The She-Devil in the Mirror (4 page)

drugs, he promised her it would never happen again, he wouldn't be so high the
next time, and that's why Olga María went to him one more time. But the same
thing happened: the man was high, impotent, anxious, frantic, all in all pretty
pathetic, Like I'm telling you, that's exactly how Yuca told it to me: he was
kneeling on the floor with his head resting on my lap, he was falling apart,
sobbing. I know, it's hard to believe. I told him he had only one option: get on
the next plane to the States and check himself into a detox clinic. That was the
only sensible thing to do, the only way he could save his relationship with Olga
María. Yuca took my advice, my dear. I don't know if I was the only one who
suggested that, but the fact is, three days later, he was on his way to Houston;
the official word from the party was that it was for a routine medical exam.
Finally, we're moving. I think this is the longest it's ever taken me to get to
the cemetery. I told you, after the bridge, the street is so narrow you can get
stuck here forever; all it takes is one idiot to bring the traffic to a
standstill. Of course Olga María and I talked about Yuca. I told her in detail
what had happened; well, I didn't tell her I let him kiss me, just in case they
started seeing each other again, then I'd be in trouble. When Yuca left for
Houston I called to give her the good news, because she wasn't taking his calls.
I told her that when Yuca got back and was clean, they could try again. But now
you probably understand how Olga María is—she sounded completely cavalier when
she said she'd never go out with Yuca again, not for anything in the world, for
her that chapter was over and done with, she'd have to be crazy to get involved
with a guy like that. Maybe she was right, my dear, but I felt sorry for Yuca,
because what motivated him to get treatment was the possibility of seeing Olga
María again. That's what I think, anyway—I can't believe he did it for Kati's
sake; he's not at all interested in her anymore. We're here, my dear. Look how
beautiful the lawns are, they're so well-manicured. It feels peaceful, doesn't
it? This is the best cemetery. They say it belongs to that Arab, Facussé, who
also owns Channel 11; apparently he's made a fortune off all the dead people,
enough money to buy and run that TV station. Papa hates him. Well, dear, papa
hates all Arabs, I've never understood why. It's something visceral. He says
that before, the Arabs in this country didn't have a pot to piss in, and that
it's only thanks to the communists that they now own the country. Papa has his
own opinions about these things, and for him, the Arabs are to blame for a whole
bunch of bad things. Now that I think about it, he's probably right, because
that Deputy Chief Handal must be an Arab. But this cemetery's beautiful, isn't
it? Olga María loved it here. Don Sergio is buried here; they'll bury her next
to him. It's going to be impossible to park with all these cars here, and it's
going to be impossible to get out when it's over. Look at that section over
there, I've never seen it before: this cemetery sure has grown, the Arab must be
drowning in money. I'm going to park over there, under that tree, next to that
arbor, the sun is still pretty strong. Oh, dear, I hope my skirt hasn't gotten
wrinkled. That's what I don't like about this material: it wrinkles too easily.
Don't bother: the doors lock automatically. My goodness, what a lot of cars.
Come this way. Let's let the family go first. How beautiful they all look next
to the coffin: Marito, José Carlos, Yuca, and Sergio. The four men who loved her
most. I'd even say she'd be happy to see them all together. Let's get closer.
Look at Doña Olga, poor thing. What a tragedy, my dear—do you have more Kleenex?
The wretches: how could they have done such a thing. They've got no guts. My
darling girls, come here.

