Olga was still hurt by how naive she’d been, and blamed herself. When he saw his wife, Teo hurled her off him, literally threw her to the side the way people throw off the sheets when they suddenly realise they’re late for something. And all her happiness instantly vanished, sucked up by that woman, who was like a black hole in her universe. Their universe, the universe that belonged to the two of them. It was pitiful, the way he begged, practically on his knees, babbling excuses, clinging to the legs at the bottom of that beautiful strappy dress — she remembered, now, that it had mother-of-pearl buttons where the straps attached to the bodice — ignoring Olga as though she didn’t even exist, as though she’d never existed, as though he regretted her existence. Cursing her.
Olga wrapped herself in the sheet, huddled in one corner of the bed that still smelled like the fresh, hot semen of the man who had just cast her aside. But there was no protecting herself from that woman — she had such a compact, beautiful body that Olga felt cheap and insignificant by comparison. You’re nothing but a little whore who made him think he could pretend he was still young, her eyes said. That’s all you are, a tiny speck, an affront that he’ll beg forgiveness for. And I’ll forgive him even though I don’t forgive him, because I love him and he’s my man and I’m his wife. Because you’re nothing; you’re no one. You don’t even exist.
Maribel told Teo to get his clothes. She didn’t want to spend another second in that bedroom. And he obeyed like a little lap dog, eager and embarrassed at the same time. He dressed awkwardly, rummaging among the wrinkled sheets and Olga’s underwear for his shirt, and when she tried to say something, to assert her presence, he shot daggers at her.
I’m pregnant. First she said it very quietly, struggling to find the words, to get enough air to say it. He didn’t hear her and continued to dress hurriedly, buttoning his shirt wrong. And then Olga shouted it, howled it in fact. I’m pregnant! That time neither of them could ignore her words: Teo didn’t know where to look, his eyes darting around erratically. Maribel let out a low moan, dropping the bag in her hands, and the book fell out, spine up, its pages splayed. A noxious silence coiled around them.
Maribel was the first to regain her composure. She bent down demurely — legs to one side so as not to flash her panties when she crouched — and gingerly picked the book up, wiping the dust off the cover, the invisible, bothersome dust that the wind had brought in from the beach. Then she straightened back up with the same dignity, tugging gently at the hem of her dress to smooth out a nonexistent wrinkle. ‘I’ll wait outside,’ she said blandly to Teo, who was gazing forlornly at a shoe not knowing which foot it went on.
I’ll wait outside meant that she’d wait on the other side of the whole incident, that she’d chosen to turn back the hands of the clock so as to relive those minutes without that scene. It was her way of saying, This never happened. This has nothing to do with us. We’re not responsible. You’re nothing but a little whore, a fool who didn’t take the necessary precautions — and now you’ll have to handle it on your own. We’re not part of this.
‘I didn’t see Teo again. He stopped answering my calls, and one day I got a recording that said the number was no longer in service. I didn’t know where he lived — he’d never told me — but I remembered his licence plate number. You saw for yourself how easy it is to get someone’s records from the traffic department. So I started hanging around his neighbourhood like a crazy. I’d watch him work in his coin shop, right below his wife’s dance academy. I’d spend all afternoon watching through the giant windows from the sidewalk, staring at her in her black leotard, with all those disciplined little ballerinas obeying her. She looked like an elegant swan being followed around by her little chicks — so ethereal.
‘I wondered how it was possible for them to just carry on with their lives, pretending I didn’t exist. I’d take pleasure in imagining them fighting at night, shouting and insulting one another about me, about our baby, who would never be born. I dreamed that Maribel refused to let him sleep on his side of the bed, that she made him sleep like a dog at the foot of the bed, threw his food down and made him eat off the floor. I imagined Teo tormented by his punishment and guilt, wondering what had happened to me, missing me.
