The Foreign Girls

by Sergio Olguin

  It was the best decision of his life because it meant he’d met her, Federico told Verónica after the first time they’d fucked – right afterwards, in fact, because, in contrast to what many people say about men, Federico loved post-coital chat. And while Federico told her his story, and that of his parents, uncles and aunts and of his immigrant grandparents, Verónica was thinking that this had been a mistake, that sleeping with Federico was practically incest. Because ever since they had first met at her father’s firm, they had enjoyed a friendly camaraderie; they were more like siblings than friends. And if she had led him on … well, it wouldn’t be wrong for her to do that. At the end of the day he wasn’t actually her brother.

  Such were the contradictions that plagued her for months before she finally decided to fuck him. And while he was still talking, she was thinking that she needed a whisky and a spaceship to beam her out of the motel and back to her parents’ house (she was still living at home).

  It was a long time before they had fucked again. That next time hadn’t seemed so incestuous to her but, noticing how in love he was, she felt obliged to say what she believed everyone should say when they know they won’t be faithful to someone who loves them: that there were, and would continue to be, other men in her life. Federico thanked her for her honesty, and they didn’t go out together again. He had remained very present in her life, though.

  Federico never asked her for anything, never showed her any weakness. And that annoyed Verónica. It seemed that the only time he was prepared to reveal himself emotionally was in bed. And given that he never asked her for anything, why had he called her?

  The phone rang again. Federico’s name reappeared on the screen. She answered straightaway.

  “Federico Córdova?”

  “Dr Córdova to you.”

  “Like that, is it?”

  “Or Lil Daddy, if you like.”

  “I’ve only got one Daddy and he’s sitting ten feet away from you.”

  “More like twenty, to be precise.”

  “Has something happened?”

  “No, nothing. I just wanted to know how the vacation’s going.”

  “Well. I’m at Severo’s house.”

  “Are you going to stay there much longer?”

  “I don’t know, a couple of days. Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  “Come on, Fede. Why do you want to know?”

  “Don’t panic – I’m not thinking of joining you. My mother doesn’t let me out of Buenos Aires on my own. Are you going to Salta afterwards?”

  “No. I’m heading to Yacanto del Valle. From there I think I’ll go to Cafayate.”

  “And are you on your own?”

  “Fede, if I didn’t know you, I’d think that you were monitoring me or that my dad’s asked you to make sure I’m eating properly.”

  “And are you?”

  “Is there anything else, sweetheart? Make it quick, because I’ve got a couple of friends waiting for me.”

  “Ah, that’s great you’ve got company. It’s boring travelling alone. I’m sending you a kiss.”

  Verónica hung up feeling that Federico wanted to talk to her about something but had decided not to for some reason. Could something have happened to her father? No, it wouldn’t be that: her sisters would have told her. Might Federico and old Rosenthal have fallen out? Impossible. Some other woman was messing him around and making him sad? Who knew…? It couldn’t be anything too serious. She might as well return to the pool.

  VII

  They spent most of the day in the sun, getting in the water every so often or going to the kitchen for drinks and snacks. The only time they left the pool area was at lunch, when they ate a salad of chicken, lettuce, carrot, sweetcorn and tomato in the cool shade of the veranda. As evening fell, they went to their rooms to shower and get changed. Verónica took the opportunity to lie on her bed for a bit and read the Marta Lynch novel she hadn’t yet finished. Then she had a shower with warm water that felt boiling. Despite using sunscreen, her body seemed sensitive to the heat. She stepped out of the shower, dried herself and looked for her Méthode Jeanne Piaubert moisturizer. For a moment she remembered Frida’s hands putting cream on her back. She thought that she shouldn’t spend so much time alone.

  It was dark by the time she went through to the living room. Frida had opened a bottle of white wine and was working her way through a block of provolone. Petra was sitting in an armchair, tuning her guitar. Verónica brought out a jar of anchovy-filled olives, a liver sausage with herbs, blue cheese and some crackers. Thinking the Roquefort might taste best with pasta, she set off to find butter, whisky, Tabasco sauce and a dish. She mixed a couple of ounces of butter with the Roquefort, a splash of whisky and a few drops of hot sauce, then put it all in the microwave and twenty seconds later, with a bit of forking, it had turned into a serviceable pasta sauce. Frida was still grappling with the provolone.

  They sat around the coffee table, Frida and Petra in the armchairs and Verónica on the sofa with her feet up. What did they talk about? Everything and nothing – and perhaps that was the best proof that in twenty-four hours they had built a friendship: they could glide over any subject, leave an idea half-finished or jump to another story without the need to finish the last or spend an hour analysing some anecdote. If, days later, someone had asked Verónica what they had talked about that night and during the subsequent days, she would have struggled to supply a precise answer.

  At some point in the evening, Petra picked up the guitar and sang some of her own compositions. Her music was like her character: ironic, funny, sometimes dramatic or overblown. Verónica observed as much to her.

  “I’m an Italian who’d like to be Argentinian. What would you expect me to be like?”

  “I don’t know. Like Mina Mazzini?”

