2. THE BURIAL
HOW HORRIBLY HOT IT WAS in that church, my dear. I can’t figure out why they decided to hold the funeral so early in the day. They really should have air conditioning in churches. This isn’t the first time I’ve thought of that: if those priests installed air conditioning, I swear we’d come to church more often. I told my mother that the last time I went, and she made a face like you wouldn’t believe, like I was committing blasphemy. Good thing we’re in the car now and that I parked it in the shade. For a moment there I was sweating so much I thought my makeup would run. What a talkative priest, my dear. But let’s just wait here until the air conditioning kicks in—I’ve been sweating so much I feel like dashing home and taking a shower instead of following in the funeral procession. I’m going to join in behind Sergio and Cuca. Sergio’s car is such a pretty color, I love that lilac; I wanted one that color but BMW doesn’t make it, only Toyota, so I chose white, because it goes with everything and I wasn’t about to buy a different make just because there wasn’t lilac. Some people don’t care; Alberto, my ex-husband, is like that. I’ve had only BMWs for about twelve years now, ever since papa gave me my first car when I turned eighteen and entered the university. I remember celebrating with Olga María. That was a day that started out beautiful and ended up ugly. The day after the graduation party, there it was, the car, parked in front of our house. It was a total surprise, and I was ecstatic. I called all my friends from school and told them to come over and see it: BMW, latest model, crimson red. I drove around in it the whole day with Olga María and some other friends. Papa warned me not to drive too fast, but once we decided to drive to the port and we were out on the highway, I floored it. Poor Olga María, we were so happy that day, and now, look at her, ahead of us in that hearse. I still can’t believe it. That same night when I was showing off my BMW, we also had a brush with death; that’s why I’m remembering it now, you can’t imagine what a horrible experience it was. We went to the Zona Rosa to have a few beers and hang out with some friends. You won’t believe it, but we’d just left Chili’s, and we were walking to the corner where I’d left my car and suddenly, there was a shoot-out. All hell broke loose. A bunch of terrorists suddenly appeared out of nowhere and started shooting some gringos sitting on the terrace of the Mediterraneo Restaurant. You can’t believe the panic. Everybody threw themselves on the ground and started screaming their heads off, because the shooting seemed to last forever. I tore my brand-new blue jeans, right on the knee, and Olga María almost broke her wrist. It was dreadful. When it stopped, there was this deathly silence, and we all slowly crept over to where the gringos were all shot up. They killed them all; there were about ten of them sprawled out on the floor, bleeding like pigs. Dreadful, my dear, really gruesome. We’d just walked by there no more than a minute earlier. Isn’t that incredible, that nothing happened to us then and now Olga María ended up dying like this? I swear, we almost had a fit of hysteria. I don’t know how we managed to find our way to the car and get out of there. Two of the gringos were really handsome. I remember perfectly how they stared at Olga María and me when we walked past their table. That’s what we were talking about—hard as it is to believe, even if it seems like I’m making this up—about how hot two of those gringos were, when suddenly the shooting started. I hate driving in funeral processions. Other people hate you; it causes huge traffic jams; and it makes me feel like I’m on display in a shop window. If Olga María hadn’t been such a good friend, I’d have driven straight to the cemetery and not followed the hearse—that’s what I usually do when it isn’t someone this close. Hand me that Miguel Bosé cassette. He’s so hot. I love him. Finally, the air conditioning is starting to work. I don’t know why that hearse is moving so slowly. It’s practically standing still. What’s going on? Maybe it’s because there are too many of us. This must be one of the longest processions in a long time—Olga María and Marito’s families are so well-known; well, to tell the truth, Olga María’s is more. By the way, did you notice how gorgeous Diana looked? She looks so much like Olga María, a Xerox copy. Miami’s climate suits her. I’d love to have a tan like that. But the sun here is too harsh: it just burns you, turns you into a boiled shrimp, and then the tan doesn’t last at all. Things are going really well for Diana in Miami. We had a long talk this morning. I told her exactly what happened. She suspects there’s a lot more than meets the eye. She said she has no intention of standing around twiddling her thumbs, she’s even considering hiring a gringo private detective to come here and investigate; she doesn’t trust the police here at all. I don’t either, especially that Deputy Chief Handal—what an oaf. Did I tell you he started interrogating me this afternoon? Stupid idiot. He wants me to tell him all of Olga María’s most intimate secrets just