‘Karen, you need to seek help.’
‘With all due respect, Doña Claire, the only thing I need is to bring Emiliano here from Cartagena and to get on with my life.’
‘That sounds good, I think you’re right,’ I said.
‘You say that because you don’t know what’s going on.’
‘I don’t know because you haven’t told me. But I trust you. I think you’re a good woman and will do the right thing.’
‘You’re talking to me as if I’m slow,’ said Karen brusquely. ‘Just because you’re a doctor doesn’t make me stupid.’
Her hostility was completely out of character. It was as if something, or someone, had abducted the real Karen and left someone else in her place.
‘Nothing will ever be the same again.’ She let out a sob, but quickly contained herself. ‘If only I could sleep,’ she added.
‘I can give you something to help with that.’
Karen didn’t respond, but watched me as if awaiting my next move. I dug into my handbag in the hope I would find what I was looking for. And there it was, a box of Zolpidem. I trained in psychiatry before specialising in therapy, and I still receive visits from drugs reps.
‘This is sleeping medication, take one pill every night.’
Karen tucked it into her uniform pocket and left to write up my bill.
Downstairs at reception, while I was paying Karen approached me and said:
‘All the time these images keep replaying in my head … Can the pills take them away?’
‘That might need therapy.’
‘I don’t have the time, or the money.’
‘I can help you,’ I insisted.
‘I just want to get the film reel out of my head.’
‘And what happens? In the film, what happens?’
Karen went quiet. Her dull gaze went far away again.
‘Maybe with God’s help,’ she said, and went quiet.
‘You know you can talk to me,’ I said. I paid the bill and left.
Weeks later the jigsaw pieces started falling into place. Victims of sexual abuse tend to be hyperalert to any stimuli that bring back what happened. They display evasiveness, defensiveness or emotional numbness, a lack of motivation, and they are often suicidal. The idea of going home alone in the dark filled Karen with terror. Because of this, at night she preferred company – spending it on the street, or in someone’s arms – so as not to have to face the dark alone.
13.
But it wasn’t just that Luis Armando reeked of alcohol. It was the dim room, the cocaine spread on the table, the guttural sound he made every few seconds as if he wanted to swallow a toad, the furious way he shook his head, the way he licked his lips time and again, the clicking sound as he worked his jaw, the clumsy way he scratched his nose until it went red. He even drew blood, yet never lost his smile.
He greeted her with a rough kiss that made her mouth bleed. Sabrina wanted to tell him, wanted to say he’d hurt her and she didn’t like it, but she remembered her mother’s words – ‘If you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all’ – so she kept quiet and let him do what he wanted: she let him pour her a glass of whisky and force her to drink it; let him take a line of cocaine and rub it on her gums, clumsily sticking his fingers in her mouth; let him tear off her white school shirt; let him rummage around in the satchel she’d brought, looking for who knows what; let him spread her clothes around the room.
Now Sabrina thought she’d made a mistake, but the time for thinking had passed. Her mind was numb. Her body barely responded. She felt weak; she was scared. Nevertheless, her habit of obeying, of pleasing, of never offending, prevented her from moving. That – or else the fear, or the pain, or the sadness – kept her as still as a statue in the half-light. Still, except for her heart, which felt about to explode. The man before her was her Prince Charming, or so she’d managed to convince herself. She’d pieced together his personality from the impressions she’d got from two or three outings and a few calls. He was the son of a politician, he’d said he loved her. She wasn’t going to run out like a little girl just because her lip was bleeding, just because there was a little coke on the table. She was so naive; she’d imagined romantic music in the background, a bottle of champagne and some balloons or roses, or both of those things, on the bed and floating in the room, which in her imagination had smelled of anything but drunkenness. But her mother had told her, ‘Matrimony is a cross to bear.’ It’s not easy, she’d said, it’s not simple, love is not simple. What had she thought, that everything would be a Disney film, that everything would be roses and little love hearts? No, just because he didn’t stroke her face like he had on other occasions, just because he was a little drunk, she wasn’t about to go running away like a little girl. She wasn’t a little girl any more, never would be again.
14.
The autopsy performed on Sabrina Guzmán Paredes found high doses of cocaine in her body, which would suggest death by overdose. There were signs of small haemorrhages (petechiae) in the conjunctiva of the eye. There were intramuscular haematomas on the neck and petechiae on the thorax, which, according to experts, are typically signs of a death by asphyxiation. They were not conclusive in this case because of the body’s decomposition.
The toxicological report stated that on Sabrina Guzmán Paredes’s body cocaine was found in a quantity of two parts per million, as was benzoylecgonine. It explained that these doses were very high, given that, on the body of a regular user, levels of 0.1 to 0.5 parts per million were usually present. Above one part per million, convulsions can be present, among other effects.
While the report gave respiratory arrest caused by cocaine intoxication as a possible cause of death, the likelihood that the death was due to physical violence remained open.
Nevertheless, because more than ten days had passed and the body had been exhumed, it was not possible to establish the causes of the bruising and petechiae present on the body. Thus, it was impossible to establish whether it was rape or consensual sexual relations, and whether the bruising was due to physical violence or an accident. Traces of semen were detected on the body of the victim.
Finally, the expert opinion of forensic medicine ruled out the possibility that Sabrina Guzmán Paredes was a regular cocaine user, because there were none of the usual indications of frequent consumption. Nor were there traces of amitriptyline in the body that would corroborate the use of Tryptanol as the cause of death.
The state of the body meant it was not possible to determine if there were skin abrasions.
The pathologist concluded that establishing the cause of death was at the discretion of the relevant authorities, once they clarified the remaining evidence uncovered over the course of their investigation. The case was passed into the hands of the Prosecutor’s Office. Signed on the third of August.
15.
The San Agustín church is one of the few relics from the seventeenth century still standing in the capital. I got out a few blocks before it because of the parade of SUVs, bodyguards and police. Out of the seven hundred guests, I must have been the only one who came in a taxi.
I wanted to flee, but it was too late. The Gregorian chants coming from the church drew me in. I quickened my pace and looked away when I encountered the sore-covered leg of a destitute man. The next was more difficult to avoid because he was right in front of me. He was old, stank of urine, and was crying, his hand outstretched. I racked my brain for the last time I’d been in the city centre and came up with nothing.
On the invitation, there was no mention that the Catholic wedding would be celebrated with the old Latin rites. I sat down where I could, right in time to see the bride enter on the arm of the minister. She was wearing a magnificent gown, a beaded sweep of white that glided across the red carpet from the dark street to the heavenly altar. Everything was strange, yet it was impossible not to feel awed by the scent of jasmine, lilies and chrysanthemums, by the delicacy of the orchids, the tho
usands of white candles, the opening notes of a Handel Suite.
Special permission had been sought from the Colombian Episcopal Conference to have the rite carried out in Latin, the priest with his back turned to the faithful. I would discover this the next day, on opening the newspaper and seeing photos of the wedding and a detailed account of what happened at the reception. Yet I didn’t need to read the paper to understand that a two-hour ceremony as traditional as this was a clear statement, especially coming from a minister who professed belief in the Virgin, who dedicated all his efforts to abolishing abortion under any circumstance, and who opposed homosexuality as if it were heresy. I would also read that the seventeenth-century ornaments and chalices were lent by the bishop himself as a token of his esteem for the bride and groom.
Wherever I looked, there was a minister, a judge, a politician. Amid the plethora of power, I searched for a familiar face. I didn’t find one.
I twitched when the cardinal read out a personal message from the Pope for the bride and groom. And when he criticised same-sex marriage in front of the entire political power of a nation that is nominally secular, I bristled.
The priest said ‘the treacherous Jews’ soon before Mozart’s Coronation Mass sounded. But wasn’t Mozart a Protestant? I said to myself. I closed my eyes and breathed deep the smell of jasmine. I didn’t want to be there. If I listened, I felt troubled, but if I limited myself to enjoying the scene and to letting the music, the smell of flowers, the magnificence of the church and the beauty of the candelabras wash over me, then I felt overcome by an ecstatic, airy stillness.
My hands were sweating, and I felt a despondency that neither Schubert’s ‘Ave Maria’ nor ‘Gloria in Excelsis’ alleviated.
The God I didn’t believe in must have had mercy on me because, despite my fears, the Mass concluded without anyone being struck down. The bride was filing down the aisle as people threw rose petals from the first pews. I would have to wait for the others to leave before I could. Amid the commotion, I saw Lucía Estrada’s face. It was as though all this time I’d been shipwrecked and now had found some driftwood to cling to. I made my way through the crowd to catch up to her and, in the doorway of the church, grabbed her by the arm:
‘Lucía!’
‘Claire, my dear!’ she said, turning around with a smile. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here!’
‘Likewise!’
‘Isn’t it awful?’ Lucía murmured.
‘I thought I was going to die.’
‘Well, we survived,’ she said.
Ramelli was further ahead, alongside Aníbal Diazgranados, his wife and one of his sons. He waved a hand to indicate that Lucía should hurry up.
‘Want to come with us?’ Lucía asked.
‘I don’t know, I don’t really feel like going to the reception.’
‘We can drop you off on the way, then. You don’t have your car?’
‘That would be fabulous, I don’t like the idea of being out on the street at this hour. Sure there’s room?’ I asked when I saw Ramelli and Diazgranados getting in.
‘There’s plenty,’ insisted Lucía.
After so much effort, I decided I may as well go by the reception to greet the bride’s parents at least. In the first SUV were Diazgranados’s driver, his wife, his son and Lucía.
‘If it’s okay with you, you can hop in the one behind,’ said Lucía.
I couldn’t help glancing inside. I wanted to see what the son of one of the most questionable and powerful politicians in the country looked like. I smiled, and he smiled back. In contrast to his father, he had fine features, a square jaw and long legs.
