The Last Resort (36 page)

I look at the photograph of Isabella again. In effect, I can see every last detail of that Cartier bracelet: a wide band of gold with a flamboyant leopard motif, fat, with big black spots, one of the most celebrated symbols of this jewelry house. Is it the same one that Mercedes is wearing this morning, now that we are alone, now that nobody from Madrid is here to identify it? It would be so easy to stroll over to the other side of the pool, put on my eyeglasses, look her in the eye, and say, “Excuse me, darling, would you mind if I took a look at that exquisite bracelet you are wearing?” It would be so easy to confirm, for once and for all, that the bracelet gleaming on Mercedes Algorta’s wrist has nothing whatsoever to do with the bracelet that disappeared the night Jaime Valdés died. Even so, I wouldn’t dream of doing it. They are just silly fears of mine, nonsense. It must be all the gin . . .

The bad thing about doubts, however, is that they inevitably lead to more doubts. Two identical stories separated in time, the bell tolling, then the echo . . . and two good girls unjustly accused. Yes, that is how it shall be: everything identical. That is how it
must
be, because if not, it might mean that Mama . . .

Bon dieu,
I think as I pray that Mercedes hasn’t chosen this moment to come over here. From above my little piece of lemon rind on the edge of my glass, I can see her walking on the other side of the pool. No! Do not come over here. Do not even think of approaching me with that glittering wrist, that bracelet. Stay where you are, for I—like all civilized human beings—always choose doubt over certainty, at least in this case.

Two identical stories, two identical women.
I repeat this to myself over and over again. I have repeated it so many times that it has started to get annoying, even after all the dry martinis I have consumed this morning. The old and the new . . . the bell and its echo . . . that is how it shall be, everything symmetrical. And if not, I am better off not finding out . . . like what Mama did after everything that happened in the house at El Prado that night. That is the inopportune comparison I have drawn. Of course, Mama did see me as I ran down the stairs to my father’s side. And she also saw how the reflection from the mirror ricocheted off the ceiling. A quick, sharp blow, and that was it. Bertie Molinet was over, but we never spoke of it—why would we? Certain truths are better off shrouded by doubt.

Unfortunately for me, the bracelet of that woman on the other side of the pool has caught a ray of sunlight, causing it to sparkle indecently, and I think:
What if things didn’t happen the way I thought? And if the reflection of the mirror on the ceiling went unnoticed in all the confusion that night?

In that case, I tell myself, with the lemon rind suspended in front of my eyes, a lot of things don’t fit. Mercedes Algorta is right there, as is Gomez—both of them are presently teetering just above this fragile lemon rind. There she is, rummaging about, picking up her things, looking for her slippers and her hat as if she’s getting ready to leave. I am hoping she won’t find a reason to come over here, to deliver me my dog or something. Plus, she doesn’t have to pass by me in order to leave the pool area. Walk by, walk by for God’s sake, just as you do every day . . . “Of course everything fits,” I tell myself, and the martini makes me repeat, with the crystal-clear memory of the inebriated, the very same words I used to explain my story to Bea that afternoon we spent looking out onto the golf course. “. . . From the very first moment my mother knew that another blow, final and definitive, was what killed Bertie Molinet, that a fifteen-year-old child had been responsible for his death. Are you scandalized, darling? Well, it is true. Even with all the rumors flying around town, when people whispered on and on about how the ‘accident’ had really occurred, she kept her mouth shut and simply nodded her head . . . 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, because there are times in life when it is easier for a person to bear the burden of gossip and suspicion than to admit, even to herself, the far more appalling guilt of a person she loves above all others.”

It’s true: that is how it happened. Thanks to the reflection of that mirror on the ceiling, Mama immediately knew what I had done. She knew it and she chose to overlook it. And that is why she remained silent for all those years. This thought makes me feel better, but still . . .

The
click-click
of Gomez’s nails against the clay tiles of the solarium floor makes me lose my train of thought. Oh, that inconvenient mutt. I can see him over there, next to Mercedes, shaking his ears as if he’s about to trot off.

But then doubt strikes again.

What if I am fooling myself? In the end, how can I be sure if Mama saw it? We never discussed it.

At this moment the alcohol (not such a friendly substance) brings to mind another fleeting moment of that dark night: Bertie is sprawled across the floor of the vestibule, and I approach him at the foot of the stairs as my mother, observing the two of us from above, shouts out: “Dear God, dear God. Rafael darling, what have I done?”

“Impossible,” I counter. “What nonsense. It can’t be. Mama did nothing wrong—I was the one who, seconds later, with a silver-handled mirror . . . I am convinced of what I say here. There is no way two people can be guilty of the same crime. There is no way two parallel stories can be true at the same time. She
knew
. . .”

But then . . . what if Mama did not see the reflection from the mirror that night and, as such, did not know of my sin? And what if she remained silent all those years, in fact, for reasons other than those I believed, for facts I knew nothing of, for an act that was not of my own doing? Impossible. Unthinkable. And in any event this is irrelevant at this stage in the game. It’s always better not to know.

Mercedes Algorta has put on her hat. Women always put their hats on as they leave pools, which is so ridiculous. Hats should be put on before, not after lying in the sun. She is now ready to leave. Oh, she won’t come over here, will she? This isn’t the shortest route out of the solarium, after all, and yet . . .
Click, click, click.
Even without raising my eyes I can tell when Gomez is approaching from the sound his nails make as they scrape against the solarium floor.

“That which is not spoken does not exist. As such, a secret untold has a way of disappearing in the end.” That was our anthem for all those years during which Mama and I never discussed what occurred that night. But what was it, then, that she did not want to discuss? Two identical women, two twin situations. The echo has to sound exactly the same as the bell that rang out the first time around. Both women are innocent.

