The Case of Lisandra P. (14 page)

I couldn't sleep; I cursed myself for causing her to flee . . . I hunted for a clue in the few moments I had spent with her, a clue that might enable me to find her again . . . She was wearing slacks made of a light fabric, a sort of black cotton, and—how had I failed to notice at the time?—a fine pair of shoes, also black . . . high heels . . . and beneath her feet there were white spots on the carpet . . . While I hesitated to congratulate myself too soon, I did not hesitate to go around to all the tango places and milongas in the vicinity—she must have just come from one of them, and it couldn't be far, otherwise the talcum powder would have had time to disappear altogether . . . Now I had a lead, and I could find her again.

 • • • 

Eva Maria is following in Vittorio's footsteps. She decided to begin there. If she has to inform Vittorio that Lisandra was cheating on him, she would like to inform him at the same time that it was Lisandra's lover who killed her. To make him lose his pride but regain his freedom: this was the only way she could stand the thought of telling him that his wife had been unfaithful. Eva Maria's reasoning is simple. If Lisandra slept with Francisco, then surely she found her lovers in her immediate environment, picking them at random, so surely she would also have drawn from the very accessible breeding ground her tango classes offered. Eva Maria is following in Vittorio's footsteps. She has been going around and around the neighborhood since early morning.

“Did you know Lisandra Puig? Did Lisandra Puig come here to dance?”

Eva Maria thinks back to the moment when Vittorio finally found Lisandra. She wonders if it would not have been better if he had never found her. He didn't know then what was in store. How can you know that a terrible drama might arise from what initially seems like such a wonderful event?

 • • • 

I wondered what Lisandra would look like as a dancer, with her long brown hair pulled up into a chignon. Would I recognize her from behind? No, I wouldn't recognize her. I had not yet acquired the familiarity that enables one to recognize someone from behind.

 • • • 

Eva Maria thinks about the night of the murder. Vittorio would have acquired it by then, the familiarity that enables one to recognize someone from behind. When, from up in his window, he recognized Lisandra's body sprawled on the ground. Eva Maria is beginning to despair of ever finding the place. This is at least the tenth address she has tried. She is driven by a sense of urgency. She has only two days left until the next prison visit. A sense of urgency doesn't mean doing things quickly, but knowing that nothing can sway you from your path. She does not wonder whether it would be better never to find the place.

“Did you know Lisandra Puig? Did Lisandra Puig come here to dance?”

“Yes. Lisandra was my student.”

Eva Maria looks at the man speaking. She smiles. Relieved. How can you know that a terrible drama might arise from what initially seems like such a wonderful event?

Eva Maria did not expect a man this age. Seventy, maybe more. The man holds out his hand, frank, lively.

“Pedro Pablo.”

Eva Maria shakes his hand. She has the impression she has already seen this man somewhere.

“But people also call me ‘Pepe.' What can I do for you?”

“I'd like to ask you a few questions about Lisandra.”

Eva Maria does not tell him why. Nor does the old man ask.

“I'm listening; please, have a seat.”

Eva Maria sits down.

“In the days that preceded her death—did you notice anything about her behavior? I mean, anything in particular.”

The old man looks at Eva Maria.

“Lisandra hadn't come to dance for over a month, so if I noticed anything in particular, it was above all her absence.”

Eva Maria can't think of anything else to say other than to repeat his words.

“Lisandra hadn't come for over a month.”

The old man nods.

“For three years she never missed a class, three times a week, her silent, supple body always in the same place—look, over there.”

The older man points to where Lisandra used to stand. Eva Maria turns around. She looks at the empty spot in the empty room. She feels a chill go through her. She thinks about Stella's room, empty like this. The old man goes on.

“One month without seeing her, you can imagine how worried I was, so I went by her place. I never do that as a rule, go by an absent student's place, but in this case I couldn't help it, no doubt because it was Lisandra. I liked her a lot.”

Eva Maria shakes her head. She can't get herself out of Stella's empty bed, so many nights she slept there, hoping to feel her daughter next to her when she awoke, clinging with all her strength to the sheets not to scream at the terror of the solitary dawn. Eva Maria can no longer concentrate on the old man's words. She hears him from a distance.

