“How’s it going, babe?”
She stands motionless, facing the door, the key still in the lock, her hand still on the key, and after a moment of silence she is still wondering if the voice is real or has emerged from the depths of her nightmares. She turns the key slowly, feels the vein in her neck pulsing, her hands getting clammy. Memories come rushing up and she tries to push them away, but from the darkest corner of the room she hears the voice again, dispelling any doubt.
“Man, ain’t it good to see you again! Come here.”
Mirta leans back against the door, feels the panels digging into her ribs, her clothes beginning to stick to her skin despite the cold. And she remembers back to that afternoon, siesta time, sex with Ricardo, the horrific denouement, the police, and Miss Irene’s corpse. In the gloom she can only see his outline, the sketch of a man; she doesn’t want to look at him, and his words have made her forget to turn the light on. The key shakes in her fingers. She makes an effort to stand still, she’s afraid she’ll slip and fall in her high heels.
“Cat got your tongue?”
She manages to turn the light on: he’s there. She moves away from the door with difficulty, walks a few steps, feels her legs tremble, and stops in front of Ricardo. She tries to breathe normally and looks up. She looks at him, for the first time she looks at him. She speaks in the quietest of voices.
“How did you get in?”
“I learned a few things recently. New skills, let’s call them.” On the low table, next to where he’s resting his boots, is a half-empty bottle of wine; he picks it up, takes a swig, then another. “Like how to pick locks, for example. And it looks like you got some new skills too. Judging by this place.”
The woman observes him laugh, deep lines spreading out from the corners of his eyes. He’s older. And crueller. He takes another drink from the bottle, lets out another laugh. The woman looks at the bottle; she sees – or thinks she sees – the reflection of her turquoise silk blouse. She observes his rings, his stubble, the tattoos she hasn’t seen before; she holds in her fear and disgust. He laughs for no reason, sticks out his tongue, displays a piercing, makes an obscene gesture. One of the rings is set with a large blue stone. Another finger has a plait tattooed around it.
“When did you get out? Are you on parole?” Mirta can hardly speak.
He doesn’t answer; he swills wine from one cheek to the other as if it were mouthwash.
“What do you want, Ricardo?”
“Please tell me what you want, Ricardo!” His voice imitates hers, but higher. The mockery is chilling.
He lifts the bottle, takes a swig. “Where you get posh wine like this from? Seems a bit pricey for a maid or a cook. Or ain’t you a maid no more?”
“It was a gift.”
“Yeah, right. Just like them French delicacies in the kitchen, the furniture, this place.”
He leans forward and puts the wine on the table, banging the bottle down so red liquid trickles onto the floor, staining the cream-coloured rug. Ricardo doesn’t seem to care; Mirta watches the stain while its edges expand, forming a red cloud.
“Who killed the old lady, Mirta? Was it you?”
She looks at him in terror and hesitates before responding. It is as if the words she has been carrying inside her all these years are starting to take form in her throat.
“You’re crazy. You were always sick in the head.”
“Was it you who killed the old broad?”
“You know it wasn’t me.”
“So who was it, then? Did the bogeyman kill her and steal the fuckin ring while we were asleep?”
“I don’t know, I swear.” As she says it, her eyes return to the red stain, which now looks like a map of Uruguay, the middle dark, almost black, the edges a lighter red, the borders imprecise. Mirta repeats: “I swear I don’t know.”
“Don’t fuck me about, bitch.”
Ricardo puts down the bottle and stands up suddenly; he grabs her shoulder and forces her to raise her head. He runs a finger over her neat eyebrows, tracing the edge of her kohl-rimmed eyes.
“And don’t laugh at me, you fuckin whore. You don’t know me no more; you don’t know who I am now.”
“It wasn’t me. I swear I’m telling the truth. I’m not laughing, I don’t feel like laughing.”
“So? What do you think? You must have an idea.”
“I don’t know, Ricardo. The gun had your prints on it. I thought it was you. That’s what I heard, that’s what I read in the papers. Nobody told me anything else.”
“The revolver had my prints because I picked it up from the table by your bed. I handled it, turned it over a couple of times, pretended to fire it. I was high. Didn’t you see me playin with the gun?”
