The Last Resort (28 page)

“Ooooooooooooeeeee! I don’t want to thee this,” he shrieked in his lisp. “I don’t want to thee it.” This was absurd, you see, because the idiot in reality was covering his ears so as not to hear anything. And Bertie’s head hit a total of thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four steps in all before he finally landed with a thud at the bottom of the staircase. At that very moment, I raced down the two flights of stairs separating us until finally I arrived at my father’s side. My mother, up on the second floor, did not move at all:

“My God, Rafael, my God!” she cried. “What have I done?” To which I responded:

“Nothing, Mama, nothing, my dear. Wait, wait—don’t come down just yet.” And as I said this, Gomez looked at neither my mother nor myself, for he had turned his head to the wall to say this time,

“I don’t thee anything, I don’t hear anything at all . . .”

I went on to tell the blonde about all the things people had speculated about that dreadful event, and of how the gossipers wasted no time disseminating the hypothesis that Bertie’s death was the result not of an accident but rather an . . . omission on the part of my mother. Such genteel people, speaking of “omissions”—how very Christian of them. The only thing left to tell, now, was what became of our lives—specifically, my mother’s life—after that day. In my mind, I told Bea all about the shadows of doubt, rumor, and conjecture that hung over us, all of it so intense that my mother isolated herself from everyone, turning herself into a kind of voluntary exile. I made very certain to explain to the blonde that all of this is what people
said
happened. It was
their
version of the story, built around everything Gomez went around saying, that clumsy oaf who stood there covering his ears all the while.

So much speculation, so many hypotheses . . . a veritable legend was constructed on the basis of one arbitrary fact—just as in the case of Mercedes Algorta. And because of that, I know exactly what will happen to that girl if Sánchez publishes his article: two unfaithful husbands who die in what seem to be ambiguous circumstances, two identical events forty years apart. Can’t you see why I am so bothered by the likes of such rumor scavengers
?

Bea continued smoking incessantly, which was a tremendous help. Her next mouthful of smoke seemed to say:

Fabulous, Mr. Molinet. Fa-bu-lous. You don’t have to say another word; I understand perfectly. Because you are practically dead yourself, you can permit yourself the luxury that the rest of us cannot: You can finally settle an old debt. Two identical stories. How incredible!

Would you like me to describe some of the despicable things that certain charitable souls said about my mother?

I can only imagine—more or less the same type of wild accusations that people have made regarding Mercedes Algorta. Your plan is nothing less than an attempt to thwart destiny: you have seen Mercedes Algorta suffer many of the same accusations that were directed at your mother. And Sánchez is now going to add even more grist to the rumor mill, and we all know what happens to rumors when someone puts them in writing. There is something so very sacrosanct about the printed word . . . people tend to believe everything they read, even if it is utter nonsense. But . . .

The blond Bea smoked, doubtful about something.

Let us be frank: One fact remains, and I don’t mean to quibble over details, mind you, but you do understand. Both your mother and Mercedes—of course, I can only speculate about Mercedes; I have no way of knowing for sure—took advantage of, oh, how shall I put it? They took advantage of a very crucial moment in which a circumstance was served to them on a silver platter—excuse the expression, but I do think it appropriate. A circumstance that would permit them to send their respective cheating husbands to hell. Of course, believe me, I am not one to cast the first stone. Maybe I would have done the same. And my friends? Oh, don’t get me started on them, who knows what they would have done. The point is: Almost all the husbands and wives I know, at some time, have dreamt of such an ideal situation—to be scot-free of their spouses, without having to move a finger!

My dear, how could you possibly think . . .

Oh, how romantic, Mr. Molinet!

A semicircle of smoke that the blonde has just traced with the cigarette in her left hand interrupted my thoughts.

How romantic. Now I understand all of this even better. You are going to take revenge for both of them—not because they are innocent, but rather despite their guilt.

That is where you are mistaken.

Oh?

Both women are innocent.

But you just told me that your mother allowed Bertie to tumble down a staircase right under her nose.