‘Thinking about those things didn’t bring me peace, but it consoled me in the same way alcohol consoles people — by killing them slowly. Fantasising about their troubles helped me feel a tiny bit less troubled. But I wasn’t even granted that consolation. Day after day, I’d see them leave their building with that kid between them — the boy they’d adopted who wasn’t even Teo’s real son, who he didn’t love. And yet that little boy, holding both their hands, was the bridge that united them.’
Eduardo had been silent for quite some time, hadn’t even moved. He was so still that it was as if he’d gone someplace else, leaving his body behind. But his eyes were still staring straight ahead, at the stream. His eyelids fluttered, blinking back the tears in his eyes.
‘So you decided to take revenge.’ His voice sounded like it was coming from inside a hollow wall.
Olga shook her head. It wasn’t that easy, though in a sense it was. Revenge required the kind of effort and planning that she wasn’t capable of at that time. It was chance that had given her the opportunity.
‘I saw you in the emergency room one day. I’d gone there because the pain and haemorrhaging were killing me. I was alone, because my mother had refused to come with me. As I was waiting on a cot, I heard a couple of nurses talking about what had happened to you, how your wife and daughter were dead and if you kept on the way you were, you might die, too. I spent one horrible night out in the hallway — but for some reason I couldn’t stop thinking about you and your family. I understood why you were refusing to eat, to take your medication. You were as miserable as me — your tragedy had been as unexpected as mine. I figured that your hatred for whoever had caused the accident must be as immense as my hatred for everyone, especially Teo and his wife. As if we had no right to anything at all. In the morning, I was released, and as I was getting ready to leave, I passed your room. The door was ajar and I didn’t dare open it, but I could see you. You were in bed with an IV in your arm, staring out the window, your face still all swollen from the accident. Your father was talking to you, sitting in an uncomfortable-looking chair at your side, but you weren’t paying any attention. You were a mess, and as awful as it might sound, that comforted me, made me feel less alone. I went down to the florist in the lobby and bought a bouquet and asked them to send it up to your room.’
She paused for air and to gather her thoughts. Eduardo didn’t hurry her.
‘Months later, I had to go down to the police station for some paperwork. I was in Madrid, so I went to the Puerta del Sol station. I hadn’t forgotten about you, but I had thought about you less. It was all slowly fading, as my physical pain subsided. I was learning to tolerate my life, put up with the arguments with my mother and her stubborn, accusatory silences. I’d even started fooling around with a boy from a nearby town.
‘I stopped hanging out around Teo’s house and assumed that in time it would all just become part of a past that I’d keep under wraps, in the deepest part of me. Anyway, while waiting to be seen by the police, I passed the time reading all the notices on the bulletin board. There were photos of missing people, criminals on the run, that kind of thing. And then I got to this one notice. The police were asking for help solving a double-homicide. It was manslaughter. I remember the word because I didn’t know what it meant. It was about your wife and daughter, about the accident. They gave a general description of the vehicle that might have caused the accident, a few possible letters of the licence plate, the SUV’s make. Then a cop walked in and asked if I was okay. I guess I must have been pale. I debated, I wanted to say something. But I couldn’t get the words out.’
As though willpower were enough, Olga had actually believed she was going to be able to put her life ba
ck together — until she saw that poster. She thought she’d start over, go to school in Madrid, fall in love with someone who wouldn’t care that she couldn’t have children. But willpower isn’t always enough to twist the hands of fate. She left the police station still choked up by that sudden stumbling block that had been thrown in her path, her plans to forget. She started wondering if life sometimes gave you signs, signs you didn’t always know how to interpret. And the answer came in the form of a greeting: ‘How are you, Olga?’
‘It took me a second to recognise him. His face was rounder, more tanned, sort of puffy, and he’d grown a scruffy beard, speckled with grey. But it was him. Teo. He was carrying a bunch of shopping bags in his right hand — it was almost Christmas — and holding his son’s hand with his left. He was a good-looking kid, whose face I couldn’t see entirely because he was wearing a scarf and wool cap. The boy was looking into shop windows not paying any attention to us, and Teo smiled. “What a surprise; you look good.”’