“No, I didn’t see a thing. I went to sleep after we had sex. I don’t remember anything. That’s what I said at the trial, and it’s the truth.”
“So you told the truth, you little whore?”
Ricardo grips her tighter, traces the lines of her face with a rough finger; he lifts her skirt and pulls at the edge of her underwear, his hand invading her, the rough finger poking, probing. He presses his face against Mirta’s.
“I always liked your ass. Turn around.”
“Please, Ricardo.”
“I ain’t Ricardo no more. I’m the Hobo. And you’re just a whore.”
She tries to push him away, tries to escape his hand, his finger. The smell of wine makes her feel dizzy and nauseous. She evades his mouth, which is assailing her face, pinning her down. She retches in disgust. She struggles, pushes him, gets free, moves away. “Leave me alone.”
“Keep still, you piece of shit. Don’t fuckin push me.”
The order is accompanied by a blow to the cheek. The ring with a stone catches Mirta’s cheekbone, breaks the skin, causing a few drops of blood to run down her face, and she tastes it at the corner of her mouth. She obeys and keeps still.
He grabs her hair, pulls her head back, lifts her skirt up roughly, rips off her blouse; a turquoise button flies off and lands on the floor. He removes her lace bra, pinches her nipples.
“You like that?”
He looks like the cat who got the cream; she doesn’t look at him, her eyes are on the floor, on the turquoise button.
“Fuckin bitch.”
Ricardo turns her over and paws at her, opening and closing his hands on her soft flesh; he undoes his fly and thrusts himself into her, grunting behind her for less than a minute.
He finishes, releases her, pushes her away, walks over to the armchair and sits down, his trousers halfway down his legs, picks up the bottle and drinks.
“My first fuck since that afternoon. With a woman.”
He breathes heavily and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He seems satisfied, although we don’t know if it’s because he’s sated his desire or because he’s put Mirta in her place, or maybe he’s killed two birds with one stone. He pulls up his trousers, closes the zip, stands up.
“And now let’s get to work, Mirta. Time to check out this story.”
“I told you, I don’t know anything. Leave me alone.”
“Shut up. Tell me who inherited the old woman’s money.”
Mirta is still putting her clothes back on, trying to do up her blouse with one button missing, fumbling with the skirt, her fingers shaking; she hasn’t managed to cover herself up yet.
“Talk. I can do much worse.”
He says it in a sing-song tone that is meant to sound friendly. She tries to think what she should say.
“I don’t know. How would I know that? Nobody tells the maid about their legal business.”
“Of course you know. You’d known your boss for years. She have any kids?”
Mirta shrugs. “No kids. I guess the money went to her nieces.”
He studies her closely. “That pair of bitches. My lawyer said they gave statements against me at the trial.”
“So you know them.”
“I saw them come
in when I was waiting to be questioned, but I don’t remember their faces. One was fat, I remember that. You don’t have no photos?”
“No. And they weren’t in court?”
“Don’t be a fool. It ain’t like the movies here. You don’t see nobody. I hardly even saw the cheapskate public defender they gave me, he screwed up the case. I hope he rots in hell. Lucky I got the best in the business now: Antinucci.”
“That’s good.”
“You said they got the old woman’s money?”
“I don’t know a thing, Ricardo. I guess so. I didn’t see the nieces again. But they were Irene’s only relatives, so I guess they inherited the lot.”
“Names?”
Mirta hesitates. “Luz and Ursula López.”
“Addresses? Phone numbers?”
“I haven’t got anything. That’s all I can tell you. Look them up in the phone book.”
“Ursula and Luz López, you said? I bet those bitches will be in the book.”
“Yes: López. I don’t know where they live, nothing else.”
“Those whores didn’t just frame me for killing the old lady. They set me up for stealing a ring I never saw in my goddamn life.”
“Irene’s ring? She always had it on, I remember. It was special. White gold, with a diamond the size of a pea.”
He listens to her, notes down the names on a cigarette pack, drinks what remains of the wine, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand again. Before he leaves, he observes the expensive designer lamp, the white armchairs, and he smiles. He goes out, leaving the door wide open.
In the street, he takes out his phone, keys in a number, waits.
