Horacio Castellanos Moya - The She-Devil in the Mirror

That’s what I told him. No reaction. He just repeated that the sooner they got a description of the suspect the easier it would be to organize a manhunt and capture him. But I wasn’t going to let those rude men wake up the girls. I stood my ground and told them they would have to wait a couple of hours until the girls woke up, and if the girls ended up with some permanent psychological damage, I would hold them responsible — Handal and that other nasty man who said his name was Detective Villalta — and that wouldn’t be the end of it because I’d sue them, and I’m not just some nobody, they couldn’t mess with me, they’d better be very careful and show more respect or they’d soon find out who they were dealing with. But little Olga hadn’t fallen asleep yet, she was lying down and dozing — a bit dazed from the sedatives — and what with the ruckus those policemen were making, she woke up. She got out of bed and appeared in the doorway and asked what was going on, maybe she got scared that the policemen were murderers, like the one who’d just killed Olga María. These two gentlemen, I explained to her, were policemen investigating her mother’s death, and she should go back to bed because they were just about to leave. But that Deputy Chief Handal shoved his way in front of me and started interrogating little Olga — such a snake, they’ve got no respect for anybody, that pig — and they wanted to take advantage of little Olga’s innocence to get her to tell them what she’d already told me: that the murderer didn’t want anything, all he wanted was to kill Olga María. Three times the deputy chief asked little Olga to repeat every detail of the story, and he kept asking her questions — what a degenerate — then he called in some creep with a mustache who was supposed to make a sketch based on the girl’s information. Little Olga said the murderer was tall and heavy-set, a big huge guy, clean-shaven, with very short hair, like a soldier’s, and he was wearing blue jeans and white tennis shoes, like the kind astronauts wear, she said. The deputy chief asked her if she remembered any other details, anything out of the ordinary that would help them identify the suspect. Little Olga said he walked like RoboCop, that robot policeman on television. I warned the deputy chief to leave the girl alone, not to take advantage of her, who knows what damage it could do — she’d just taken a strong sedative. But that Handal creep kept at it: Was he alone? Did little Olga see the car he drove away in? Was she aware of anybody else in the street? Did the housekeeper show up before or after the crime had been committed? Oh no, not her, not our Julita, how could they possibly suspect her, I butted in, what a pig, Julita practically raised Olga María, and now she’s almost fifty, what are they thinking, she’s worked for Doña Olga and Olga María her entire life, she’s totally trustworthy, how could he be such an idiot. Doña Olga agreed. Little Olga explained that Julita came into the living room after the shots were fired, she was in the laundry room at the back of the house — she was the one who called Marito and Sergio and Doña Olga, and she was the one who ran to get help from the neighbors. You see those people coming in now: they work at Marito’s agency — don’t they look young? The tall one in the brown suit with curly hair and little round glasses, yes, the good-looking one, that’s the new marketing director Marito just hired. Olga María told me about him; she was right, he’s very handsome. Anyway, as I was saying, once they finished with little Olga, that Deputy Chief Handal said he wanted to ask me a few questions, alone, seeing as how I’d known the victim so well, seeing how I’d been her best friend, maybe I could help him, give him a few leads so he could find out what happened. But I suspected he had something nasty up his sleeve, people like that — so crass, so degenerate, so dirty-minded — I’ve always known about policemen like him, that’s why I was on my guard, I didn’t want him to think he could trip me up. And it was just as I’d feared: the deputy chief asked me if I knew of any enemies Olga María or Marito might have, or maybe they had a big debt, or if there was an employee who’d threatened them after getting fired, or, with all due respect — those were his words, brazen man, “with all due respect”—if Olga María had had any extramarital relationships, maybe there was a disappointed lover, someone who might want to hurt her. That’s when I got furious: he was a total idiot, I shouted at him, a complete boor, whatever made him think I was going to talk to some nobody like him, about my best friend’s private life, where could he possibly have gotten such an idea, how could he suspect such an honest honorable woman, someone so devoted to her family and her work, what a scandalous insinuation; Olga María didn’t have any enemies, nobody would ever dream of wanting to kill her, it had to have been a mistake or the act of a madman. I almost threw them out of the apartment, that’s how dreadful they were, like mangy dogs. Right then Cuca, Sergio’s wife, arrived: she was crying her head off, asking if the girls were alright, if Doña Olga needed anything. Here come Cheli and Conchita, Olga María’s assistants at the boutique, you know them, don’t you? They look so comment il faux , they adored Olga María, they’ve been working for her ever since she first opened the boutique, who knows what’ll happen to them now. Marito will