so he can confirm his own filthy suspicions. He even threatened me, if I didn’t cooperate, he’d get a subpoena. Please, do me a favor! Ask me whatever you want, I told him, once and for all, but I warned him, I’m only going to answer the questions I feel like answering. And you know what he asked? If I knew of any life insurance policies Marito had taken out on Olga María. I told him these aren’t things decent people go around talking about, of course every respectable family has life insurance policies. Please, do me a favor. That Deputy Chief Handal is a boor—instead of looking for the murderer, he spends his time digging into Olga María’s family life. I told him: Don’t be so vile! What, I said to him, are you trying to insinuate that Mario hired somebody to kill Olga María so he could get her life insurance? What a vile insinuation—and I, for one, wasn’t going to put up with it. He said I shouldn’t misunderstand, he was only trying to verify information he’d gotten elsewhere, and he wasn’t by any stretch of the imagination suggesting that Mr. Trabanino had hired somebody to kill his wife. That’s what that cretin said: “Mr. Trabanino.” Then he really threw me for a loop. You know what he asked me? If I knew what kind of relationship there’d been between Olga María and Gastón Berrenechea, the lawyer. Now, why would he ask me that? We were in the reception room at the funeral home, it was almost empty, but everyone must have heard me shouting at him to stop being so impertinent, show some respect for the dead, get out of here immediately unless he wanted me to get Olga María’s relatives to throw him out. Can you imagine such an outrage? I bet he was a terrorist, or something like it, during the war. Well, with this new police force they put together after they signed that peace treaty with the communists, you never know. I am absolutely positive that Handal is working with Yuca’s enemies. You’ve got to be very careful with people of that ilk. Can you imagine the scandal if the press got wind of Yuca’s affaire with Olga María? I get chills just thinking about it: it would be the end of his entire political career. What a weird route the driver of that hearse is taking. I would have turned left here: it makes more sense—why does he want to go all the way through Colonia San Francisco? He should’ve turned there and gone through Colonia San Mateo. I love this song by Miguel Bosé, especially the part where he whistles. Whose car did Diana go in? Oh, she’s with Marito and Doña Olga and the girls. And Julita? I didn’t see her. She’s probably in Sergio and Cuca’s car. Or maybe they had her stay and watch over the house; I doubt it, though. I was worried about that Deputy Chief Handal starting to poke his nose into the relationship between Olga María and Yuca. I should warn Yuca. I’ll find a chance at the cemetery. How could Handal have found out about it if Olga María and I were the only ones who knew? I don’t think even Julita realized what was going on; and even if she did she’d never tell, especially not somebody like him. The only possibility is that one of the girls from the boutique—Cheli or Conchita—one of them blabbed. I’m going to warn them: they shouldn’t talk to that policeman. I hate having to change gears every other minute; and the motor gets overheated when you drive this slowly. I don’t understand why there aren’t any cemeteries in any decent parts of the city—do you, my dear? They’re all so far away, so out of the way, and always in the middle of dangerous neighborhoods. Well
, the truth is, this city’s contaminated with slums. That’s what Diana told me, it always surprises her how the neighborhoods where decent people live are practically surrounded by slums—where the criminals come from. That’s why it’s so easy to get murdered without anybody being able to do anything about it, like what happened to Olga María: the criminals do their dirty work, then quickly sneak back to their hideouts. In other cities it’s not like that: you live on one side and the bad guys live on the other, and there’s miles in between, which is how it should be. But in this country, everything’s all squished together. Olga María showed me how just as you enter her neighborhood, right next to the slums, there are three row houses up against one another, wall to wall: in one there’s a grammar school, the next one’s a whorehouse, and in the next one, there’s an evangelical church. Can you imagine!? Sheer madness. This stoplight is going to break up the procession. We’re going to lose each other. It takes forever for the light to turn green. We should have had a police escort to stop the traffic; I don’t know why nobody thought of hiring a policeman—that disgusting Deputy Chief Handal could do it instead of sticking his nose into things that are none of his business. The good part is that from here on out, once we’re on the highway, there won’t be much traffic, until we get close to the cemetery, that is, then the streets get horrible, super-narrow. Diana said she’s going to be here for only three days; she can’t stay longer, because of her job, she’s a top executive at some computer company with its headquarters in Miami, and