The She-Devil in the Mirror (3 page)

same old accusations—he's taken advantage of his contacts with people in the
government to make millions off those superstores—the same nonsense they pull
out of their hats whenever they want to ruin an honorable person. I really like
Yuca, my dear, I always did, ever since we were small, at the American School,
and Olga María did, too, even though all they ever did was say hi when they ran
into each other at the club, their teenage romance already long forgotten, but
even though they'd both gotten married, made separate lives for themselves, and
taken different paths, Yuca always carried a torch for Olga María, I'm
absolutely sure of it, and Olga María always carried a torch for him, that's why
I wasn't at all surprised three months ago when she told me she saw him again,
apparently they ran into each other in the parking lot of the Villas Españolas
Mall; as usual she was rushing to the boutique, and he was surrounded by his
bodyguards on his way to pick up a suit at Chaín the Turk's shop. I could see it
in her eyes as she was talking about him, she had that same gleam I already told
you about. I didn't want to ask her too much about it, my dear, because Yuca is
so important, but I understood that the two of them had some unfinished business
from fifteen years ago, having been boyfriend-girlfriend as teenagers, just
kissing and touching, but no sex, something that now, who knows why, they
decided to finish. The problem was, how to meet: Yuca's always surrounded by
bodyguards—a big show of security, what with so many kidnappings, my dear, it's
a good thing, and anyway both of them being married and all. It wasn't easy. For
days on end all they could do was talk on the phone, just waiting for their
chance. Olga María was excited, she was acting like a teenager, she wanted him
so badly, she wanted to be with Yuca, but at the same time she was afraid of
getting into trouble, not only with Marito and Kati, but because of Yuca's
political activities, he has a lot of enemies, even in his own party and the
government, and you know how dirty politics can be, my dear, which is why Olga
María was afraid her relationship with him would be used against him by his
enemies or to blackmail her, these days nobody feels safe. So, surprise
surprise, my dear, what do you know? It was Auntie Laura, once again to the
rescue, so once and for all Olga María could get together with Yuca, so they
could abandon themselves to their passions, do whatever they had to do. One
afternoon I picked her up at Villas Españolas and drove her to a secret hideaway
in Miramonte, where Yuca was waiting for her. She was super-excited, and she
looked gorgeous. I came back to pick her up two hours later. She was totally
disappointed—she barely answered my questions, in monosyllables. I figured Yuca
must not have been at the top of his game. I kept at her to tell me the details,
like she always had before, after all, what was I was her friend for, if you
know what I mean. But Olga María said she'd rather not talk about it. There was
a second time, another afternoon, I took her to the same house under the same
circumstances. This time she wasn't quite so excited, even though she was all
gussied up and happy, but like someone who's determined not to get her hopes up.
When she came out she was even more disappointed than the time before, and again
she kept quiet, she'd tell me later when we had more time, she promised. In the
end she did, even though she still didn't want to tell me many details: she kept
repeating that she and Yuca were incompatible, something wasn't working right,
she'd completely lost interest. I asked her what Yuca thought about it. She told
me he wanted them to keep seeing each other, he didn't want to give her up, he
said he was madly in love with her, they should keep trying, the same story as
with the other two. But you can see how Olga María was, my dear, in her sweet
gentle way she had quite a strong personality—when she said no, she meant no.
Poor Yuca was being stood up: there he was, all dressed up and nowhere to go,
that's why I told you he couldn't
not
show up at the wake, because he's
been in love with Olga María ever since grammar school, and he must be suffering
from her death more than almost anybody. But now the place is really full, my
dear, let's go say hello to people, we don't want anybody to think badly of us,
as if we came to Olga María's wake just to gossip. Follow me, I'll introduce you
first of all to José Carlos.

