The Case of Lisandra P. (11 page)

VITTORIO

She's fine.

MIGUEL

I tell you, I found her really absent, preoccupied; is everything all right between you?

VITTORIO

Everything's fine.

MIGUEL

You're so lucky to have her, I hope you tell her that every day. Vittorio?

VITTORIO

Yes.

MIGUEL

I also came to tell you I'm leaving the country.

VITTORIO

What do you mean, you're leaving the country? What are you talking about?

MIGUEL

I'm moving to Paris.

VITTORIO

Paris?

MIGUEL

I'll be back, but for now I'm leaving; I have to, I need to get away, I can't stay here.

VITTORIO

But why? It's all over now, all that.

MIGUEL

One time I recognized a voice. At a party. I closed my eyes, and it was him, the same voice. I'd swear on my right hand, no pun intended. I couldn't speak all through dinner. I had my eyes glued to my hands. To hear that man's voice brought back all the suffering, these sharp stabbing pains in my hands, a burning sensation; it was awful. I wanted to say something, and I couldn't, not a word would come out, and it was then, at that moment, that I decided I had to learn to tell my story. But there was one thing I could do: I asked the pianist to let me sit in his place. I didn't wait until the end of the dinner. I couldn't stop myself, I had to do it. And I played. Ravel's Concerto for the Left Hand. I played. As if I were possessed. And at the end of the piece I went and sat back down at the table and started eating again. Now I was calm. Calmer. I couldn't look him in the eyes, but I wanted to show him that his efforts had been in vain. That he hadn't destroyed anything. But . . . don't you remember? You were at that party, you and Lisandra.

VITTORIO

Yes, indeed, I remember that party.

MIGUEL

Aren't you going to ask me who it was?

VITTORIO

If you want to tell me, you can tell me.

MIGUEL

I see. The aim of your profession is to ask questions. But not all questions.

VITTORIO

No, not all.

MIGUEL

And above all not those questions whose only motive is to satisfy personal curiosity.

VITTORIO

Exactly.

MIGUEL

A voice is a deceptive thing, all the same. It's incredible you didn't recognize me on the telephone. I was sure you would. I would recognize your voice anywhere. It must be a question of context, that's all I can see: you didn't expect to suddenly see me show up among your patients, so you didn't recognize me, and besides, your profession is words, not sounds. I would have recognized you at once, but then sounds are my job; to each his own trade, that's what it always boils down to. Oh, yes, that's it, I have one last thing to tell you. I almost forgot . . .

Eva Maria presses all the buttons. Nothing. The cassette has reached the end. This session had lasted longer than Vittorio's usual sessions, after all. And Miguel hadn't finished. Eva Maria drinks the rest of her wine.

“But what? What did he still have to tell Vittorio? What had he forgotten?”

Eva Maria turns the cassette over. She wants it to continue on the other side but that would be impossible; Vittorio would never have turned the box of tissues over. He would never have opened the tape recorder to change the side of the cassette before asking his friend to go on. Go on, my dear Miguel, please. Eva Maria turns the cassette every which way. As if she's gone mad. She starts over five times. Nothing. Not a sound. Not a voice. There is nothing on this other side. Nothing to indicate how the session really ended. Eva Maria presses all the buttons. She feels rage. Incompetence. She knows she has drunk too much. The bottle is empty. Eva Maria gets to her feet. She heads for the bathroom. She opens all the cupboards looking for another bottle. Why hadn't she figured it out on her own? She starts thinking out loud. Spitting out her words.