she’s finishing up her master’s in business administration. That girl’s really talented. She’s three years younger than me and Olga María. Don Sergio sent her there for high school and then she just stayed on in Miami. She comes to visit from time to time, at the most once a year, especially since Don Sergio died; she’d rather Doña Olga come to her because she can rest there. She was asking me about what Olga María had been up to recently; they didn’t have much contact, according to her. I’m not going to go telling her everything Olga María didn’t tell her; I don’t want to make a faux pas or anything. She especially wanted to know if I suspect anyone in particular, if I can think of anyone who might have planned the murder, because as far as she’s concerned it was a contract killing, arranged by somebody who had a strong motive to get rid of Olga María. She kept insisting, I’m telling you, my dear, almost like that Deputy Chief Handal, wanting me to tell her what I thought. I told her the truth, that I’m pretty confused about everything myself. I don’t know anybody who could have even thought about committing such a brutal crime—maybe it was a mistake. But Diana said it couldn’t have been a mistake, the murderer was waiting specifically for Olga María, he knew who he was killing. What if it was a way of sending a message to Marito? I wondered out loud. Why did I say that, tell me?! Because then Diana started interrogating me as if I knew something. I told her I didn’t, it was just a question that popped into my head. Can you imagine if I’d told her about Olga María’s relationships with José Carlos and Yuca? Who knows what she would have imagined! She’s very upset, the poor thing. Anybody would be in her situation. Here we are at the roundabout; let’s see if from here to El Ranchón the driver of the hearse will step on it a little. We’re going so slowly. But what worries me most is this business with Yuca, because that Deputy Chief Handal is already making all kinds of conjectures. I care about Yuca, a lot; and he really trusts me. I mean, when his relationship with Olga María didn’t work out and she didn’t want to tell me any details, it was Yuca himself who filled me in. The poor guy was really down, almost desperate. He called me at home and said he needed to see me, urgently. I already knew what it was about, but I was still surprised because Yuca hadn’t called me for years, ever since he got involved in politics and married Kati. We were pretty good friends before that, I even dated him for a while. I never told you? Yes, we did. Nothing ever happened, but we went out several times. That’s why I wasn’t totally surprised when I got a call from him. At first I thought I should talk to Olga María before seeing Yuca, but then I told myself that if she hadn’t wanted to tell me anything, it was better not to insist. We agreed that the following afternoon I’d go to his house in Miramonte, where he’d taken Olga María. Look for that José María cassette, I love that Spanish singer. Have you heard him? I found poor Yuca so changed—handsome, as usual, but politics ages people, my dear. It’s a pity. But what was most noticeable was how her nervous he was. He couldn’t sit still. Every other second he was standing up, pacing around, calling someone on his cell phone, talking to someone on his walkie-talkie. I figured Yuca used that house as some kind of secret office. He and I were the only ones inside; but outside, in the garden and the garage, there were about half a dozen bodyguards. From the minute I got there he started telling me about how I needed to convince Olga María to see him again, how I was her best friend and only I could make that happen, how he would be forever grateful to me if I did. He didn’t even wait for me to sit down, get comfortable on the sofa; he didn’t even offer me something to drink, he just launched right into his tirade about what I should tell Olga María—it was like he was possessed. I told him to calm down and get me a drink, I asked him if he’d totally forgotten his manners, I told him to please remember who I was, Laura, remember me? Not some messenger-girl, and to please get off his high horse. That’s when he offered me a whiskey and poured another for himself, but not just a regular shot, more like a full half glass and he downed it in one gulp. I realized he was really in bad shape, he needed help. I asked what the hell was going on with him; I asked him to please calm down, have a seat, relax. These are the streets I was talking about that I don’t like. What’s this called? Colonia Costa Rica? Are you sure? I know how to get here, I’ve come here so often to bury people, but I’ve never known what it’s called. After you go under that bridge you can see the cemetery. I don’t know my way at all to the main cemetery, the one downtown; I get lost in that part of town; but I don’t think they bury anybody there anymore, my dear. As I was saying, Yuca calmed down, sort of. I told him I couldn’t do anything for him unless he told me in detail what had happened between him and Olga María. I warned him to not give me any cock-and-bull stories, to tell me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. He