2. THE BURIAL

H
OW HORRIBLY HOT IT WAS
in that church, my dear. I can't figure out
why they decided to hold the funeral so early in the day. They really should
have air conditioning in churches. This isn't the first time I've thought of
that: if those priests installed air conditioning, I swear we'd come to church
more often. I told my mother that the last time I went, and she made a face like
you wouldn't believe, like I was committing blasphemy. Good thing we're in the
car now and that I parked it in the shade. For a moment there I was sweating so
much I thought my makeup would run. What a talkative priest, my dear. But let's
just wait here until the air conditioning kicks in—I've been sweating so much I
feel like dashing home and taking a shower instead of following in the funeral
procession. I'm going to join in behind Sergio and Cuca. Sergio's car is such a
pretty color, I love that lilac; I wanted one that color but BMW doesn't make
it, only Toyota, so I chose white, because it goes with everything and I wasn't
about to buy a different make just because there wasn't lilac. Some people don't
care; Alberto, my ex-husband, is like that. I've had only BMWs for about twelve
years now, ever since papa gave me my first car when I turned eighteen and
entered the university. I remember celebrating with Olga María. That was a day
that started out beautiful and ended up ugly. The day after the graduation
party, there it was, the car, parked in front of our house. It was a total
surprise, and I was ecstatic. I called all my friends from school and told them
to come over and see it: BMW, latest model, crimson red. I drove around in it
the whole day with Olga María and some other friends. Papa warned me not to
drive too fast, but once we decided to drive to the port and we were out on the
highway, I floored it. Poor Olga María, we were so happy that day, and now, look
at her, ahead of us in that hearse. I still can't believe it. That same night
when I was showing off my BMW, we also had a brush with death; that's why I'm
remembering it now, you can't imagine what a horrible experience it was. We went
to the Zona Rosa to have a few beers and hang out with some friends. You won't
believe it, but we'd just left Chili's, and we were walking to the corner where
I'd left my car and suddenly, there was a shoot-out. All hell broke loose. A
bunch of terrorists suddenly appeared out of nowhere and started shooting some
gringos sitting on the terrace of the Mediterraneo Restaurant. You can't believe
the panic. Everybody threw themselves on the ground and started screaming their
heads off, because the shooting seemed to last forever. I tore my brand-new blue
jeans, right on the knee, and Olga María almost broke her wrist. It was
dreadful. When it stopped, there was this deathly silence, and we all slowly
crept over to where the gringos were all shot up. They killed them all; there
were about ten of them sprawled out on the floor, bleeding like pigs. Dreadful,
my dear, really gruesome. We'd just walked by there no more than a minute
earlier. Isn't that incredible, that nothing happened to us then and now Olga
María ended up dying like this? I swear, we almost had a fit of hysteria. I
don't know how we managed to find our way to the car and get out of there. Two
of the gringos were really handsome. I remember perfectly how they stared at
Olga María and me when we walked past their table. That's what we were talking
about—hard as it is to believe, even if it seems like I'm making this up—about
how hot two of those gringos were, when suddenly the shooting started. I hate
driving in funeral processions. Other people hate you; it causes huge traffic
jams; and it makes me feel like I'm on display in a shop window. If Olga María
hadn't been such a good friend, I'd have driven straight to the cemetery and not
followed the hearse—that's what I usually do when it isn't someone this close.
Hand me that Miguel Bosé cassette. He's so hot. I love him. Finally, the air
conditioning is starting to work. I don't know why that hearse is moving so
slowly. It's practically standing still. What's going on? Maybe it's because
there are too many of us. This must be one of the longest processions in a long
time—Olga María and Marito's families are so well-known; well, to tell the
truth, Olga María's is more. By the way, did you notice how gorgeous Diana
looked? She looks so much like Olga María, a Xerox copy. Miami's climate suits
her. I'd love to have a tan like that. But the sun here is too harsh: it just
burns you, turns you into a boiled shrimp, and then the tan doesn't last at all.
Things are going really well for Diana in Miami. We had a long talk this
morning. I told her exactly what happened. She suspects there's a lot more than
meets the eye. She said she has no intention of standing around twiddling her
thumbs, she's even considering hiring a gringo private detective to come here
and investigate; she doesn't trust the police here at all. I don't either,
especially that Deputy Chief Handal—what an oaf. Did I tell you he started
interrogating me this afternoon? Stupid idiot. He wants me to tell him all of
Olga María's most intimate secrets just so he can confirm his own filthy
suspicions. He even threatened me, if I didn't cooperate, he'd get a subpoena.
Please, do me a favor! Ask me whatever you want, I told him, once and for all,
but I warned him, I'm only going to answer the questions I feel like answering.
And you know what he asked? If I knew of any life insurance policies Marito had
taken out on Olga María. I told him these aren't things decent people go around
talking about, of course every respectable family has life insurance policies.
Please, do me a favor. That Deputy Chief Handal is a boor—instead of looking for
the murderer, he spends his time digging into Olga María's family life. I told
him: Don't be so vile! What, I said to him, are you trying to insinuate that
Mario hired somebody to kill Olga María so he could get her life insurance? What
a vile insinuation—and I, for one, wasn't going to put up with it. He said I
shouldn't misunderstand, he was only trying to verify information he'd gotten
elsewhere, and he wasn't by any stretch of the imagination suggesting that Mr.
