Crocodile Tears

by mercedes Rosende

  CROCODILE

  TEARS

  Mercedes Rosende

  Translated by Tim Gutteridge

  Abracadabra Offering

  Oh gloomy rose exuding musk

  and seer of Libyan reveilles,

  to Gonk-Gonk you offered warm entrails

  and hearts of panthers dark as dusk.

  You called forth spirits of the rains

  and sang of dead debaucheries

  ’mid tepid bones and mortuaries

  and captive fair-haired damsels’ manes.

  Thunder roared. To dying spates

  of fire and blood in mystic hush

  the addled idols did abate…

  The rain fell sharp in crackling files

  and in the distance softly sighed

  the languid tears of crocodiles.

  julio herrera y reissig

  (1875 – 1910)

  Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  PART ONE

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  XXII

  XXIII

  XXIV

  XXV

  XXVI

  PART TWO

  9.23 a.m.

  9.28 a.m.

  9.29 a.m.

  9.31 a.m.

  9.35 a.m.

  9.40 a.m.

  9.42 a.m.

  9.43 a.m.

  10.15 a.m.

  10.25 a.m.

  10.35 a.m.

  10.40 a.m.

  10.44 a.m.

  10.48 a.m.

  PART THREE

  DADDY

  URSULA

  LEONILDA

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  PART ONE

  I

  The women arrive, tired from their early start, the journey, the queue. Leaving the humiliation of the police search behind them, they enter and look to either side and then at each other with an air of futile defiance, of bewilderment and poverty, of hatred. In the visiting shed, plastic tables and chairs have been set out in groups and the visitors break these up and reorganize them, dragging chairs to and fro, lifting and dropping them with a clatter. The shed is big, some fifty yards by twenty, with a corrugated iron roof that leaks at the slightest hint of rain, a bare floor, walls scrawled with names and prayers and songs, daubed with drawings of hearts and crucifixes and genitals. The only window looks onto a cement yard and a dirty grey sky: there seems to be no horizon between the two. The bathrooms are on the north side. The door of the men’s cubicle has come off its hinges and is propped against the frame, barely concealing half the toilet bowl. There is a dense odour in the air.

  A policeman stands at the door, picking his teeth, spitting out pieces of wood or bits of food.

  Diego, waiting for his lawyer, has taken a seat as far as possible from the other prisoners, in a gloomy isolated corner. He’s wearing faded blue overalls, his stubble is flecked with grey, his fists are clenched. His throat is tight.

  The women open old ice-cream tubs filled with cold pasta stew, tough breaded cutlets and polenta with meat sauce; they bring out bananas, packets of yerba mate and tobacco, lemons and mandarins, soft-drink sachets. From outside comes a dry repetitive sound, a ball bouncing against a hard floor, while inside the voices grow, the volume and pitch rising. The world is a little worse in this place, Diego thinks.

  That man walking down the corridor, with his hair combed and slicked with gel, a burgundy tie and Ray-Ban glasses, that is Antinucci. The small scar above his right eyebrow, halfway between his nose and his hairline, looks as if it was made by a fist, although it must have happened a long time ago because the skin is tight and shiny around the mark. Although he isn’t ugly or old, that’s the impression he gives; it’s hard to say why. His eyes are his most noticeable feature, large, bulging, pale grey and with fleshy lids. Sometimes they become smaller, flattening, narrowing until they are just two lines. Right now they are hidden behind the Ray-Bans, very dark in this half-light. He carries a briefcase that the guards don’t check. Ever.

  “In you go, sir.”

  “Thanks, boys.”