3. NOVENA

I
'M CALLING YOU, MY DEAR,
because I didn't manage to talk to you
about anything during the service. Then my mother started bugging me and I had
to go with her to La Galleria to buy a gift to bring to a tea party tomorrow. I
couldn't say no. They did a good job on that mall, except for that big old
colonial mansion they left right in the middle; they should have torn it down;
such a crummy old dump surrounded by all those pretty, modern shops. It took
forever; you know how my mother is when she goes shopping: she can never make up
her mind. We got back about fifteen minutes ago. That's why I didn't call you
sooner. The service was lovely, wasn't it, my dear? So many people there, and I
loved what the priest said about the dead: it fits Olga María to a tee. That
thing about pure spirits dedicated to helping others. Beautiful. I like that
priest: he only talks about spiritual things; not even a little bit communist
like that Ramírez priest who sometimes says mass at that church. Everybody was
there, even José Carlos, who's a committed atheist. Only papa wasn't there,
there's no way to get him to church. I've never seen anybody who hates priests
as much as he does—he doesn't care if they're communists, like those Jesuits, or
good ones, like that one Olga María got; as far as he's concerned, they're all
the same. My mother always feels sad when she arranges to meet her friends at
church, and she shows up alone, while they all come with their husbands. Did you
see Kati, my dear? She's gained weight. It must be because of her breakup with
Yuca. I've heard they're getting a divorce, but that's yet to be seen. I've
spoken to Yuca only once since he got back from rehab in Houston. He called me
to ask about Olga María. She refused to take his calls, and that's how she left
it when she died: once she got an idea in her head, there was no way to make her
change her mind. The poor guy returned with high hopes that Olga María would get
back together with him. He kept at me to convince her that he'd turned over a
new leaf—he was a new man, he said. I didn't want him to despair, but I told him
it was going to be rough, and he knew how Olga María could be. Then I didn't
talk to him again until her funeral, and we barely had a chance to say hi. He
was devastated. I'm pretty sure his relationship with Kati has no future, but I
don't think they'll divorce. Can you imagine the scandal!? And what Don Federico
would say? Yuca has too much to lose. Kati is Don Federico's favorite daughter.
I think that's what's driving Yuca crazy, why he got so addicted to cocaine—it's
horrible to have to live with someone you can't stand. I should know, I've
experienced it in the flesh. Luckily I got rid of Alberto as soon as I could.
But poor Yuca, in his political position, with his economic interests, and
everything so tied up with Don Federico, he can't just tell Kati to get lost,
even though he'd probably like to. I think he already had that figured out and
that's why he was pursuing the relationship with Olga María, as a kind of life
raft, and it would have been perfect, my dear: to have a mistress you love more
than your wife. Though I'm sure Olga María never dreamed of getting involved in
anything so serious; of that much I'm certain. But now all that's in the past.
But for Kati it must be horrible, too. If I were her, I'd open my heart to Don
Federico, make him understand that the marriage simply isn't working out, tell
him once and for all that his relationship with Yuca—his economic and political
support for Yuca—is one thing, and his daughter's marriage is another thing
altogether. But they say that Don Federico is very domineering, very stubborn,
so probably Kati's only option is to eat, to calm her nerves, that is. The same
reason Yuca started using cocaine, Kati eats. That's why she's so fat. That's
all I can think of, the only thing that makes any sense. Don't you agree, my
dear? But Kati is no fool, either. Did you see that baggy dress she was wearing?
Super-elegant, and it did wonders disguising how fat she's gotten. Why lie?
We've never gotten along. She's too full of herself; all because she's got so
much more money than somebody else. I also think she knows that Yuca was lusting
after my body. What bothers me most about her is that she never stops talking; I
swear I've never known anybody who talks as much as Kati. She thinks everybody
else needs to listen to all her nonsense. She just won't stop: talk talk talk.
I'll admit it: everyone talks more than they should sometimes, it even happens
to me once in a while, I get bitten by a talking bug, but I'm small-fry compared
to her when it comes to nonstop talking. That's why I avoid her, all that
endless chattering really grates on my nerves. I don't know how Yuca can stand
her; all for Don Federico's money. But what I wanted to tell you is that that
Deputy Chief Handal interrogated me for a long time. I couldn't refuse. So many
things have happened in the last few days since they killed Olga María.