Trabanino had hired somebody to kill his wife. That's what that cretin said:
“Mr. Trabanino.” Then he really threw me for a loop. You know what he asked me?
If I knew what kind of relationship there'd been between Olga María and Gastón
Berrenechea, the lawyer. Now, why would he ask me that? We were in the reception
room at the funeral home, it was almost empty, but everyone must have heard me
shouting at him to stop being so impertinent, show some respect for the dead,
get out of here immediately unless he wanted me to get Olga María's relatives to
throw him out. Can you imagine such an outrage? I bet he was a terrorist, or
something like it, during the war. Well, with this new police force they put
together after they signed that peace treaty with the communists, you never
know. I am absolutely positive that Handal is working with Yuca's enemies.
You've got to be very careful with people of that ilk. Can you imagine the
scandal if the press got wind of Yuca's
affaire
with Olga María? I get
chills just thinking about it: it would be the end of his entire political
career. What a weird route the driver of that hearse is taking. I would have
turned left here: it makes more sense—why does he want to go all the way through
Colonia San Francisco? He should've turned there and gone through Colonia San
Mateo. I love this song by Miguel Bosé, especially the part where he whistles.
Whose car did Diana go in? Oh, she's with Marito and Doña Olga and the girls.
And Julita? I didn't see her. She's probably in Sergio and Cuca's car. Or maybe
they had her stay and watch over the house; I doubt it, though. I was worried
about that Deputy Chief Handal starting to poke his nose into the relationship
between Olga María and Yuca. I should warn Yuca. I'll find a chance at the
cemetery. How could Handal have found out about it if Olga María and I were the
only ones who knew? I don't think even Julita realized what was going on; and
even if she did she'd never tell, especially not somebody like him. The only
possibility is that one of the girls from the boutique—Cheli or Conchita—one of
them blabbed. I'm going to warn them: they shouldn't talk to that policeman. I
hate having to change gears every other minute; and the motor gets overheated
when you drive this slowly. I don't understand why there aren't any cemeteries
in any decent parts of the city—do you, my dear? They're all so far away, so out
of the way, and always in the middle of dangerous neighborhoods. Well, the truth
is, this city's contaminated with slums. That's what Diana told me, it always
surprises her how the neighborhoods where decent people live are practically
surrounded by slums—where the criminals come from. That's why it's so easy to
get murdered without anybody being able to do anything about it, like what
happened to Olga María: the criminals do their dirty work, then quickly sneak
back to their hideouts. In other cities it's not like that: you live on one side
and the bad guys live on the other, and there's miles in between, which is how
it should be. But in this country, everything's all squished together. Olga
María showed me how just as you enter her neighborhood, right next to the slums,
there are three row houses up against one another, wall to wall: in one there's
a grammar school, the next one's a whorehouse, and in the next one, there's an
evangelical church. Can you imagine!? Sheer madness. This stoplight is going to
break up the procession. We're going to lose each other. It takes forever for
the light to turn green. We should have had a police escort to stop the traffic;
I don't know why nobody thought of hiring a policeman—that disgusting Deputy
Chief Handal could do it instead of sticking his nose into things that are none
of his business. The good part is that from here on out, once we're on the
highway, there won't be much traffic, until we get close to the cemetery, that
is, then the streets get horrible, super-narrow. Diana said she's going to be
here for only three days; she can't stay longer, because of her job, she's a top
executive at some computer company with its headquarters in Miami, and she's
finishing up her master's in business administration. That girl's really
talented. She's three years younger than me and Olga María. Don Sergio sent her
there for high school and then she just stayed on in Miami. She comes to visit
from time to time, at the most once a year, especially since Don Sergio died;
she'd rather Doña Olga come to her because she can rest there. She was asking me
about what Olga María had been up to recently; they didn't have much contact,
according to her. I'm not going to go telling her everything Olga María didn't
tell her; I don't want to make a faux pas or anything. She especially wanted to
know if I suspect anyone in particular, if I can think of anyone who might have
planned the murder, because as far as she's concerned it was a contract killing,
arranged by somebody who had a strong motive to get rid of Olga María. She kept
insisting, I'm telling you, my dear, almost like that Deputy Chief Handal,
