Horacio Castellanos Moya - The She-Devil in the Mirror

HOW COULD SUCH A TRAGEDY HAVE HAPPENED, my dear? I just spent the whole morning with Olga María at her boutique at the Villas Españolas Mall, she had to check on a special order. It’s unbelievable. I still can’t believe it; it’s like a nightmare. I don’t know why they’re taking so long to get her ready: it’s already five thirty, and they still haven’t brought her out. It’s that magistrate, he took his sweet time. He’s a disgrace. The poor thing, stretched out there on her living room floor, everybody and his brother coming and going through the house. How horrible. They let me know right away: Sergio, Olga María’s brother, called my house and said something terrible had happened, Olga María had been “mortally wounded” during an attempted robbery. That’s what he said: “mortally wounded.” I couldn’t believe it — I’d been with her just an hour and a half earlier. We left the boutique and walked to the parking lot together. She said she was going to pick the girls up at school and then she’d call me in the afternoon. No wonder Sergio’s call caught me totally by surprise. I asked him which hospital they’d taken her to. He said she wasn’t in a hospital, she was lying dead on her living room floor, and Marito had taken the girls to Doña Olga’s. I was in shock. I couldn’t even react. Then I said, “I’m on my way.” I drove like a madwoman, like I was on drugs, my dear, I don’t know how I managed to avoid having an accident. So many images of her raced through my mind, and the last words we’d exchanged that morning, about how happy she was that sales at the boutique were up and about how she was trying to patch up her relationship with Marito. And then something like this — it’s so unfair. Anyway, their house is in Colonia La Sultana, and I live in Santa Tecla, so it took me only ten minutes to get there. The police were already there. I dashed out of my car, I wanted to prove to myself that it wasn’t true, Olga María was still alive, and everything had been a terrible mistake. But there was her body, stretched out on the living room rug next to the sofa in a pool of blood, covered with a white sheet. I knelt down and lifted the edge of the sheet: the hole in her head was small, but all her brains had poured out the back. Oh, my dear, I felt horrible — I even felt like vomiting. But I was too upset to even cry. I covered her back up. Sergio placed his hands on my shoulders and told me he needed me to be with the girls, they’d killed her in cold blood right in front of them, they were still in shock when Marito came to get them. Imagine that: those murderers killed Olga María right in front of the girls. It’s unforgivable. They sure are taking their sweet time, they should be bringing her out any minute, a lot of people are starting to arrive. We chose a black satin dress for her, very elegant. I want to see how it looks. Doña Olga had her doubts, but finally she followed my advice: it is her prettiest dress, the one that looks best on her. Sergio insisted I go to their mother’s to help her with the girls, because Marito had to get back to the house to deal with all the legalities, after all he is her husband, the owner of the house, he’s the one who’s responsible for everything. Poor Marito, he’s devastated. I didn’t see him till later. We must’ve crossed paths, he on his way back to the house and me on my way to Doña Olga’s. I was so eager to give the girls a hug, protect them, somehow make them forget what they’d seen. But halfway there, I broke down, it was horrible, my dear, I was choking and I couldn’t breathe; I managed to pull off the road, then I started crying uncontrollably — my forehead on the steering wheel, I was crying for Olga María, for the girls, for Marito, for myself, because if I didn’t get it off my chest it would only get worse later. When I got there a doctor was talking to the girls. Doña Olga seemed composed, strong, she wasn’t even crying, though you could see in her body how tortured she was. She told me they’d just given the girls a sedative, they were very upset, the best thing for them now was to get some rest instead of going over what they’d seen again and again, that’s what the doctor recommended. I hugged them, trying to control myself: I didn’t want them to see me falling apart. Little Olga just turned ten, she’s so grown up, so pretty, just like her mother, the same expressions, intelligent like her, too; Raquelita looks more like Marito, and she’s a bit withdrawn, maybe because she’s the youngest. They’ve always called me Auntie, even though we’re not related, Olga María taught them to call me that: Auntie Laura. We were best friends, have been ever since we started at the American School — imagine that, twenty-three years ago. Finally, they’re bringing her out. Come on, come with me, let’s see how she looks. Look at those gorgeous flower arrangements: Marito’s advertising agency sent them over. I told you that’s her best dress — don’t you think she looks gorgeous, they did a good job on her, you can barely even see the hole in her head. Life is a catastrophe. How could this have happened to her? You went to her last birthday party, remember? She was so happy to be turning thirty — she said the best part of life was just beginning, always so optimistic, so vivacious. Those sons of bitches, those cowards, they should all be killed. Doesn’t her hair look great? It’s just like she used to wear it for parties, Mercedes herself came from the salon to do it. They’re truly evil, all they wanted to do was kill her, they didn’t steal anything, they didn’t even try to. That’s what little Olga told me this afternoon: he snuck up on them in the garage as they were getting out of the car, then forced them into the living room and there, without a word, he shot Olga María in the chest, then one to the head to finish her off. Disgraceful. Makes me so angry. More people are starting to arrive — let’s go sit down. Look, here comes Marito. Sergio said he was going home to change clothes. Doña Olga and the girls will be here around seven, those poor dears, those girls have behaved so well, it’s amazing how grown up they are. The one I’m worried about is Marito, he seems fragile, I don’t know what he’d have done without Sergio. It’s been a crazy afternoon. I spent about an hour at Doña Olga’s, trying to distract the girls until the sedatives kicked in so they’d fall asleep. That’s when little Olga told me about the murderer and how all he wanted was to kill Olga María: she told him to take the car, whatever he wanted, just don’t hurt them, especially not the girls; but he didn’t want anything, he just wanted to kill her, like someone had sent him, like he’d been given explicit instructions. Something smells rotten, because Olga María couldn’t have any enemies. That’s exactly what I told those insolent policemen who came to Doña Olga’s asking for the girls; they wanted to question them, they said, because they were the only ones who’d seen the killer, they urgently needed a description of the murderer so they could make a composite sketch — they kept insisting it was very important. But the doctor said the girls shouldn’t be disturbed — I told them — and anyway they were already asleep, so they’d better put off their questioning till tomorrow. But they were pigheaded, especially the boss, the one who said his name was Deputy Chief Handal, what a pig of a man — that’s why we’re in the mess we’re in: the police spend their time harassing defenseless little girls instead of catching criminals.