, like she always had before, after all, what was I was her friend for, if you know what I mean. But Olga María said she’d rather not talk about it. There was a second time, another afternoon, I took her to the same house under the same circumstances. This time she wasn’t quite so excited, even though she was all gussied up and happy, but like someone who’s determined not to get her hopes up. When she came out she was even more disappointed than the time before, and again she kept quiet, she’d tell me later when we had more time, she promised. In the end she did, even though she still didn’t want to tell me many details: she kept repeating that she and Yuca were incompatible, something wasn’t working right, she’d completely lost interest. I asked her what Yuca thought about it. She told me he wanted them to keep seeing each other, he didn’t want to give her up, he said he was madly in love with her, they should keep trying, the same story as with the other two. But you can see how Olga María was, my dear, in her sweet g
entle way she had quite a strong personality—when she said no, she meant no. Poor Yuca was being stood up: there he was, all dressed up and nowhere to go, that’s why I told you he couldn’t not show up at the wake, because he’s been in love with Olga María ever since grammar school, and he must be suffering from her death more than almost anybody. But now the place is really full, my dear, let’s go say hello to people, we don’t want anybody to think badly of us, as if we came to Olga María’s wake just to gossip. Follow me, I’ll introduce you first of all to José Carlos.