have to decide, or Doña Olga, whether to sell or not. As I was saying, Cuca arrived and we left her to look after the girls so Doña Olga and I could go to Olga María’s house to make sure they fixed her up as best as possible. We took my car. Doña Olga had taken some strong sedatives — the poor woman is pretty old and unwell, and the doctor told her not to go to the scene of the crime, just the sight of it could do her great harm, she should wait till they took her to the funeral home. Sergio agreed and managed to convince her to wait. But when we got to Olga María’s house, her body was still there. That’s what I’m telling you: the magistrate is a stupid old drunk, he must have been out partying with his secretaries, I’m sure of it, that’s why he took so long and why we couldn’t prevent Doña Olga from seeing her daughter with her head blown to bits. But Marito and I took her by her arm and we led her into the master bedroom so she could help me choose the clothes to dress Olga María in, and the jewelry, and the right makeup, that’s what I said, but Doña Olga, who’s always so composed and on top of things, she was falling apart, sobbing, which is understandable, her eldest daughter, her most beloved daughter, lying there dead in the living room, and for no reason whatsoever. I opened the closet door so we could look through her clothes, I was trying to distract Doña Olga; that’s when I picked out that black satin dress Olga María is wearing. I called Mercedes at the beauty salon to tell her what had happened and ask her to come to the funeral home to do Olga María’s hair as best she could, and I suggested Doña Olga take her daughter’s jewelry, just in case the policemen started rummaging through her things and decided to steal whatever they could get their hands on. The magistrate finally arrived just as we were leaving the bedroom. Marito asked me to take Doña Olga to the funeral home so she could be there when the body arrived and help get it ready. So that’s what I did. Then I went home to change and make myself presentable once and for all because I’m going to stay here all night — Diana is arriving tomorrow morning, supposedly, that’s Olga María’s younger sister, the one who’s been living in Miami for years, that’s what she said, that she’d get on the first flight tomorrow, they’re three hours ahead, so there’s no way she could get here today. That one standing next to the coffin must be Memo, Marito’s second in command, he just started working with him; Olga María didn’t take to him very well, probably because he took Julio Iglesias’s job — that’s what we called the Spaniard who helped Marito start the agency. Now, he was a hunk, tall and gorgeous, though with a bit of a belly for my taste, but he drove Olga María crazy for a few months, that Julio Iglesias, she used to tell me she didn’t know what to do, he was her husband’s partner, her husband’s friend, but she had the hots for him. It’s not that she was unfaithful, on the contrary, that’s why it was so hard for her, because that was the first time she’d been attracted in that way to another man since she’d gotten married to Marito, it was the first time she went further than being her naturally flirtatious self, all Marito’s fault, I can tell you, because this was when he’d all but abandoned Olga María. We never found out who was behind it — just look at him over there, all meek and mild-mannered, but Marito’s a sneaky devil, I always suspected he had a few things on the side, and Olga María found out about at least two of his sluts. That was right around the time Marito decided to start his own agency, and he asked Julio Iglesias, from Madrid, also an expert in advertising, to be his partner; he’d just come to San Salvador as a consultant for the company Marito was working for. But I knew right off the bat: I’d seen that same gleam in Olga María’s eyes when we were at the American School, when she started drooling over one of our classmates. Julio Iglesias began going over to their house for dinner, more and more frequently, and Olga María was getting hooked, little by little, because he liked her, too, who wouldn’t, and what with talking about the business and sitting around the table after dinner, they started finding opportunities to say things to each other, seducing each other right under Marito’s nose, because he was putting all his energy into starting his agency. There was no applying the brakes once Julio Iglesias showed up one afternoon at the boutique, casually, as if he just happened to be at the Villas Españolas Mall to do a little shopping and just happened to run into a friend — his partner’s wife — at her boutique. Olga María was totally nonchalant so Cheli and Conchita wouldn’t notice that she was melting for that man who invited her out for a cup of coffee, right there, in the mall, and once they were sitting in the café he told her he couldn’t stop thinking about her, he could no longer control his passion. And Olga María had to admit that she’d been thinking about him a lot, too, though she couldn’t say she loved him, nor that she was in love with him, just that it was something weird, something new. Julio Iglesias had an apartment across the street from the Sheraton Hotel, near Villas Españolas; he suggested they meet there, that would be best, he didn’t want to complicate things with Marito, his partner and friend. Olga María told him she’d give it some thought, it wasn’t so simple, even though her relationship with Marito was on the rocks, she loved him, and there