Then to retire with shame, showing a tender smile, knowing that if I want more, I have only to ask for it with extreme delicacy and I let myself be carried by her game, dragging me, as she falls back on the bed, watching in the gloom as I slowly undress her with extreme and slow movements. My hands seem more obedient to their desires, than my own orders that are victims of my instinctive impulses, continue to withdraw with great care, pledge after pledge, letting little glimpses glimpse of the immaculate whiteness of their skin.
I calmly remove the last clothes. It is my favourite moment, the most exciting, I feel like a child ripping the wrapper of a Christmas gift. First I take off those thick winter socks of which she is so ashamed, then continue with those red panties that so tight on her and that she likes to show often above the jeans. I withdraw them without haste, as I slowly discover through the prism of my eyes the disorderly beauty of the pubic hair, contracting at the same time as her belly, because she can’t help it breathing so deeply. Perhaps in the grip of excitement, she slipped the garment slowly past her knees to draw them later on the trampoline of her heels finally releasing her weight. I proceed, then with the Velcro of the bra releasing her breasts from the oppression of the bra, with her victim's look she asks me to squeeze them with rage as if it were the first time, feeling its softness undoing in the palm of my hands.
Instead I kiss them gently, trapping the nipple like a pink fruit, soaking my palate with its bittersweet taste as I feel it enlarge on my lips. She tries to catch me with her buttocks around my waist, I get up on the knees, I spread her legs a little more. After I have massaged her ankles and toes. I continue savouring with the tip of my tongue her knees and the inside of her thighs, I continue ascending slowly soaking the skin with a trace of saliva. Then I reach for her hair and gently sink my face into it, just as if I kissed her lips, moving my tongue in circular undulations, left and right, up and down. I can feel her convulsing like a snake. Her legs were wide open until I could almost feel the click of her bones, her feet swaying to the edges of the bed, her fingers gripping the back of my neck. Twisting with pleasure. The blank eyes rolled up towards the ceiling like an exorcism. Her face pales before the terrible agitation of her panting. I lift my face smiling, I lie beside her on the bed, I hug her laterally with her legs, open her own, directing the sex with her fingers until I can penetrate sideways, tries to contain me, until she reaches the climax, I try to share that moment with her, leaving her immersed in a pool of moisture, where our fluids are mixed without remedy.
You light a cigarette. You think of the distant Chandrexa, the beautiful place where we met, you throw the smoke in the air. You remember the Sierra de Queixa, the aromatic scent of the trees that envelop the air with that candour that only the mountain villages possess.
Due to your collaboration in clarifying the crimes of María Guzmán and Lorena Vázquez the prosecution granted you the third degree and you were able to get out of jail much earlier than expected. You never believed you could recover so quickly from the stab that Milla hit you in the back in the brawl you held knife in hand in the locker rooms of the prison, Milla was sentenced to five years in prison for attempted murder. However we could not prove their involvement in the murder of Lorena because it was lacking the relevant evidence for it. It was not necessary, by their death they had already paid with their lives Don Silvio, Natasha and Diego Suances. Lorena could be satisfied at last her soul could rest in peace, otherwise her spirit should return from the other world to consummate her vengeance personally. As far as I am concerned, I am satisfied with what has been achieved. Milla is no longer my business.
The case of Maria Guzman surpassed in crude and badness the one of Lorena Vázquez by the evilness of its roots. For years Margarita Pascual concealed from her husband and daughter the true identity of Maria's father.
He was not a vulgar lover whom she had met on a night of drunkenness in a derelict tavern, and with whom she had committed adultery in a three-by-four pension, but a wealthy gentleman with refined manners and elegant clothes that seduced her, for him it was only a mere entertainment, an alcove fun to occupy the afternoons on Fridays. They were meeting in luxury hotels. She was very young and inexperienced. She had only been married for two years, and yet she knew of no man but her husband. Rodríguez Carpintero met her one day when he attended a hairstyling academy, where she used to practice at the time. To convince her to drink coffee was not too complicated for a handsome, wealthy handsome man like him, he had done the same with other conquests on other occasions. After all, she was only an innocent village girl, too young and naive to resist his seductive schemes in the countryside. In her last meeting, she informed him that she had become pregnant and that she was sure that the growing foetus inside her was his. Carpenter paled so much that it seemed to melt with the wall, disappear, erase, thin in the air. Without asking her. He had already decided for the two that she should immediately abort the baby. Before Margarita's refusal, Carpintero threatened to kill her. Margarita Pascual burst into tears and told him that in spite of everything, she was her daughter and thought to have her. Her husband would never know anything about the true fatherhood of the child. She promised to take the secret to the grave with her. Carpintero made it clear that it would be under her sole responsibility. If one day the truth is discovered he would return to kill them both.
