The She-Devil in the Mirror

by Horacio Castellanos Moya

  5. THIRTY DAYS

  I’M SO GLAD WE SAT HERE in the back, my dear, in the last row, so we can chat, even if only in a whisper, quietly. There’s been so much going on. Anyway, I don’t want to look at that priest up close. Papa’s right: all priests are twisted and corrupt, but this one has turned out to be a real scoundrel. Did you hear what he did to poor Yuca? It’s all anybody’s talking about. Yuca’s become the laughingstock of the entire world. It’s all a plot. They say it’s his political enemies. The press has turned against him, too. Luckily they haven’t mentioned anything about Olga María. I told you they were going to use the Olga María thing to try to finish Yuca off, and that’s exactly what’s happened, even if they don’t say so publicly, they’ve started accusing him of other things. They already made him resign from the leadership of the party. Terrible. The man who is far and away the best leader, and the most charismatic—everybody was supporting him. They’ve done him in—just because of that stolen car they say he bought. A Mercedes Benz this damned priest sold him and now says he doesn’t know anything about. No, my dear, I haven’t been able to talk to Yuca. He’s been too busy: he’s at the very center of a political storm—fending off the low blows, defending his reputation. What worries me is that he’ll get hooked on coke again, he’ll sink back into a cycle of depression and turn to drugs. They haven’t stopped attacking him—just look at the media. How possible is it: a high-ranking leader of the governing party buying a stolen car!? What idiots! But the way they say it, it makes people think he’s somehow involved in the stolen car racket, as if Yuca needed to be, like he isn’t rich enough already. They set a trap for him, and that no-good priest helped lure him into it. I’m sure of it! Yes, my dear, I’ll lower my voice, it’s just that I get so furious when I realize what they’re doing to that man. They’ve ruined his political career, and now they want to sink him completely. It’s not fair. But that’s not the worst of it; the worst is what people are saying in private, what people everywhere are mumbling about under their breath. Horrible: people you thought were Yuca’s friends are now out to slander him, they’re saying awful things, like he ordered Olga María’s murder because she was threatening to expose him as a drug trafficker. Can you imagine? It makes me furious. It’s one thing that the man’s an addict and another that he’s involved in drug trafficking. People say such vile things. Even to me, and they know I’m his friend, you wouldn’t believe the atrocious things they insinuate; that happened a few days ago—at the club no less. According to this person, the gringos discovered Yuca’s connection with the drug traffickers, and they decided to take him out of the running, politically speaking, but since they couldn’t expose him without spreading the shit all over other high-ranking government officials, they decided to invent this whole farce about the stolen car. Nobody in his right mind can actually believe something like that. Others are saying that Yuca, in a fit of cocaine-induced madness, hired a hitman to kill Olga María, and the authorities found out, and when he refused to resign, they invented this scandal about the stolen car. What a mess. All fantasies. Yuca never would have had Olga María killed. I’m not denying that he gets crazy sometimes, but it would never have occurred to him to hurt that woman. All I know for sure is that Yuca insists he bought that Mercedes from this priest. So it must be true. But now the priest is playing the fool and says he knows nothing about the car. Just look at him, that hypocrite up there saying Mass, as if nothing were wrong. Poor Olga María, if she knew that despicable priest, who is part of a plot to destroy Yuca, is the one saying her Requiem Mass, she’d die of outrage—I’m sure of it. It would make her furious. I had no idea he’d be the priest. If I’d known, I’d have warned Doña Olga. I just realized it, just now when I walked into the church—that’s why I stayed here in the back row, as a form of protest. That’s what I explained to mama when she asked me why I was sitting way back here: nothing in the world would get me to sit in the front row and listen to that scheming priest. I’m so glad you came, too. I swear, the only reason I’m staying at all is to show my respect for Olga María. On the way out I’m going to ask Doña Olga why she chose that priest. But she’s been pretty out to lunch ever since the murder; she’s completely devoted to those girls. Maybe it wasn’t even her who chose that disgusting priest; it could have been Cuca or Sergio, or even Marito himself. Something’s not right, now that I’m thinking about it. Don’t you think maybe they chose this priest so that Yuca wouldn’t show up? I’m not crazy, or paranoid. With everything that’s going on, you imagine the worst. Picking this priest was the best way to prevent Yuca from coming. Seeing as how people always think the worst of other people, most people would assume from the fact that this awful priest is giving the Requiem Mass that the family considers Yuca guilty of Olga María’s murder. There’s something very fishy going on, I can tell you that, and I’m going to find out what it is, my dear. This can’t just end here; this is one more piece of the whole big plot against Yuca. Maybe Doña Olga is taking part in it without realizing it, innocently, she’s so naïve and in so much pain, the poor thing. Look at that priest: can’t you just see him lowering his eyes and speaking to God, the pig? It makes me want to switch religions. But papa says they’re all the same. He calls himself an agnostic. I’ve never really understood what that means: something about believing in a God up there but not in the priests or the religions down here. Papa says he doesn’t need the priests’ God: he’s happy hanging out on his finca most of the time or going a few times a year to the racetrack in Mexico City and to the casinos in Reno; that’s what he loves to do. You should see how he makes fun of mama. He says that all her piety, her devotion to the church, it all started when she was already old—she never even went to church before; even my First Communion was just a formality. He’s right: when I was little, mama wasn’t at all interested in priests or services, she was on a different wavelength altogether. Fear of death, my dear. According to papa, the war turned my mother into a zealot, as if God would save her from the massacres, when it was the priests themselves who’d stirred up the masses. That’s what papa says. He makes fun of her, because as far as he’s concerned, now that the war is over mama should give up all her piousness. But she’s too old to change now. I understand her. But when you come across disgusting priests like this one here, you can’t help having terrible thoughts. I want to see what he pulls out of his hat for the homily. Let’s kneel, my dear. This prie-dieu is filthy, it’s going to ruin my stockings. Did I tell you I had dinner with Marito? Night before last. At his house, so we could be with the girls and dear Julita. He told me a bunch of things, and he questioned me pretty aggressively. Not during dinner, because the girls were there, the poor things, my darlings; no, after they went to bed. Marito’s business isn’t doing so well: he’s lost some clients. He says he’s invoicing about sixty percent of what he invoiced last year. Apparently advertising feels the economic crunch first because it’s the first item on the budget that gets cut. That’s what Marito explained to me. This crisis is awful, it’s affecting everybody, it’s all the fault of that fat idiot we put in there as president. Interest rates have even dropped. Luckily the price of coffee has remained stable, if not papa would be furious. Let’s sit, my dear. What Marito told me is that Olga María didn’t leave a will—how could she have imagined she would die so young!? That’s why at the beginning of last week I went to a lawyer to write mine, my dear—I hope it doesn’t bring bad luck. God forbid. Knock on wood. But there’s no problem because the girls inherit everything. Her only partner in the boutique was Doña Olga. They kept things in the family. But Marito isn’t sure it’s worth keeping the boutique: if you add to the economic crisis the scandal of Olga María’s murder, it probably isn’t. I asked him what he was planning to do about Cheli and Conchita, the two employees, because I’m sure they’re the ones who blabbed to the police. Doña Olga wants to keep them on and Marito couldn’t care less. Imagine that. I told him he’d better get rid of that pair of harpies as soon as possible o
r he’d soon regret it. Okay, my dear, I’ll keep my voice down, the last thing I want is for that damned priest to tell me off. It’s just that when I talk about those you-know-whats, I get all riled up. The same thing happened when I was with Marito. Luckily dear Julita had already put the girls to bed. They’re so lovely, so obedient, such good students. That’s what bothers me about going to Mass: you have to constantly be standing up, kneeling down, standing up, and my clothes end up getting all messed up and looking frightful. It was because I got so excited when I was talking about Cheli and Conchita that Marito asked me what I have against them; he said they’re good employees, Olga María trusted them completely. I’m such an idiot, I went and told him what I suspected: that the two of them had filled the policemen’s heads with all sorts of groundless rumors, especially that Deputy Chief Handal. Then I realized I’d stuck my foot in my mouth, but it was too late to turn back. Marito just stared at me with a very serious expression on his face. We were still in the dining room drinking coffee. What rumors? he asked me, in a not-very-friendly voice. I didn’t know what to do, my dear. I probably stared back at him like an idiot, because he asked me again: what rumors? I felt trapped, like he was reading my mind. But finally I managed to wriggle my way out of it: I told him how it could appear suspicious that he bought a life insurance policy for Olga María a few weeks before the murder. Everybody, of course, thinks it’s ridiculous, but those two put it into the policeman’s head, and that Deputy Chief Handal questioned me about it. That’s how I explained it to Marito. He told me it wasn’t a hypothesis, it was pure nonsense, not even the police were taking it seriously. Then, out of the blue, he asked me about the relationship between Olga María and Yuca. I was shocked. I didn’t expect that. I was afraid Marito would find out about the photograph José Carlos had taken of Olga María, the one Handal showed me; that’s what I was most afraid of. But Marito going straight to the business about Yuca? I never expected that. It’s not like him: he’s not one for confrontations. That’s why he got along so well with Olga María: they were both calm, gentle, reserved. You can’t imagine the predicament I was in, my dear. Just look at him there, praying, as gentle as a lamb, but he’s a sly one, that Marito, throwing me a curve ball like that. At first I had no idea what to say. All I could do was play the fool, ask him what he was talking about, what was he insinuating. And maybe because it was the second time I’d had to play the fool, I got angry. My head felt like it was about to explode: I told him he couldn’t possibly believe all that nonsense those mean-spirited people were gossiping about, Olga María and Yuca had never been anything more than friends, great friends since the American School, I knew that for a fact, Olga María confided in me things she never confided in anybody, and as far as I’m concerned it’s utter nonsense for him to entertain any suspicions at all about his wife, about someone who’d always been faithful to him. I almost called him an idiot. I was getting quite worked up, I was shouting, because I wasn’t going to let that good-for-nothing doubt her and join the conspiracy against Yuca. I ripped into him: I said those little bitches, Cheli and Conchita, they must have had a hand in telling Deputy Chief Handal the rumors that he’s made it his business to spread around. All because Olga María had been receiving phone calls from Yuca the last few weeks of her life. Those hussies think that if somebody gets a phone call from a friend she’s necessarily sleeping with him. Just because that’s what they’re like, them and their sluttish mentality. I’ll bet one of them is going out with one of the detectives who works under Deputy Chief Handal and that’s where all the rumors are coming from. But I made it very clear to Marito that if recently Yuca had been communicating with Olga María, it was because he was having personal problems and he was reaching out to old friends, lifelong friends, that’s why he’d called me, too. I wasn’t about to go telling him all of Yuca’s problems, those things are private, the poor man has enough with all the dirty politics he’s messed up in. Marito asked me to calm down, the girls weren’t asleep yet and they might be listening. But I was already in a rage—he provoked me. I told him I thought it was shameful for him to start questioning his wife’s faithfulness, there wasn’t a bit of difference between his insinuations and what other evil tongues were saying about him hiring somebody to kill her. Until I said that I couldn’t calm down! Yes, my dear, I just realized it—I’ll lower my voice. Let’s kneel again. Did you see that look my mother just shot me when she turned around? I’ll pretend I didn’t notice. Look at those saints. Perfectly awful. Whose idea was it to dress them up like that? Such poor taste. Not at all like those statues you see in the churches in Europe—look at the face on that one. Poor thing. Who knows who he’s supposed to be. I’ve never learned anything about the saints. Papa says most of them are phonies or criminals. Mama’s hair stands on end when papa starts ranting and raving against the pope and the Vatican. All that’s for the lower classes, for people who are either stupid or ignorant, papa says. Speaking of which: neither Cheli nor Conchita came to church. They’ve already forgotten about Olga María. What I said earlier is true: Cheli is going out with one of Handal’s detectives. I know it firsthand, my dear. The one with the square jaw, like a filing cabinet, Villalta I think his name is, he’s really got the mug of a criminal, he’s the one who came to interrogate the girls right after Olga María was killed. You know which one Cheli is? She’s the chubby one with big cheeks, kind of red in the face, very vivacious. It’s not her fault she’s stupid, but it is her fault people are saying bad things about Olga María. I’ll bet you anything she gives Villalta all his info. I saw them together, that’s what I’m telling you, I didn’t hear it from anyone. It was pure coincidence. I was walking down Paseo Escalón, about two blocks below Villas Españolas, right near her boutique, when what do you know? I see that disgusting Cheli walking with that detective. I didn’t want to tell Marito about it; they’d just say I was gossiping and the woman has a right to have a boyfriend. But can you believe the prize she’s found for herself? I told Doña Olga, of course. Just so she’d know. The night before last, with Marito, after he was rude to me and I had to put him in his place, I told him about Cheli and the detective. But we weren’t at his house anymore. Marito was very upset when I told him that some people were saying that he might have arranged Olga María’s murder. I swear he went totally blank for about five seconds; not because he hadn’t thought of it or because nobody had mentioned it to him, but because I threw it in his face right when he started making those filthy insinuations about her. All he managed to say was that we shouldn’t talk about it, the girls or dear Julita might show up any moment, we should change the subject. Then I suggested we go out, because I had several related issues I wanted to discuss with him, and it didn’t seem right to do it in the house. We went to the bar at the Hotel Fiesta, it’s the closest one. We each took our own car, obviously. The last thing I need is for people to start gossiping about how I’m going out with Marito now that Olga María is dead. All I wanted was to speak frankly, and to hear from him who he suspects or blames for her death. You might not believe this, but it’s been a month since her murder, and we still hadn’t had a heart-to-heart. For a thousand and one reasons. Or maybe we were afraid. Sometimes you just don’t want to know, with so much garbage swirling around. But what made me fighting mad was hearing Marito repeat the same lies against Yuca. Well, he didn’t come right out and say it, but just the fact that he insinuated it was enough. He’s the husband, my dear—anything he says or even hints at becomes the truth. That’s why I wanted to keep talking to him, to try to clear things up. The bar was empty; nobody ever stays at the hotel itself, at least not during the week. I don’t like that hotel. There’s a lien on it, because of the owner’s debts. But it’s the nearest bar. That’s why I suggested we go there. Looks like he’s a regular, the staff seemed to know him, especially one waitress, quite attractive, good body, but dark-skinned, your average Salvadoran—not ugly, even kind of cute. So, this is what we’ve come to, I said to Marito, because it was
obvious he liked that waitress, maybe he’s even gone out with her, otherwise she wouldn’t be so friendly. That’s what I told him. But he pretended not to understand. Men have no staying power, my dear. His wife just died and here he is running after a waitress. Marito ordered his usual: vodka with lemonade. I didn’t feel like deciding, so I ordered the same. Stand up, my dear. Sometimes I feel like an idiot repeating all this drivel. Now, we can finally sit down. Let’s see what this despicable priest comes up with next; not that I’m even listening to him. Right from the start, I got straight to the point with Marito: I asked him what he knew about the murder investigation, I told him not to beat around the bush, to tell me once and for all what had happened. He looked so sad, it was actually touching: I realized he didn’t know anything, either, he just has hypotheses like we do, the whole month he’d been flailing around, at the mercy of everyone’s wagging tongues, without anything solid to hold onto. Poor thing. Maybe that’s why he’s clutching at the possibility that Yuca had something to do with the murder. I told him that later. What he told me is that nothing’s been proven: the murderer, that RoboCop guy, hasn’t confessed to anything, he’s kept mum, he doesn’t even admit he was the one who pulled the trigger, even though the girls have positively identified him. Times are different now, you can’t apply the same kind of pressure you could before, because those human rights communists will jump down your throat. Marito says that this Deputy Chief Handal is pursuing a very discreet line of investigation. Seems RoboCop belongs to a well-organized gang of criminals for hire. Marito thinks that if RoboCop was a soldier and belongs to a gang there must be at least one high-ranking military officer behind him. I don’t understand why a high-ranking military officer would have wanted Olga María murdered; I don’t see the point, unless he wants to become a politico at Yuca’s expense. But Marito doesn’t have many expectations: he says that if RoboCop doesn’t spill the beans, which will most likely be the case, we’ll never know who hired him. He also doesn’t think Deputy Chief Handal is digging deep enough; there are so many murders and most of them remain unsolved. Marito says that the police are satisfied that they’ve arrested the perpetrator, that in itself is a huge success, that’s why they made such a big to-do about it in the news, but he says they don’t care about finding the mastermind. I don’t doubt it. This is the only prayer I know in full: Our Father. The rest, I just know parts of them. You, too, right, my dear? Well, you studied with nuns, you learned them when you were little, I didn’t learn any of it. What? Am I going to take communion? Are you kidding? If that priest gave it to me, I wouldn’t be able to resist the urge to spit it back in his face. Damn him! We have to kneel again; what’s going to happen to my stockings? As I was saying, I couldn’t get much out of Marito: he doesn’t know anything we don’t already know. Unless he’s a really good liar and was pulling the wool over my eyes the whole time. You never know with men. You should have seen him flirting with that waitress, like I wasn’t even there. He thinks he’s God’s gift to women, the poor thing. I don’t know how Olga María could have married him. That woman’s got guts, you know, because Marito might be a really nice guy but to have to put up with him every day, God help me. It’s not that he’s ugly, I just don’t see anything attractive about him: he’s your ordinary dark-skinned guy. His personality is the only thing worthwhile: he’s calm, kind, generous. That’s why Olga María agreed to marry him—they were meant for each other. I can’t imagine them screaming at each other, much less fighting. But as much of a goodie-two-shoes as Marito is, he kept on flirting with that waitress until I told him to get a grip, he was going way overboard, not showing me any respect, like I was a rag doll or something. So he cooled down. That’s when I insisted he tell me everything he knows, not keep any secrets, I was Olga María’s best friend, and he had no reason to hide anything from me. I stared right at him and had a very serious expression on my face, just so he’d understand that I wasn’t joking, the best thing would be to stop keeping secrets from me. He told me that Diana, her younger sister, had hired a private detective, while she was still in Miami, someone named Pepe Pindonga, just like it sounds even though it sounds like a joke, his name is Pepe Pindonga, some kind of weirdo who’s already questioned Marito and already started snooping around. Diana’s the only one who would have thought of doing such a thing: hiring a private detective, like this is the States or something. She’s nuts. Can you imagine, my dear? A private detective in San Salvador? All he’ll do is take her money and run. But, anyway, that’s her business not mine. Marito warned me not to be surprised if this Pepe Pindonga tries to get in touch with me. It seems he’s ordinary-looking, a bit vulgar, and he asks questions with no consideration, like he belongs to the same social class or something. I don’t want to have anything to do with him. I told Marito that’s all I need: some charlatan who calls himself a private detective coming and treating me disrespectfully, as if I haven’t already had enough with that Deputy Chief Handal and his gang. I told him I wasn’t willing to be questioned by a private detective, I have absolutely no interest in talking to somebody who will probably use whatever information we give him to blackmail us, only someone as demented as Diana could think there’s such a thing as a private detective in this city. Marito says the guy is intelligent, clever, but he agrees that Diana is throwing her money away, because if we’re dealing with an organized gang of former military officers, this detective will resign from the case in a second. Which doesn’t mean he won’t charge Diana, even if he hasn’t accomplished anything. That’s what I think, anyway. We drank three vodkas each. Marito wanted to keep drinking, but I told him it was late, I felt pretty sloshed, and the truth is, I wasn’t enjoying myself, and least of all when I had to constantly remind Marito not to flirt with that waitress. Look at that, Señor Saint up here is going to sweeten our ears with his homily, he’s going to offer us his spiritual and moral teachings. What a swine. I refuse to listen to him. Hypocrite. After what he’s done to Yuca he has the nerve to stand behind the pulpit and speak in the name of God. Have you ever seen such barefaced hypocrisy? Anyway, the thing is, my dear, the only thing I got clear is that Marito’s as confused as we are. Maybe the only ones who know anything are the police, but if some ex-officer is involved we’ll never find out anything. Oh, and I forgot: there’s some journalist who’s also investigating the Olga María case, a reporter from that newspaper, Ocho Columnas. Can you believe it? That rag that only reports scandals—the very same newspaper that’s been waging its campaign against Yuca, that’s been harassing him for weeks. And you know who the famous reporter is? That pathetic creature named Rita Mena, the same one who accused Yuca of assaulting her, as if she wasn’t asking for it with her stupid questions. Haven’t you read the newspapers, about the journalist union’s accusations against Yuca? They say that Yuca and his bodyguards intimidated the reporter, assaulted her—she claimed they grabbed her camera away so they could destroy the roll of pictures she’d taken of Yuca. That’s the same reporter who’s investigating the murder. It infuriates me. I suspect it’s precisely Yuca’s enemies who are behind that newspaper, the same ones who launched that press campaign to oust him from the party leadership, the same ones who made that huge fuss about the stolen car this shameless priest sold him, the ones who sent that reporter to Yuca just to provoke him. I don’t even want to think what she’ll write about Olga María’s death. I can already imagine it. Yuca’s enemies want that stupid woman to implicate him in the murder. I’m sure of it. Marito was the one who told me that reporter has been harassing him for the last few days. I don’t know how she found out about my existence, because she told Marito she wants to interview me. I’m just waiting for her to call me, my dear, so I can tell her to go straight to Hell. She’ll get what’s coming to her, for snooping around, for being stupid. Did that priest finally finish with his nonsense? I don’t believe you’re going to take communion. Me? Are you kidding?