Mercedes Algorta has put on her hat. For the love of God, please don’t come over here!

The image of a gentleman my age carefully studying a piece of lemon rind is, no doubt, a rather eccentric sight. Nevertheless, this is what I do to avoid looking anywhere else. I will not lift my eyes; I will not look anywhere—for God’s sake, doesn’t the credo of this hotel state that the guests are supposed to talk as little as possible to one another? This woman should be leaving, not walking over to me with that smile I can see coming over her face. Now that the very worst has happened, I will remove my eyeglasses. Without them I cannot see a thing, I cannot see anything at all in detail.

“May I?”

“What? What did you say, dear?” I ask as I remove my glasses.

“Just a few minutes ago I made a little bet with myself and I want to see if I was right. Let me see: that cocktail you are drinking, is it a Pimm’s by any chance?”

She is standing in front of me. Gomez, too. His nails against the clay tiles have made their way back to my lounge chair, much to my dismay.

“What’s that, my dear?”

“Oh, I’m so stupid! I should have known from the glass. You’re drinking a martini, not a Pimm’s. Would you mind if I took a sip?”

There are moments in life when, rather unwittingly, one finds oneself standing in plain sight of an incontrovertible fact. The woman stretches out her arm, not waiting for a response, and a blurry but excessively sparkly wrist, dotted with turquoise, red, and green stones, flashes before my eyes.

“I always love a good dry martini, though they are strictly off-limits here—diets, you know. But then suddenly as I was about to leave the pool, I saw you and . . . oh, may I?”

Turquoise, red, and green stones. This can’t possibly be a Cartier leopard-motif bracelet . . . impossible. Doubt.
Maintain the doubt at all times,
I tell myself,
for it is far more ambiguous, far more soothing than the truth.
If I were to put my glasses on, of course, I would be certain for once and for all. I am almost sure, those little colored brilliants . . . oh, what a relief. No, it cannot be. It cannot be the thing I feared.

She has now served herself the remains of the martini, just like that, as if we’ve been friends all our lives. As she raises her arm, her wrist sparkles yet again, and then I do something I have never done in my entire life.

“Cartier, my dear?” I ask her. I have not put on my glasses. There is still a tiny bit of room for doubt if I want to seek refuge there once I hear the answer.

She laughs. Once again she raises her hand and her sparkling wrist to take a sip of the martini.

“Cartier?” she exclaims. “Are you kidding? Cheap and Chic—not exactly the same league. You mean this trashy thing?”

I smile.

“Of course,” I reply, exhaling deeply. “You see, I’m not wearing my glasses, and when I spotted it from far away, well, your wrist was sparkling so brightly that I imagined it might be one of those wide bracelets, you know, 1940s-style, with a leopard or something . . . very Cartier. Oh how silly of me!”

She takes another sip of the drink. The dry martini has another very special quality, and though I can’t confirm this with my eyes, I am sure it has taken effect: the dry martini has a way of bringing out the sparkle in the eyes of its drinker.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but it is no Cartier. It’s one of those cheap Moschino pieces. Nothing but a fantasy, I’m afraid, Mr. Moulinex.”

“Molinet, my dear. My name is Rafael Molinet.”

“Oh. Excuse me.”

“It’s all the same. And I mean that. It is all ex
actly
the same. We all make mistakes . . . luckily.”

Once again she laughs, and once again she raises her arm, making those divinely fake stones sparkle in the light. That marvelous bit of costume jewelry banishes all my doubts, and the world is once again perfect: The sound of the bell and its echo are one and the same; the discordant note of my fears proves to be nothing more than the work of an able violinist. I lean back against my lounge chair with the tranquility that comes from knowing that I have just made a silly, foolish mistake. And that is when I hear her say:

“Such ideas you have, Mr. Molinet. Cartier, and with a leopard no less—here? At this hour of the day? It would be so out of place, downright tacky if you ask me. You can’t possibly think that I would wear that sort of bracelet to come down to the pool . . . even if I had it. Right, Mr. Molinet?”

About the Author

C
ARMEN
P
OSADAS
was born in Montevideo and is the daughter of a Uruguayan diplomat. She lived for some years in London, where her father was ambassador, and also in Buenos Aires and Moscow. Her novel
Little Indiscretions,
first published as
Pequeñas infamias,
won the coveted 1998 Planeta Prize in Barcelona, and her books have been translated into twenty-one languages. Also a prizewinning children’s author and cowriter for film and television, Posadas now lives in Madrid.

Also by Carmen Posadas

Dorilda y Pancho

El buen sirviente

El peinador de ideas

La bella otero

Dorilda

Pequeñas infamias (Little Indiscretions)

Nada es lo que parece

Una ventana en el ático

El tulipán rojo

¡Quién te ha visto y quién te ve!

El mercader de sueños y otros relatos

Mi hermano Salvador y otras mentiras

El síndrome de Rebeca

Yuppies, jet set, la movida y otras especies

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

English translation copyright © 2005 by Random House

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Random House, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

R
ANDOM
H
OUSE
and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

This work was originally published in Spanish as
Cinco moscas azules
by Extra Alfaguara SA, Madrid, Spain, in 1996. Copyright © 1996 by Carmen Posadas

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Posadas, Carmen.

[Cinco moscas azules. English]

The last resort: a mystery / Carmen Posadas; translated by Kristina Cordero.

p. cm.

I. Cordero, Kristina II. Title.

PQ8520.26.O72C5613 2005

863′.64—dc22 2004061434

Random House website address:
www.atrandom.com

eISBN: 978-1-58836-465-4

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