The She-Devil in the Mirror (5 page)

affaire
and she arranged the murder to create problems for Yuca. Pure fantasy, of
course, as if I'd been force-fed a slew of murder mysteries, but that's how that
interview with that Deputy Chief Handal affected me. Can you believe that it
never occurred to me that Don Federico himself could have masterminded Olga
María's murder and that way kill three birds with one stone: finish off the
woman who was driving his son-in-law crazy, save his daughter's marriage, and
keep Yuca on a tighter leash because of the suspicions that would surround him.
Yes, I know, my dear, more fantasy—things like that only happen in telenovelas.
It's that meddlesome, conniving policeman, he's to blame for what's happening to
me, but before he left I asked him what his other lines of investigation were,
other than the “crime of passion” one, just in case I could contribute anything
to them. The guy didn't want to give me even a little hint; he just told me that
if he uncovered anything of interest or if he needed to talk to me again, he'd
call me. That's what he called it: “talk to me,” as if it weren't really an
interrogation. He gave me a little card so I could get in touch with him if I
remembered anything important that might help the investigation. In short, he
came here to mess with my head. That was this morning; they were at the house
until noon. It was their fault I was upset all afternoon. You see, I've even
started thinking badly of Marito, God forbid, as if the poor man didn't have
enough sorrows and problems. The mind can be a treacherous thing: you know, I
even started wondering if maybe Marito had a lover, if he found out about the
affaire
between Yuca and Olga María and saw his chance to get rid
of her
and
point the finger at Yuca
and
get the insurance
money. Yes, my dear, I know, it's despicable. I feel guilty just thinking such
thoughts. It's all that Deputy Chief Handal's fault. That's why I went to see
the girls after lunch, at Doña Olga's place, the situation is so chaotic, the
girls spend most of the time at their grandmother's, but Marito wants to be with
them at least for meals. The horrible thing is that the house reminds them of
Olga María's murder. Can you imagine how awful it must be for the girls to walk
into that living room where that monster murdered their mother? It can't be good
for them. I already told Marito: he should sell that house immediately. If he
doesn't, the girls will never get over their trauma. They should live in a
different house, a different space, where they can forget that atrocity—Marito
agrees with me. But it's not so easy to sell the house and buy another one.
It'll take a few months. In the meantime it's best for the girls to live at Doña
Olga's and go home only to get their clothes and toys—the less they go there the
better. The one who has it the worst is Julita: she can't go to Doña Olga's—her
place is too small and also they can't leave Olga María's house with nobody
there, with so many thieves around who'd strip it bare in the blink of an eye.
The poor thing has been totally abandoned, because Marito comes home only to
sleep. Poor dear Julita, I really feel sorry for her, all alone in that house,
full of so many memories, with Olga María's presence everywhere, with nothing
much to do, not being able to see the girls, like living with ghosts. It's
horrible. Doña Olga agrees with me. We talked about it this afternoon when I
went to see the girls. Something has to be done about Julita, she's worked for
them for so many years. But for now there's nothing to do: neither Sergio or
Cuca or Doña Olga can take her to live with them. She'll have to wait until
Marito moves, the girls get settled again, and then Julita can take care of
them. In the meantime that poor woman might go crazy; that's what I'm worried
about. Here comes my mother, again. Wait a second. She says the Brazilian
telenovela has started. I'm going to have to go, or else my mother won't enjoy
it. I'll call you later, or tomorrow morning if you're going out tonight. It's
just that I have a few more ideas about this Deputy Chief Handal's suspicions, a
couple of ideas that might help find the mastermind behind Olga María's murder.
I want to explain them to you—but not in such a rush—so you can give me your
opinion. I'm even tempted to call that policeman so he can follow up on some
leads. But they're very delicate issues. Let's talk about it later. Okay,
ciao.

4. THE BALCONY

I
LOVE THIS PLACE, MY DEAR;
it's the second time I've been here.
