3. NOVENA
I’M CALLING YOU, MY DEAR, because I didn’t manage to talk to you about anything during the service. Then my mother started bugging me and I had to go with her to La Galleria to buy a gift to bring to a tea party tomorrow. I couldn’t say no. They did a good job on that mall, except for that big old colonial mansion they left right in the middle; they should have torn it down; such a crummy old dump surrounded by all those pretty, modern shops. It took forever; you know how my mother is when she goes shopping: she can never make up her mind. We got back about fifteen minutes ago. That’s why I didn’t call you sooner. The service was lovely, wasn’t it, my dear? So many people there, and I loved what the priest said about the dead: it fits Olga María to a tee. That thing about pure spirits dedicated to helping others. Beautiful. I like that priest: he only talks about spiritual things; not even a little bit communist like that Ramírez priest who sometimes says mass at that church. Everybody was there, even José Carlos, who’s a committed atheist. Only papa wasn’t there, there’s no way to get him to church. I’ve never seen anybody who hates priests as much as he does—he doesn’t care if they’re communists, like those Jesuits, or good ones, like that one Olga María got; as far as he’s concerned, they’re all the same. My mother always feels sad when she arranges to meet her friends at church, and she shows up alone, while they all come with their husbands. Did you see Kati, my dear? She’s gained weight. It must be because of her breakup with Yuca. I’ve heard they’re getting a divorce, but that’s yet to be seen. I’ve spoken to Yuca only once since he got back from rehab in Houston. He called me to ask about Olga María. She refused to take his calls, and that’s how she left it when she died: once she got an idea in her head, there was no way to make her change her mind. The poor guy returned with high hopes that Olga María would get back together with him. He kept at me to convince her that he’d turned over a new leaf—he was a new man, he said. I didn’t want him to despair, but I told him it was going to be rough, and he knew how Olga María could be. Then I didn’t talk to him again until her funeral, and we barely had a chance to say hi. He was devastated. I’m pretty sure his relationship with Kati has no future, but I don’t think they’ll divorce. Can you imagine the scandal!? And what Don Federico would say? Yuca has too much to lose. Kati is Don Federico’s favorite daughter. I think that’s what’s driving Yuca crazy, why he got so addicted to cocaine—it’s horrible to have to live with someone you can’t stand. I should know, I’ve experienced it in the flesh. Luckily I got rid of Alberto as soon as I could. But poor Yuca, in his political position, with his economic interests, and everything so tied up with Don Federico, he can’t just tell Kati to get lost, even though he’d probably like to. I think he already had that figured out and that’s why he was pursuing the relationship with Olga María, as a kind of life raft, and it would have been perfect, my dear: to have a mistress you love more than your wife. Though I’m sure Olga María never dreamed of getting involved in anything so serious; of that much I’m certain. But now all that’s in the past. But for Kati it must be horrible, too. If I were her, I’d open my heart to Don Federico, make him understand that the marriage simply isn’t working out, tell him once and for all that his relationship with Yuca—his economic and political support for Yuca—is one thing, and his daughter’s marriage is another thing altogether. But they say that Don Federico is very domineering, very stubborn, so probably Kati’s only option is to eat, to calm her nerves, that is. The same reason Yuca started using cocaine, Kati eats. That’s why she’s so fat. That’s all I can think of, the only thing that makes any sense. Don’t you agree, my dear? But Kati is no fool, either. Did you see that baggy dress she was wearing? Super-elegant, and it did wonders disguising how fat she’s gotten. Why lie? We’ve never gotten along. She’s too full of herself; all because she’s got so much more money than somebody else. I also think she knows that Yuca was lusting after my body. What bothers me most about her is that she never stops talking; I swear I’ve never known anybody who talks as much as Kati. She thinks everybody else needs to listen to all her nonsense. She just won’t stop: talk talk talk. I’ll admit it: everyone talks more than they should sometimes, it even happens to me once in a while, I get bitten by a talking bug, but I’m small-fry compared to her when it comes to nonstop talking. That’s why I avoid her, all that endless chattering really grates on my nerves. I don’t know how Yuca can stand her; all for Don Federico’s money. But what I wanted to tell you is that that Deputy Chief Handal interrogated me for a long time. I couldn’t refuse. So many things have happened in the last few days since they killed Olga María. Practically the whole country is following the case, especially since they caught the perpetrator. That’s why I agreed to the interrogation, because if they’ve already got