looked a little taken aback: he thought Olga María had already told me everything. I said she hadn’t, I said she was a very discreet woman, and she’d only told me that things hadn’t worked out between them. Then Yuca asked me to wait a second, he had to go to the bathroom, and off he dashed. What a mess this is, my dear. We’re at a standstill. That’s what I hate about these narrow streets, the tiniest thing goes wrong and there’s a major traffic jam. We could sit here now for fifteen minutes. That’s happened to me before. It’s because right after the bridge the street gets even narrower, sometimes the hearse can’t even get through. What a pain. But I was telling you about Yuca—I do feel like it’s somehow wrong to talk about it: it’s so private. Especially considering Yuca’s political position, my dear, it might be embarrassing, even dangerous. But I think he’s doing better. He looks good now, more relaxed, stable, self-assured, not like that afternoon I was with him in his hideout. When he got back from the bathroom he was acting totally different: like he was having tremors. Then I understood what was going on with him, and I got scared, why not admit it. A man of his stature in a situation like that, it’s enough to frighten anyone. So, again, I told him to relax, I suggested he have a seat on the sofa next to me and tell me all about what had happened with Olga María. First, he gave me a whole long song and dance: about how he’d always loved her, how she was the best thing in his life, how he needed such a sweet understanding woman by his side, how his relationship with Kati was dead. You know: what men always say to women. I let him go on for a while, but when I realized he was beating around the bush, I asked him point blank why Olga María had entered that house so excited and left it so disappointed. Yuca was sitting next to me on the sofa. He didn’t answer, he looked me right in the eyes and began
caressing my hair, with the saddest expression on his face. I felt sorry for him, and he knew how to use that to his advantage, he knows I’ve always liked him. He inched closer and closer, a little bit at a time, then he kissed me. The weird part is that I didn’t do anything to stop him. On the contrary. It was as if I had the feeling that this was the only way I was going to get this man to settle down, the only way I was going to find out what had really happened between him and Olga María. Anyway, that’s the only way I can explain it, and to tell you the truth, once we started, it didn’t seem like we were going to stop. Yuca is so good-looking, so tender; he knows how to say such lovely things. And his body, my dear, if you ordered one custom made, it wouldn’t turn out better than his. But the more we kissed and touched each other on the sofa, the more frantic he got. He told me he loved my legs, he wanted to lick me all over. He almost tore my clothes off. I came there totally defenseless: I was wearing a gray plaid miniskirt and a white blouse. I had no idea that man was going to throw himself on me like that; if I’d known, I’d have worn pants. I managed to tell him to be careful or he’d tear my stockings, but he was totally beside himself; all he wanted to do was bury his head between my legs, like a dog. I managed to grab him by the hair and shout at him to calm down, I didn’t like it like that—now I understood why Olga María had been so disappointed in him; I asked him what it would take for him to go about it a little more gently. Poor Yuca. I still get an odd feeling when I remember the look on his face. He was on his knees on the floor and I’d already stood up. He rested his head on the sofa, and, right then and there, he simply fell apart. It was horrible—he started sniveling, can you imagine, a man like that. I don’t even care to remember it. He mumbled something about wanting me to forgive him, he couldn’t control himself, it wasn’t his fault, it was that filthy cocaine. I’d already figured that one out, my dear, that this man was not in his right mind, being that frantic doesn’t come from drinking whisky. I sat back down and started caressing his head, I told him not to worry, I was his friend, and he could trust me completely; he should go ahead and tell me what was going on, I would help him get Olga María back. Finally, he calmed down a little. I quickly pulled myself together, straightened out my clothes: I was worried he might call in one of his bodyguards. Then he started telling me the whole story, just like that, still kneeling on the floor, his head resting on my lap, like some kind of naughty child. He told me that with Olga María the same thing had happened, the same despair, the same evil demon ruining everything, because by the time they’d met he was already out of his mind, he’d been snorting cocaine every fifteen minutes, and when Olga María said the same thing I did, that he should take it easy, slow down, he’d reacted differently, because he’d been wanting her for so long, because he’d been waiting for her for so many years, there was no way he could stop himself; and she, as you can imagine, she just tried to get away. Yuca, the idiot, forced her onto the bed. He