“I am good,” Olga had replied, though it came out in a hoarse whisper.
She couldn’t breathe and had to order her heart to start beating again. Teo looked her over, looking carefree and flirty. He couldn’t stop smiling, and Olga didn’t know why. He talked nonstop without letting her speak, as though he didn’t want to give her a chance to ruin his pre-planned script. He told her things were going well — relatively, he added with fake nostalgia. And then he reached out his right hand, the one holding all the Christmas presents, and tucked back a lock of her hair. Things were going well, but he missed her. If you know what I mean, he’d added pointedly.
Olga didn’t know, didn’t want to know. And as if she were still the silly naive girl she’d been a few months earlier, Teo whispered, leaning close, that they could start things back up again, see each other from time to time, have a little fun — though, he’d added with a faux reproach, they’d have to be more discreet, take measures to avoid accidents.
Olga had stared at him like he was a two-headed monster, one grotesque and the other hideous. She called him a son of a bitch. And Teo had gotten a ridiculous look on his face, like a little boy whose toy had been snatched away just when he thought it was all his.
‘I spent all night tossing and turning, reliving the scene, his words, his expression, the feel of his fingers on my hair, the smell of his breath on my cheek. I threw up several times, cried more than I can say, cursed him, insulted him, and then slowly the idea of hurting him started to take form. Hurting him as horribly as he’d hurt me, causing him some kind of definitive, humiliating pain. I knew Teo had a dark-coloured SUV, and at least one of the numbers coincided with the one that had caused the accident that killed your family. It wasn’t something premeditated, it just came into my head all of a sudden, like when someone solves a problem they’ve been studying for a long time and then all the pieces just fall into place effortlessly. And the next morning, I went to see you.’
Olga gazed at the stream, the hilly meadow, the reedbed on the other side of the shore.
‘I didn’t know you were going to kill him.’
Eduardo gave her a hard stare. He’d started to perspire, as if the struggle raging inside him were being sweated out through his skin, through a searing heat.
‘Seriously? And what exactly did you think I was going to do?’
‘I didn’t think anything. I wasn’t thinking at all, I didn’t even see Teo’s death as an option. I just wanted to fuck him over, show the whole world what kind of pig he was, destroy the facade of his perfect life. I didn’t consider the consequences it would have for you.’
Eduardo looked at the car door on Olga’s side; the dirty brown cushioned upholstery. Olga’s hand was resting nervously on the windowsill. That slender hand, once, at the penitentiary, had tried to touch his crotch. They had been in a room that allowed physical contact between prisoners and visitors, no double-paned glass smudged with the fingerprints of those trying to touch one another despite the barrier. Sitting at a table beside him, Olga had slid her hand down to Eduardo’s crotch and gently rested it on his penis, light as a little butterfly. She’d offered to console him, said she owed him at least that much. And he had let himself be consoled. And that night he’d cried until he had no more tears.
‘You didn’t consider the consequences. But there are always consequences, and it doesn’t matter if you think about them or not. They’re there.’
Eduardo’s eyes had drifted to the left, to a place between the shore and a cluster of pines. Olga glanced in the same direction. A young man was approaching, walking down the hill. In Eduardo’s nightmares, the young man was coming from a forest, half-naked and being chased by ferocious dogs. But that morning, there was no barking, no urgency to the young man’s gait. He walked slowly toward the car with the assurance of the inevitable.
‘Who’s that?’
Eduardo gave Olga a look of pity. The past, the future, who knows? He couldn’t hate her for what she’d done. But he couldn’t forgive her, either. Martina had been wrong. Forgiveness was not a path for him.
‘Teo’s son.’
Olga shot him a panicked look.
‘What’s he doing here?’
Closing the circle, Eduardo thought.
‘You can’t leave me with him!’