In fact, for Margarita Pascual, Rodríguez Carpintero's threats were never taken seriously with the passing of the years and due to the constant deterioration of her relationship with her husband Juan Guzmán and to the increasingly dizzying rise of Rodríguez Carpintero in the world of politics, one night two years before her death, she decided to tell Maria the whole truth about her true identity. For a twelve-year-old girl, that discovery was a hard blow from which she would never recover. The paternal figure on whose pillars was sustained part of her education and the values of a hitherto happy childhood, suddenly collapsed. Who the devil was that stranger whom she had always revered and followed as an extension of her being, whose blood felt to run through her veins as if it were his own blood. Tireless companion of childhood games, an intimate and impersonal friend, whom she had loved unreservedly since before she had any use of reason. When being only a baby her infant lips uttered his name for the first time. Right at the entrance of puberty when she needed him the most she was aware that the figure to which she had given part of her life, it was nothing more than a plagiarism, a stranger of which, every time began to distance more without being able to remedy it. Trying to flee from her past. Ashamed of her false identity. She hated him the way she hated her mother for not telling her the truth before, maybe she should never have told her. Carrying her secret with her to the grave, she would have continued with her life, sheltered under the protective embrace of her father, centred entirely on her studies and her friendships as always.
But something changed inside María Guzmán from that day. The innocent daddy’s girl disappeared forever to transform into a restless and rebellious teenager prone to bad companies. Her misfortunes soon reached the ears of Rodriguez Carpintero. Panic like a rabid dog whose greed is not without limits. He felt the world stagger at his feet. Now that he was about to reach the top of his career again, after overcoming the media scandal that was his relationship with drug trafficker Lucía Márquez. A simple DNA analysis would prove his true paternity about the girl, a scandal of those dimensions, would be the end of his political career. If Bill Clinton lost the presidency of the most powerful country on the planet, because of his bedroom adventures with a model, he could not imagine what could happen to him. After having left in state the wife of another man and after giving birth, to ignore her and his daughter, totally unconcerned about her existence. His rivals in the world of politics would fall upon him like birds of prey and would never rise again. He was scared. So he decided to meet secretly with Diego Suances and bring him up to date.
Diego informed him that members of his gang gave Maria directly small amounts of
hashish, marijuana and even sporadic cocaine. Inquiring among the girl's friends, they discovered that Maria was aware of the true identity of her father. It was only a matter of time before this information was leaked to the press, he would try to avoid it as it was. Unfortunately, there was only one way. They should silence Maria Guzman forever. In a way, the fact that she was involved in narcotics affairs, for him it was a blessing. For all the suspicions about her death would fall on a possible brawl between traffickers. Just the kind of business the police usually file.
Rodríguez Carpintero paid a large sum of money to Diego Suances to execute his wishes. He preferred that they take care of the matter, people outside the business, that's why he contracted two Colombians who, after committing the crime, travelled back to their country. Where today they still remain hidden. After his statement corroborated by the girl's mother, Margarita Pascual, confirming the true paternity of the girl, it wasn’t necessary to exhume the body in search of more scientific evidence. Rodríguez Carpintero was indicted and convicted of the death of María Guzmán. You were very brave on the day of the trial and you showed yourself relentless in declaring the truth before the judge. That statement made you deserving the sympathy of the press and even your greatest detractor Susana Seoane, wrote a great article extolling your attitude and courage during the time you spent in court.
Sometimes looking at the sky I try to understand, what goes through the mind of a criminal capable of ordering the murder of his own daughter? Only someone very sick feeling of vanity, perverse to the satiety, without prejudices and with very cold blood. He can plot the murder of a young and helpless creature. Not even most of the criminals in the history of mankind would be able to annihilate someone of their own blood with the cruelty and ostracism with which Maria Guzman was murdered. The socialist councillor was a man whose speech was restrained and liberal, who could suspect, that behind that masquerade of democrat and defender of the liberties of the people, it was hidden the most cunning and sadistic of the murderers of the province.
Now every time we talk about Chandrexa we can’t stop remembering that death. We slowly turn off the last lights of the village in our mind. Although we try to avoid the subject, there are times when the past surpasses us; then the image of Mireia returns to our memory. Her novel about your life was not as successful as you hoped, on the one hand you were glad to have stopped being news in magazines and shifty newspapers. Fortunately the world continues its course without stopping to wait for anyone. What is on the front page is forgotten. The novel served as a trampoline to Mireia to get a job as a reporter at National Geographic. Her descriptions of the orography of Chandrexa pleasantly surprised the promoters of the magazine, at least she can travel to unknown and remote places and can photograph sublime landscapes, whose beauty transcends our borders and will continue to remind her in part of Chandrexa's landscapes.
The last time I spoke with her, she was in Lapland, covering a report on the natural habitat of the area, immersed in gigantic fir forests, crossing on canoes immense lakes and photographing reindeer families. Studying their way of life especially their methods of mating, to end up sheltering at nightfall in small tents with igloo forms or with a little luck accessing comfortable wooden huts, built at the foot of lakes that normally they serve as refuge for the tourists arriving to those distant lands in search of tranquillity; enjoying the meekness of the inhabitants of the area, avoiding entering the thicket of the forge for fear of the derisory company of mosquitoes.
Orense, the Twenty-second of November of Two thousand and five.
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The Queen of the Northwest Page 22