said to me, right there, and pointed to the bedroom where he took her, practically by force, where he ripped off her clothes. She’s so strong willed, she rejected him, just like I did. But he didn’t stop, like with me; no, he forced himself on top of her and buried his face between her legs, totally possessed, frantic, until Olga María had no choice but to give in, though she was probably disgusted, she must’ve been. Then it got even worse—that’s what tormented Yuca most of all: because of all the drugs he took, he couldn’t even get it up. Pathetic, my dear. Can you imagine a hunk of a man like that, right there for the taking, all your very own, and his thingy doesn’t even work, all because of his vice!? That’s why all that desperation, all that anxiety, wanting to eat and eat and eat, because he knew it didn’t work when he was so high on cocaine. A true tragedy. Then I understood why Olga María had left so disappointed, why she’d decided not to tell me anything, and why she totally broke off her relationship with Yuca. She did the right thing, my dear, there’s no point taking risks with a man like that. But that first time, after his pathetic performance, Yuca told her he was sorry, he begged her to forgive him, he didn’t usually act like that or take so many drugs, he promised her it would never happen again, he wouldn’t be so high the next time, and that’s why Olga María went to him one more time. But the same thing happened: the man was high, impotent, anxious, frantic, all in all pretty pathetic, Like I’m telling you, that’s exactly how Yuca told it to me: he was kneeling on the floor with his head resting on my lap, he was falling apart, sobbing. I know, it’s hard to believe. I told him he had only one option: get on the next plane to the States and check himself into a detox clinic. That was the only sensible thing to do, the only way he could save his relationship with Olga María. Yuca took my advice, my dear. I don’t know if I was the only one who suggested that, but the fact is, three days later, he was on his way to Houston; the official word from the party was that it was for a routine medical exam. Finally, we’re moving. I think this is the longest it’s ever taken me to get to the cemetery. I told you, after the bridge, the street is so narrow you can get stuck here forever; all it takes is one idiot to bring the traffic to a standstill. Of course Olga María and I talked about Yuca. I told her in detail what had happened; well, I didn’t tell her I let him kiss me, just in case they started seeing each other again, then I’d be in trouble. When Yuca left for Houston I called to give her the good news, because she wasn’t taking his calls. I told her that when Yuca got back and was clean, they could try again. But now you probably understand how Olga María is—she sounded completely cavalier when she said she’d never go out with Yuca again, not for anything in the world, for her that chapter was over and done with, she’d have to be crazy to get involved with a guy like that. Maybe she was right, my dear, but I felt sorry for Yuca, because what motivated him to get treatment was the possibility of seeing Olga María again. That’s what I think, anyway—I can’t believe he did it for Kati’s sake; he’s not at all interested in her anymore. We’re here, my dear. Look how beautiful the lawns are, they’re so well-manicured. It feels peaceful, doesn’t it? This is the best cemetery. They say it belongs to that Arab, Facussé, who also owns Channel 11; apparently he’s made a fortune off all the dead people, enough money to buy and run that TV station. Papa hates him. Well, dear, papa hates all Arabs, I’ve never understood why. It’s something visceral. He says that before, the Arabs in this country didn’t have a pot to piss in, and that it’s only thanks to the communists that they now own the country. Papa has his own opinions about these things, and for him, the Arabs are to blame for a whole bunch of bad things. Now that I think about it, he’s probably right, because that Deputy Chief Handal must be an Arab. But this cemetery’s beautiful, isn’t it? Olga María loved it here. Don Sergio is buried here; they’ll bury her next to him. It’s going to be impossible to park with all these cars here, and it’s going to be impossible to get out when it’s over. Look at that section over there, I’ve never seen it before: this cemetery sure has grown, the Arab must be drowning in money. I’m going to park over there, under that tree, next to that arbor, the sun is still pretty strong. Oh, dear, I hope my skirt hasn’t gotten wrinkled. That’s what I don’t like about this material: it wrinkles too easily. Don’t bother: the doors lock automatically. My goodness, what a lot of cars. Come this way. Let’s let the family go first. How beautiful they all look next to the coffin: Marito, José Carlos, Yuca, and Sergio. The four men who loved her most. I’d even say she’d be happy to see them all together. Let’s get closer. Look at Doña Olga, poor thing. What a tragedy, my dear—do you have more Kleenex? The wretches: how could they have done such a thing. They’ve got no guts. My darling girls, come here.
The She-Devil in the Mirror Page 2