the perpetrator, what I tell them won’t be a waste. It was this morning, Deputy Chief Handal and that bloodhound named Villalta, who’s always with him, they came to my house. Papa told me to be careful with these guys, that I should tape the interview myself. Papa said it wasn’t a legal interrogation, like part of a trial, it was just an interview. Papa said that if I wanted, he could send over his lawyer to be with me while they were questioning me. But that would make them feel too important and give the impression that despicable people like them are capable of intimidating someone like me. So I preferred to go it alone, with just my tape recorder, in my own living room. I made them wait for about half an hour, just so they wouldn’t think we were equals or anything. When I came in, I didn’t hold out my hand: people like that can misinterpret even a simple courtesy. I scowled at them and told them to hurry up with their questions, I told them they should thank me for allowing them to interrogate little Olga the afternoon of the murder, and it was thanks to me letting them question her that they got the description of the murderer, and if the girl hadn’t told them that he looked like RoboCop—that cop on television—they’d still be looking for clues. What I wanted to make clear to them was that the credit for capturing RoboCop should go to little Olga, not the police. Straight away I asked them about that RoboCop person’s confession, if they already had the name of the criminal mastermind, I wanted them to tell me more than what the newspapers were saying. But Deputy Chief Handal was super-relaxed, different than I’d seen him before; maybe he’s relieved because they’ve apprehended the murderer. He told me that RoboCop still hadn’t talked, hadn’t confessed to anything, but they were following various lines of investigation that would surely lead them to discover the motives and the mastermind—that’s what he said: “the motives and the mastermind.” What a clown, he acted like he was on television. I was surprised when first thing he asked me about José Carlos: his friendship with Marito, if he got along with Olga María, why he was getting ready to leave the country. I told him what everybody and his brother knows, though I wasn’t going to tell him about José Carlos screwing Olga María. Then he asked me something that left me dumbfounded: if I knew about the existence of some photographs José Carlos had taken of Olga María stark naked and in obscene positions. I sat there with my mouth hanging open. Olga María never told me about those photos. And that’s what I told this Deputy Chief Handal. It’s true: I don’t know anything about them. That’s why I asked him who’d told him a lie like that, José Carlos is an artist, I’ve seen the photos he took of Olga María, and they weren’t at all indecent. Then he asked me if I thought José Carlos would be capable of blackmailing the Trabanino family with those photos. Can you imagine how sordid that policeman’s mind is!? I got very upset; I told him that first of all those photos don’t exist, and second of all, José Carlos was incapable of anything so despicable—only a rude, shameless policeman like him would think up such a thing. He told me to calm down, he was just trying to disprove certain hypotheses, that was the reason for our interview. I made it very clear to him that I didn’t like his style of “investigating,” that I had never heard that such slandering of decent, honorable people was called an “investigation” or a “hypothesis.”
He pretended not to know what I was talking about, instead he asked me if Olga María had been in love with José Carlos or if it was just a short fling. What I can’t figure out, my dear, is how that Deputy Chief Handal could have gotten so much information about that woman’s private life. It makes me furious—I would love to know who the big mouth is who goes around making up stories about Olga María. I suspect it’s one of two people: Cheli or Conchita. I already warned them they shouldn’t go around making things up and talking nonsense, especially to the police, but it looks like they didn’t get the message. Did you see them today at the Novena Mass? They looked like innocent little doves. But one of them is a traitor. I’m sure of it. I’ve gone to the boutique twice to warn them. They tell me not to worry, they wouldn’t ruin Doña Olguita’s reputation for anything in the world, that’s how they still call Olga María. But I know their kind: they can’t fool me with that goody-two-shoes act. When I find out who’s talking more than they should be, they’re going to find out what I’m made of! Shit-heads; I get furious just thinking about it. And then that Deputy Chief Handal takes out a photo of Olga María stretched out on a sofa, naked—though without showing her privates. And there’s no question José Carlos was the one who took that photo. I swear I couldn’t get over the shock. Olga María never told me anything about it. Unbelievable—I thought she trusted me more than that. But it turns out she played her cards close to her chest. Now I don’t understand anything. Deputy Chief Handal couldn’t contain his delight at seeing me with my mouth hanging