  Diego hears loud decisive steps, heels clicking along the corridor. He looks up and sees Antinucci approaching. It’s as if a military march is playing inside the man’s head. Antinucci greets Diego with a martial nod, and Diego observes the hand moving forward with a precise movement, like a switchblade. The lawyer takes Diego’s hand slackly; the contact is flaccid and cold, a jellyfish that passes, touches and then goes on its way. Antinucci places his chair so he is sitting directly opposite Diego. He sits down and opens the leather case, takes out a folder, also leather, which he places neatly on the table. He opens it and extracts a few sheets of paper. The cartapacio, thinks Diego, as he recognizes the worn dark leather spine that he has already seen before, on another visit; the lawyer guards this folder the way he guards his own life, or the way he thinks he should guard his own life. The object makes Diego shiver. Who knows why? The lawyer’s Ray-Bans erect a barrier between the two men. Diego has no way of knowing where the eyes behind the lenses are focused. He doesn’t know if the eyes are looking at him or are attending to the precise ritual of laying out each individual sheet of paper, a pencil and a couple of ballpoints, blue and red, a mobile phone, an eraser – and a watch that he removes from his wrist and places behind everything else, propped up so it is facing him. Diego prefers to believe that the lawyer is not looking at him and he, in turn, avoids looking at the glasses; he avoids them the way somebody avoids a revelation he knows he will, ultimately, have to hear.

  Antinucci places the case on the floor, upright, perfectly parallel to the chair; he crosses his legs, takes a mint from his pocket and slowly removes the wrapper, pops the sweet into his mouth and folds the wrapper four times.

  “You’re a patsy,” says Antinucci, and he pronounces the word slowly as if savouring the way it sounds.

  Without looking away, he puts the folded wrapper in a plastic bag, which he puts in his pocket; he takes out a pack of cigarettes and an expensive lighter; he lights a cigarette, takes a couple of drags and blows the smoke in Diego’s direction. The laws that forbid smoking in public spaces haven’t reached Guantánamo Bay or the jails of Istanbul. And they haven’t reached the prisons of Uruguay either. Silence settles between them, thrumming like an old engine. Diego would like to speak but the words trip each other up and refuse to come out of his throat. He looks at the policeman standing at the door, picking his teeth, spitting out splinters of wood or shreds of food or both.

  “And Sergio, your partner in Santiago Losada’s kidnapping, is living it up somewhere in the world with the cash he got from his victim.”

  He taps the ash onto the floor, well away from his case.

  “I said you’d be out soon and I wasn’t wrong. I’m never wrong. You’ll be out in a few days.”

  Diego thinks he should be happy, smile, stand up, pat the lawyer on the back, shake his hand or even give him a hug, burst out laughing, applaud. But he does none of these things because he doesn’t feel happy or even enthusiastic, he just feels a faint sense of relief, which comes over him gradually. The prison night gets inside you and no daylight, no good news, is enough to get rid of it, the way you’d get rid of a patch of dust on your clothes. He barely even feels relieved.

  “Bizarrely enough, the victim’s statement helped you. That’s right. Losada said
just those words to the judge: that you were a patsy. That the other kidnapper, Sergio – who worked for Losada’s company, who fled with the loot – was the brains behind it all. He set you up, didn’t he? He left you waiting with the captive while he disappeared.”

  Diego doesn’t know what he’s expected to say. He stares at his hands while he tries to think of an answer to a question he doesn’t understand, and Antinucci goes on.

  “Listen to me carefully. Do you want me to tell you something? Losada even went so far as to say you weren’t a bad guy, that you treated him well during the kidnapping and that, in short, he didn’t come to any harm. And as the wife, a certain Ursula López, said she never received a ransom demand, the witnesses did you a favour.”

  Diego extends his fingers, gazes down at his hands, and thinks – or guesses – that Antinucci’s eyes are looking him up and down, scrutinizing him, trying to get inside his head.

  “Strange, wouldn’t you say? Tell me something. Didn’t you say Sergio had convinced you to kidnap Santiago to ask his wife for money? So, when you realized your partner had taken off with the money Santiago had in his car, why didn’t you go ahead and ask the wife to pay the ransom? I mean, you were already at the ball, so you might as well dance. I don’t understand. Why hold the guy hostage for three days if not to demand a ransom?”