  “I never liked Mina very much. I prefer Iva Zanicchi.” Petra started singing: “Prendi questa mano, zingara / Dimmi pure che destino avrò / Parla del mio amore / Io non ho paura.”

  Petra accompanied herself on the guitar, although at times she scarcely touched it. Her voice was her favoured instrument.

  “Mi hai detto ‘non scordarti di me’ / Il cielo già portava l’autunno / L’estate se ne andava con te / Ed io, io t’ho visto andar via senza di me / Portavi la mia vita con te / Fra noi è finita così.”

  Frida had gone to fetch another bottle of wine, and when she returned she sat on the sofa next to Verónica. As Petra finished the song, Frida raised her glass to Verónica.

  “Let’s toast our songbird.”

  Frida was slightly drunk and, for a moment, Verónica thought that she was annoyed to see Petra at the centre of attention. Or to see her, Verónica, paying more attention to Petra. As they clinked glasses, Verónica wished she could think of something to say specifically to Frida, but nothing came to mind. She closed her eyes and, as if the absence of one sense sharpened the others, she smelled Frida’s sweetish perfume. Eighteenth-century English gardens must have smelled like this when heroines fainted of love. Without opening her eyes, she asked:

  “What perfume do you use?”

  “Flowerbomb, by Viktor & Rolf.”

  “It smells like you’ve escaped from a Jane Austen novel.”

  “To escape you have to run. Are you saying I smell of sweat?”

  She felt Frida’s hand stroking her cheek. The perfume exploded in her face. She kept her eyes closed.

  “No. I’m no perfume expert, but your hand smells of flowers.”

  “I smell of ancient history.”

  Frida’s fingers stroked her chin. Verónica could have sat for hours enjoying the caresses on her face. That girl. She opened her eyes. Frida was smiling at her, amused. Petra was no longer in her chair or anywhere in the living room. Frida took her hand away but kept looking at Verónica, observing her in the way that a mother looks at a child who’s woken up after many hours asleep.

  “And Petra?”

  Frida gestured towards the garden. “I think
she’s gone out to smoke.”

  “I need a cigarette too.”

  It was hard to see Petra standing in the darkness, far from the lights of the house. She was smoking and looking at the sky. Verónica asked her for a cigarette.

  “I love these moonless nights,” Petra said. “Guarda le stelle – they’re like gemstones on a velvet mantle.”

  “Maybe. I’m not a big fan of nature.”

  “I’m going to show you something that has nothing to do with nature. Concentrate on the sky. Let me see… Look over that way. Where the swimming pool is, above the light coming from that house in the distance. What can you see?”

  “In the sky? Stars.”

  “Look harder, city girl. There’s a star that’s moving to the right.”

  “A moving star? Hang on, yes. A star’s moving!” She almost shouted it. “It’s the first time I’ve seen a shooting star go so slowly.”

  “It’s not a shooting star. It’s a satellite. Perhaps one belonging to NASA, or the European Union. Perhaps a spy satellite. But tell me it isn’t poignant to see that little light lost in the immensity of the cosmos.”

  “Are there others like that?”

  “If you stayed out here a while, you’d see several other satellites.”

  “I don’t think I’m patient enough.”

  “Patience makes us wise.”

  “I’m not patient, I’m curious.”

  “And curiosity killed the cat. We’d better go back inside – Frida will be getting bored.”

  But when they went inside, Frida wasn’t in the living room any more. After another glass of wine each they concluded that she must have gone to bed. Petra cleared their plates from the coffee table and Verónica put away the leftovers. Finally on her own, she poured herself one last glass of wine; she would have preferred whisky, but didn’t have the energy to go and get it. She wondered why Frida had gone to bed without saying anything to them. And also if it had been a coincidence that Petra had gone out to the garden when Frida was stroking her face.

  Suddenly there was a blow against the door to the garden, as if someone outside had thrown something at it. Verónica jumped. She waited a few seconds but didn’t hear anything else unusual. Then she got up from the armchair and walked towards the window, holding her glass like a defensive weapon. The outside light was on and she could see nothing out of the ordinary, except for something on the ground. A small animal was lying there. She opened the door and from the doorstep could see it a bit better. It was a mouse or a cavy, or something similar. The animal was dead and streaked with blood, as though it had escaped from a predator. Not a clean escape, though. Had it crashed into the door? Swallowing her fear of rats and similar creatures, she approached the animal, prodding it with the toe of her shoe to make sure it was dead. She crouched down and studied it more closely. The area around the neck was ravaged. The blood was still sticky and smelt vile, but Verónica didn’t flinch. One leg seemed to have been yanked out of place, exposing a reddish bone. Without thinking, she put her free hand on the animal’s back. The body was still warm and soft. From the darkness, among the shrubs, came a noise. Verónica quickly stood up and tried to see if anything was there, but she could make nothing out. It must have been whatever predator had caught and killed this rodent. For a second, Verónica imagined the beast was going to launch itself at her. Could it be a puma, a fox, a wild dog? She stood and waited, alert to an attack that never arrived. Then she walked slowly backwards, without taking her eyes off the black denseness beyond the garden. Entering the house, she closed the door, still watching, but the quiet now was absolute. Seen from this distance, the rodent’s body was no longer repulsive. It was a stain, easy to forget. But she had seen it up close. And details are hard to forget.