were the two girls, she didn’t want to risk everything, throw away eleven years of her life. But Julio Iglesias kept at it: he called her at the boutique, came by every once in a while to invite her out for coffee (always making it seem proper, needless to say, even though Cheli and Conchita must have suspected something), and when he ate at the house he’d whisper sweet nothings in her ear. Until she couldn’t resist and said she would, she’d come to his apartment, but they had to plan it very carefully, there were a lot of obstacles to overcome, because he couldn’t pick her up at the boutique and she couldn’t drive to his apartment — what if Marito or one of his friends saw her car parked in front of Julio Iglesias’s apartment, how would they explain that, huh? That’s where I came in, Auntie Laura, who else? Best friend, confidante, the only one who could make this whole thing happen. You can’t imagine, my dear, how nervous Olga María was at noon that day; the story was that I’d invited her out for lunch at a new vegetarian restaurant, so Marito should pick up the girls and then she’d go straight back to the boutique after lunch without going home. That was the story. The idea was that I’d pick her up at the boutique around twelve fifteen, then I’d drop her off at Julio Iglesias’s apartment, I’d go eat lunch at my cousin’s, and at two fifteen I’d pick her up. The poor thing was terrified when I got to the boutique — she was still unsure; it was her first time. But as soon as we got in my car, she relaxed a little. She was dressed casually — a green miniskirt, I remember it perfectly — but very elegant, classy, as usual. She stepped confidently out of the car, and I was the one left biting my fingernails, wondering how things would go, if finally they’d make love or if she’d only let him kiss her — she wasn’t even sure herself. I’m telling you, that’s the guy who took Julio Iglesias’s place as vice president of Marito’s advertising agency; look how the other employees greet him, with such respect, not at all like they treated that guy from Madrid I’ve been telling you about. Anyway, at two fifteen on the dot I was parked in front of Julio Iglesias’s apartment; I honked the horn and saw her come out — happy, glowing, on cloud nine. I wanted her to tell me everything, all the juicy details, immediately. She told me she had the best time, better than she’d ever expected: he’d made a delicious salad and opened a fine bottle of white wine, ice cold — the way she loved it. He started kissing her the minute she stepped into the apartment, and he never stopped kissing and touching her, so tender, that’s why she couldn’t resist, and right there in the living room she let him undress her, and he kissed her all over her body, so gently, a marvel, dear me — those were her very words. Then he picked her up and carried her to the bed, but the poor guy was kind of nervous, tense, so he came really fast, no warning, before they even got to the good stuff. Then he felt terrible, poor thing, and apologized. But that’s no big deal, you know, my dear, it being the first time and all and with a man who caresses you so affectionately. That’s what Olga María told me before I dropped her back off at the boutique. There’s Sergio and Cuca now. Sergio’s a handsome devil, I can’t figure out how he ended up with Cuca, even though she is nice, but she’s not woman enough for him, don’t you think? The problem is that Julio Iglesias started to fall in love. The second time — I dropped Olga María off at his apartment another afternoon — not only did he declare his love and tell her he was thinking about her constantly but also that he wanted her to be his forever, she should divorce Marito, it didn’t make sense for her to stay with him if she didn’t love him anymore, he wanted to marry her and give her everything she could ever want, on the spot, right then and there. Can you imagine? Men really are brutes, my dear: there he had her all to himself, ready and willing, to be enjoyed to his heart’s content, but no, he had to start in with his demands, with all that possessiveness nonsense, as if Olga María would be fool enough to leave Marito, the father of her children, just for the sake of going off to live with some Spaniard. That Julio Iglesias turned out to be a real cretin: he was so obsessed he didn’t even care that Marito was his partner and friend, he’d call her with no discretion whatsoever, and then he’d show up at the boutique acting like a lunatic. That’s why there never was a third time. Olga María got desperate, being stalked like that, such pigheadedness: she asked him not to call her anymore, to forget about what had happened between them. She reminded him she was a married woman and had two daughters — he couldn’t just ignore all that — and she told him there was absolutely no way she would leave Marito to live with him. You know what that dimwit said? My dear, he said he had a flat and a Mercedes Benz in Madrid and she could start a new life there, they could just slip away so there wouldn’t even be a scandal. Yes, my dear, handsome but dumb, that Julio Iglesias. He finally calmed down, resigned himself to the situation, but not before trying to blackmail her — can you believe it? — he threatened to tell Marito. A few months ago he went back to Madrid for good. He and Olga María were distant, cold, civil to each other when Marito was around — and as it turned out, Julio Iglesias was nothing but a sham, he had a wife in Spain and a few weeks after hisЧитать дальше