The Case of Lisandra P. (20 page)

Eva Maria is exhausted. She is about to fall sleep. She hears the sound of the bandoneon coming from Estéban's room. Estéban is one of those souls who are too courageous to leave; Estéban has come home. Eva Maria is relieved. For the first time in all these years, she fixes dinner. For the first time in all these years, she knocks on the door to Estéban's room. Estéban doesn't hear it at first. Or rather, he can't believe his ears. Eva Maria doesn't open the door. She speaks through the door. They are not ready to look at each other yet. There are hardly any words.

“I made some sandwiches if you want; they're in the kitchen.”

Silence. Eva Maria has three fears. That Estéban won't answer her. That Estéban will say no. That Estéban will open the door. Eva Maria hears Estéban's voice. Relief. It's still from the same distance.

“All right.”

Eva Maria leans closer to the door again.

“See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow.”

Eva Maria is about to fall asleep. She has given up on the truth. She's stopping everything. Vittorio will have to manage without her. She will have to manage without him; Estéban is here, that's all
that matters. Eva Maria is exhausted. She wishes this night would last for two weeks, like on the moon. As a child she thought those hollow spaces on the moon were craters, but there are no volcanoes on the moon. Eva Maria thinks about Olympus Mons on Mars, a volcano that is fourteen miles high. For the first time since Stella disappeared she is thinking about height without thinking about falling. She is thinking about a distance: fourteen miles—that would be the same as from where to where? Eva Maria is about to fall asleep. She wishes this night would last for two weeks, with neither dreams nor nightmares. Is that someone ringing at the door? Or is it a note from the bandoneon? She doesn't know. All she knows is that Estéban has come back. Eva Maria smiles.

“Mama?”

Estéban opens the door to Eva Maria's room.

“There are two men here to see you.”

Eva Maria slips out from between the sheets.

“Two men here to see me?”

Eva Maria puts back on the clothes she only just took off. In the living room, two men stand waiting for her.

“Eva Maria Darienzo?”

“Yes.”

“Good evening, señora. Commissioner Perez. Lieutenant Sanchez.”

The two men put their badges away. Eva Maria walks across the living room. Lieutenant Sanchez goes out of the room. Estéban stands next to Eva Maria. Commissioner Perez hunts for something in his pocket.

“I'm sorry to disturb you so late.”

Commissioner Perez hands a piece of paper to Eva Maria.

“We have a search warrant.”

Lieutenant Sanchez comes back into the living room. He is holding Eva Maria's bag underneath his arm. In his fingertips, three keys hanging from a key ring in the shape of a key.

“These keys do not fit the lock on your door.”

Eva Maria looks at the four keys, one of which is a fake.

“They're not mine.”

“Whose are they, then?”

“A friend's.”

“The name of that friend wouldn't happen to be Vittorio Puig, by any chance?”

“It is.”

“How did you happen to find yourself in possession of his keys?”

“They were given to me.”

“They were given to you?”

“Yes. A young man who was there on the night of the murder.”

“The night of the murder? Interesting.”

“It's not what you think; Vittorio misplaced his keys by Lisandra's body—they must have fallen out of his pocket—the young man was in the street, he found them, and came to return them.”

“‘Lisandra'—it would seem that you were well acquainted with the victim.”

“No, not at all. It's just that, with all this—”

“All this what?”

“All this thinking about the murder. She has become familiar to me.”

“I see, but how do you explain that the keys are now in your possession?”

“I read about what happened in the newspaper, the murder, Vittorio's arrest, so I went to his place, to see, to make sure, I couldn't believe it, it was a real shock to me—you know that Vittorio has been my psychoanalyst for five years.”

“We know.”

“I rang the bell at Vittorio's, and that's where I met the young
man who had come to return the keys. I told him I knew Vittorio and that I could pass them on.”

“I thought you had noticed the young man wandering a bit suspiciously around the square, just where the victim's body was found, and that then he came up the stairs to Dr. Puig's apartment, that you followed him and that is how—by pretending to be a neighbor—you suggested he give the keys to you.”

“That's right. But who told you all that?”

“It's our job to know, Señora Darienzo.”

Eva Maria remembers Vittorio's neighbor. Lieutenant Sanchez puts the keys down on the table. He goes out of the living room. Commissioner Perez continues.

“If ‘that's right,' Señora Darienzo, why did you just give us another version of the events?”

“To save time, because it amounts to the same thing; the young man gave me the keys, and that's it.”

