by Claudia Pi
“I’m not out to gain anything: that’s what you don’t seem able to understand.”
“Think about it.”
The men make their way to the door, unaccompanied. Juani does not move from his father’s side. From the kitchen door, Virginia watches them leave.
48
I looked at my husband and son, standing together. “What are we going to do?” I asked.
“We’ve already done what we had to do,” Ronie answered.
But Juani looked at us both: “And what if that weren’t the truth?” We didn’t understand. “Come upstairs – I want to show you something,” he said.
We helped Ronie up the stairs. In Juani’s room, sitting on the window frame waiting for us, was Romina. I hadn’t known that she was there. She was holding her father’s digital video camera. Juani asked us to sit on the bed. The television was on and a reporter was announcing an imminent attack on the part of the United States against the country thought to be responsible for the Twin Towers atrocity. “Our soldiers are ready and they will make us proud,” announced their president, from the screen. Juani took the video camera over to the television. In a few seconds he plugged in some cables, unplugged others and replaced the image of the president with filmed material from the camera. Romina acted as assistant, handing him the necessary cables. At first I did not notice what it was he was showing us, so impressed was I by my son’s technological dexterity. It would have taken me a whole day to sort out that connection, even supposing I could have done it at all. It was Ronie’s expression and the way he clutched his head, his eyes fixed on the screen, that made me focus on the image before me. The picture was rather shadowy, but there was no doubting what it showed: the Scaglias’ swimming pool.
It was filmed from above, as though the person holding the camera had climbed to his vantage point. “We go up trees,” said Juani and now I realized that those obstructing shadows were leaves. Martín Urovich was already lying in the water in a starfish pose, while holding onto a float. He held onto the float with one hand and onto the side of the pool with the other. El Tano was positioning a hi-fi system close to the stairs, on top of the Travertilit tiles. “The stereo,” said Ronie, and we both knew what he meant. The extension cable had been trailed across the ground from a socket over on the veranda. El Tano passed the long-handled net they used to remove leaves from the pool under the cable, then wound this around it, leaving the end of the handle close to the edge of the pool. Very close to him. Gustavo was sitting on the side, with his feet in the water. The distance was such that one could not be sure if he was crying, but the position of his body, its slight tremor and certain almost imperceptible spasms strongly suggested that to be the case.
When El Tano had finished arranging everything, he got into the water and drank from one of the three glasses that were lined up beside the pool. A branch moved, covering for an instant the camera’s lens. Then El Tano appeared again, talking to Gustavo. We couldn’t hear what he was saying, but Gustavo was shaking his head. El Tano’s harangue became increasingly energetic and, faced with the other man’s refusal, he grabbed his arm hard. Gustavo shook him off. Once again, he tried to grab him and, once again, Gustavo freed himself. El Tano scolded him as though he were a child – we couldn’t hear his words, but the gestures were unmistakable. Gustavo broke down: he sobbed, with his elbows resting on his knees and his hands covering his face. Now his weeping was manifest. His shoulders heaved to the rhythm of his uneven breathing. El Tano grabbed him by the neck and pulled him into the pool and then immediately – almost as though this were part of the same movement – he used the cane to yank the extension cord out of the hi-fi. Urovich was still floating. Gustavo came up to the surface in spite of El Tano’s efforts to hold his head under with his free hand. But Gustavo was stronger and younger than El Tano, and was able to shake him off once more as he tried to reach the edge of the pool. He grabbed the edge. It was too late: he couldn’t get out. With his other hand – not the one that had pulled Gustavo in and held him under – El Tano submerged the bare end of the extension cable close to himself, so that electricity surged through the pool. The bodies went rigid, then sank. The water churned. And there was total darkness. All the outside lights went out and the music stopped. Then the camera started to register crazy images, very dark, scarcely visible: the leaves on the tree from which Romina and Juani were now descending; the ground beneath their feet as they ran. “What are we going to do?” Romina was heard saying on the tape. Then the dark ground again, the noise of running, of hurried breathing. A black background.
Ronie and I remained quiet, without finding words to say. Juani and Romina waited. “Could we have saved them?” asked Juani.
“He killed him,” said Ronie, incredulous.
“Could we?” insisted my son. I glanced at Ronie. I knew what he was thinking and I quickly said: “Nobody could have.”
Ronie turned to Romina. “Has your father seen this?”
“What for?” she said. “He would conceal it in the same way as he would a suicide – a murderer’s widow can’t claim insurance either.”
We fell silent again; none of the four was bold enough to speak his or her mind. “What happens next, Dad?” my son finally asked. “Do we take this to the police?”
“They’ll never forgive us,” Ronie said quickly.
“Who?” Juani insisted.
“Our friends, the people we know,” I answered.
“Is that so important?” my son asked.
“I’m scared of what could happen to us,” his father replied.
“Whatever was going to happen to us has already happened, Dad,” said Juani and his eyes filled with tears. Romina took a step forwards and put her arms around him, pressing all of her body against his. “So, what do we do then?” he asked again.