“I liked Lisandra a lot; she was different, so gentle. She never showed up the way the others did, all full of their days, nervous and noisy. She would keep to herself, the way only children know how. She was reserved. Human beings lose this ability very quickly. They have to try and fit in. Solitude becomes impossible; they have to belong to a group, even when that group consists of only two people. But Lisandra was the kind of person who kept to herself; in any case, that was what I believed then. And she had another quality I found infinitely touching—because I am a dancer, above all—she was graceful; she had the grace of ten women put together. She had her own particular way of moving, smoothly, slowly; I don't mean sluggishly, no, slowly. No arrogant poses, although she had what might have been the most harmonious body I've ever seen. There was something moderate about her entire person. When the others would burst out laughing, all she did was smile; that was one of the things I instantly noticed about Lisandra: she made no noise. One day, I pointed this out to her, and she blushed, astonished—oh, really? Is
that what I thought about her? And then she added, somewhat dreamily, maybe she had left a part of herself somewhere, and that would explain it. ‘I'll try to be more lively, I promise, Pepe.' She had taken my compliment for a reproach. She was like that, Lisandra: even a compliment would make her think. She had surprising reactions. ‘Why do we dance?'—‘To stop time.' Lisandra was the only one of my students who replied, ‘To go back in time.' She believed that memory was written in the body and she danced to remember. ‘Remember what?'—‘To remember,' because by remembering she hoped she would feel better. She did not elaborate; she stopped short: she couldn't tell me, and anyway, it wasn't important. But I could tell that her reality was the opposite from what she said, and what she was trying to remember was, on the contrary, very important to her. Ever since that day, when I watched Lisandra dancing, I told myself that she was dancing the way you dance when you have a secret. Maybe that was why I went by her house. But above all, you know, when you see people disappear from one day to the next, your mind is not at rest, and the slightest absence can seem definitive, and that plants doubt in your mind, so you want to make sure. But I'm not telling you anything you don't already know.”

Eva Maria straightens up. His last words bring her back to reality.

“Know about what?”

“That the slightest absence can seem definitive.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you keep moving your arms . . .”

The old man leaves his words in midair. Eva Maria understands. He is waiting for her to reveal her inner self. Some of her identity.

“Eva Maria.”

The old man smiles. He continues, quietly.

“Yes, Eva Maria, your arms move too much; your hands clutch at the slightest object—look, you've just picked up my pen, and before that it was your notebook you were turning every which way; your hands and arms are constantly fidgeting. As if they can't stand it anymore, not being able to hold someone who was dear to you.”

Eva Maria feels increasingly nervous. The old man lowers his voice.

“Did you lose a child?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because to stop your feverish gestures, you put your arms over your belly. Would you like something to drink?”

Eva Maria uncrosses her arms. She doesn't know what to do with them anymore. She doesn't like being read like an open book. She looks at Pedro Pablo's tall, slender body as he moves, a young man's body, not the slightest sagging, not the slightest stoop or limp, which would be the usual attributes of a body his age. His old face is deeply lined, but his body is as light as if it had been grafted upon him. Pedro Pablo vanishes from the room. Eva Maria is suddenly afraid he won't come back. But he does come back.

“I'm sorry: I asked you if you wanted something to drink and all I have is water; how idiotic our niceties are sometimes. Will water be all right?”

Eva Maria nods her head. She would have liked a drink. She feels her fingers squeezing the pencil ever harder. She puts her lips to the glass; she hates hearing herself swallow; she hates the taste of water. Eva Maria puts the glass down. The water didn't help. Her tone is hard.

“And how did Lisandra react to your visit?”

“She didn't react; she was there, and that was all I needed. When she opened the door, you cannot imagine how relieved I was. I wish my own brother would open the door to me one day like that, but I
know it will never happen. Lisandra was there; I was reassured; it was a weight off my chest. I could have left, but something about her attitude kept me there—you know, that split second where when you find someone again, you can sense the tiny changes that have occurred, changes you forget about very quickly, because your eyes have adjusted to the new person standing there before you: a great weariness, a great weakness emanating from her body. She seemed not to want to let me leave. She motioned to me to make no noise, and while excusing herself for not being able to receive me in the living room, she led me into her bedroom, into their bedroom. She motioned to me to sit on the bed, on their bed. I was somewhat embarrassed, but I sat down.

“‘Careful! Not on the jacket!'

“Lisandra sprang up from her chair to grab a gray jacket, a man's jacket that lay folded on the bed. She seemed to be torn between two irreconcilable things: to make the jacket disappear as quickly as possible and at the same time avoid spoiling or wrinkling it, which made her movements seem paradoxical. She really behaved in the oddest way: she opened a drawer in the dresser and stuffed the jacket into it, but not by rolling it up, as I might have expected, given her feverish behavior, but on the contrary by carefully laying it out flat. And then she turned back to face me as abruptly as if she had just concealed a corpse, I remember that, that was really the feeling I got. I asked her if she was all right. She told me she was. I asked her why she had stopped coming to class. She told me she didn't feel like dancing anymore. Coming from her, that surprised me and I asked her if she had changed teachers; sometimes people simply feel like a change.