  He extinguishes his cigarette on the floor, on the other side of the case; he treads on it, crushes it, grinds it down with the heel of his shiny leather moccasin. There is an awkward silence.

  “Tell me the truth: did she pay up or not? Losada’s wife, I mean. Ursula, she’s called Ursula. Not a name you could forget. Maybe she kept it quiet to avoid getting into trouble with the law. Be honest with me. Do you know this woman or not?”

  The lawyer speaks, he asks questions, holding an invisible melon in his hands.

  Diego wants to say something, he hesitates, he keeps it in.

  Let’s just pause for a moment: there’s a lot to explore in that indecision. What’s happening to Diego? Fear, insecurity? It seems as if, for some reason, he can’t speak or, if he could, he wouldn’t know what version to tell his lawyer. Antinucci removes his dark glasses with a slow, pompous, theatrical movement, places them on top of the cartapacio, his opaque gaze fixing on a point somewhere on Diego’s face, and Diego feels an almost physical pressure between his eyes and nose. He sees that the lawyer is looking at him through narrowed eyes, like two slits.

  “Another thing I don’t understand is why the police didn’t find a weapon in the place you were holed up with Santiago Losada. Am I supposed to believe you and Sergio were unarmed when you kidnapped this guy? I wasn’t born yesterday.”

  Antinucci clicks his tongue, grimaces lopsidedly and continues to stare at Diego, who avoids his gaze. For a moment the world retreats, the visiting shed retreats. Diego feels sick.

  “You’re not telling? I don’t care. It’s your business, nothing to do with me. This case won’t go any further: no custodial sentence, that’s what the committal document will say. Within a couple of years the judge will issue a ruling; maybe he’ll dismiss it, I wouldn’t be at all surprised. Given the state of the legal system in this country… You need to get ready because you’ll be out this week. A few days and, God willing, you’ll be back on the street. Before that, they’ll take you to court for a routine hearing.”

  “A hearing? Who with?”

  “Ah, good, so now you talk. The hearing is with Losada’s wife. With Ursula, Ursula López. Pretty name, wouldn’t you agree? I like the sound of it for some reason. No, it won’t be a problem. Like I told you, she said she never received a ransom demand from you. I still have my doubts, but if you confirm that in front of the judge… Now just fill out the forms, sign the documents. Here. And here.”

  And what can he say to the lawyer? That he had a weapon and he can’t explain how the revolver disappeared from the shack where they were holding Santiago? That he asked Ursula for a ransom and the two of them ended up forming a strange partnership? That she offered him money not to release her husband but to do away with him? Nobody would believe that of the wife of a businessman like Losada, and Diego has no intention of accusing her. Ursula was good to him, and when he gets out he’s going to look her up and thank her.

  He tries not to think, he tries not to feel the pressure of Antinucci’s eyes between his brows. He raises his head, avoiding the scalpel gaze. He looks at the ceiling of the shed, at the walls, at the people.

  The prisoners’ wives are still arriving, with that stunned look – resigned, humiliated, freezing cold. The shed already smells of fried dough balls and damp clothes and houses with no shower. They settle down, occupy the chairs, drag them from one table to another, drink mate and talk loudly in their shrill voices.

  Over there, next to the door, the policeman is talking on his phone, mumbling, laughing, still picking his teeth: talking, spitting and picking away.

  Diego opens his mouth, just a little at first. “In a few days, you said?”

  “That’s what I said. You can’t complain about my work.”

  “I’ll pay you as soon as I can.”

  “You’ll be able to pay me very soon, Diego. You’ll hear from me straight away, today or tomorrow.”

  Diego feels a shiver at the nape of his neck, a queasiness in his stomach, but now all that matters is to get out. A month inside, one month. He looks at the yard, the piles of dry leaves that the end of autumn has blown in from the woods. Santiago’s wife lied when she said he hadn’t demanded a ransom, she lied because she’s a good person. But still, it doesn’t fit together, he feels confused, he senses that there are guilty people and innocent ones in this story, and they don’t match those who are really guilty and innocent.