open, dumbstruck. Until I asked him where he’d gotten that photo—he thought I’d already surrendered. But instead of answering my questions he started interrogating me: I shouldn’t lie to him, if I already knew about that photo I should just admit it, my cooperation was crucial to the investigation of the murder of my best friend. He emphasized the words “my best friend,” in a way I didn’t like at all. I managed to pull myself together, rally my strength—I told him he was a thief, he’d probably stolen that picture, he couldn’t have gotten it any other way. He informed me, nonchalantly, that he’d found it among Olga María’s belongings. He must have thought I was an imbecile. Can you imagine? How was I supposed to believe that Olga María would keep a photo like that in her house and take the chance of Marito finding it?! Here’s what I told him: I didn’t believe him, he should take his stories elsewhere, this was clearly doctored, with all these new computer programs anything was possible nowadays, he didn’t really believe I was going to fall for his dirty little trick of trying to implicate José Carlos in Olga María’s murder. Oh, my dear, poor José Carlos! So in love with Olga María: he would never dream of blackmailing her. I’m sure this Deputy Chief Handal searched José Carlos’s studio, found that picture, and wanted to trap me with it. That was his plan. But I had him figured out as soon as he returned to the subject of Yuca: he asked me what I knew about his relationship with Olga María. I just stared at him as if to say, “What a brute!” And that’s when he pulled out the ghastly ace he’d been keeping up his sleeve: Did I think Madame Berrenechea was upset about the liaison between her husband and Madame Trabanino? What a pig! You should have heard how he pronounced the word liaison, the brute—I stood up and told him to leave my house immediately, and to be very careful, he was in big trouble if he thought he could go around slandering Kati like that, he clearly had no idea how Don Federico Schultz would react if he found out that some nobody was going around insinuating that his daughter was somehow involved in Olga María’s murder. I shouted at him, my dear. Also, that he should be even more careful about Yuca, because I’d already warned Yuca that a policeman in cahoots with the communists was spreading lies about his involvement in Olga María’s murder. This is no laughing matter, my dear. The very same day as the burial, the first thing I told Yuca, after taking him a ways away from Kati, was what Deputy Chief Handal was hatching. I could tell, Yuce was alarmed—he asked me how that policeman could have found out about his relationship with Olga María. How should I know? But I warned him he should take all the necessary precautions. Yuca is friends with the chief of police, as well as the minister of public security. I’m surprised they haven’t taken that Deputy Chief Handal off the case. I’m telling you all this, my dear, but don’t repeat a word of it to anybody; it’s all extremely delicate. Wait, wait a second, mama’s talking to me. She’s telling me to turn on the television, there’s a report about the Olga María case on the news. Hold on a minute, it’s on Channel 2. I hate watching the news: all they ever do is talk about politics. What a bore. But ever since what happened to Olga María, I’ve got my ears glued to every word. There it is. Are you watching it, too, my dear? Look at that animal: he’s really got the mug of a criminal. The more I look at him the more he looks like a murderer to me. They caught him in Soyapango, in a major operation. He’s an ex-sergeant from the Acahuapa Battalion. They identified him thanks to the girls’ description: there aren’t many soldiers in this country who look like RoboCop. Bastard, creep. Too bad there’s no death penalty. They should execute him, like they do in Guatemala—did you see on television the last time they executed an Indian there? They don’t stand around there wondering what to do; if you’re an Indian and a criminal, you go straight to the firing squad. As it should be. If they’ve got the death penalty in the most civilized country, the United States, why not here? A guy like that isn’t going to suddenly turn into a nice guy. Papa says it’s the priests’ fault that there’s no death penalty—I agree with him: I bet you if they sent a dozen bad guys like him to face the firing squad it would make them think twice before carrying out their atrocities against decent people. Fiends like that don’t respond to reason. With that criminal look in his eyes, you think he could be reformed? They should shoot him, without a trial or anything. Well, of course, first he should give the name of the mastermind, even though a brute like that never squeals. But I didn’t finish telling you about that Deputy Chief Handal’s visit. I thought he was going to take off right away after my screaming fit, but he didn’t even stand up. The one who was terrified, like he wanted to hide under the sofa, like a mongrel who was being beaten, was the detective who came with him, that Villalta person—just looking at him you’d think he was that bastard RoboCop’s brother. What kind of a