The Last Resort (27 page)

How repugnant,
I thought as I peered down at Sánchez.
What truly unbearable noises.
The afternoon was so calm, so placid, and yet that sound—once again,
eeewwweeeewwwyyy . . . glubglubglub—
rose up through my inner ear, so very relentlessly. Surely you understand what I mean about those calm, lazy afternoons: The least little sound can acquire the most disturbing intensity and insolence, like an obscenity breaking through silent air. And Sánchez just slurped away as if he intended to go on
glub-glubbing
for all eternity, occasionally throwing in a few
eeeewwwees,
like a cat meowing.

When will this agony end? I asked myself. I could strangle him.
Mais quelle horreur.
If only I could . . . oh, it just makes you want to . . . —
glubglubglub
—slit the man’s throat in tiny slices, drown him like a rat and shut him up forever . . .

That was the moment I realized I was going to kill Antonio Sánchez.

There are certain revelations in life that make a person feel like new: brand-new. I don’t know what Archimedes felt just before he ran out shouting “Eureka!” but I feel certain that it must have been something like the emotion I felt the minute I resolved to commit murder. Of course, when the great man from Syracuse made his discovery, it is entirely possible that he only had an
inkling
of his extraordinary breakthrough—very likely it was something he couldn’t quite identify, because in the beginning, every brilliant
eureka!
is nothing more than an elusive gust, wink, or spark of some sort. The point is, we all
know
when we have hit upon something important, but sometimes we don’t know quite what it is. In these cases, we have no choice but to sit down and mold that fantastic
thing
that has been revealed to us by a rapid thunderbolt of intuition. For this reason, I would bet that Archimedes just went home and, not bothering to get dressed or do anything (because I believe he went around in the nude), got to work on a series of calculations and diagrams, which would help him get to the root of the spark that had just gone off in his head. And that is precisely what I did that afternoon. I wrapped my mind around the idea that had suddenly entered my mind. And the first thing that occurred to me was to laugh—to myself and only myself, of course.

Other than that, I did not move a muscle. I stayed right where I was, for the air was clear and the afternoon seemed to encourage contemplation. What about the woman at my side? you might ask. Wasn’t it difficult to organize my thoughts with someone droning on and on in the chair next to me? No, not really. You will see why. Killing Sánchez: What a discovery! Suddenly I felt certain ideas become clearer, more focused. And the terrible irritation that had been plaguing me all but evaporated. Now I just had to figure out why the idea filled me with such unbridled joy.

The Art of Conversation

Never hold anyone by the button or the hand in order to be heard out; for if people are unwilling to hear you, you had better hold your tongue than them.

—Lord Chesterfield,
Chesterfield’s Letters to His Son

Sánchez looked up at me, but only for an instant. He raised his head, which was still poised over the fountain, and looked at me.

“Your friend is quite charming,” I said to the blond Bea, who had halted her soliloquy and turned to stare at me, perplexed.

“Do you mean Antonio Sánchez?”

“Excuse me, dear, I didn’t mean to interrupt you. Please, go on, go on. You were saying . . . ?”

I learned many things that afternoon. First, that it is exceedingly easy to neutralize the chitchat of a compulsive talker. All one has to do is shuffle the deck of actors in the scene at hand. This blond chatterbox was determined to tell me her life story chapter by chapter, and that was fine with me. But no way was she going to stop me from assimilating the many fascinating but still disjointed ideas that were presently running through my head. Let me explain: Naturally, I had no intention of revealing my thoughts to her, at least not out loud. But, you see, I did find it useful to have a sparring partner close at hand, a person with whom I might share some of the ideas going around in my mind, ideas that were still very much muddled. Most loners are probably pretty familiar with this trick, which consists of superimposing an imaginary, private conversation on top of a real one. I, of course, am a loner through and through, and this is only one of the many techniques I have developed in the course of my life.

I leaned back in my chair: This was going to be fun. I commenced to ask the first question—in my mind, of course.

Let’s see, darling. What would you say if I told you that I was planning to kill your friend Sánchez because he has such an insufferable way of drinking water from a fountain
?