Darling, you haven’t listened to a word I have said. I just told you what the
gossipmongers
were saying about my mother. A tumble down a flight of stairs, three people present, plus one non–family member, who told all sorts of tales about what he saw. But that doesn’t mean the story is true. Not necessarily. The facts that seem most incontrovertible, the ones people rattle off with such ease and certainty, are precisely the most disconcerting elements of the story. That is the reason I want to put things in their place. Please forgive me. I am as repetitive as uncooked garlic—
quelle horreur
—I realize this, but things that seem utterly obvious always have the most surprising explanations. As such, I have decided to take care of Mr. Sánchez in my own way. First, because I am a dead man and I can allow myself to do so. And second, because I am certain that Mercedes is every bit as innocent as Mama.

But what do you know? Nobody really knows what happened the night Valdés died. There has been no consensus whatsoever, so really. There is no way . . .

Darling, believe me, I don’t need to know a thing. The story is identical to that of my mother.

And that is enough for you to decide that Mercedes is innocent as well?

Don’t be a bore, dear, or is it that you prefer the simplistic interpretation of our friend Sánchez, who says that two plus two always equals four, and a widow who happens to coincide with an attractive man at a remote hotel is necessarily guilty of an atrocious murder?

Bea looked offended, and the smoke from her cigarette reflected this as it curled into another, far more unpleasant arabesque.

Of course not, Mr. Molinet. I do not have the soul of a soap opera actress. Nor do I need to possess the sour grapes of someone like Sánchez to deduce that simply because they are both here at this hotel, Mercedes and Arce are lovers and guilty of murdering Valdés. But the fact that our little couple met only two days ago—and I am certain of this—does not necessarily imply that Mercedes did not take advantage of that situation that was served to her on such a silver platter. You can’t rule that out.

The air blew colder and colder. I could not allow my mental sparring to continue down such an unsettling path. I repeated once again:

Believe me, dear, the story is just like my mother’s: two philandering husbands, two stories that have provided endless fodder for the rumor mill—identical, I tell you. Mercedes
n’a rien fait
. . . And I will prove it. Listen carefully now, because this is the really interesting part.

“Am I boring you, Mr. Moulinex?”
C’est la blonde qui parle, bien sûr,
I thought.

“What on earth do you mean, my dear?”

“Well, it’s just that you’ve been staring at the golf course with the most intense look in your eyes and there isn’t anyone out there. Our friends stopped playing a long time ago. It’s just the two of us here.”

“Just the two of us, darling. How right you are. And, believe me, I am delighted. It’s been years since I’ve had such a fascinating conversation. Please, do go on.”

The blonde launched right back into her monologue as I resumed my own.

If you can believe it, darling, I am about to tell you what really happened the night my father died. And this is the real story of a bad, bad girl.
I paused, though I don’t quite know why. Perhaps I needed to ask my imaginary conversation partner one of those stupid questions people always ask, the question we all want to ask, everyone’s favorite: “Tell me, dear, I must ask you: what do you think of me?” Now, isn’t that the one question we would all love to ask? Yes, yes, it is . . . don’t lie. What do you think of me? Wouldn’t we all love to know. On this occasion, however, the narcissistic query was in fact quite crucial, and my sparring partner, the chain-smoking blonde, rushed to respond, but I intercepted her with another, even more specific, question:

Now that I have told you that I intend to kill a man simply to halt a rumor, tell me: What do you think of me? Am I an indulgent man? Someone who, in the twilight of his life, finally figures out a way to avenge all the suffering his mother endured? And then, if you want to apply a bit of pop psychology, might you say that I am a homosexual who has lived in the shadow of my mother for years, adoring her and plunging into a deep depression upon her death? Am I mistaken?