“Don't try to ‘save time,' Señora Darienzo, take all the time you need to tell us the truth, and spare no detail. Could you describe this young man? What did he look like?”

“I don't remember, fifteen, sixteen years old. Short, chestnut hair, his eyes . . . I don't know . . . it was too dark in the stairs.”

Commissioner Perez turns to Estéban. Then back to Eva Maria.

“Was he sort of like your son?”

Estéban goes to stand between Commissioner Perez and Eva Maria.

“What is the purpose of all these questions? Be quiet, Mama; let them carry out their search, but stop answering their questions.”

Commissioner Perez takes a few steps into the living room.

“Ah! The enthusiasm of youth! Don't get so carried away, young man. If we find the keys to a murdered woman's apartment
in your mother's possession, it's only fitting that we should try to determine why.”

Estéban runs his fingers through his hair. Commissioner Perez turns to Eva Maria.

“And so you went to see Dr. Puig in prison in order to give him back his keys.”

“Yes. To help him.”

“The way he helped you, with your sessions.”

“No doubt.”

“But to help him do what, Señora Darienzo?”

“To find Lisandra's murderer.”

“So you do not believe he is the actual murderer.”

Eva Maria hesitates. Slightly. A split second.

“No.”

“I see. Apparently you are also in possession of some photographs of the victim's funeral. May we see them?”

Eva Maria leaves the room. Goes down the corridor. Opens the door to her bedroom. Lieutenant Sanchez is in there. All her books are on the floor. Her Neapolitan gouaches have been removed from the wall. She opens the desk drawer. Takes out the photos. She returns to the living room. She hands the photos to Commissioner Perez. He places them in a large transparent envelope.

“How did you get these photographs?”

“I took them on the day of the funeral. Just in case. To show them to Vittorio. I figured the murderer might be there.”

“We should hire you!”

Commissioner Perez takes a bundle of photographs from the pocket of his raincoat. He hands them to Eva Maria.

Eva Maria looks at one photograph after the other. She sees herself. In the church. In the middle of the gathering. Behind the
tree, captured as she herself is taking pictures. Commissioner Perez holds out his hand to retrieve the photographs. He smiles.

“Great minds think alike. But these photographs, Señora Darienzo—let's just stop for a moment—why have you never shown them to Dr. Puig?”

Eva Maria remembers. She had them in her bag the last time she visited, but Vittorio had interrupted her, asking her to reread the session with Felipe, their conversation had degenerated, they had argued, and in her anger she had forgotten about the photographs.

“Argued? With Dr. Puig? But you get along so well . . . What did you argue about?”

Eva Maria doesn't answer. Commissioner Perez continues.

“It would seem, Señora Darienzo, that you have been going through a difficult period since the death of your daughter. First you split up with your husband, but above all . . . it would seem that you have had, shall we say, a few problems with alcohol. Which have earned you, moreover, a reprimand from your place of work.”

Estéban looks at Eva Maria.

“What's he talking about?”

Eva Maria lowers her head. Estéban goes pale.

“But why didn't you tell me?”

“Señora Darienzo, you know that Dr. Puig was thinking of terminating your sessions.”

Eva Maria sits up straight.

“What do you mean? There was never talk of any such thing.”

“He was thinking of referring you to a psychiatrist who specializes in this type of . . . how to put it . . . addiction. He no longer felt competent to help you, and, above all, it was getting too complicated.”

“Too complicated? What do you mean?”

“He said you were transferring your feelings onto him.”

“Transferring? What feelings?”

“Feelings of love.”

“That's not true; what on earth is this all about? Vittorio would never have told you anything of the sort. You're trying to trick me.”

“Don't get carried away, Señora Darienzo.”

“But do you realize what you just said?”

“Weren't you a little bit in love with Vittorio Puig? Apparently it happens rather often, patients falling in love with their shrink.”

“No. I swear I wasn't. I swear on my son's life.”

“Given your relationship with your son, that unfortunately doesn't carry much weight.”

“I forbid you to speak like this. My son is the dearest thing left to me on earth.”

“Just because he is the dearest thing left to you doesn't mean that he is dear to you.”

“How dare you.”

“You had a session with Dr. Puig on the day of the murder. You could have stolen the keys from him.”

“Never.”

“And that way you could have gotten into his house that evening, no problem. Were you jealous of Lisandra Puig?”

“Not at all, I didn't even know her.”