“I don’t know,” answered Ronie. Juani looked at me, waiting for me to say something. His damp eyes locked onto mine. I looked down. I felt helpless and alone. A widow in all but fact.
“I don’t know,” Ronie said again.
And Juani said, “You don’t know? There are times when you have no choice but to know. You know even if you don’t want to. You’re on one side or the other. There’s no alternative: pick your side.”
Ronie was speechless, so I spoke for him. I asked Juani to help his father down the stairs. Romina followed us. The three of us got him into the jeep. Carefully I extended his plastered leg, then bent it again before shutting the door. I walked round to the other side and got in behind the wheel. I looked at Ronie: he was gazing ahead, at nothing in particular. Neither he nor I were sure of what we were about to do, but Juani was, and I was not prepared to let him do it alone.
I looked in the rear-view mirror: Juani had his camera around his neck and was holding Romina’s hand. I turned the key and the engine started; I moved the gear stick and we rolled forwards, towards the exit barrier. Looking around gave me a strange sensation: it was already October in the first year of the new century, and spring felt out of kilter. The double bridal wreath spirea, which usually lasts until well into November, had already disappeared and some houses were splashed with the different whites of lilies and magnolias. That was strange – usually you don’t see these flowers until much later in the summer. But there they were. As if Nature had intuited that December was already in the air.
When we arrived at the barrier, my hands were sweating. I felt as though I were in one of those films where the illegal immigrants have to cross a border. Ronie was pale. The guard warned us: “Head straight to the highway without going through Santa María de los Tigrecitos; don’t take that road, there’s a security alert.”
“What’s happened?” I asked.
“Things are looking ugly.”
“Have they closed the road?”
“I couldn’t tell you, but even the people of Tigrecitos themselves are making barricades. They’re frightened outsiders are going to come.”
“Who?” I asked.
&n
bsp; “The people from the shanty towns, I suppose. Apparently they’ve been looting places on the other side of the highway. But don’t worry: we’re prepared for it here. If they come, we’ll be waiting for them.” And he nodded towards two other guards who were standing to one side, next to a bed of azaleas, armed with rifles.
I looked ahead at the road leading to the highway: it was deserted. I swiped my card over the electronic reader and the barrier lifted. In the rear-view mirror the eyes of Juani and Romina watched me. Ronie tapped my thigh to get my attention. He looked terrified.
I asked him:
“Are you scared to go out?”
BACK TO THE COAST
Saskia Noort
Maria is a young singer with money problems, two children from failed relationships and a depressive ex-boyfriend. Faced with another pregnancy, she decides not to keep the baby, but after the abortion, threatening letters start to arrive. She flees from Amsterdam to her sister’s house by the coast, a place redolent with memories of a childhood she does not want to revisit. But when the death threats follow her to her hiding place, Maria begins to fear not only for her life, but also for her sanity.
Saskia Noort is a bestselling author of literary thrillers. She has sold over a million copies of her first three novels.
PRAISE FOR SASKIA NOORT
AND THE DINNER CLUB
“A mystery writer of the heart as much as of the mind, a bal-
ance that marks her work with a flesh-and-blood humanity.”
Andrew Pyper, author of The Wildfire Season
“Affairs, deceit, manipulation, tax dodges and murder
– there’s nothing Noort shies away from stirring into the mix,
nicely showing off the sinister side of the suburbs.” Time Out
“While there are echoes of Desperate Housewives here, this is
closer to Mary Higgins Clark and is a good bet for her fans.”
Library Journal Review
£8.99/$14.95/C$16.50
CRIME PAPERBACK ORIGINAL
ISBN 978-1-904738-37-4
www.bitterlemonpress.com
THE VAMPIRE OF ROPRAZ
Jacques Chessex
Jacques Chessex, winner of the prestigious Prix Goncourt,
takes this true story and weaves it into a lyrical tale of
fear and cruelty.
1903, Ropraz, a small village in the Jura Mountains of Switzerland. On a howling December day, a lone walker discovers a recently opened tomb, the body of a young woman violated, her left hand cut off, genitals mutilated and heart carved out. There is horror in the nearby villages: the return of atavistic superstitions and mutual suspicions. Then two more bodies are violated. A suspect must be found. Favez, a stableboy with blood-shot eyes, is arrested, convicted, placed into psychiatric care. In 1915, he vanishes.
PRAISE FOR JACQUES CHESSEX
AND THE VAMPIRE OF ROPRAZ
“A superb novel, hard as a winter in these landscapes of
dark forests, where an atmosphere of prejudice and
violence envelops the reader” L’Express
“An admirable story-teller, Chessex surprises again with this
terrifying portrait of a region, of an era and of a man with an
extraordinary destiny.” Livres Hebdo
“Stark, wintry prose… disconcerting novella that alternately
seduces and appals.” The List
“Packs visceral punch and unlikely to be quickly forgotten.”