The blond Bea lit another cigarette and exhaled the smoke as if to say, “Come on, Mr. Moulinex.” Good Lord! This proper-name issue had to be rectified, at the very least in this imaginary dialogue. So, please, as long as the blonde is speaking within the bounds of this mental sparring, forgive me for having her call me Mr. Molinet for once and for all.

Now, Mr. Molinet, you may be a perfect stranger to me, but you don’t seem abnormally mad. You know what I think? I think that someone who feels driven to kill a man on the basis of something so insignificant—the way someone slurps his soup or sticks his fingernail between his teeth in an attempt to dislodge a piece of food, for example—must harbor a far deeper, darker reason for wanting to commit murder.

What an intelligent girl. Two points. Two points.

“Tell me, Mr. Moulinex, do you think complex problems can be solved with simple solutions?”

This question was real—I mean to say that the blond Bea actually asked me this—probably to see if I was really listening to her droning. And I very amiably replied:

“My dear, in my experience, the things that seem the simplest in life often have the most surprising explanations. The most obvious situations are rarely what they seem to be. Wouldn’t you agree?”

The blonde was delighted with my response. And though I hadn’t the faintest idea of what she was talking about, I was pleased that my answer seemed to fit in with her monologue. Meanwhile, I went on with my own:

You are absolutely right. When one is inspired to murder a man for an insignificant reason, it can only mean that another, deeper, reason lies behind that urge. My story presents an additional twist, however, though I doubt you would ever be able to guess what it is. Do you know why I have suddenly decided to kill your friend? Very well, the reason may not be obvious but it is indeed simple. I am going to put an end to that Mr. Sánchez
(
and, no, I don’t know him at all, nor has he ever done a thing to me
),
simply because I can. And therein lies the difference between me and the rest of the mortal world . . .

I looked at Bea for a moment. Naturally, there was no answer forthcoming. She continued blabbering on, but the curls of smoke from her cigarette seemed to demand a more convincing argument, so I clarified my position in the following manner:

I don’t think you quite understand, madame, but that is to be expected. Please forgive me, for I should have explained before that I find myself in a rather curious situation.
Finis,
get it?
Kaput
. Over. I have come to this exorbitantly expensive spa with the sole intention of vacationing for two delicious weeks and then swallowing a treasure trove of sleeping pills, all at once.

At this, I believe the blonde interrupted her soliloquy to grace me with a most admiring glance, but that might have been a mirage of some sort—after all, we
were
in the desert.

And since I came here with that objective, absolutely nothing will stop me from committing one tiny, arbitrary act. I will not have to go to jail for killing a man who annoys me, nor will I be held accountable for my actions, because I will be completely off-limits. Can you appreciate what an ideal situation it is? I can afford myself the indulgence of fulfilling one of those abominable desires that all of us have felt at some time or another. Yes, yes, darling, you too. Come now, don’t lie, despicable thoughts like these occur to everyone, even the sanest of us—the difference is that I can actually make them real because I am finished, do you understand? End of the line: Rafael Molinet is dead.

As I said this, I felt as if twenty or thirty pieces of a very complicated puzzle had suddenly fallen into place all on their own, creating a panorama that perhaps I didn’t fully understand but could see in my mind’s eye, and it was very promising indeed. What an incredible process. These mental jousts are so useful—at first I often feel a bit foolish imagining this verbal tug-of-war with someone who, in reality, cannot hear a word I say, but the method is infallible and ultimately very logical, especially in light of what I mentioned before: even when we find ourselves surrounded by willing ears and sympathetic lips, we all speak exclusively for our own benefit. Isn’t that so?

The delicious, creative, and unique impunity of a dead man. That pretty much sums up my current situation, and you needn’t be particularly clever to know that when a man is about to die, he can permit himself the luxury of committing arbitrary acts of will. But there is something else as well, something far more disturbing. A man in my position has an opportunity to put things in their place, and if he wants, he can add a little twist to the destiny of others as well. Don’t you see? A dead man
(
or better yet, an almost-dead man
)
is a lot like God. Of course he is,
ma chère,
and a god has the power to change the course of worldly events and deliver justice in his own particular way. What a sublime revelation!

“You are so sweet, so patient, to listen to me like this, Mr. Moulinex. You don’t know how grateful I am for our little chat.”