“These cassettes . . . of course they were a psychopath's idea . . . to want to record his patients . . . the persistence of a method they
used at the time . . . vittorio puig in fact what do I know about him about his past his life a first name a last name all my trust how can you know the people you think you know . . . but miguel found it all out miguel the lifelong friend miguel the tortured miguel the widower he'd recognized his voice that famous evening he recognized your voice vittorio puig the baritone . . . the way you end your sentences with a mannered little drawl like some intellectual esthete watch out vittorio puig is going to speak may the silence stop may the reign of pure reason and understanding begin . . . now now eva maria think carefully eva maria now now eva maria you just don't get it vittorio puig oh no you just don't get a single thing . . . you thought your friend miguel was coming to give alms to you with all the details of his sad story but miguel had found out . . . he'd recognized your voice you were one of the psychiatrists there and miguel knew it he found out he was coming to warn you watch out vittorio puig you are in for it that was the first stage of his revenge to come and see you and warn you . . . but you didn't try to read between the lines not even for one teeny tiny minute and yet it was clear to anyone who cared to see but vittorio puig is not a person you warn he's a person you revere you venerate you listen to and keep quiet . . . mediocre vittorio puig so focused on your own words that you don't realize they're talking about you . . . a person doesn't choose to be a victim he becomes a victim and everybody is the victim of someone so for the second stage of his vengeance he rang at the door ding dong vittorio puig miguel is going to repay you in kind . . . he's going to do to you what you did to him or one of your acolytes did that's not the problem you're going to pay he's going to take your wife the way you or one of your acolytes took his . . . violence is arbitrary ding dong the hour of vengeance has come lisandra puig opened the door she's not afraid of your friend miguel hey miguel! what a nice surprise! what are
you doing here? come in! no vittorio's not here . . . at the movies . . . would you like something to drink? a nice glass of white wine they would chat for a bit while they waited for vittorio puig . . . while they waited for you to come back from the cinema where you went to improve your exquisite general culture instead of making love to your wife to seek her forgiveness because you hadn't noticed her new dress to reassure her to make her laugh a little to show her that after all having an argument is no big deal . . . but you would rather leave instead arguments are vulgar especially when you can't kill isn't that right vittorio puig? . . . how are you dear lisandra? miguel asked her to put on some music what a pity if she'd had a piano he would have played her his latest piece . . . to get her opinion the evening went by sweetly her favorite tango? good idea louder he loved that tango too and then it wasn't hard to get her to go over to the window to open it maybe to see you coming look! there's vittorio puig coming back let's call out to him! ciao vittorio puig ciao ciao and they both leaned out ah no it wasn't him . . . so he whispered in her ear that he was sorry he had to do this because he liked her but the problem was that she was the wife of vittorio puig and that vittorio puig had killed his wife maybe it wasn't actually him but one of his colleagues violence is arbitrary vengeance is too so he was going to show him what it meant to lose his wife and she turned around because she couldn't believe that vittorio puig was the monster miguel was talking about or maybe she knew that vittorio puig was a monster but it disturbed her to hear miguel come straight out with it . . . as a rule no one dared to say it and anyway who cares what she thinks vittorio puig's wife wheee out the window vittorio puig's wife out the window hickory dickory dock the mouse whirling whirling whirling round the clock in the night and in the empty air the last air she'll ever breathe . . . the immortal air for millennia which hovering near her nostrils will watch her crash
bang and splat then breathe out to go and be recycled in other nostrils other windpipes lungs bronchial tubes in the nostrils of the young man who was afraid of a kiss in the nostrils of the young woman who would have done better to give him his kiss not her hand . . . the air that keeps us alive and the air that watches us die and then goes off elsewhere the little mouse stella oh stella my beloved daughter how you loved that nursery rhyme . . . what did they do to you those bastards? how could anyone kill a beautiful young woman like you? how it hurts still where are your little feet that grew up so quickly . . . ah there they are give me your socks oh that's fine thank you let's do humpty dumpty—humpty dumpty sat on a wall humpty dumpty had a great fall all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put humpty together again stella come back let's sing it again let's begin again let's live again stella again again again something anything . . . but let's do it again don't leave me like this sing with me stella why can't I hear you stella sing sing louder . . .”

“Mama!”

Estéban opens the door to the bedroom. Eva Maria is lying on the floor. Her hair damp and matted. Estéban comes back from the bathroom with a wet towel. He revives Eva Maria. He takes her in his arms. He carries her to her bed. Raises her head on the pillow. He pulls off the socks she has put on her hands. Estéban is not surprised. He wipes her face. Her mouth. Nothing surprises Estéban anymore. He removes her sweater. Estéban bends over. He picks up the two bottles of wine. He cleans up. He wipes the headphone cable. It is soaking, too. The tape recorder is going round and round. He stops it. He leaves the bedroom. His tape recorder under his arm. Estéban doesn't question what he has just seen. Estéban is like everyone. The first time, you question. Not the hundredth. Everything becomes normal by dint of repetition. Even the most terrible things. Tomorrow, as always, Eva Maria won't remember a thing. She never remembers a thing. Estéban, too, prefers to forget. No, he won't feel guilty. No, he is in no way to blame. What he made up about Stella has nothing to do with all that. Eva Maria doesn't need anyone to get herself into that state. For years now, night after night, Eva Maria has gotten herself into just such a state.