About a month ago we sat at this very table with Olga María. What I like is its
European
ambiance
, how you don't feel like you're in San Salvador—the
only thing missing that would make it perfect is air conditioning. I prefer this
side, facing the street, each table with its own little balcony. I still have my
doubts about this neighborhood; I wish it were in one of the better residential
areas, but it's not that bad here. Look at all the traffic. That mall across the
street, it's done in such poor taste, so tacky, more for servants than anybody
else. Did you know Mirna Leiva owns this place, that classmate of ours from the
American School? I don't see her here now. Last time she was tending bar. She
lived abroad for several years, after her major difficulties. Remember they
arrested her for being a communist? Poor thing. She spent several years in
Madrid. Her grandparents are from there. At one time the three of us were close
friends, yes, with Olga María, we were about thirteen, I think it was before
high school, but later we grew apart, especially after they arrested her and
there was that big scandal. I don't understand how she could have gotten mixed
up with the communists. She comes from a good family, they've got coffee
plantations. Poor woman, they disinherited her, things turned out badly for her.
But now with this place she's doing super-well. A real success story. It's worth
every penny: the wine and food are very reasonable, considering the quality. We
came at night with Olga María. We ordered a bottle of French white wine and a
plate of cheese and cold cuts. Everything was delicious. We talked and talked. I
think that was the last time we talked so much. She looked gorgeous that night,
with her black miniskirt and high-heeled boots. Stunning; I never saw her
looking so sexy. First, we checked the whole place out; around the other side,
behind the bar, they have foreign magazines and newspapers, in case you come
alone and want to read. Then we picked this table. Olga María was kind of sad—it
was her disappointment with Yuca and her problems with Marito—but after a few
glasses of wine she got livelier, happy, she started having a good time. Check
it out: the best thing about this place are the waiters, all university
students, handsome devils, every one, enough to drool over. They say Mirna picks
the gorgeous ones on purpose so women get addicted to coming here. Evil tongues,
my dear; even though, if I were Mirna, who knows if I'd resist the temptation to
give a few of them a whirl. That one over there is the one who waited on us when
we came with her. Gorgeous, isn't he? I think his name is Rodolfo. You should
have seen Olga María that night! She didn't stop chatting up that Rodolfo. Every
time he walked by she called him over and started plying him with questions. She
was making the poor thing very nervous. Olga María could be quite a handful when
she got tipsy. He told us he was in his second year at medical school, he told
us almost all the waiters were at the university, and he didn't have a
girlfriend. But he's not going to wait on us, look, it'll be this one. He's not
bad, either. What do you want to drink? It's only five thirty. Too early for
wine. I'd like a cappuccino and an apple tart. And bring me a glass of water,
you hear? What did I tell you? Though he seems kind of stupid. Look over there,
in the red car, isn't that Cuca? It's her. Of course, it is. What's she doing in
this part of town? Poor thing, that Cuca, she just doesn't measure up to Sergio.
I don't understand how such an attractive man ended up in that woman's hands,
even though, it's true, she is a nice person. Anyway, that night, with Olga
María, you should have seen how much fun we had. In the end, we got a bit
outrageous, but we kept our voices down, whispering, so nobody would hear us.
She kept saying she wanted to take that dreamboat home with us, she wanted to
eat him up. Yes, my dear, after a few glasses of wine everything gets
topsy-turvy. She asked me if I'd be willing for the two of us to go to bed with
the same man. We were a little off our rockers by then. Olga María surprised me:
she was always so reserved, so proper, low-key, so modest. But that night she
was like a different woman, magically transformed, as if the wine had revealed
her hidden self, I don't know, my dear, but she was happy, free, after a while
she didn't mention her relationship with Marito, or the girls, or the business,
she was just fantasizing about what we'd do with that cute waiter I just showed
you, how we'd handle him between the two of us. Later, I thought maybe her
failure with Yuca, her disappointment, might have affected her mood. She even
asked me certain questions you don't go around asking any day of the week. For
example, she wanted to know what my biggest sexual fantasy was, my ultimate
sexual fantasy, what I imagined would feel the absolute best and what would be
very difficult, if not impossible, to do. Yes, I'm not lying to you, at this
very table. I think that waiter unleashed her passions, or who knows what. Here
he comes with the cappuccinos. This guy is good-looking but he doesn't let loose
in you what got let loose in Olga María that night. Not even close. That was the
last time I saw her so happy, as if she already had some premonition of her own
death and wanted to enjoy life to the fullest. She told me that her sexual
fantasy, what she would like to try before she died—how incredible, my dear, I
still remember those very words: “what I would like to try before I die”—was to
be in bed with two men at the same time. I think we all have that fantasy. Don't
you? I asked her which two, because it's not the same to go to bed with two ugly
idiots as with two hunks you have the hots for. There's so much traffic. This
time of day is always crazy. Look at that jam. That's what's so stressful: too