  II

  Many years earlier

  She’s just a hungry, frightened girl, just a little girl standing in the darkest part of the corridor, her back pressed against the wall, her eyes closed, frozen. Her forehead, neck and hairline are beaded with sweat, her breathing is agitated, like when she runs or when she jumps rope at school, and her hands are trembling slightly. She’s just a girl and it isn’t an easy decision but she’s hungry, she’s always hungry. Finally she moves, she bends down, she noiselessly removes her patent leather shoes with their silver buckles; very slowly she places them on the floor and advances in silence, her white socks sliding across the waxed parquet, a little further, then she hesitates, stops in front of the door, listens, carefully pushes open the swing door and peers round.

  From the threshold she observes the familiar space, the large cheerful room, the sun filtering between the curtains, light bouncing off the oak table; she runs her eyes over the cupboards, the spice jars, the fridge. She looks at the fridge. She imagines what’s inside and her mouth waters. But she is also alert, she knows the housekeeper is taking a siesta in the servant’s bedroom, next to the kitchen. She listens to the woman’s rasping, deepening snores.

  She’s a hungry girl but her fear is powerful, she hesitates before deciding to desecrate the comfortable domestic order of the kitchen, to enter the forbidden territory, the dangerous geography, to enter a world that at once beckons her in and shuts her out, a world watched over by the housekeeper, the white-aproned woman who is asleep in the next room.

  She thinks about food day and night, when she wakes up and when she falls asleep, before sitting at the table, as she eats what the housekeeper or her father has put on her plate, and while she finishes the small portions and gets up, her cravings scarcely dented, still thinking about food. She thinks about it while she’s at school, while she’s watching television, while she and her sister, Luz, are playing with their dolls. Luz is thin and is allowed to eat as much as she likes, but she barely even touches what she is served. Her sister is thin and her father says she’s beautiful, just like her mother. But as he says this he looks not at Luz but at her, and she feels right then that her body occupies too much space.

  She pushes a little more and ente
rs, she’s afraid but she’s also so hungry, she hears the deep snoring and takes courage, takes one step and then another, then halts, alert to the loud, regular breathing; she decides, her stomach instructs her brain, she crosses the kitchen in slow steps, her toes resting gently, lightly on the floor, first one foot and then the other; two more steps and she’s standing in front of the fridge, her hand moves of its own accord, reaches out, approaches the handle, touches it indecisively, her gaze vigilant, she looks to either side again and again, her small hand covers the cold metal, grips it, presses, pulls. She is very hungry.

  She opens the door.

  She takes out a piece of chicken and raises it to her mouth, her teeth bite into it, rip it, tear at the meat, she swallows, bites again, one mouthful, two; she looks at the jar of jam, takes a piece of cheese and rolls it up in a slice of ham that she uses to push down the chicken; she chews, gulps, looks at the door, opens the jar of mayonnaise, inserts a finger and slurps with lips and tongue; she takes a chunk of potato and dips it in the mayonnaise, swallows, looks behind her, smears two fingers with dulce de leche; she smacks her lips, takes a meatball, some sauce, devours it, rice, another meatball, more sauce, mayonnaise, lips, teeth, the finger in the jam, sucking, slurping, tongue, fingers; she’s in a hurry and pushes it down, she looks behind her, at the door; another piece of chicken, which she swallows almost without chewing; something’s wrong, she eats faster, swallows more, plunges all her fingers into the sauce; palate, lips, teeth; slurps, swallows, again and again. This explosion of sensory and tactile sensations suddenly freezes, her fingers are paralysed, her tongue turns to stone, her lips are open. There is a discordant element, a sound; she hears footsteps in the corridor, approaching. She recognizes them, those footsteps.

  She listens. And trembles.

  She turns her head. The kitchen door opens smoothly. The man stands in the doorway and looks at the girl.

  “Ursula.”

  “No, Daddy.”