“You don't have to know someone to be jealous of them. Señora Darienzo, it would seem that you are convinced your daughter died under torture at the hands of the army or, to be more precise, she was thrown from an airplane into the Rio de la Plata. If such things had been going on, we would all know about it.”

“But we do know about it. What have you done with all the testimonies? All those disappeared?”

“Wild imaginings. Señora Darienzo, don't you find there is a certain similarity between the way in which you have been fantasizing about your daughter's death and the death of Lisandra Puig, thrown out the window from the sixth floor? In both cases you can say the victims fell through space. Maybe you wanted to reenact the scene?”

Eva Maria freezes.

“What on earth are you talking about? I didn't want to reenact any sort of scene.”

Eva Maria gets to her feet.

“This has gone on long enough. Leave my house.”

Estéban moves closer to Commissioner Perez. His fists clenched. The commissioner shakes his head.

“I wouldn't do that if I were you, young man. Don't even think about it.”

Commissioner Perez turns back to Eva Maria.

“Señora Darienzo, did you know that you are the only one of Dr. Puig's patients who has been to see him in prison?”

“So? Just because someone is the only one, does that make them guilty?”

“I'm not suggesting that at the moment. I just wanted to tell you that Dr. Puig paid close attention while you were conducting your investigation. And so did we. You don't actually think we would let just anyone speak to him without surveillance? The case that Dr. Puig has drawn up against you is damning. You will read it for yourself; the logic behind it is edifying. Everything fits.”

Eva Maria paces back and forth in the living room. Her thoughts are confused. She is trying to understand. So Vittorio is accusing her. Vittorio would want to find another potential murderer, anyone, so
that he could manipulate the truth to fit his needs. The way he did with Felipe. Find another culprit, whatever the cost. Get him—or her—locked up in his place. And anyway, to lock up a woman who spends all her time weeping over her daughter's death is a lesser evil. Weeping over her daughter in prison or at home—what difference does it make? Whereas he still has thousands of things to do in life, hundreds of patients to help, dozens of women to fuck. So he steered the police onto her track. He had to find someone to serve as culprit if he were to be let off. Eva Maria stops. Abruptly. She walks out of the living room. She comes back with her battered brown backpack. She opens it and spills all the cassettes at Commissioner Perez's feet.

“And all this? Did he tell you, the excellent Dr. Puig, that he was recording his patients during their sessions, did he tell you that?”

“Of course he told us. But you're getting ahead of me; I was just about to ask you to give us these cassettes. Because they're important. They are precisely what first alerted Dr. Puig; in particular, the sessions that you insisted upon, the ones that might reveal your own potential motives: Alicia, to start with, that woman who was jealous of youth, then Felipe, who you wanted to see as the reincarnation of your daughter's torturer, when in fact he's just a poor guy who's having problems with his wife.”

“And his stolen child—what do you have to say about his stolen child?”

Commissioner Perez bursts out laughing.

“What are you talking about? There's no stolen child. Anywhere.”

“Ask Vittorio's lawyer; he'll tell you.”

“We don't like associating with lawyers, those people who just go about inventing problems so they'll have plenty of work to do . . .”

“And Miguel's testimony—what do you make of that?”

“Miguel? Which Miguel? Dr. Puig didn't mention him.”

“Then listen to his cassette, and you'll see, you'll see whether or not such things existed.”

“Señora Darienzo, we will listen to what we have to listen to. It's not up to you to go telling us how to do our job. Your little role as investigator is over. And what's more, you have forgotten one essential thing about this entire period: a shrink is always a shrink. Even behind bars.”

And suddenly Eva Maria fears the worst. What if Vittorio really was guilty? She closes her eyes. What if he really did kill his wife? And what if he wanted to make her, Eva Maria, take the blame—his most fragile patient, he'd bet on her right from the start, with a Machiavellian plan, with masterful orchestration right down to the smallest part. He knew her so well, knew she wouldn't be able to stand seeing him locked up without trying to do something; she was both too fragile and too broken by injustice to subject herself to that injustice yet again; she was incapable of fighting for the memory of her daughter; she would fight for him, she would transfer everything onto him, she would effect the transference, she would go see him in prison and try to help him—he had prepared it all, every step, every performance, and anyway, that business with the cassettes, that so-called personal technique, maybe he'd even made all that up, too, the better to trap her: he was the one who'd told her about the funeral, he knew her better than anyone did; had he used her so he could kill his wife and clear his own name? Eva Maria feels dizzy. She opens her eyes. But he had underestimated her. He didn't think she'd find out he had a mistress. And now his perfect plan is about to collapse.