many cars. I hope it clears up by the time we leave. What do you think she
answered? That at that moment the only one she could think of was that waiter,
Rodolfo, I said his name was. Poor Olga María. When you think about it, it must
be awful to live with the same man for almost ten years, even if you do love him
and have kids with him. Can you imagine always screwing the same way? Because no
matter what, you always get into some kind of routine. That's what happened to
me with Alberto, and we lived together for barely a year. Horrible. But Alberto
is a special case. I don't know how I ever got together with that man. Thank God
I freed myself from his clutches. He doesn't have a shred of imagination. I
always had to get on top: he never took the initiative. I think that man could
live perfectly well without sex. I like being on top, but not all the time. I'm
telling you, I was always the one who had to be in charge: he just lay there in
bed, with his undershirt and shorts on, like a plank of wood. Of course: he
claimed that he'd catch cold if he took off his underpants and T-shirt. What a
calamity. I don't know if all financiers are such wusses; and I don't want to
find out. This cappuccino is delicious, isn't it? You can tell it's a real
cappuccino; in most places they just whip up the milk a little and pour it into
any old coffee and call it a cappuccino; what a fiasco. Taste the cake, dear:
it's divine. Let me ask this kid if they make it here. No, right? That's what I
thought. That time with Olga María we didn't try the cakes; just wine and cheese
and cold cuts. As I was saying, she was in this super-liberated mood, and she
told me that at the very beginning of her relationship with Marito she told him
about her fantasy of sleeping with two men, but instead of going along with her,
he got angry. Men are such brutes. Don't go getting any ideas that Marito is
some kind of saint. He's nowhere near as bad as Alberto, needless to say, but
it's just that men, once they've got you, they don't worry about it anymore.
Olga María told me she was sick of Marito, in bed I mean, that he always went
through the same ritual: he rubbed cream on his hands and started massaging her
legs, then her hips, until his thing stood up, and then he got on top of her.
Always the same. When she told me, I told her she shouldn't complain, a man
massaging your legs before making love is nothing to sneer at. I told her again
about my experience with Alberto. Nobody's ever done it to me that way, starting
out with a leg massage. But she told me she hated the cream, she didn't want
anything more to do with a man who massaged her legs with cream before fucking
her. Now I understand her: ten years of having the same thing done to you is
enough to drive you crazy. That's why she had such a good time with Julio
Iglesias and José Carlos; she'd put up with being only with Marito for a long
time. Now that I think about it, that must have been her disappointment with
Yuca: just imagine, you've been waiting for this man to ravish you, and to do it
with the full force of his virility and his imagination, and it turns out the
man's so strung out, he can't even get it up. It could even make you feel
resentful. Speaking of Yuca, here's what I wanted to tell you: I think one of
Yuca's political enemies might have hired a hit man to murder Olga María, in
order to hurt him, to implicate him in a crime, you know, like the “crime of
passion” hypothesis Deputy Chief Handal is considering. Doesn't that sound
logical to you? I've been thinking about it. That's the only way it makes sense
that someone actually plotted and planned such an atrocity. Did you hear, that
monster who shot her was a soldier, one of those specially trained ones from the
Acahuapa Battalion. Any one of those unscrupulous military people might have
arranged the murder. Yes, my dear, a whole slew of officers want to get into
politics, seeing as how the war is over and they can't keep stealing like they
used to—they've got to adapt to the changing circumstances. This is all very
hush-hush. At first I considered mentioning it to Deputy Chief Handal, but what
if he's in cahoots with the mastermind and that's why he's trying to steer the
investigation toward a “crime of passion”—so he can smear Yuca and poor Olga
María? It makes me furious. But it wouldn't be the first time they tried to
slander Yuca with this kind of thing. Now that I think about it, when they
arrested Mirna for being a communist, people went around saying the whole thing
was Yuca's fault, he'd turned her in because she refused to sleep with him, and
Mirna was actually innocent, and it was just his way of taking revenge. I never
believed a word of it. Nothing but idle gossip. Yuca didn't need to do something
like that to Mirna. But Olga María didn't agree with me: she said that during
that period Yuca was obsessed with hunting down communists, he was pretty messed
up, and it wouldn't have been unheard of for him to destroy Mirna's life out of
pure spite. Because they did destroy her life, my dear. Poor Mirna disappeared
for three days; and it was only because her family pulled strings in high places
that they sent her to the women's prison. But while she was disappeared with the
National Guard, they raped her. That's what they say, anyway. Who knows how
many. Horrible. Just thinking about it gives me the shivers: can you imagine a
whole bunch of disgusting drooling torturers, one after the other climbing on
top of you, sticking that putrid thing, full of diseases, in you? I'd vomit; I'd
die. Poor Mirna. When she was released, they sent her to Madrid. Seems like now
she stays out of trouble, but she still has a reputation for being a bit of a
red and a little off her rocker. Papa says they don't arrest anybody for no
reason, Mirna must have been involved in something. I agree: Yuca had nothing to
do with it. You want to order something else? I feel like a glass of wine.
