4. THE BALCONY
I LOVE THIS PLACE, MY DEAR; it’s the second time I’ve been here. About a month ago we sat at this very table with Olga María. What I like is its European ambiance, how you don’t feel like you’re in San Salvador—the only thing missing that would make it perfect is air conditioning. I prefer this side, facing the street, each table with its own little balcony. I still have my doubts about this neighborhood; I wish it were in one of the better residential areas, but it’s not that bad here. Look at all the traffic. That mall across the street, it’s done in such poor taste, so tacky, more for servants than anybody else. Did you know Mirna Leiva owns this place, that classmate of ours from the American School? I don’t see her here now. Last time she was tending bar. She lived abroad for several years, after her major difficulties. Remember they arrested her for being a communist? Poor thing. She spent several years in Madrid. Her grandparents are from there. At one time the three of us were close friends, yes, with Olga María, we were about thirteen, I think it was before high school, but later we grew apart, especially after they arrested her and there was that big scandal. I don’t understand how she could have gotten mixed up with the communists. She comes from a good family, they’ve got coffee plantations. Poor woman, they disinherited her, things turned out badly for her. But now with this place she’s doing super-well. A real success story. It’s worth every penny: the wine and food are very reasonable, considering the quality. We came at night with Olga María. We ordered a bottle of French white wine and a plate of cheese and cold cuts. Everything was delicious. We talked and talked. I think that was the last time we talked so much. She looked gorgeous that night, with her black miniskirt and high-heeled boots. Stunning; I never saw her looking so sexy. First, we checked the whole place out; around the other side, behind the bar, they have foreign magazines and newspapers, in case you come alone and want to read. Then we picked this table. Olga María was kind of sad—it was her disappointment with Yuca and her problems with Marito—but after a few glasses of wine she got livelier, happy, she started having a good time. Check it out: the best thing about this place are the waiters, all university students, handsome devils, every one, enough to drool over. They say Mirna picks the gorgeous ones on purpose so women get addicted to coming here. Evil tongues, my dear; even though, if I were Mirna, who knows if I’d resist the temptation to give a few of them a whirl. That one over there is the one who waited on us when we came with her. Gorgeous, isn’t he? I think his name is Rodolfo. You should have seen Olga María that night! She didn’t stop chatting up that Rodolfo. Every time he walked by she called him over and started plying him with questions. She was making the poor thing very nervous. Olga María could be quite a handful when she got tipsy. He told us he was in his second year at medical school, he told us almost all the waiters were at the university, and he didn’t have a girlfriend. But he’s not going to wait on us, look, it’ll be this one. He’s not bad, either. What do you want to drink? It’s only five thirty. Too early for wine. I’d like a cappuccino and an apple tart. And bring me a glass of water, you hear? What did I tell you? Though he seems kind of stupid. Look over there, in the red car, isn’t that Cuca? It’s her. Of course, it is. What’s she doing in this part of town? Poor thing, that Cuca, she just doesn’t measure up to Sergio. I don’t understand how such an attractive man ended up in that woman’s hands, even though, it’s true, she is a nice person. Anyway, that night, with Olga María, you should have seen how much fun we had. In the end, we got a bit outrageous, but we kept our voices down, whispering, so nobody would hear us. She kept saying she wanted to take that dreamboat home with us, she wanted to eat him up. Yes, my dear, after a few glasses of wine everything gets topsy-turvy. She asked me if I’d be willing for the two of us to go to bed with the same man. We were a little off our rockers by then. Olga María surprised me: she was always so reserved, so proper, low-key, so modest. But that night she was like a different woman, magically transformed, as if the wine had revealed her hidden self, I don’t know, my dear, but she was happy, free, after a while she didn’t mention her relationship with Marito, or the girls, or the business, she was just fantasizing about what we’d do with that cute waiter I just showed you, how we’d handle him between the two of us. Later, I thought maybe her failure with Yuca, her disappointment, might have affected her mood. She even asked me certain questions you don’t go around asking any day of the week. For example, she wanted to know what my biggest sexual fantasy was, my ultimate sexual fantasy, what I imagined would feel the absolute best and what would be very difficult, if not impossible, to do. Yes, I’m not lying to you, at this very table. I think that waiter unleashed her passions, or who knows what. Here he