wanting me to tell her what I thought. I told her the truth, that I'm pretty
confused about everything myself. I don't know anybody who could have even
thought about committing such a brutal crime—maybe it was a mistake. But Diana
said it couldn't have been a mistake, the murderer was waiting specifically for
Olga María, he knew who he was killing. What if it was a way of sending a
message to Marito? I wondered out loud. Why did I say that, tell me?! Because
then Diana started interrogating me as if I knew something. I told her I didn't,
it was just a question that popped into my head. Can you imagine if I'd told her
about Olga María's relationships with José Carlos and Yuca? Who knows what she
would have imagined! She's very upset, the poor thing. Anybody would be in her
situation. Here we are at the roundabout; let's see if from here to El Ranchón
the driver of the hearse will step on it a little. We're going so slowly. But
what worries me most is this business with Yuca, because that Deputy Chief
Handal is already making all kinds of conjectures. I care about Yuca, a lot; and
he really trusts me. I mean, when his relationship with Olga María didn't work
out and she didn't want to tell me any details, it was Yuca himself who filled
me in. The poor guy was really down, almost desperate. He called me at home and
said he needed to see me, urgently. I already knew what it was about, but I was
still surprised because Yuca hadn't called me for years, ever since he got
involved in politics and married Kati. We were pretty good friends before that,
I even dated him for a while. I never told you? Yes, we did. Nothing ever
happened, but we went out several times. That's why I wasn't totally surprised
when I got a call from him. At first I thought I should talk to Olga María
before seeing Yuca, but then I told myself that if she hadn't wanted to tell me
anything, it was better not to insist. We agreed that the following afternoon
I'd go to his house in Miramonte, where he'd taken Olga María. Look for that
José María cassette, I love that Spanish singer. Have you heard him? I found
poor Yuca so changed—handsome, as usual, but politics ages people, my dear. It's
a pity. But what was most noticeable was how her nervous he was. He couldn't sit
still. Every other second he was standing up, pacing around, calling someone on
his cell phone, talking to someone on his walkie-talkie. I figured Yuca used
that house as some kind of secret office. He and I were the only ones inside;
but outside, in the garden and the garage, there were about half a dozen
bodyguards. From the minute I got there he started telling me about how I needed
to convince Olga María to see him again, how I was her best friend and only I
could make that happen, how he would be forever grateful to me if I did. He
didn't even wait for me to sit down, get comfortable on the sofa; he didn't even
offer me something to drink, he just launched right into his tirade about what I
should tell Olga María—it was like he was possessed. I told him to calm down and
get me a drink, I asked him if he'd totally forgotten his manners, I told him to
please remember who I was, Laura, remember me? Not some messenger-girl, and to
please get off his high horse. That's when he offered me a whiskey and poured
another for himself, but not just a regular shot, more like a full half glass
and he downed it in one gulp. I realized he was really in bad shape, he needed
help. I asked what the hell was going on with him; I asked him to please calm
down, have a seat, relax. These are the streets I was talking about that I don't
like. What's this called? Colonia Costa Rica? Are you sure? I know how to get
here, I've come here so often to bury people, but I've never known what it's
called. After you go under that bridge you can see the cemetery. I don't know my
way at all to the main cemetery, the one downtown; I get lost in that part of
town; but I don't think they bury anybody there anymore, my dear. As I was
saying, Yuca calmed down, sort of. I told him I couldn't do anything for him
unless he told me in detail what had happened between him and Olga María. I
warned him to not give me any cock-and-bull stories, to tell me the truth, the
whole truth, and nothing but the truth. He looked a little taken aback: he
thought Olga María had already told me everything. I said she hadn't, I said she
was a very discreet woman, and she'd only told me that things hadn't worked out
between them. Then Yuca asked me to wait a second, he had to go to the bathroom,
and off he dashed. What a mess this is, my dear. We're at a standstill. That's
what I hate about these narrow streets, the tiniest thing goes wrong and there's
a major traffic jam. We could sit here now for fifteen minutes. That's happened
to me before. It's because right after the bridge the street gets even narrower,
sometimes the hearse can't even get through. What a pain. But I was telling you
about Yuca—I do feel like it's somehow wrong to talk about it: it's so private.