world is this? As I was saying, that Deputy Chief Handal remained very calm, just sitting there in that armchair, staring at me, like I was whispering sweet nothings in his ear. Then he said that if I’d gotten everything off my chest, I might like to sit down again, he wanted to finish up so he wouldn’t have to bother me again. He said it so gently it caught me off guard. I actually listened. He went back to the subject of Yuca, and Kati, and Olga María. He assured me he had no intention of judging anybody’s private life, much less a person who’d been murdered in such a brutal way, but his job consisted of pursuing all possible lines of investigation, and one of them was pointing to a crime of passion, though this wasn’t the only or even the most important one. He told me he had specific information about Olga María’s relationship with José Carlos and with Yuca, and he understood why I’d prefer not to talk about those things, how I’d fiercely defend my friend’s private life, but the information he had led him to believe that I was aware of these relationships. That Deputy Chief Handal spoke so gently, without any hostility, that I couldn’t get upset, my dear. All I managed to do was ask where he’d gotten his information. He told me he couldn’t reveal his sources, in his line of work he had to maintain strict confidentiality—he would keep anything I told him in the strictest secrecy, I should trust him. His goal in questioning me was only to dig a little deeper into the relationships Olga María had with her friends, not to create a scandal or anything like that, just to tie up the loose ends of that line of investigation. That’s what he said, then he added that his work was apolitical, that he never had any intention of messing with Don Gastón Berrenechea’s reputation, much less that of his wife. And maybe because I’m so tired of all this, maybe because his tone of voice was so gentle, mayb
e because when all is said and done the man is doing his job because he did arrest the murderer, well, the truth is I began to answer most of his questions. I told him, yes, José Carlos was in love with Olga María, they’d met on several occasions, in his studio, and Marito didn’t know anything about it. But I made it clear to him that I didn’t know anything about any pornographic pictures or any blackmail, the truth was I considered José Carlos incapable of doing anything of the sort. Then I told him in no uncertain terms that if he wanted me to keep talking he’d have to tell me where he’d gotten that photograph of Olga María. He repeated that he couldn’t tell me. I asked him if there were other photos or if this was the only one. And since he kept his mouth shut, my dear, so did I. I told them the interview was over, to please leave because I felt very tired. Here comes my mother. Wait a second. She says the Brazilian telenovela is about to start. Yes, we watch it together, hard as that is to believe. I know, I also never imagined my mother would like a telenovela like that—it’s so risqué, so sexy. But she’s taken even more of a liking to it than I have: she hasn’t missed a single episode. I love it. In a totally different league than that Mexican garbage, only servants watch that. But it bugs me that it’s so long, it seems like it’ll never end; the one I like best is that Holofernes—what a hunk, my dear, incredible man, gorgeous, but with such a horrible name; I wonder what his name is in real life. If it weren’t for Holofernes I’d have stopped watching that telenovela. The truth is there’s ten more minutes before it starts; my mother’s always jumping the gun. Anyway, I pretended to be tired, I didn’t want to talk anymore, but that Deputy Chief Handal was determined to finish the job, because he didn’t budge, he asked me if Olga María’s relationships with José Carlos and Yuca had overlapped, which had come first, if either one knew of the existence of the other, if Marito suspected or knew anything. I told him more or less what we know, but without going into many details, because when all’s said and done the guy already had the information, it didn’t do anybody any good for me to play the fool. What I did do was let him know that only a total imbecile would ever suspect someone as important as Gastón Berrenechea, with his political and economic interests, of hiring someone to kill the woman he loved, which would only create thousands of problems for himself. That’s what I told him: Yuca would be the last person to have any interest in Olga María being dead, he could be sure of that. Then he asked me about Kati. But the truth is I don’t know if she realized what was going on between Olga María and her husband, and I don’t think she’d care, anyway. Why would you care if the husband you can’t stand anymore goes out with one woman or another? Why would she even bother to ask, my dear? That’s what happened to me. The thing is, Alberto is so boring I don’t think he could even get a woman to go out with him unless he first showed her his bank account. That’s why I told this Deputy Chief Handal, his line of investigation that points to a “crime of passion,” as he calls it, doesn’t make much sense: neither José Carlos or Yuca