The blonde stopped smoking, which made it harder to maintain our imaginary conversation without her realizing, but I took the risk anyway:

Is that how you see me? Come now, dear, don’t underestimate me now. Do you really think me so . . . simple? Simple enough to avenge the memory of my beloved mother by helping another person who looks quite a bit like her? It sounds so romantic, and don’t get me wrong—I adored my mother. I would have done anything for her. But once again I must remind you that things are not always what they seem. There are certain debts in life that are far more compelling than those of affection, and bonds far stronger than those of love—secrets, for example. Don’t tell me it didn’t occur to you that I might have omitted a fact or two from my story? Of course the fact to which I refer is something you couldn’t possibly have inferred on your own, and so I will tell it to you. I have a debt to my mother—this much is true, though it is not the one you imagine. As I have said before, I am no saint, but if there is one thing I am proud of, it is that I was able to keep a secret up until the day she died. Now, things are different. Sadly, the one person who cared about that secret no longer exists, and finally I am free to act as I see fit, even if it is forty years overdue. Do you understand now?

The smoke from another of Bea’s Gitanes (number ten?) did not understand a thing, which prompted me to make a special effort to explain my motives.

It’s odd. Suddenly, after many, many years, a person can decide to confess something he has always kept hidden, a detail about which he has never spoken, and yet, just when he is ready to utter it, it sounds so false. It almost feels as if in one’s effort to grasp the truth, the truth becomes unreal, as if the thing that has never been uttered or thought does not exist in the end. Perhaps that is why, as I relived my encounter with Bea on the north balcony of L’Hirondelle d’Or, I was once again surprised at how hollow my confession sounded, even if nobody really heard it. As far as the blond Bea was concerned, I was just a silent conversation companion staring out at a distant point on the golf course. Yet there is always something rather indecent about confessions, even those that fall on imaginary ears, and I had to turn away for a moment as I said:

My father did not die from a simple spill down a flight of stairs.

It was so odd to hear myself say something out loud that I had never even allowed myself to think.

Neither the fall nor my mother’s “sin of omission” was what killed Bertie. Those are lies, although I imagine you might be rather shocked to know that my mother actually preferred that version. Are you scandalized, darling? Well, it is true. Even with all the rumors flying around town and people whispering on and on about how the “accident” had really occurred, Mama kept her mouth shut and simply nodded her head. With imperious authority, legions of venom-filled souls said things like, “Oh, there was a witness,” or else they would wonder, “Who is that man, that Gomez character who described everything he saw that night?,” or else they would say things like, “No—really? You mean you don’t know the real story about little Elisa? It is a far cry from the official version, let me tell you. Yes, yes, I know they declared it an unfortunate accident brought on by alcohol, and that she couldn’t have prevented him from falling—at least that is what Rafaelito swore under oath—but nobody except the police believed a single word that came out of that faggot’s mouth. He adores his mother.” The more the rumors flew, the less she talked. So what do you think now? Would you say that she was stupid, that she should have at least defended the official version instead of letting people imagine the worst? My mother did the exact opposite: Her silence almost seemed to encourage the speculation. Come now, dear, don’t look at me that way. I think you are going to learn a great deal about human nature this afternoon. Now, pay close attention, for we have almost reached the very surprising finale. As I told you, it is a lie. My father did not die the way everyone said. But he did not die accidentally, either. The Berties of this world, my dear, are very tough nuts to crack.

Suddenly, I felt an urge to burst out laughing. I suspect I may have actually done this, because the blond Bea looked over at me and said, “Do you find the things I have just said amusing, Mr. Moulinex? Maybe we should leave the conversation for another time, it’s starting to get cold.”

“Oh, one last cigarette, dear,” I insisted. And it was upon this last smoky volute that I made my final confession.

After a tragedy occurs, you cannot even imagine how long the minutes take to tick by, the amount of time you have on your hands when things are in complete and total pandemonium. Just picture it: My father, flat out on the vestibule floor, the grandfather clock against the wall advancing toward 4:50 in the morning and Mama standing completely still at the top of the staircase. Gomez stood there staring at her while I leaped downstairs to see what had happened. Until then, everything makes sense, does it not?
Tick-tock, tick-tock,
went the clock, slowly and precisely, but still so much faster than real time, which has a way of stretching out into eternity at a moment like that one.