“Mr Antinucci? Boss, remember a couple of days ago I asked you to check something out? That’s right, to find out who collected the inheritance of a woman called Irene Salgado. You’ve got the names? Go ahead. Luz and Ursula López Salgado? Another thing. You think you could get me their addresses? Really, you’ve heard of this Ursula woman? What a coincidence. Ursula López is the wife of the guy kidnapped by the Sparrow? Yeah, Diego, that’s right. And all her info is in the file. I can’t believe it. If you don’t mind. Check it out and pass me the address as soon as you can. Tomorrow? I owe you one, boss.”
XVI
The scene that follows is rather sad. It’s a chilly day; there is scarcely anyone on the paths in the park. It’s damp, drizzly, muddy; the trees are leafless, almost bare, and she is sitting on a stone bench, waiting.
The dog walkers haven’t appeared (they probably won’t in this weather), and even the park wardens have taken refuge in their concrete hut. The cars that pass on the side streets seem to be fewer than usual, and the silence and the morning fog create a ghostly atmosphere.
By now, Ursula knows that the woman she’s waiting for, the other Ursula López, won’t be going for a run like she normally does. She takes advantage of her solitude and starts the penultimate part of her liturgy: she opens the pink bag, feels around until she finds what she is looking for, hesitates and looks to either side, takes out the case, opens it carefully (it brings back so many memories), touches the leather and the metal, caresses it. She looks to either side again before she raises the binoculars that once belonged to her deceased father – may you rest in peace, Daddy. He used them on Sundays to follow the horses at the Maroñas Racecourse, she remembers, and smiles. Her father’s voice sounds strict, he tells her to be careful: Don’t forget them, Ursula, make sure you don’t drop them, you know how careless you are with everything and these are top-quality, I bought them in Germany, the very best optical technology, you might break them or just leave them behind. Be quiet, Daddy, I’m busy, can’t you see? When are you going to finally leave? You’re dead. Dead. She shakes her head vehemently. Then she focuses on the sidewalk opposite, the brick building – almost but not quite a luxury block – full of mirrors and polished metal and with a uniformed doorman; she focuses on the first floor, turns the little wheel to zoom in, adjusts the image and waits. Every few seconds she looks around, checking the sides, scanning the distance.
Nobody.
Although it’s early, there is a light on in a room in the apartment; it’s on the left and, as far as she can work out, it must be the kitchen. It’s the only window that’s illuminated. The curtains are open and the glass is starting to steam up; someone is cooking lunch or heating water, we don’t know. Ursula zooms in and now she can make out tiles, a pattern that looks like fruit, perhaps matching the motif on the curtain and, no doubt, the crockery and table linen, all coordinated around the same design, which is repeated, she imagines, on the teapot and the napkin holder. She observes or imagines these details and plays at feeling part of this clean, new, gleaming, well-equipped kitchen, she imagines herself as its owner, the owner of this whole apartment, an apartment for rich people (or almost) with its bedspreads that have hardly been used. She imagines herself drawing the curtains, letting the sun in when it is there, she sees herself with a frying pan in her hand or stirring the contents of a pot, arranging the teacups with their fruit motifs or walking from the stainless steel sink to the fridge that spits out ice cubes.
And she jumps when she sees the woman appear, when she sees the head of the other Ursula silhouetted against the light in the window, a smooth clear face, light-brown hair, almost blonde, already tied back in a ponytail. Is she going running in this weather? How long has she been there? The woman opens the curtain a little wider and looks out, towards the street, at the park. At her? Ursula’s heartbeat accelerates, she focuses, observes the woman, holds her breath, forgets about her surroundings, remains still, containing even the slightest movements. Surely the woman can’t be looking at her? It’s very hard to see clearly from this distance and on a misty day but Ursula feels as if she has been found out, has the unpleasant certainty that the woman, the other Ursula López, her namesake, has spotted her, and that she could be in danger.
She lowers the binoculars, swiftly hiding them in her bag. She waits for a few seconds, imagines a call to the police, a complaint, an accusation of loitering, of spying. Is spying on people a crime? It’s a question she’s asked herself before – many times, in fact – and she doesn’t know the answer. She will have to find out. And, even if it’s not a crime, it would be embarrassing, humiliating to be caught in this situation; she feels like an idiot, Daddy would tell her she’s messed up. There are mentally ill people who spy on others for sheer pleasure; she’s heard of this revolting habit they call voyeurism, and it worries her to think she could be accused of something like that.