or Kati, much less Marito, would have anything to gain from Olga María’s death. That was my conclusion, my dear, though afterward I started wondering how anyone can ever be sure of what anybody else thinks or feels. Just look at Olga María: not to have shown me, not to have even mentioned the naked photo José Carlos took of her! And Yuca, during one of his panic attacks, mortified by jealousy and a woman’s abject scorn, with all that power at his disposal, what wouldn’t he be capable of? That interview with that policeman has upset me a lot, believe it or not. I’ve started imagining horrible things about Kati, God help me, all because of his filthy insinuations; for instance, maybe she found out about Yuca and Olga María’s affaire and she arranged the murder to create problems for Yuca. Pure fantasy, of course, as if I’d been force-fed a slew of murder mysteries, but that’s how that interview with that Deputy Chief Handal affected me. Can you believe that it never occurred to me that Don Federico himself could have masterminded Olga María’s murder and that way kill three birds with one stone: finish off the woman who was driving his son-in-law crazy, save his daughter’s marriage, and keep Yuca on a tighter leash because of the suspicions that would surround him. Yes, I know, my dear, more fantasy—things like that only happen in telenovelas. It’s that meddlesome, conniving policeman, he’s to blame for what’s happening to me, but before he left I asked him what his other lines of investigation were, other than the “crime of passion” one, just in case I could contribute anything to them. The guy didn’t want to give me even a little hint; he just told me that if he uncovered anything of interest or if he needed to talk to me again, he’d call me. That’s what he called it: “talk to me,” as if it weren’t really an interrogation. He gave me a little card so I could get in touch with him if I remembered anything important that might help the investigation. In short, he came here to mess with my head. That was this morning; they were at the house until noon. It was their fault I was upset all afternoon. You see, I’ve even started thinking badly of Marito, God forbid, as if the poor man didn’t have enough sorrows and problems. The mind can be a treacherous thing: you know, I even started wondering if maybe Marito had a lover, if he found out about the affaire between Yuca and Olga María and saw his chance to get rid of her and point the finger at Yuca and get the insurance money. Yes, my dear, I know, it’s despicable. I feel guilty just thinking such thoughts. It’s all that Deputy Chief Handal’s fault. That’s why I went to see the girls after lunch, at Doña Olga’s place, the situation is so chaotic, the girls spend most of the time at their grandmother’s, but Marito wants to be with them at least for meals. The horrible thing is that the house reminds them of Olga María’s murder. Can you imagine how awful it must be for the girls to walk into that living room where that monster murdered their mother? It can’t be good for them. I already told Marito: he should sell that house immediately. If he doesn’t, the girls will never get over their trauma. They should live in a different house, a different space, where they can forget that atrocity—Marito agrees with me. But it’s not so easy to sell the house and buy another one. It’ll take a few months. In the meantime it’s best for the girls to live at Doña Olga’s and go home only to get their clothes and toys—the less they go there the better. The one who has it the worst is Julita: she can’t go to Doña Olga’s—her place is too small and also they can’t leave Olga María’s house with nobody there, with so many thieves around who’d strip it bare in the blink of an eye. The poor thing has been totally abandoned, because Marito comes home only to sleep. Poor dear Julita, I really feel sorry for her, all alone in that house, full of so many memories, with Olga María’s presence everywhere, with nothing much to do, not being able to see the girls, like living with ghosts. It’s horrible. Doña Olga agrees with me. We talked about it this afternoon when I went to see the girls. Something has to be done about Julita, she’s worked for them for so many years. But for now there’s nothing to do: neither Sergio or Cuca or Doña Olga can take her to live with them. She’ll have to wait until Marito moves, the girls get settled again, and then Julita can take care of them. In the meantime that poor woman might go crazy; that’s what I’m worried about. Here comes my mother, again. Wait a second. She says the Brazilian telenovela has started. I’m going to have to go, or else my mother won’t enjoy it. I’ll call you later, or tomorrow morning if you’re going out tonight. It’s just that I have a few more ideas about this Deputy Chief Handal’s suspicions, a couple of ideas that might help find the mastermind behind Olga María’s murder. I want to explain them to you—but not in such a rush—so you can give me your opinion. I’m even tempted to call that policeman so he can follow up on some leads. But they’re very delicate issues. Let’s talk about it later. Okay, ciao.
The She-Devil in the Mirror Page 3