But he could.
Mr Who stopped at the open car door. He reached out an arm and pulled Olga’s out of the car. She clung weakly to the frame, like a broken marionette, shouting to Eduardo for help.
Eduardo started the car and drove away slowly, forcing himself not to glance in the rearview mirror.
19
Arthur walked into the café across the street from the National High Court. It was ten o’clock in the morning and the bar was lined with judges, lawyers, district attorneys, and plainclothes cops. Public servants who righteously imparted justice, but drank coffee, ate canapés and read the sports papers, too. Some of them went to restrooms and forgot to zip up their trousers or tuck their blouses back into their skirts. Some also occasionally had stains on their jackets, looked as if they’d had rough nights, or told dirty jokes of questionable taste, laughing in an uproarious fashion. Arthur recognised some of their faces, recalled some of their names, greeted a few with a less-than-confident handshake, gave a few nods of recognition across the room, but mostly he felt uncomfortable. He didn’t like these people.
Ibrahim had walked in behind him, his menacing appearance, although tempered by a smart dark suit, catching the attention of those closest to the doorway. They eyed him with wariness, if not outright aversion. He ignored them with a defiant smile that caused the scar on his face to pull taut.
The two of them caught sight of Ordóñez at one of the tables, his back to them.
‘Good morning, warden,’ Arthur said.
Ordóñez looked up from the paper he was reading. Given that there was no other news of interest, the media was still fixated on the Calle León arson-homicide. The article Ordóñez had been reading was a two-page spread, its headline resembling a Marcial Lafuente Estefanía western: On the Heels of a Killer. A photo of the suspect accompanied the story. Arthur hardly blinked when he saw Guzmán’s face. It was an old passport photo, with a caption listing various aliases as well as the suspect’s background: ex-DINA agent, then mercenary. Ibrahim saw it, too, before the Meco Prison warden folded the newspaper and asked them to take a seat. He shot Arthur a brief, meaningful look, but said nothing.
‘You planning to put me back in your prison, warden?’ Arthur asked Ordóñez as he sat. Ibrahim took a seat across from him so he could keep an eye on the door and his back to the wall. Prison habits die hard, Ordóñez thought to himself.
‘What makes you ask, Arthur? Get yourself in some hot water?’ Ordóñez tried to reinforce the intended humour with his Italian-entrepreneur smile. He was dressed immaculately, in a pale-coloured tailored suit that complemented his shir
t and striped tie. The man more resembled upper-management at a multinational than a local prison warden.
‘I’m guessing you don’t ask your ex-prisoners to breakfast with great frequency,’ Arthur replied, keeping up the friendly tone, but making clear the distance that separated the two of them. Maybe inside Meco Prison, Ordóñez was God, but on the outside the balance tipped a different direction.
Ordóñez adjusted his cuffs, tugging cufflinked sleeves out from beneath his jacket. He cleared his throat and glanced quickly around the room, wondering what those who saw him in the company of Arthur, and especially Ibrahim, must be thinking.
‘I’ve got a meeting with Justice Gutiérrez in his chambers in twenty minutes.’ He said it as though meeting Justice Gutiérrez in private would somehow elevate his status to that of a public servant to be envied, but neither Arthur nor Ibrahim reacted as he’d hoped, so he simply smoothed his slicked-back hair. ‘I thought we could have a little chat.’
‘Whatever you say.’
‘The Armenian escaped yesterday during a prison transfer. He killed one of the civil guards with him and injured another. We’ve managed to keep it under wraps for the time being, but that won’t last — the press catches on pretty quickly. I wanted you to hear it from me. He swore he was coming after you, Arthur.’ He tilted his head to one side and gazed at Ibrahim for a few seconds. The man had never caused any trouble inside Meco, but he was the type of prisoner who makes civil servants uneasy. ‘And I don’t think having Ibrahim around is going to be enough to stop him.’
The Heart Tastes Bitter Page 38