There's still a lot of traffic. I don't want to drink more coffee: I won't be
able to sleep. I'd prefer white wine. Do you see the pictures? The paintings on
the walls, dear. They give this place a special
cachet
, something
artistique
. Even though I don't know anything about art—here comes
the waiter. Are you going to drink the other cappuccino? That idea that Yuca's
political enemies could have masterminded Olga María's murder, I mentioned it to
José Carlos. Yesterday at noon. We had lunch together. Didn't I tell you? It was
lovely. We went to Marea Alta Restaurant in the Zona Rosa. No, I called to ask
him where that Deputy Chief Handal had gotten that photo of Olga María. No, I
didn't just come out and ask him like that, so abruptly, I said we should talk,
the police had been interrogating me, and I'd like to talk to him about it. José
Carlos has already packed up his studio, and he's leaving for Boston next
Monday. He invited me out for lunch. He's so sweet. He said that way we could
say a proper goodbye, because he'll be running around like crazy all weekend,
here and there, tying up loose ends, because he's decided to leave for good—he
doesn't plan to live in this country ever again. He's very upset, my dear. How
could he not be? You should have heard some of the things he told me. He's taken
it hard, poor man. That's why he invited me out to eat at Marea Alta, because he
doesn't have a studio or anything. Too bad, my dear, I would have rather gone to
his studio. But we had a great time. We drank beer and ate oysters. Upstairs. I
love that place: you're up there level with the treetops, hidden, you can see
the cars going by but they can't see you. I wanted to know what José Carlos had
talked about with this Deputy Chief Handal, what muddled nonsense that
scandal-mongering policeman came to him with—here comes the waiter with my wine.
It's delicious, ice cold. Excuse me, young man, that other waiter's name is
Rodolfo, isn't it? Yes, that one behind the bar. What did I tell you? When he
walks by I'm going to tell him about Olga María. He probably hasn't heard. Of
course he'll remember her. How could he forget? Are you nuts? A woman like Olga
María isn't easy to forget, especially when she's been flirting with you;
there's not a man in the world who'd forget that. I'm going to call him over
here. No, it's not tactless. Anyway, I want to finish telling you about José
Carlos. The thing is, I asked him point blank where that Deputy Chief Handal had
gotten the naked photograph of Olga María—though it doesn't show her
privates—lying on the sofa; I told him I knew that he, José Carlos, had taken
it, he shouldn't try to pull the wool over my eyes, I knew that sofa and it
would have been very unlikely that a brute like Handal would be going around
fabricating a photo like that—he should be frank with me. He was surprised that
the policeman would have been so indiscreet as to show me the picture of Olga
María. Needless to say, he did take it: it was one in a series he thought up one
afternoon when she came to the studio and they were drinking wine. They were
already pretty tipsy, and José Carlos suggested she pose in the nude, but only
in sexy poses, without showing her privates: neither her tits or her pussy. He
told me he shot a whole roll, but that night Olga María called him, very
alarmed, and asked him to destroy the roll—she said taking those photos had been
totally reckless. That's what José Carlos told me, anyway. He told her he'd
already developed them, in his own darkroom, and they'd come out fantastic, he
wanted to show them to her. But Olga María was really worried: she begged him to
destroy the prints and the negatives, said she'd pay him for the cost of the
materials, she just didn't want those photos to exist for anything in the world.