  2 Unfinished Business

  I

  They were arguing about the Argentina team: who should and shouldn’t be in it, strategies for playing at home and away, whether the coach should be changed or given another year. He didn’t actually know the two occupants of the front seats, just the one sitting beside him: Martínez. Chancha, or Snorter Martínez. Officer Martínez. Speaking for himself, Three wasn’t very interested in soccer. He preferred horses, poker, the lottery. So he spent the journey looking out at the city, not something he had seen much of in the last few months. He liked seeing how the other drivers gave way to their patrol car. That was the best thing about travelling in a police vehicle. Once they’d had a siren like the ones used by unmarked police cars, but it had attracted too much attention. They had to stop using it on orders of Doctor Zero.

  Usually they didn’t take him in the patrol car, but in a van with any other prisoner who needed to go to hospital. This time, though, since he was the only one with a physio appointment, they were taking him by car. For five months now he had been having physiotherapy, as well as kinesiology and pain therapy. He had begun the treatment after they removed the plaster casts for the multiple fractures to his right arm and leg, and when the lacerations and internal injuries ceased to be a risk. The first months had been very hard. There was no lessening of the pain, even with painkillers, and his joints were stiff. He felt like a mummy, but without bandages (although he’d had those too, along with the casts, since leaving intensive care). He was much better now. His leg was responding correctly, despite a slight but noticeable limp, and his arm shook a little when he wanted to keep it firm. That didn’t worry him too much, though, because the right arm was the important one. He had never learned how to fire a gun with his left hand.

  They arrived at the hospital and, as usual, drove round to the back, to the area reserved for ambulances and employees. The police sitting in the front of the car made some quip about the nurses and he smiled at them. Only two of them got out – he and Officer Martínez, who put a coat over his hands to hide the cuffs from view. Chancha had been accompanying him here for months and knew exactly where to take him. The reports described Three as a model prisoner. His behaviour on these trips had always been exemplary. Other prisoners required an escort of two or three police officers. He was a gentleman by comparison.

  They arrived on the second floor and went into the room where Three was scheduled to see the physiotherapist, a female doctor, old, bad-tempered and smelling of cigarettes. It was still early. Their timings were spot on. They had deliberately arrived ten minutes before the appointment. Martínez closed the door so the two of them were alone in the brightly lit, antiseptic hospital room. He removed Three’s handcuffs and gestured for him to open and close his hands to increase blood flow and flexibility.

  Calmly, Martínez told him, “You’ve got five minutes. Take the stairs on the left down to the ground floor. Walk out of the main entrance. Don’t rush, or dawdle, or do anything to attract attention. The policeman on duty at the door won’t even look at you. Hold your head high but don’t make eye contact with anyone. You might run into some of the doctors who treated you.”

  “Chancha, I know what to do.”

  Martínez walked out of the room, leaving Three alone. He waited a minute, put on the jacket and left. No sign of police in the corridor. He walked to the staircase that led down to the ground floor. It wouldn’t be the first or last time a prisoner had escaped from a hospital. That’s what the police authorities would say when the judge furiously demanded an explanation. It might not even get that far if the judge was also getting his cut from Doctor Zero, in which case he would simply instruct the clerk of the court to follow the relevant procedures, sending search and arrest warrants to all the country’s branches, which would then make little effort to find him.

  He reached the ground floor without a hitch and continued, through a throng of people trying to be seen, towards the front door. Outside, the March sun hit him full in the face. It was hot. He removed his jacket, taking his time, as though he had all day to enjoy being outside. It was six months since Three had last walked along a street, and his first thought was the same one that had occupied him all that time. A fixed i
dea, a mantra that had sustained him through those long months in prison while he waited to recover physically and for Doctor Zero to get him out – because he never doubted that Doctor Zero would get him out of prison. That fixed idea, that recurring thought, was to commit a murder. He was going to kill Verónica Rosenthal.

  II

  The simplest cases can become complicated. He had always known that. He didn’t trust straightforward jobs; in fact, they annoyed him. He preferred complicated assignments: a businessman with a security detail, a well-armed police chief, some narco traitor loaded up with guns. For that reason, when Doctor Zero had asked the four of them (One, Two, Four and him) to go and beat up one guy, a skinny runt, it struck him as way more force than the job required. Any one of the four of them could have taken him out alone. Then everything got crazily fucked up. Some Chinese dude turned up to defend the skinny guy, humiliating them with his karate moves. They got their revenge on the Chink soon enough, then they had to go and find the other one, the skinny motherfucker who was hiding in the journalist’s apartment. This time not just to rough him up but to put him six feet under.

  All four of them went over there and when they were about to finish off the job on the sidewalk outside the building, the journalist chick turned up and drove over them all in her car. Twice. One and Four were killed instantly. Two died two days later. He was the only one to survive. By a whisker, but still, he was alive. And ready to take revenge on that bitch.

  When he reached the corner there was a car, with Five at the wheel. He got into the passenger seat and put on his seat belt. Five put his foot down and sped away from the hospital.