“‘Not at all, Pepe! How can you imagine such a thing!'

“I asked her if I had done anything wrong.

“‘Not at all! You've done nothing wrong. Not you. It's not your fault.'

“‘Not me. Who, then?'

“‘No one. That's not what I meant. It's just life. A day comes when you no longer feel like doing something you wanted to do every day, before. It's nothing more than that.'

“But I could tell she wasn't in her usual state. I felt ill at ease, sitting there on the bed, on their bed, so I asked her if she wouldn't like to come with me for something to drink at the café downstairs. She looked like someone who hadn't left the house in a long time. I told her she shouldn't ever entrust everything to her mind, that she had to give what belonged to her body back to her body—movement, strolling, walking—our minds can bully our bodies and we mustn't let the mind get the upper hand, so to speak; it's not good for our health: a body is not meant to just lie there; that's the way obsessions are born. She ought to know that after all these years she's been dancing, how everything becomes illuminated when the body is moving.

“‘I don't feel like going out. I don't feel like seeing anyone. I'm fine on my own.'

“That was when I heard a door open in the hall. Lisandra went ‘hush' with her finger to her lips, like a child, and she got up. She went to peek out the half-open bedroom door. I could hear steps in the corridor, someone dragging their feet. Lisandra looked at her watch, then came back to me, somewhat embarrassed, and sat back down at her desk. A few minutes later, the doorbell rang and she went through the whole song and dance again: peer through the half-open door. Again I heard footsteps in the corridor, quicker this time, a woman's heels. She closed the door and came to sit back down. After that, she wanted to make small talk, as if she had not done what she had just done, or rather as if it didn't mean anything, didn't signify any unhappiness or distress. But I could tell she was unhappy: she was going around in circles. I realized during that second ‘surveillance'—we may as well call things by their name—that her gestures had clearly
been formed by repetition, that she had made them dozens of times. It was her new dance, without any music, without any pleasure: the dance of doubt. She had exchanged the tango for this new circle dance that she performed alone with a partner who surely did not even know he was dancing. Lisandra the sentry, Lisandra at her post, Lisandra the spy. I felt humiliated for her sake, my beautiful dancer reduced to these degrading gestures; when she could have had the world at her feet she was the one on the floor, schooled in the shame of spy mania, schooled in these odious gestures; when she was worth so much more, schooled in being suspicious, like those who took my brother away, like the people who took six years of peace in our country from us. I couldn't stand it. I got to my feet and I changed my tone, my voice.

“‘We're going out; we're going to the dance studio.'

“‘I don't want to see them.'

“‘Who?'

“‘The others.'

“‘But what did they do to you, “the others”?'

“I asked her if someone in the class had made her feel uncomfortable, if something had happened that I was unaware of. She shook her head—no, that was not what she meant; nothing happened; it wasn't their fault, either; I mustn't worry. She put her hand on my cheek: ‘It's so kind of you to stop by to see me.' With her touch, she felt familiar to me again. I knew I had to insist; she needed to speak to someone. I took her by the hand and pulled her to her feet.

“‘There won't be anyone at the studio at this time of day. There will just be the two of us, and it will be easier to talk.'

“‘I don't want to talk.'

“‘Then we'll dance; that would be better than this miserable, sinister dance you just showed me.'

“Lisandra got up. And a teacher's authority is something you can regain very quickly over those who admire you and who once wanted to resemble or equal you. The link between teacher and student is more hypnotic than anything, even love, I think. The only authority that is greater is that of the torturer over his victim, because then fear is involved. Out in the corridor, Lisandra looked at one of the doors, the look of a lost dog. I told her to hurry and take her shoes. She grabbed a hat off the coatrack—it was the first time I ever saw her with a hat—and then she put on dark glasses and we went out. I hate the things weather uses to divide people. We walked all the way to the studio without saying a word; she had her head down, and yet again I thought of a lost dog, but this time I understood that she was hurt. Lisandra wasn't walking in her usual way, that confident, enchanting gait I knew so well. I took her arm. I was no longer a man: I was her cane. She did not so much walk as stagger. Once we got there, I put some music on, she put on her shoes, I took her by the waist, and we began to dance, silently. I didn't choose that tango by chance. The circle dance she had performed in her bedroom had made her transparent to
me.”