comes with the cappuccinos. This guy is good-looking but he doesn’t let loose in you what got let loose in Olga María that night. Not even close. That was the last time I saw her so happy, as if she already had some premonition of her own death and wanted to enjoy life to the fullest. She told me that her sexual fantasy, what she would like to try before she died—how incredible, my dear, I still remember those very words: “what I would like to try before I die”—was to be in bed with two men at the same time. I think we all have that fantasy. Don’t you? I asked her which two, because it’s not the same to go to bed with two ugly idiots as with two hunks you have the hots for. There’s so much traffic. This time of day is always crazy. Look at that jam. That’s what’s so stressful: too many cars. I hope it clears up by the time we leave. What do you think she answered? That at that moment the only one she could think of was that waiter, Rodolfo, I said his name was. Poor Olga María. When you think about it, it must be awful to live with the same man for almost ten years, even if you do love him and have kids with him. Can you imagine always screwing the same way? Because no matter what, you always get into some kind of routine. That’s what happened to me with Alberto, and we lived together for barely a year. Horrible. But Alberto is a special case. I don’t know how I ever got together with that man. Thank God I freed myself from his clutches. He doesn’t have a shred of imagination. I always had to get on top: he never took the initiative. I think that man could live perfectly well without sex. I like being on top, but not all the time. I’m telling you, I was always the one who had to be in charge: he just lay there in bed, with his undershirt and shorts on, like a plank of wood. Of course: he claimed that he’d catch cold if he took off his underpants and T-shirt. What a calamity. I don’t know if all financiers are such wusses; and I don’t want to find out. This cappuccino is delicious, isn’t it? You can tell it’s a real cappuccino; in most places they just whip up the milk a little and pour it into any old coffee and call it a cappuccino; what a fiasco. Taste the cake, dear: it’s divine. Let me ask this kid if they make it here. No, right? That’s what I thought. That time with Olga María we didn’t try the cakes; just wine and cheese and cold cuts. As I was saying, she was in this super-liberated mood, and she told me that at the very beginning of her relationship with Marito she told him about her fantasy of sleeping with two men, but instead of going along with her, he got angry. Men are such brutes. Don’t go getting any ideas that Marito is some kind of saint. He’s nowhere near as bad as Alberto, needless to say, but it’s just that men, once they’ve got you, they don’t worry about it anymore. Olga María told me she was sick of Marito, in bed I mean, that he always went through the same ritual: he rubbed cream on his hands and started massaging her legs, then her hips, until his thing stood up, and then he got on top of her. Always the same. When she told me, I told her she shouldn’t complain, a man massaging your legs before making love is nothing to sneer at. I told her again about my experience with Alberto. Nobody’s ever done it to me that way, starting out with a leg massage. But she told me she hated the cream, she didn’t want anything more to do with a man who massaged her legs with cream before fucking her. Now I understand her: ten years of having the same thing done to you is enough to drive you crazy. That’s why she had such a good time with Julio Iglesias and J
osé Carlos; she’d put up with being only with Marito for a long time. Now that I think about it, that must have been her disappointment with Yuca: just imagine, you’ve been waiting for this man to ravish you, and to do it with the full force of his virility and his imagination, and it turns out the man’s so strung out, he can’t even get it up. It could even make you feel resentful. Speaking of Yuca, here’s what I wanted to tell you: I think one of Yuca’s political enemies might have hired a hit man to murder Olga María, in order to hurt him, to implicate him in a crime, you know, like the “crime of passion” hypothesis Deputy Chief Handal is considering. Doesn’t that sound logical to you? I’ve been thinking about it. That’s the only way it makes sense that someone actually plotted and planned such an atrocity. Did you hear, that monster who shot her was a soldier, one of those specially trained ones from the Acahuapa Battalion. Any one of those unscrupulous military people might have arranged the murder. Yes, my dear, a whole slew of officers want to get into politics, seeing as how the war is over and they can’t keep stealing like they used to—they’ve got to adapt to the changing circumstances. This is all very hush-hush. At first I considered mentioning it to Deputy Chief Handal, but what if he’s in cahoots with the mastermind and that’s why he’s trying to steer the investigation toward a “crime of passion”—so he can smear Yuca and poor Olga María? It makes me furious. But it wouldn’t be the first time they tried to