Practically the whole country is following the case, especially since they
caught the perpetrator. That's why I agreed to the interrogation, because if
they've already got the perpetrator, what I tell them won't be a waste. It was
this morning, Deputy Chief Handal and that bloodhound named Villalta, who's
always with him, they came to my house. Papa told me to be careful with these
guys, that I should tape the interview myself. Papa said it wasn't a legal
interrogation, like part of a trial, it was just an interview. Papa said that if
I wanted, he could send over his lawyer to be with me while they were
questioning me. But that would make them feel too important and give the
impression that despicable people like them are capable of intimidating someone
like me. So I preferred to go it alone, with just my tape recorder, in my own
living room. I made them wait for about half an hour, just so they wouldn't
think we were equals or anything. When I came in, I didn't hold out my hand:
people like that can misinterpret even a simple courtesy. I scowled at them and
told them to hurry up with their questions, I told them they should thank me for
allowing them to interrogate little Olga the afternoon of the murder, and it was
thanks to me letting them question her that they got the description of the
murderer, and if the girl hadn't told them that he looked like RoboCop—that cop
on television—they'd still be looking for clues. What I wanted to make clear to
them was that the credit for capturing RoboCop should go to little Olga, not the
police. Straight away I asked them about that RoboCop person's confession, if
they already had the name of the criminal mastermind, I wanted them to tell me
more than what the newspapers were saying. But Deputy Chief Handal was
super-relaxed, different than I'd seen him before; maybe he's relieved because
they've apprehended the murderer. He told me that RoboCop still hadn't talked,
hadn't confessed to anything, but they were following various lines of
investigation that would surely lead them to discover the motives and the
mastermind—that's what he said: “the motives and the mastermind.” What a clown,
he acted like he was on television. I was surprised when first thing he asked me
about José Carlos: his friendship with Marito, if he got along with Olga María,
why he was getting ready to leave the country. I told him what everybody and his
brother knows, though I wasn't going to tell him about José Carlos screwing Olga
María. Then he asked me something that left me dumbfounded: if I knew about the
existence of some photographs José Carlos had taken of Olga María stark naked
and in obscene positions. I sat there with my mouth hanging open. Olga María
never told me about those photos. And that's what I told this Deputy Chief
Handal. It's true: I don't know anything about them. That's why I asked him
who'd told him a lie like that, José Carlos is an artist, I've seen the photos
he took of Olga María, and they weren't at all indecent. Then he asked me if I
thought José Carlos would be capable of blackmailing the Trabanino family with
those photos. Can you imagine how sordid that policeman's mind is!? I got very
upset; I told him that first of all those photos don't exist, and second of all,
José Carlos was incapable of anything so despicable—only a rude, shameless
policeman like him would think up such a thing. He told me to calm down, he was
just trying to disprove certain hypotheses, that was the reason for our
interview. I made it very clear to him that I didn't like his style of
“investigating,” that I had never heard that such slandering of decent,
honorable people was called an “investigation” or a “hypothesis.” He pretended
not to know what I was talking about, instead he asked me if Olga María had been
in love with José Carlos or if it was just a short fling. What I can't figure
out, my dear, is how that Deputy Chief Handal could have gotten so much
information about that woman's private life. It makes me furious—I would love to
know who the big mouth is who goes around making up stories about Olga María. I
suspect it's one of two people: Cheli or Conchita. I already warned them they
shouldn't go around making things up and talking nonsense, especially to the
police, but it looks like they didn't get the message. Did you see them today at
the Novena Mass? They looked like innocent little doves. But one of them is a
traitor. I'm sure of it. I've gone to the boutique twice to warn them. They tell
me not to worry, they wouldn't ruin Doña Olguita's reputation for anything in
the world, that's how they still call Olga María. But I know their kind: they
can't fool me with that goody-two-shoes act. When I find out who's talking more
than they should be, they're going to find out what I'm made of! Shit-heads; I
get furious just thinking about it. And then that Deputy Chief Handal takes out
a photo of Olga María stretched out on a sofa, naked—though without showing her
privates. And there's no question José Carlos was the one who took that photo. I
swear I couldn't get over the shock. Olga María never told me anything about it.
Unbelievable—I thought she trusted me more than that. But it turns out she
played her cards close to her chest. Now I don't understand anything. Deputy
Chief Handal couldn't contain his delight at seeing me with my mouth hanging
open, dumbstruck. Until I asked him where he'd gotten that photo—he thought I'd
already surrendered. But instead of answering my questions he started
interrogating me: I shouldn't lie to him, if I already knew about that photo I
should just admit it, my cooperation was crucial to the investigation of the
murder of my best friend. He emphasized the words “my best friend,” in a way I
didn't like at all. I managed to pull myself together, rally my strength—I told
him he was a thief, he'd probably stolen that picture, he couldn't have gotten
it any other way. He informed me, nonchalantly, that he'd found it among Olga
María's belongings. He must have thought I was an imbecile. Can you imagine? How
was I supposed to believe that Olga María would keep a photo like that in her
house and take the chance of Marito finding it?! Here's what I told him: I
didn't believe him, he should take his stories elsewhere, this was clearly
doctored, with all these new computer programs anything was possible nowadays,
he didn't really believe I was going to fall for his dirty little trick of
trying to implicate José Carlos in Olga María's murder. Oh, my dear, poor José
Carlos! So in love with Olga María: he would never dream of blackmailing her.