The whole thing had been madness, she'd never allow him to take pictures of her
again. José Carlos said he'd never heard her so beside herself, so categorical,
and he promised her he'd destroy them all. And that's what he did. But he kept
one, the brute, and he left it in his album as a souvenir. According to him,
Deputy Chief Handal and his bloodhounds searched his entire studio, without
permission or a warrant, and they illegally confiscated the photograph—the only
thing they took, but he can't report them because then Marito would find out
about his relationship with Olga María. A great big mess, my dear. Those
policemen are a bunch of delinquents. José Carlos says they were very
threatening when they interrogated him—he thought any minute they'd arrest him
and start torturing him. Horrible: they accused him of blackmailing Olga María
and then hiring somebody to murder her when she threatened to report him.
Imagine that. Poor José Carlos, he's devastated. But we had a great time
upstairs at the Marea Alta, they have these gigantic oysters, absolutely
delicious. What José Carlos also doesn't understand is how the police found out
about the relationship between him and Olga María. I told him I suspect Conchita
and Cheli, the girls from the boutique. But he doesn't want to know anything
about it, he just wants to get out of here and never come back. Anybody in his
situation would do exactly the same thing. What freaked him out most was that
Olga María had had a relationship with Yuca. Deputy Chief Handal, the damn
blabbermouth, told him. José Carlos thinks she left him so she could get
involved with Yuca: he feels hurt, betrayed, over such a minor thing, but then
he really loved her, my dear. I tried to explain to him that Olga María didn't
leave him because of Yuca, they'd known each other since their school days and
the whole rest of the story. But he didn't believe me. He looked so upset I
couldn't help telling him that Olga María and Yuca never actually made love, I
had it from the horse's mouth, he should believe me, things between them never
worked out. This all happened yesterday: I played the role of the counselor, the
mender of broken hearts. José Carlos is so sensitive—at one point he even had
tears in his eyes, real tears. I told him that Olga María loved him, she'd
always spoken highly of him, she'd even confided in me that he was an excellent
lover. That's the only way I could comfort him, my dear. Men and their vanity.
That was when I asked him what he thought about my idea that maybe one of Yuca's
friends had arranged for Olga María to be murdered in order to destroy Yuca
politically. He mulled it over for a few minutes. Then he said that if that's
what happened we'd never find out anything, these kinds of dirty tricks between
politicos never come out in the open—Yuca himself would make sure the facts were
never known. You sure you don't want a glass of wine? He told me something else
that makes sense to me now that I think about it: if one of Yuca's political
enemies is responsible for Olga María's murder, it's better that we don't know
and don't try to find out who it was, because if we do, they'll kill us, too;
and he, in that case, should disappear as soon as possible, because those
politicos will try to divert public attention, and there's no better way to do
that than have as a scapegoat some photographer nobody would stand up for. José
Carlos was getting more and more upset. But I told him not to worry, nobody's
going to think he had anything to do with this, even that Deputy Chief Handal
doesn't really suspect José Carlos. That's my impression, anyway, my dear.
That's what I told him. I was trying to get him to calm down upstairs at Marea
Alta, with those gigantic oysters—so delicious, they made you want to go
straight to the beach. And that's when I got the idea. I asked José Carlos what
he was doing that afternoon. He said nothing important: just finish packing a
few things, make a few phone calls to say goodbye. I suggested we go to the
beach, to my family's place. He stared at me like I must be joking. But I wasn't
joking: I suddenly felt like going to the beach, to feel the cool breeze, to
stop thinking about this whole mess with Olga María. Here's how I explained it
to him: it would do him good to go to the beach, forget for a while all the
horrors we've been through, nothing like the peace and serenity of the sea to
help you relax and bid farewell to this country. It didn't take much to convince
him. We paid and went straight to the beach, in my car, happy as clams. You
can't imagine what a good time we had. But let me order another glass of wine.
Shall I order one for you? Or better yet, my dear, let's order a bottle, okay?
You're right, it's too early: a half bottle, then. Look how this place is
filling up. It's definitely the