Especially considering Yuca's political position, my dear, it might be
embarrassing, even dangerous. But I think he's doing better. He looks good now,
more relaxed, stable, self-assured, not like that afternoon I was with him in
his hideout. When he got back from the bathroom he was acting totally different:
like he was having tremors. Then I understood what was going on with him, and I
got scared, why not admit it. A man of his stature in a situation like that,
it's enough to frighten anyone. So, again, I told him to relax, I suggested he
have a seat on the sofa next to me and tell me all about what had happened with
Olga María. First, he gave me a whole long song and dance: about how he'd always
loved her, how she was the best thing in his life, how he needed such a sweet
understanding woman by his side, how his relationship with Kati was dead. You
know: what men always say to women. I let him go on for a while, but when I
realized he was beating around the bush, I asked him point blank why Olga María
had entered that house so excited and left it so disappointed. Yuca was sitting
next to me on the sofa. He didn't answer, he looked me right in the eyes and
began caressing my hair, with the saddest expression on his face. I felt sorry
for him, and he knew how to use that to his advantage, he knows I've always
liked him. He inched closer and closer, a little bit at a time, then he kissed
me. The weird part is that I didn't do anything to stop him. On the contrary. It
was as if I had the feeling that this was the only way I was going to get this
man to settle down, the only way I was going to find out what had really
happened between him and Olga María. Anyway, that's the only way I can explain
it, and to tell you the truth, once we started, it didn't seem like we were
going to stop. Yuca is so good-looking, so tender; he knows how to say such
lovely things. And his body, my dear, if you ordered one custom made, it
wouldn't turn out better than his. But the more we kissed and touched each other
on the sofa, the more frantic he got. He told me he loved my legs, he wanted to
lick me all over. He almost tore my clothes off. I came there totally
defenseless: I was wearing a gray plaid miniskirt and a white blouse. I had no
idea that man was going to throw himself on me like that; if I'd known, I'd have
worn pants. I managed to tell him to be careful or he'd tear my stockings, but
he was totally beside himself; all he wanted to do was bury his head between my
legs, like a dog. I managed to grab him by the hair and shout at him to calm
down, I didn't like it like that—now I understood why Olga María had been so
disappointed in him; I asked him what it would take for him to go about it a
little more gently. Poor Yuca. I still get an odd feeling when I remember the
look on his face. He was on his knees on the floor and I'd already stood up. He
rested his head on the sofa, and, right then and there, he simply fell apart. It
was horrible—he started sniveling, can you imagine, a man like that. I don't
even care to remember it. He mumbled something about wanting me to forgive him,
he couldn't control himself, it wasn't his fault, it was that filthy cocaine.
I'd already figured that one out, my dear, that this man was not in his right
mind, being that frantic doesn't come from drinking whisky. I sat back down and
started caressing his head, I told him not to worry, I was his friend, and he
could trust me completely; he should go ahead and tell me what was going on, I
would help him get Olga María back. Finally, he calmed down a little. I quickly
pulled myself together, straightened out my clothes: I was worried he might call
in one of his bodyguards. Then he started telling me the whole story, just like
that, still kneeling on the floor, his head resting on my lap, like some kind of
naughty child. He told me that with Olga María the same thing had happened, the
same despair, the same evil demon ruining everything, because by the time they'd
met he was already out of his mind, he'd been snorting cocaine every fifteen
minutes, and when Olga María said the same thing I did, that he should take it
easy, slow down, he'd reacted differently, because he'd been wanting her for so
long, because he'd been waiting for her for so many years, there was no way he
could stop himself; and she, as you can imagine, she just tried to get away.
Yuca, the idiot, forced her onto the bed. He said to me, right there, and
pointed to the bedroom where he took her, practically by force, where he ripped
off her clothes. She's so strong willed, she rejected him, just like I did. But
he didn't stop, like with me; no, he forced himself on top of her and buried his
face between her legs, totally possessed, frantic, until Olga María had no
choice but to give in, though she was probably disgusted, she must've been. Then
it got even worse—that's what tormented Yuca most of all: because of all the
drugs he took, he couldn't even get it up. Pathetic, my dear. Can you imagine a
hunk of a man like that, right there for the taking, all your very own, and his
thingy doesn't even work, all because of his vice!? That's why all that
desperation, all that anxiety, wanting to eat and eat and eat, because he knew
it didn't work when he was so high on cocaine. A true tragedy. Then I understood
why Olga María had left so disappointed, why she'd decided not to tell me
anything, and why she totally broke off her relationship with Yuca. She did the
right thing, my dear, there's no point taking risks with a man like that. But
that first time, after his pathetic performance, Yuca told her he was sorry, he
begged her to forgive him, he didn't usually act like that or take so many