I'm sure this Deputy Chief Handal searched José Carlos's studio, found that
picture, and wanted to trap me with it. That was his plan. But I had him figured
out as soon as he returned to the subject of Yuca: he asked me what I knew about
his relationship with Olga María. I just stared at him as if to say, “What a
brute!” And that's when he pulled out the ghastly ace he'd been keeping up his
sleeve: Did I think Madame Berrenechea was upset about the
liaison
between her husband and Madame Trabanino? What a pig! You should have heard how
he pronounced the word
liaison
, the brute—I stood up and told him to
leave my house immediately, and to be very careful, he was in big trouble if he
thought he could go around slandering Kati like that, he clearly had no idea how
Don Federico Schultz would react if he found out that some nobody was going
around insinuating that his daughter was somehow involved in Olga María's
murder. I shouted at him, my dear. Also, that he should be even more careful
about Yuca, because I'd already warned Yuca that a policeman in cahoots with the
communists was spreading lies about his involvement in Olga María's murder. This
is no laughing matter, my dear. The very same day as the burial, the first thing
I told Yuca, after taking him a ways away from Kati, was what Deputy Chief
Handal was hatching. I could tell, Yuce was alarmed—he asked me how that
policeman could have found out about his relationship with Olga María. How
should I know? But I warned him he should take all the necessary precautions.
Yuca is friends with the chief of police, as well as the minister of public
security. I'm surprised they haven't taken that Deputy Chief Handal off the
case. I'm telling you all this, my dear, but don't repeat a word of it to
anybody; it's all
extremely
delicate. Wait, wait a second, mama's
talking to me. She's telling me to turn on the television, there's a report
about the Olga María case on the news. Hold on a minute, it's on Channel 2. I
hate watching the news: all they ever do is talk about politics. What a bore.
But ever since what happened to Olga María, I've got my ears glued to every
word. There it is. Are you watching it, too, my dear? Look at that animal: he's
really got the mug of a criminal. The more I look at him the more he looks like
a murderer to me. They caught him in Soyapango, in a major operation. He's an
ex-sergeant from the Acahuapa Battalion. They identified him thanks to the
girls' description: there aren't many soldiers in this country who look like
RoboCop. Bastard, creep. Too bad there's no death penalty. They should execute
him, like they do in Guatemala—did you see on television the last time they
executed an Indian there? They don't stand around there wondering what to do; if
you're an Indian and a criminal, you go straight to the firing squad. As it
should be. If they've got the death penalty in the most civilized country, the
United States, why not here? A guy like that isn't going to suddenly turn into a
nice guy. Papa says it's the priests' fault that there's no death penalty—I
agree with him: I bet you if they sent a dozen bad guys like him to face the
firing squad it would make them think twice before carrying out their atrocities
against decent people. Fiends like that don't respond to reason. With that
criminal look in his eyes, you think he could be reformed? They should shoot
him, without a trial or anything. Well, of course, first he should give the name
of the mastermind, even though a brute like that never squeals. But I didn't
finish telling you about that Deputy Chief Handal's visit. I thought he was
going to take off right away after my screaming fit, but he didn't even stand
up. The one who was terrified, like he wanted to hide under the sofa, like a
mongrel who was being beaten, was the detective who came with him, that Villalta
person—just looking at him you'd think he was that bastard RoboCop's brother.