She hears a siren, she shivers, her teeth chatter; the temperature is falling.
The woman’s face is still there, and her eyes may be looking towards the park, the bench, that strange figure observing her on this impossibly cold drizzly day. Ursula turns her head and looks towards the groundskeeper’s hut but all she can see are the closed door and the light inside. The woman disappears from the window, closes the curtains, turns out the light. Ursula, without knowing quite why, pulls down the peak of her cap and covers her face with her hand, waiting, shivering a little more. Time passes, the minutes go by, and nothing happens; the sirens recede, there is no more movement, and the woman with the same name as her is no doubt checking the weather and perhaps wondering whether she should put on more clothes or a raincoat or even take an umbrella when she leaves the house. That’s all. Ursula feels as if she has just been pardoned.
A few minutes later another light comes on, this time in the living room, and she observes the woman sit down, put something on the table, a cup of tea or coffee no doubt, pick up a magazine or a book, turn the pages. She can’t resist the temptation and she takes out the binoculars again; the tea or coffee sits steaming on what Ursula imagines to be a glass tabletop. Ursula breathes, reassured, but her hands are still shaking. She focuses on some paintings on the back wall, some bookshelves, ornaments, lamps; the house of the woman who is almost rich and who now lives alone because her husband left her for another woman
but still supports her and maintains her status and her social and economic standing, including this apartment with a doorman and domestic staff, even if it is no longer the house in Carrasco with a garden and a swimming pool. She observes the woman lifting the drink to her mouth and wiping her lips with a folded grey or greyish-green napkin.
Careful with the binoculars, Daddy says, your hands are still shaking and you might drop them, break them, ruin them, you’re shaking with rage and envy while you spy on this woman, Santiago’s wife, the man who was kidnapped by that delinquent friend of yours, Diego. Shut up, Daddy, my hands are trembling because it’s cold, and stop tormenting me. Just remember you’re dead. The woman who was going to pay the ransom, Ursula, the money you were going to use to pay for your weight-loss treatment and to live in a fancy house: she cheated you. Want to know why? Shut up, you old fool. Because crime doesn’t pay, sweetie. She isn’t going to listen to her father any more, she isn’t going to listen to him; she’s still looking but she no longer sees anything, she’s shaking with rage, her eyes glued to the binoculars but her mind miles away.
She doesn’t know when the lights in the apartment went out; she doesn’t know, didn’t register it, there’s no longer any movement and she guesses the woman will come out soon, to walk through the park, to run along the waterfront. She lowers the binoculars, puts them back into their case, quickly puts everything in her pink leather handbag. She looks left and right.
There’s a guy standing there, twenty yards away, a man who wasn’t there a moment ago. Or perhaps he was there and she didn’t see him arrive? She can’t see his face properly, can’t make out the features. She tries to guess if he’s been there for a while, if he might have seen her using the binoculars, if he might have realized she’s spying on something or someone as he stands there with a clear view of her.
But the man only seems to be interested in the building opposite, and he watches it, concentrating fiercely. Ursula is also concentrating. She studies the man’s face, waiting for him to move, to turn his head so she can see him better, from another angle; a brief moment of light enables her to make out his nose, his mouth, a chin that reminds her of somebody. And, to her surprise, recognition begins to dawn on her. The man moves, takes out a cigarette, tries to light it but is thwarted by the wind, turns to shield himself and exposes his other side. Ursula watches him and feels the unease of a memory she can’t quite place. As she observes, she stands up and walks until she is no longer in the man’s field of vision, she looks at him from the side and from behind, studies his face, his features, his hair. The man is concentrating, looking straight ahead at the brick building; he makes no effort to conceal himself and hasn’t moved, and just now he is swivelling his hips, rotating them in a way that, seen from here, looks vaguely obscene. Not only does he appear to have no wish to remain hidden, he gives the impression of showing himself deliberately, as if he wants to be seen. The memory is so clear that she is jolted. In a moment, she remembers everything, and almost wants to laugh with relief: it’s Ricardo, the one who was done for murdering Auntie Irene.
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