slander Yuca with this kind of thing. Now that I think about it, when they arrested Mirna for being a communist, people went around saying the whole thing was Yuca’s fault, he’d turned her in because she refused to sleep with him, and Mirna was actually innocent, and it was just his way of taking revenge. I never believed a word of it. Nothing but idle gossip. Yuca didn’t need to do something like that to Mirna. But Olga María didn’t agree with me: she said that during that period Yuca was obsessed with hunting down communists, he was pretty messed up, and it wouldn’t have been unheard of for him to destroy Mirna’s life out of pure spite. Because they did destroy her life, my dear. Poor Mirna disappeared for three days; and it was only because her family pulled strings in high places that they sent her to the women’s prison. But while she was disappeared with the National Guard, they raped her. That’s what they say, anyway. Who knows how many. Horrible. Just thinking about it gives me the shivers: can you imagine a whole bunch of disgusting drooling torturers, one after the other climbing on top of you, sticking that putrid thing, full of diseases, in you? I’d vomit; I’d die. Poor Mirna. When she was released, they sent her to Madrid. Seems like now she stays out of trouble, but she still has a reputation for being a bit of a red and a little off her rocker. Papa says they don’t arrest anybody for no reason, Mirna must have been involved in something. I agree: Yuca had nothing to do with it. You want to order something else? I feel like a glass of wine. There’s still a lot of traffic. I don’t want to drink more coffee: I won’t be able to sleep. I’d prefer white wine. Do you see the pictures? The paintings on the walls, dear. They give this place a special cachet, something artistique. Even though I don’t know anything about art—here comes the waiter. Are you going to drink the other cappuccino? That idea that Yuca’s political enemies could have masterminded Olga María’s murder, I mentioned it to José Carlos. Yesterday at noon. We had lunch together. Didn’t I tell you? It was lovely. We went to Marea Alta Restaurant in the Zona Rosa. No, I called to ask him where that Deputy Chief Handal had gotten that photo of Olga María. No, I didn’t just come out and ask him like that, so abruptly, I said we should talk, the police had been interrogating me, and I’d like to talk to him about it. José Carlos has already packed up his studio, and he’s leaving for Boston next Monday. He invited me out for lunch. He’s so sweet. He said that way we could say a proper goodbye, because he’ll be running around like crazy all weekend, here and there, tying up loose ends, because he’s decided to leave for good—he doesn’t plan to live in this country ever again. He’s very upset, my dear. How could he not be? You should have heard some of the things he told me. He’s taken it hard, poor man. That’s why he invited me out to eat at Marea Alta, because he doesn’t have a studio or anything. Too bad, my dear, I would have rather gone to his studio. But we had a great time. We drank beer and ate oysters. Upstairs. I love that place: you’re up there level with the treetops, hidden, you can see the cars going by but they can’t see you. I wanted to know what José Carlos had talked about with this Deputy Chief Handal, what muddled nonsense that scandal-mongering policeman came to him with—here comes the waiter with my wine. It’s delicious, ice cold. Excuse me, young man, that other waiter’s name is Rodolfo, isn’t it? Yes, that one behind the bar. What did I tell you? When he walks by I’m going to tell him about Olga María. He probably hasn’t heard. Of course he’ll remember her. How could he forget? Are you nuts? A woman like Olga María isn’t easy to forget, especially when she’s been flirting with you; there’s not a man in the world who’d forget that. I’m going to call him over here. No, it’s not tactless. Anyway, I want to finish telling you about José Carlos. The thing is, I asked him point blank where that Deputy Chief Handal had gotten the naked photograph of Olga María—though it doesn’t show her privates—lying on the sofa; I told him I knew that he, José Carlos, had taken it, he shouldn’t try to pull the wool over my eyes, I knew that sofa and it would have been very unlikely that a brute like Handal would be going around fabricating a photo like that—he should be frank with me. He was surprised that the policeman would have been so indiscreet as to show me the picture of Olga María. Needless to say, he did take it: it was one in a series he thought up one afternoon when she came to the studio and they were drinking wine. They were already pretty tipsy, and José Carlos suggested she pose in the nude, but only in sexy poses, without showing her privates: neither her tits or her pussy. He told me he shot a whole roll, but that night Olga María called him, very alarmed, and asked him to destroy the roll—she said taking those photos had been totally reckless. That’s what José Carlos told me, anyway. He told her he’d already developed them, in his own darkroom, and they’d come out fantastic, he wanted to show them to her. But