Eva Maria takes a sip of maté. The newspaper is on the table, unread. Estéban comes into the kitchen to make his breakfast. He puts a cassette down next to her.

“Here, this is yours.”

Eva Maria places her hand on Miguel's cassette. As if she wants to hide it. But it's too late. There's no point anymore. Eva Maria vaguely remembers spending last night listening to his story, picturing him as the murderer. And Vittorio as a shrink in the junta. Wrongful accusations imagined in her drunken delirium. She puts the cassette in her pocket. Estéban goes over to the fridge. Eva Maria looks up at him. Embarrassed. Defiant, too.

“Where did you find it?”

Estéban stops what he's doing.

“In the tape recorder.”

“You've been going through my things?”

“I am using my things.”

“Did you take the tape recorder back?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Last night.”

“I didn't hear you.”

“That's not surprising.”

Estéban points to the two bottles. In full view next to the sink.

“I found those in your room.”

Eva Maria gets to her feet.

“So? I do as I please.”

Eva Maria leaves the kitchen. She slams the bedroom door behind her. She opens her wardrobe. Gets down on her knees. She hunts around behind her shoes. She pulls out her backpack. Puts Miguel's cassette in with the other cassettes. She sighs. She stays there for a long while. On her knees. Then she gives a start. She gets back up. Abruptly. She didn't hear Estéban come into the room.

“Now what? What are you doing here?”

“Telephone. For you.”

Eva Maria hangs up. It was Vittorio's lawyer. “Felipe has been cleared. My client asked me to call you to keep you informed.” Eva Maria paces back and forth along the corridor.
Cleared
. That didn't take long. “Felipe was at a charity event the night of Lisandra's murder. With his wife. He has the entire navy and terrestrial army as an alibi.” It just keeps getting better and better. Never mind what your alibi is, provided you have one. That's the way it goes. Felipe and his wife had shown up at the police station presenting a united front, thick as thieves. Then Eva Maria tried. One last time, hoping with him it might work.

“Felipe—what was his last name again?”

To no avail. The lawyers, the psychoanalysts, they are in it together, they chatter and spout their ideas, then suddenly, the minute there's someone genuine and intelligent, seeking the truth, they clam up, they frown and claim client privilege. “It is not in my remit to share that information with you.” And yet the lawyer's voice continued on the other end of the line.

“Moreover . . .”

“Yes?”

“My client instructed me to inform you about . . . about the child.”

“Yes?”

“He told them everything. Commissioner Perez has promised to launch an investigation, in spite of everything, independently of Lisandra's murder. He promised to get this matter out into the open, and although the matter doesn't come under the jurisdiction of his department, he will refer the case.”

“And what if he doesn't refer anything at all? We can't trust him. Not completely. There's a much quicker, easier solution. Since you know Felipe's identity, go and see the grandparents and share Vittorio's suspicions about the child with them.”

“That is not within my remit. I absolutely refuse to get involved in such a personal matter.”

“Well then, go and inform the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo. You have to hand the matter over to those who are prepared to fight, and they will get involved, they will start an investigation, of that you can be sure, and that way, if one day the child finds himself asking questions, there will be a file on him somewhere, and he'll be able to get at the truth.”

“That is not within my remit. But my—”

“Then what is within your remit?”

“I will thank you to let me finish. It is not within my remit but my client was so insistent that I have just mailed a letter he wrote to them. To the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo. So that has been done.”

Eva Maria feels her heart soften. That is the Vittorio she knows. The Vittorio she likes, intelligent and thoughtful, altruistic. Eva Maria walks back and forth. She could have blackmailed him, threatened to tell the cops everything about the cassettes if he didn't give her Felipe's name. And he could have led her on, promised her he would go and find Felipe if he ever got out of jail. He could have waved a carrot under her dumb-ass nose, just so she would continue
to help him. But they had done nothing of the sort. He hadn't; she hadn't. When you have been a victim of human baseness, you owe it to yourself to keep above what is vulgar, above the crowd, and that was what they had done. Both of them. Eva Maria feels comforted. Somewhere deep inside. But sad, truly sad. Before hanging up, the lawyer implied that Vittorio had clearly given up the fight. For the last few days he had been only the shadow of his former self. A reenactment was planned for the following day. Vittorio was terrified at the thought of taking part in such a sordid exercise. He was convinced that Commissioner Perez would use the opportunity to come out with the final elements that would convict him once and for all. Eva Maria shakes her head. With helplessness. Is there nothing more she can do for Vittorio?