Crime Time
£6.99/$12.95/C$14.50
CRIME PAPERBACK ORIGINAL
ISBN 978-1-904738-33-6
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A NOT SO PERFECT CRIME
Teresa Solana
MURDER AND MAYHEM IN BARCELONA
Another day in Barcelona, another politician’s wife is suspected of infidelity. A portrait of his wife in an exhibition leads Lluís Font to conclude he is being cuckolded by the artist. Concerned only about the potential political fallout, he hires twins Eduard and Borja, private detectives with a knack for helping the wealthy with their “dirty laundry”. Their office is adorned with false doors leading to non-existent private rooms and a mysterious secretary who is always away. The case turns ugly when Font’s wife is found poisoned by a marron glacé from a box of sweets delivered anonymously.
PRAISE FOR A NOT SO PERFECT CRIME
“The Catalan novelist Teresa Solana has come up with a de-
lightful mystery set in Barcelona… Clever, funny and utterly
unpretentious.” Sunday Times
“Teresa Solana’s book may be full of murder and mayhem,
but it’s also packed full of humour, acute observation, a
complicated plot and downright ridiculousness… I cannot
recommend it highly enough.” Oxford Times
“Scathing satire of Spanish society, hilarious dialogue, all
beautifully dressed up as a crime novel.” Krimi-Couch
This deftly plotted, bitingly funny mystery novel and satire
of Catalan politics won the 2007 Brigada 21 Prize.
£8.99/$14.95/C$16.50
CRIME PAPERBACK ORIGINAL
ISBN 978-1-904738-34-3
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DOG EATS DOG
Iain Levison
Philip Dixon is down on his luck. A hair-raising escape from a lucrative but botched bank robbery lands him gushing blood and on the verge of collapse in a quaint college town in New Hampshire. How can he find a place to hide out in this innocent setting? Peering into the window of the nearest house, he sees a glimmer of hope: a man in his mid-thirties, obviously some kind of academic, is rolling around on the living-room floor with an attractive high-school student… And so Professor Elias White is blackmailed into harbouring a dangerous fugitive, as Dixon – with a cool quarter-million in his bag and dreams of Canada in his head – gets ready for the last phase of his escape.
But the last phase is always the hardest… FBI agent Denise Lupo is on his trail, and she’s better at her job than her superiors think. As for Elias White, his surprising transition from respected academic to willing accomplice poses a ruthless threat that Dixon would be foolish to underestimate…
PRAISE FOR IAIN LEVISON
author of A Working Stiff’s Manifesto and Since the Layoffs
“The real deal… bracing, hilarious and dead on.”
New York Times Book Review
“Witty, deft, well-conceived writing that combines sharp sat-
ire with real suspense.” Kirkus Reviews
“There is naked, pitiless power in his work” USA Today
£8.99/$14.95/C$18.00
CRIME PAPERBACK ORIGINAL
ISBN 978-1-904738-31-2
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1 By 1990, inflation was running at 1300 per cent. President Carlos Menem appointed Domingo Cavallo to Finance Minister in 1991 and the Convertibility Law was passed, reining in inflation by pegging the national currency to the US dollar.
2 Burako is a popular game in Argentina, similar to Rummy, but played with tiles rather than cards.
3 An elaborate barbecue.
4 Mercosur is a free-trade agreement among Argentina, Brazil, Paraguay and Uruguay, founded in 1991.
5 The asado is at the heart of Argentine cuisine. Essentially it is a meal of grilled meats, including steak, sweetbreads and offal, which may be cooked in a rudimentary fire pit, in the country, or on a grill at home and in restaurants. The meal often lasts several hours and the “asador” – who cooks the meat – is regarded both as an artist and as a kind of folkloric hero. These qualities are recognized with an invariable invitation to “toast the asador”, and a round of applause.
6 Martín Fierro, by José Hernandez, is an epic poem and a classic of nineteenth-century Argentine literature, extolling the rough life of the pampas, and of the gauchos who worked on the land.
7 This remark was famously made by President Carlos Mene
m after emergency surgery on a blocked artery in 1993.
8 Truco, a popular card game in Argentina and in several other Latin American countries, is usually played by two teams of two players. The game’s appeal lies in the complicated bidding and in the devices used to trick one’s opponent. Bids can be accepted (quiero), rejected (no quiero) or raised in a number ways. Players may also deliberately deceive their opponents, or make secret signs to their partners. To that end, the game is played in distracting and noisy conditions. Whereas poker players maintain a tense silence, Truco players continue to talk and make jokes while they play. Calls of ‘truco’, ‘envido’ and ‘flor’ refer to different combinations of cards and alter the stakes accordingly. ‘Retruco’ raises the value of the round being played. ‘Vale cuatro’ increases it to the maximum. If the trick is a tie, ‘parda’, it belongs to neither side. ‘Voy callado’ means to play a card without calling anything. ‘Maldón’ or ‘misdeal’ is a call for a new hand.
BITTER LEMON PRESS
First published in the United Kingdom in 2009 by
Bitter Lemon Press, 37 Arundel Gardens, London W11 2LW