Olga María was really worried: she begged him to destroy the prints and the negatives, said she’d pay him for the cost of the materials, she just didn’t want those photos to exist for anything in the world. The whole thing had been madness, she’d never allow him to take pictures of her again. José Carlos said he’d never heard her so beside herself, so categorical, and he promised her he’d destroy them all. And that’s what he did. But he kept one, the brute, and he left it in his album as a souvenir. According to him, Deputy Chief Handal and his bloodhounds searched his entire studio, without permission or a warrant, and they illegally confiscated the photograph—the only thing they took, but he can’t report them because then Marito would find out about his relationship with Olga María. A great big mess, my dear. Those policemen are a bunch of delinquents. José Carlos says they were very threatening when they interrogated him—he thought any minute they’d arrest him and start torturing him. Horrible: they accused him of blackmailing Olga María and then hiring somebody to murder her when she threatened to report him. Imagine that. Poor José Carlos, he’s devastated. But we had a great time upstairs at the Marea Alta, they have these gigantic oysters, absolutely delicious. What José Carlos also doesn’t understand is how the police found out about the relationship between him and Olga María. I told him I suspect Conchita and Cheli, the girls from the boutique. But he doesn’t want to know anything about it, he just wants to get out of here and never come back. Anybody in his situation would do exactly the same thing. What freaked him out most was that Olga María had had a relationship with Yuca. Deputy Chief Handal, the damn blabbermouth, told him. José Carlos thinks she left him so she could get involved with Yuca: he feels hurt, betrayed, over such a minor thing, but then he really loved her, my dear. I tried to explain to him that Olga María didn’t leave him because of Yuca, they’d known each other since their school days and
the whole rest of the story. But he didn’t believe me. He looked so upset I couldn’t help telling him that Olga María and Yuca never actually made love, I had it from the horse’s mouth, he should believe me, things between them never worked out. This all happened yesterday: I played the role of the counselor, the mender of broken hearts. José Carlos is so sensitive—at one point he even had tears in his eyes, real tears. I told him that Olga María loved him, she’d always spoken highly of him, she’d even confided in me that he was an excellent lover. That’s the only way I could comfort him, my dear. Men and their vanity. That was when I asked him what he thought about my idea that maybe one of Yuca’s friends had arranged for Olga María to be murdered in order to destroy Yuca politically. He mulled it over for a few minutes. Then he said that if that’s what happened we’d never find out anything, these kinds of dirty tricks between politicos never come out in the open—Yuca himself would make sure the facts were never known. You sure you don’t want a glass of wine? He told me something else that makes sense to me now that I think about it: if one of Yuca’s political enemies is responsible for Olga María’s murder, it’s better that we don’t know and don’t try to find out who it was, because if we do, they’ll kill us, too; and he, in that case, should disappear as soon as possible, because those politicos will try to divert public attention, and there’s no better way to do that than have as a scapegoat some photographer nobody would stand up for. José Carlos was getting more and more upset. But I told him not to worry, nobody’s going to think he had anything to do with this, even that Deputy Chief Handal doesn’t really suspect José Carlos. That’s my impression, anyway, my dear. That’s what I told him. I was trying to get him to calm down upstairs at Marea Alta, with those gigantic oysters—so delicious, they made you want to go straight to the beach. And that’s when I got the idea. I asked José Carlos what he was doing that afternoon. He said nothing important: just finish packing a few things, make a few phone calls to say goodbye. I suggested we go to the beach, to my family’s place. He stared at me like I must be joking. But I wasn’t joking: I suddenly felt like going to the beach, to feel the cool breeze, to stop thinking about this whole mess with Olga María. Here’s how I explained it to him: it would do him good to go to the beach, forget for a while all the horrors we’ve been through, nothing like the peace and serenity of the sea to help you relax and bid farewell to this country. It didn’t take much to convince him. We paid and went straight to the beach, in my car, happy as clams. You can’t imagine what a good time we had. But let me order another glass of wine. Shall I order one for you? Or better yet, my dear, let’s order a bottle, okay? You’re right, it’s too early: a half bottle, then. Look how this place is filling up. It’s definitely the in place. Lots of foreigners. Every night it’s bursting at the seams. In this city it’s not easy to find a place like this—José Carlos likes it: he told me he’s been here several times and he’s even given Mirna some tips about how to display the paintings and artistic photographs. Of course they know each other, my dear; I’ve even heard that Mirna was doing it with him. I asked José Carlos, but he told me they were just friends, Mirna’s not his type, ever since being with Olga María he hasn’t been able to get interested in anybody else. Go figure. But yesterday afternoon when we went to the beach we made a pact: we’d avoid talking about Olga María so we wouldn’t get depressed, so we could enjoy the trip. We went to San Blas. Of course, my dear, I prefer our place in La Barra de Santiago, but it’s too far away. The idea was to go for a little while, a few hours in the afternoon. We bought some beer at the port. Poor José Carlos: we didn’t mention Olga María, but he spent the whole time talking about Marito. Please, do me a favor! He’s full of guilt, remorse, I can’t tell you how much. And really afraid, terrified: what scares him most is that Marito will find out about his affaire with Olga María. He kept asking me over and over if I thought Marito had already found out. I have no idea. That’s what I told him. The only one who could let the cat out of the bag is this Deputy Chief Handal, if he goes blabbing to Marito. José Carlos says he’s afraid of the same thing: of that policeman showing Marito the photo of Olga María. That’s why he wants to leave the country as soon as possible, and avoid the whole thing: it would be degrading, unbearable. Marito has been one of his best friends, if not his very best. But that’s how men are, my dear, who told him to get involved with his best friend’s wife? Now there’s only sorrow. He told me about his friendship with Marito: how they lived in the same neighborhood, went to the same school, were in the same grade, even the same class. Can you imagine? They spent their entire lives together. Olga María already told me the whole story. That’s why when we got to San Blas I told him that talking about Marito was another way of talking about Olga María, so he was violating our pact. I told him it’d be better if he told me his plans, about what he was going to do in Boston. He’s really lovely, that José Carlos. Now I understand why Olga María fell for him. He’s sensitive. His way of seeing the world, even though it’s different from yours or mine, it’s very interesting; he’s an artist, after all. He told me he’s not sure he has a job in Boston, but he’s not worried about it, he lived there long enough to find something that’ll let him get by. What he doesn’t want to do is work in advertising anymore; he finds that environment unbearable—he told me he’s planning to work on a major exhibition of his photographs, pick the best ones, and go for it, try to get into the major leagues. That’s what he said, like he was talking about baseball: “the major leagues.” Shall I pour you more wine? Jesus Christ: look at how those people are dressed. God save me. And that frightful-looking creature, where did she come from? Look at that one with the miniskirt: she looks like she’s a cellulite saleswoman. People no longer have any sense of the ridiculous, my dear; vulgar is as vulgar does. The beach was lovely, empty, and it was low tide, that’s the good thing about going during the week: the lower classes can’t get there. On weekends it’s unbearable: all that riffraff from El Majahual, they simply invade San Blas. They’re all thieves and whores. I don’t understand why they can’t just fence it off—that’s what papa says. If you have a place at the beach you have to put up with all that scum just looking for someone to rob. Horrible. The beaches should be gated to prevent all that garbage from El Majahual from invading San Blas. But papa says you can’t do that, legally; I say, to hell with the law. But during the week it’s peaceful, like yesterday afternoon with José Carlos, we had a wonderful time at the beach. Though he didn’t go in the water—he was stubborn, he didn’t want to wear one of my father’s swimsuits; I have some bikinis there so I took a dip, I went out to the breakwater, it felt so good being tossed about by the waves. Then we sat under the almond trees, next to the swimming pool, just talking. I don’t know if I should tell you this, my dear, but now I understand why Olga María had such a thing for José Carlos, even if he does dress like a scruffy slob. He’s got a charm all his own, like you wouldn’t believe. But, let me ask for a glass of water, this wine has made me thirsty. Here he comes. Do you want some, too? I can’t seem to get Rodolfo’s attention so he’ll come over here, the cutie-pie. As I was saying, we were next to the pool when the couple who looks after the house said they were going to the port to do some shopping. I told them to go right ahead, no problem, we were just staying a few hours, we weren’t going to spend the night. You remember the house in San Blas, don’t you? It’s very secure because there’s a big wall all around it. You can’t see the sea from inside, but nobody can see in from the outside. Like papa says: it protects against thieves and Peeping Toms. Thank you, waiter. I was dying of thirst. Let’s finish the bottle. We were alone, José Carlos and I, next to the pool. Then I said I was going to take a dip, and I wanted to take advantage of nobody being around to swim naked. There’s nothing better than swimming naked: you feel free. I love it so much that every chance I get, I swim naked. Maybe because I’d already had a few beers or because I already felt comfortable around José Carlos or because the surroundings wer
e so pleasant, whatever it was I wasn’t feeling shy. I dived in and once I was in the water I took off my bikini, placed it on the edge of the pool, and started to swim, happy as can be, as if the rest of the world didn’t exist. That’s what I was doing, swimming on my back, blinded by the sunlight, totally enjoying myself, when I felt José Carlos next to me. Can you imagine, my dear? Like getting an electric shock. Everything happened very quickly. It was amazing. You’ve never done it in a swimming pool? Unbelievable. That man is a bombshell. He gave it to me every which way. Delicious. His equipment: it’s off the charts, enough to make you drool. We did it in the pool, on the grass under the almond trees, in the hammock, in the chaise longue, all over the house. Just remembering it makes me wet again. That José Carlos, he’s a darling. He left me utterly exhausted, aching—he does it with imagination. You should really give him a whirl before he leaves. An expert. Now I know why Olga María didn’t want to tell me too many details, so I wouldn’t get any ideas about him. I don’t understand how she let him go. Having a lover like that is worth the trouble, even if he does fall in love with you, who cares, you just deal with it. Of course, it’s easy for me to say because I know he’s leaving the country, so he doesn’t have a chance to fall in love with me. But to marry him and live with him? No, thank you, my dear, God forbid. And definitely not someone to leave your husband for, who you already have a child with, like Olga María with Marito. He’s a nobody. This photography thing is fine as a hobby, but nobody respectable can make a living off it. I can just imagine papa if I told him I was going to marry a poor photographer; he’d think I’d gone crazy. He’d disown me. No, he’s good for a fling, nothing more. Well, my dear, when we finished—lying in the hammock, my pussy red and swollen from so much in and out—I asked him if he’d done it like that with Olga María, if he’d lasted that long with her. Because the man can last with his thing standing at attention for an eternity, it’s really something, and you get to do whatever you feel like. He told me that with her it had also been special, even the first time, but Olga María was more reserved, more restrained, with me he felt more free. That’s what he told me, anyway. Also that he liked my body better than Olga María’s, because I’m more curvaceous, fuller, compared to her. I don’t know. He told me he thinks my body is voluptuous and Olga María’s is more delicate. He prefers voluptuousness. That’s another charming thing about José Carlos: he explains things so well. I love the way he talks, the words he chooses, you can clearly understand what he wants to say. The weirdest thing is that we’d made a pact to not talk about Olga María, and there we were, naked and in each other’s arms in the hammock, sweaty, exhausted, and thinking about her. At a certain point, I got sad. I felt like crying because life is shit, how could it be that Olga María had disappeared from one moment to the next. I mentioned that to José Carlos, then I got tears in my eyes. He was so tender to me, and he got sad, too, then he started comforting me, telling me there’s no way to fight fate, Olga María wouldn’t have wanted us to be sad. Then I started sobbing, because there’s no good reason for so much injustice. José Carlos started caressing me, stroking my head, whispering sweet nothings in my ear, until I calmed down and we started kissing again. That man can turn me on in the blink of an eye, my dear. A moment later, we were at it again, hard and fast, there in the hammock, but more intensely, as if remembering Olga María had injected us with renewed passion, something delicious, something I’ve never felt before. I swear: it was spectacular. Like I was possessed. Then I started to come in this incredible way, while I was still crying. That’s where we were, right at the climax, when the caretakers opened the door. It was horrible, my dear, because I couldn’t disengage, I couldn’t stop: my feet were on the ground, and I was on top of that man in the hammock, at the peak of my frenzy, knowing the caretakers were about to walk in. I can’t even talk about it, it was such a horrible experience. And I only just managed to shout, “Don’t come in!” That was when José Carlos realized what was happening. We dashed into the bedroom where I’d left my clothes. So embarrassing. The worst part was that we couldn’t finish like we should have. Let’s order another half bottle, my dear. I’m already tipsy. Look, here comes Rodolfo, that doll. I’m going to tell him about Olga María. Ro-dol-fo!!
The She-Devil in the Mirror Page 4