“As am I, dear. And you’ll see, that great big jumble of thoughts in your head will become remarkably clear once you’ve gotten it all off your chest. Now, where were we . . . ?” Good God, it was going to take a miracle for me to keep track of my own thoughts with all these interruptions. Yes, yes, let’s get a move-on . . .

Thanks to a very simple discovery, many things became clearer for me. I had been at L’Hirondelle d’Or, such a blessed haven, so blissfully removed from the rest of the world, for just over a week, entertaining myself as many solo travelers often do—by observing my fellow vacationers. It had been an amusing diversion to play the role of the gossipy old man, sniffing about the private lives of other people, but . . . for
what
? I had to ask myself. At first it was out of sheer boredom, obviously, and then it was because one of them, Mercedes Algorta, reminded me of Mama and the very strange manner in which she was widowed. Very well, until this point everything was rational, normal. Now, however, I was beginning to realize that all the information I had culled over the course of the week were like the pieces of a puzzle: one woman who resembled someone very important to me, two similar accidental deaths, separated by forty years of my own life. But how did the other guests fit into this picture? Antonio Sánchez? Ana, the timid blonde? Everyone else? And what in God’s name had made me decide that Sánchez was so abominable when Bea told me about the article he was planning to write about Mercedes? All these questions were like a prelude to a great discovery, the most interesting revelation of all: since the two stories were indeed so similar, perhaps I might intercede and change the ending of the second one, given that I am dead—and a dead man is omnipotent and immune to everything, as is God.

Listen, darling. As we just mentioned a few minutes ago, there is always some kind of logical explanation behind every, shall we say, atypical action. Now, would you like to know exactly what is behind my desire to murder Antonio Sánchez
?

Absolutely,
the imaginary blonde said. The real one, on the other hand, was blabbering on ad nauseam about something, though I had no idea what.

Very well. I will begin by telling you a very old story—not the whole story, though, for it would take me too long to get to the important part. The winds are so disagreeable here, don’t you agree?

At that point I believe I heard the real blonde say something like “son of a bitch,” but I don’t think she was referring to the desert winds.

In short, my dear, all this business regarding Mercedes Algorta and that gossipmonger Sánchez is very oddly connected to my past. Now, don’t go and get Freudian on me—we’re not there yet. Right now I want you to think back to what I said about how the simplest, most obvious situations very often have the most surprising explanations. The present situation, you see, reminds me of a very old story, which I will very quickly explain. During my childhood, an accident occurred. My father, a man named Bertie Molinet, arrived home one evening with a prostitute, both of them extremely drunk. When I say “home,” I don’t mean our home in Europe—that night we were in South America, in a rambling old, abandoned house that belonged to my family. That was the first and only night we would ever spend there, though, because the property had been sold and the house was in a state of total disarray. Practically no furniture, no electricity . . . a mess. Very well, the house had a number of abandoned bedrooms, one of which was to be mine for the night. To me it was fascinating, unexplored terrain, filled with marvelous treasures: trunks with exquisite clothes from bygone eras, lacy underthings, and crinoline petticoats. On a table—do take note—there was a hand mirror with a silver handle. Now, if you put these elements together, do you think you can imagine what happened next, my dear
?

An arabesque of Bea’s dark, dense tobacco smoke curled up before my eyes into a giant question mark.

Now, let me give you a general idea of all the things people claimed happened that night.
I then told my sparring partner of how Bertie found me in one of the bedrooms clad in nothing but a lady’s garter belt and clinging to the mirror with the silver handle, and I went on to describe the various violent incidents that ensued, which sent Bertie tumbling down the stairs as my mother stood by, doing nothing to break his fall. I also took a moment to mention how Gomez, my father’s majordomo, watched from the bottom of the stairs as my father fell and how my mother stood as still as a marble statue as Bertie’s head hit the stairs . . . twenty-one, twenty-two . . . Twenty-two steps leading down to hell. I also told the blonde about how Gomez, useless fool that he was, had cowered in a corner of the vestibule, covering his ears, crouched down low like a frightened ostrich, acting even more moronic than usual. I re-enacted his reaction for the benefit of the blonde, screeching as he did: