The She-Devil in the Mirror

by Horacio Castellanos Moya

  9. THE CLINIC

  GOOD THING THEY LET YOU IN, my dear. They’ve had me incommunicado since I got here. Only my parents have been allowed to visit me. The truth is I’ve been sleeping most of the time. It’s been almost three days and it feels like nothing. The one who visits the most is Dr. Romo; he’s so understanding. He says I’ll get better soon, I had a nervous breakdown because of all the stress of Olga María’s murder and RoboCop’s escape. Good thing you managed to escape, otherwise they would have shut you up in here, too. I don’t remember anything after we made that dash for it and those policemen attacked us. The wretches. They sedated me: I spent a whole day sleeping, that’s what Dr. Romo explained to me. Papa’s very worried. He says I’ll need to leave the country to be able to relax and recuperate, I need to be in a different atmosphere, forget all these calamities. The worst part is that the minute I woke up I started worrying about the girls and what RoboCop might do to them. Can you imagine, waking up after sleeping a whole day on sedatives, in a strange bed, in an unknown room? I thought they’d kidnapped me, I thought RoboCop and Deputy Chief Handal realized they couldn’t liquidate me in front of the neighbors so they brought me here. And it was precisely at that moment that the nurse came in: I was standing up, rummaging through the drawers, checking the medicines on the bedside table, peeking out through the blinds, figuring out how to escape. I was scared to death when I heard the door open; I thought it was them. The nurse was surprised, too, seeing me standing up. She told me to get back to bed, I still needed to recuperate, I needed absolute rest. That was yesterday about mid-morning. I flooded her with questions: where was I, who’d brought me here, who’d visited me, when could I leave this place. The poor thing didn’t know what to say, but right then mama appeared behind her. She hugged me, she was crying, as if I’d risen from the dead; she asked me to lie down again and told the nurse to call Dr. Romo to come and check on me. I felt horrible, my dear. I warned her that there was no way I was going to allow the doctor to see me looking like that. I went into the bathroom to wash my face and brush my hair, make myself look vaguely presentable. The doctor is so elegant, so distinguished looking, and I wasn’t going to receive him as if he were a servant or something. God help me. I already told you a ton about him: I’ve been going to him for three years once a month. Good thing mama brought a few of my things, and I could fix myself up a little, though this hair, my dear, if I don’t go to Mercedes’s salon, it looks atrocious. But, guess what. Dr. Romo couldn’t come right away, so I had to listen to my mother’s version. She says I suffered an acute attack of paranoia, that’s why I mistook a couple of journalists waiting for me in front of my house with RoboCop. I don’t believe her. Mama swallows anything they feed her. She told me not to worry about the girls: the police are certain RoboCop has left the country, they think he went to Honduras, so we’re not in any danger. That’s what Handal and his henchmen told her. That’s when I asked her who brought me to this clinic and how it happened. According to her, when we dashed out of the house, my nerves gave out and I collapsed right in front the police. Did you see me do that? As far as I’m concerned, those swine took advantage of the uproar to beat me up or inject me with some narcotic. Because I don’t remember anything, as you know. The thing is, when I fainted, Handal called the house and mama told him to bring me to Dr. Romo’s clinic. But I didn’t keep talking to mama about it, especially after she came to me with her song and dance about how if I went to church more often, if I led a more devout life, I wouldn’t have so many problems with my nerves. When she talks like that, I can’t stand it. That’s why I changed the subject. I asked her about the Brazilian telenovela. It made me so mad to be missing the last few episodes. The doctor has forbidden me from watching television for a week: he says the news could upset me. He hasn’t relented, even though I’ve sworn I won’t watch anything other than the telenovela. Good thing mama has been telling me what’s going on: I just hope that Holofernes—he’s so gorgeous—doesn’t get killed. That’s what mama was doing, summing up the episodes of the telenovela I’d missed, when Dr. Romo came in. That man is so elegant, my dear, he’s so debonair, so tall and handsome. Right off the bat I told him how horrible I felt, how I’d never want him to see me like this, without my hair done or makeup on, as is only proper. He told me I looked beautiful, even my tired face was a delight to look at. A man like that is very disarming, my dear. I’d only ever seen him in his office, where we’ve only just talked. But yesterday, after he asked mama to leave us alone for a moment, when he started examining me, and I felt his hands on my body, I swear I got so hot. It was overwhelming, my dear, I got wet when he touched me to check my blood pressure, my pulse, and all the rest. I felt like pulling him into bed with me right then and there. I don’t know, maybe from too much sleep, or because of the drugs, but the truth is I felt a lot going on down there between my legs. I was melting. And that man was aware of everything that was going on, because he immediately took his hands off me, he said I was doing much better but I needed a week of absolute rest to effect a complete recovery. There was one moment, I swear, when I was on the verge of grabbing his crotch and starting to rub him; I had this uncontrollable urge to put it in my mouth. That’s why he moved away, in his best professional manner. He said this breakdown was very serious, I shouldn’t take it lightly, and once I get stronger we’ll talk more. I wanted to hold onto him, ask him about the medications, about the relationship between what he called my schizophrenic tendencies and the attack of paranoia. The only thing he said was that the stress was to blame; I haven’t been able to get over the death of my best friend, and then that murderer’s escape provoked the crisis. That’s how he explained it. Then he said he had to go, he’d check in on me later in the afternoon. Since then he’s always come in with a nurse, like she’s his bodyguard. I’ve been tempted to tell him that I need to talk to him alone, but I haven’t had another episode like that first one, when I felt so aroused. At least when I’m awake, because that same afternoon I had the strangest dream about Dr. Romo: we were in a restroom at the airport, I don’t know which one, and I pulled down his pants and his underwear, and the doctor just let me do whatever I wanted, I rubbed his balls between the palms of my hands, and just as I was kneeling to take him in my mouth, Olga María appeared behind him and started scolding me for such behavior in a public place, and then I was surrounded by Pepe Pindonga, Deputy Chief Handal, Yuca, Alberto, and they were all threatening me, demanding I be arrested for crimes against public morality and decency, and when I turned to Dr. Romo for help, he’d disappeared. That’s when I woke up, terrified. Quite a dream to have in the afternoon, maybe that’s why I haven’t gotten so turned on by Dr. Romo again in quite the same way. But I was telling you about the morning. When the doctor left, mama came in again and warned me that Deputy Chief Handal has made it his business to get into my room. According to her, as soon as he finds out I’ve woken up, that detective will try to get in and question me. But the clinic has strict orders not to allow this. Only with a subpoena, papa said. No way I’d want to see that fool’s ugly face. If he finds out everything I’ve discovered about the relationships between Olga María, Alberto, and Toñito Rathis, who knows what he’d be capable of. Even worse after what Pepe Pindonga told me. What, I didn’t tell you yet? Well, yesterday afternoon, after that weirdest of dreams about the doctor, when I opened my eyes, who do you think was sitting in that very chair, acting like Mr. Nice Guy? I thought I was still dreaming, until the famous detective said hello and asked how I was feeling. At first I got cross, what nerve, sneaking into my room without authorization. I told him to leave immediately, I said he was being disrespectful, I’m sick and the doctor has strictly forbidden me from talking to imbeciles. I gave it to him straight, no room for any doubts. I warned him that if he didn’t get out immediately, I’d start to scream. He begged me to calm down, he said that if he’d made such an effort to get in here it was so he could tell me something that might interest me. That got me curious, be
cause it was obvious this Pepe Pindonga had found out something new about Olga María’s case. I asked him how he’d managed to get into my room. He told me he bribed a nurse, but he didn’t want to reveal her name. I’m sure he used some other trick. Did you know my father put one of his own personal security guards on duty outside the door of this room? How could that Pepe Pindonga have gotten in, eh? I learned from him that the journalists in front of my house were Rita Mena, the reporter, and that photographer nicknamed Zompopo. Pepe says I got Zompopo and RoboCop confused: they’ve got the same kind of square head and, sitting in the car, without seeing their bodies, it was easy to make that mistake. I finally believed him at noon today when the nurse told me that a lady journalist from Ocho Columnas has tried to get in to see me but was told I’m not allowed visitors. Pepe explained that that busybody wants to interview me in connection with Olga María’s case: she’s writing an article about RoboCop and now that the killer has escaped she’s in a rush to finish it. Filthy rat, how could she imagine I would talk to her after what she did to Yuca? By the way, Pepe talked to Yuca and mentioned to him my idea about Alberto and Toñito Rathis being behind Olga María’s murder. He was in shock. Here’s what Pepe told me: Yuca opened his eyes very wide and asked him where I’d gotten such an idea. Seems I hit the nail on the head, my dear, by the looks of it. Yuca didn’t know about the affaire between Olga María and Alberto, and he didn’t tell Pepe Pindonga anything, but based on his reaction, I know I got it right. I bet Yuca tries to call me any minute now, but they aren’t letting any calls through either, doctor’s orders. I hope Yuca decides to come. I’ve given him all the clues he needs to find out who’s plotting against him. Now, with the scandal of Finapro’s crash, it’ll all be as clear as day to him. Like it is to me. The only one who refuses to understand is that Deputy Chief Handal. Why would he want to, though, since he’s part of the conspiracy? He’s probably been receiving money from Toñito Rathis: that’s why he let RoboCop escape, that’s why he wanted to be there for Toñito’s arrest, to make sure he was treated well. You know what he’s come up with now, according to what Pepe Pindonga told me? He’s started investigating some of RoboCop’s commanding officers in the Acahuapa Battalion during the war. Only somebody interested in confusing the issue would think up such nonsense. It turns out that one of them, some major or other, went into business once the war was over, offering security services to important businessmen and landowners, one of them being papa. Can you believe what that cop wastes his time doing? And since he doesn’t dare question papa, because that’s getting in way over his head, he wants to talk to me to find out if I know anything about this Major What’s-His-Face, who might have hired RoboCop to murder Olga María. What an idiot. I don’t remember that major very well, I might have seen him a couple of times when I visited papa, if it’s the same man; he might even be somebody I introduced to Olga María—pure coincidence—because she happened to come by the house while he was waiting in the living room. I wouldn’t be surprised if Handal tried to throw suspicion on me so I’d be forced to keep quiet about what I know. Easy, my dear: he could say that RoboCop was hired by Major What’s-His-Face, on my orders, because I was fighting with Olga María over Yuca. Those bastards are capable of claiming that I hired somebody to kill my best friend because of a man, as if Yuca would be worth it. I swear: they’re capable of saying anything: I was jealous of her, I’m under psychiatric treatment, she was like my alter ago I had to get rid of, Yuca has always been the man of my life, and he never paid any attention to me because of Olga María, I still resented her for destroying my marriage with Alberto, I hated her because she always put me down, any old nonsense. I get furious just thinking about all the money they waste paying that gang of corrupt policemen. Just wait, you’ll see how they’ll do absolutely everything they can to divert the investigation of Olga María’s murder away from the paths that lead to Alberto and Toñito Rathis’s fraudulent schemes. Because Pepe Pindonga told me another rumor that fills in the gaps: it turns out that Finapro’s money was used to pay a debt Toñito and his group had with the Cali Cartel; that’s what they’re saying in the inner circles of the police and the media: they didn’t steal the depositors’ money for the electoral campaign, or for the soccer team’s travel expenses, or to cover up holes in the other Rathis companies, but to pay off debts between drug traffickers. Do you remember that scandal about a multimillion-dollar shipment of cocaine they found in a container in the Port of Acajutla, in the warehouse of a shipping company Toñito Rathis owns stock in? There’s the key, my dear. Who knows what Olga María might have found out, and that’s why they killed her, for being nosy, for sleeping with people she shouldn’t have slept with. That’s exactly what I told Pepe Pindonga, before telling him to leave, because I felt tired, or rather disheartened, depressed. It’s awful, my dear, with Olga María’s murder the same thing will happen that happens with all the crimes committed in this country: the authorities will never find out anything and people will simply forget about it. That’s what I was thinking about after Pepe Pindonga left. It’s awful what I’m feeling: something between sadness and anger. I want to do something so that everybody will know that Toñito Rathis and Alberto have something to do with our friend’s death. But in here, I’m screwed. That’s why I don’t know if I’m going to tolerate being cooped up in here for very long. I’d like to get out, I want to really stir things up. Though maybe nobody would give me any support, not even Yuca: as you know, politicians have their own interests. Papa won’t let me, either. I’m so sick of mama: she says my nerves are a mess, there’s something wrong with my head, since Olga María died I’ve changed, I spend all my time talking to myself, I always go out alone, as if she didn’t know I was with you. She says she’s very worried. The same old story. The only thing for me do is to leave the country, like they’re recommending, take a long vacation, especially if that Deputy Chief Handal tries to harass me with his Major What’s-His-Face. I’ll leave and go to Miami, to Diana. Maybe she’ll give me some support and from there we can do something, but without that trash, Pepe Pindonga. Anything is possible. What worries me is what will happen to you in my absence—who will you talk to, who will you go out with, how will you keep from getting bored. If only Olga María were still . . .

  Copyright © 2000 Horacio Castellanos Moya

  Copyright © 2000 Ediciones Linteo S.L.

  Translation Copyright © 2009 by Katherine Silver

  All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in a newspaper, magazine, radio, or television review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by arrangement with Horacio Castellanos Moya and his agent, the Ray-Gude Mertin Agency.

  Originally published in spain as La diabola en el espejo by Ediciones Linteo.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  New Directions Books are printed on acid-free paper.

  First published as a New Directions Paperbook (NDP1153) in 2009

  Published simultaneously in Canada by Penguin Books Canada LTD.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Castellanos Moya, Horacio, 1957–

  [Diabola en el espejo. English]

  The She-Devil in the Mirror / Horacio Castellanos Moya ; translated from the Spanish by Katherine Silver.

  p. cm.

  “originally published in spain as la diabola en el espejo by ediciones linto”—t.p. verso.

  eISBN 978-0-8112-1985-3

  i. Silver, Katherine. ii. Title.

  PQ7539.2.C34D5313 2009

  863´64—DC22 2009019762

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  New Directions Books are published for James Laughlin

  by New Directions Publishing Corporation,

  80 Eighth Avenue, New York 10011

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  Horacio Castellanos Moya, The She-Devil in the Mirror