What kind of a world is this? As I was saying, that Deputy Chief Handal remained
very calm, just sitting there in that armchair, staring at me, like I was
whispering sweet nothings in his ear. Then he said that if I'd gotten everything
off my chest, I might like to sit down again, he wanted to finish up so he
wouldn't have to bother me again. He said it so gently it caught me off guard. I
actually listened. He went back to the subject of Yuca, and Kati, and Olga
María. He assured me he had no intention of judging anybody's private life, much
less a person who'd been murdered in such a brutal way, but his job consisted of
pursuing all possible lines of investigation, and one of them was pointing to a
crime of passion, though this wasn't the only or even the most important one. He
told me he had specific information about Olga María's relationship with José
Carlos and with Yuca, and he understood why I'd prefer not to talk about those
things, how I'd fiercely defend my friend's private life, but the information he
had led him to believe that I was aware of these relationships. That Deputy
Chief Handal spoke so gently, without any hostility, that I couldn't get upset,
my dear. All I managed to do was ask where he'd gotten his information. He told
me he couldn't reveal his sources, in his line of work he had to maintain strict
confidentiality—he would keep anything I told him in the strictest secrecy, I
should trust him. His goal in questioning me was only to dig a little deeper
into the relationships Olga María had with her friends, not to create a scandal
or anything like that, just to tie up the loose ends of that line of
investigation. That's what he said, then he added that his work was apolitical,
that he never had any intention of messing with Don Gastón Berrenechea's
reputation, much less that of his wife. And maybe because I'm so tired of all
this, maybe because his tone of voice was so gentle, maybe because when all is
said and done the man is doing his job because he did arrest the murderer, well,
the truth is I began to answer most of his questions. I told him, yes, José
Carlos was in love with Olga María, they'd met on several occasions, in his
studio, and Marito didn't know anything about it. But I made it clear to him
that I didn't know anything about any pornographic pictures or any blackmail,
the truth was I considered José Carlos incapable of doing anything of the sort.
Then I told him in no uncertain terms that if he wanted me to keep talking he'd
have to tell me where he'd gotten that photograph of Olga María. He repeated
that he couldn't tell me. I asked him if there were other photos or if this was
the only one. And since he kept his mouth shut, my dear, so did I. I told them
the interview was over, to please leave because I felt very tired. Here comes my
mother. Wait a second. She says the Brazilian telenovela is about to start. Yes,
we watch it together, hard as that is to believe. I know, I also never imagined
my mother would like a telenovela like that—it's so risqué, so sexy. But she's
taken even more of a liking to it than I have: she hasn't missed a single
episode. I love it. In a totally different league than that Mexican garbage,
only servants watch that. But it bugs me that it's so long, it seems like it'll
never end; the one I like best is that Holofernes—what a hunk, my dear,
incredible man, gorgeous, but with such a horrible name; I wonder what his name
is in real life. If it weren't for Holofernes I'd have stopped watching that
telenovela. The truth is there's ten more minutes before it starts; my mother's
always jumping the gun. Anyway, I pretended to be tired, I didn't want to talk
anymore, but that Deputy Chief Handal was determined to finish the job, because
he didn't budge, he asked me if Olga María's relationships with José Carlos and
Yuca had overlapped, which had come first, if either one knew of the existence
of the other, if Marito suspected or knew anything. I told him more or less what
we know, but without going into many details, because when all's said and done
the guy already had the information, it didn't do anybody any good for me to
play the fool. What I did do was let him know that only a total imbecile would
ever suspect someone as important as Gastón Berrenechea, with his political and
economic interests, of hiring someone to kill the woman he loved, which would
only create thousands of problems for himself. That's what I told him: Yuca
would be the last person to have any interest in Olga María being dead, he could
be sure of that. Then he asked me about Kati. But the truth is I don't know if
she realized what was going on between Olga María and her husband, and I don't
think she'd care, anyway. Why would you care if the husband you can't stand
anymore goes out with one woman or another? Why would she even bother to ask, my
dear? That's what happened to me. The thing is, Alberto is so boring I don't
think he could even get a woman to go out with him unless he first showed her
his bank account. That's why I told this Deputy Chief Handal, his line of
investigation that points to a “crime of passion,” as he calls it, doesn't make
much sense: neither José Carlos or Yuca or Kati, much less Marito, would have
anything to gain from Olga María's death. That was my conclusion, my dear,
though afterward I started wondering how anyone can ever be sure of what anybody
else thinks or feels. Just look at Olga María: not to have shown me, not to have
even mentioned the naked photo José Carlos took of her! And Yuca, during one of
his panic attacks, mortified by jealousy and a woman's abject scorn, with all
that power at his disposal, what wouldn't he be capable of? That interview with
that policeman has upset me a lot, believe it or not. I've started imagining
horrible things about Kati, God help me, all because of his filthy insinuations;
for instance, maybe she found out about Yuca and Olga María's