I wanted to know his name, but it seemed a little forward to ask now, when everyone was waiting for me. I hurried to the second SUV and got in. Eduardo was in the passenger seat. Beside me in the backseat was Aníbal Diazgranados. I’d never been so close to him before. His face was familiar because I’d seen him on the news, but I’d never felt his breath on me, or had him ogle my décolletage.
‘Ramelli my brother, stop being rude, tell me who this voluptuous autumnal beauty is.’
Ramelli turned around to see me cornered against the window, absorbed in the street, while Aníbal’s eyes were all over me. He had what seemed like an ironic smile on his face.
‘Minister, meet Claire Dalvard, a well-regarded psychoanalyst. She studied at the Sorbonne.’
‘Fuck, you’re kidding, a goddamn doctor!’
‘Claire. Pleased to meet you.’ I held out my hand, then was disgusted by the way he took it between both of his and kissed it with affectation. ‘Of course, I’ve heard about you.’
‘Whatever you’ve been told, it’s all lies,’ said Aníbal. ‘Tell me something, gorgeous, what does an hour with you cost?’
‘I can give you my consulting-room phone number. I should have a business card in here somewhere.’
‘Please, humour me with a vallenato, it’s like a funeral in here,’ he said to the driver as he tucked my card into his pocket.
‘Of course, Minister.’
‘My little Luis loves this song,’ said Diazgranados between shouting the chorus.
When we were turning from Avenida Calle 100 onto Carrera 7 he leaned across my legs to get out a silver flask that was under the passenger seat.
‘Have a drink, my brother,’ he said to Ramelli, who accepted obediently.
‘Doctor?’
‘No, thank you. Can I ask you something?’
‘Of course, Doctor,’ said Diazgranados.
‘Do you have a son called Luis Armando? Who works for an oil company?’
‘I sure do. How do you know?’
‘Through my daughter Aline; she works with him,’ I lied.
I went back to looking out the window. We were arriving.
‘Brother, so are we going to Sincelejo on Monday?’ Aníbal asked Ramelli, as if he hadn’t attributed any importance to my question.
‘Sure, I’m coming along,’ said Ramelli.
Aníbal turned to me. ‘This guy sitting here, the Teacher, he isn’t just wise – he’s turned out to be a good businessman, too.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘Tell Claire about your business dealings in health.’ Aníbal took another swig.
Ramelli looked put out.
‘Well, we’re based mainly on the coast. We don’t have much of a presence in Bogotá.’
‘But what part of the health sector do you run?’ I asked.
‘We’ve got the San Blas Hospital licence.’
‘I don’t know how you find the time for so much,’ I said.
‘Me neither,’ Ramelli said while Aníbal sang along to a Jorge Oñate song.
‘Looks like we’re here, finally. Are you going to wish me a happy birthday?’ Diazgranados asked.
‘It’s today?’
‘Sure is, the fourteenth of August. I’m a Leo. The power sign. And aside from that I’m very passionate,’ he added in a softer voice.
‘I don’t believe in star signs,’ I said.
I opened my handbag to check my reflection in my compact and touch up my lips.
‘You’re heavenly like that,’ Aníbal said. He was starting to wear me out.
He shook the flask over his mouth to get at the last drops of whisky. Meanwhile, the parade of SUVs and security convoys at the entrance of the Country Club was starting to block traffic. I couldn’t see my chance to get away. Maybe I could have a drink with Lucía, I thought naively, not foreseeing how much longer it would take for us to get into the room where the reception was taking place.
‘The last drop?’ offered Diazgranados. ‘It’s on Health Cross. Isn’t that right, Ramelli?’ he added with a loud laugh.
‘Who would have thought that health was such good business?’ I said sarcastically.
‘Oh, Doctor, please. Don’t try to tell me you haven’t worked that out,’ said Diazgranados.
As soon as I could, I got out – almost jumped out – of the SUV. A blue carpet and whi
te marquee walkway mimicked a tunnel. The guests made their way along it from the valet parking.
The night was clear, with a full moon. Photographers followed the recently arrived guests, firing their cameras. For the VIPs, there was a platform with professional lights where they were asked to pose for the ‘bride and groom’s album’. Brushing against one side of the marquee walkway, trying to pass by unseen, I went as far ahead as possible, avoiding the photographers. There was a small group around Minister Obando, the minister for internal affairs, and his wife, Teresa.
‘Claire! Thank you for coming!’ said Teresa.
We hugged amid flashes and glances.
‘Everything has turned out beautifully.’
‘Thank you, yes, our girl is very religious, we wanted her to be happy.’
The minister came over to greet me.
‘So, you’re the famed Claire.’
‘You’re the famous one, Minister.’
‘We’ve been trying to find time to reschedule that appointment, but haven’t been able to,’ he said.
The plural surprised me.
‘You’re both coming? I don’t usually do couples therapy.’
‘My wife’s concerns are my own, so if she wants to talk to a therapist, I have no choice but to support her by tagging along.’
I looked at my school friend. She smiled, her gaze dull. I noticed the gold, diamond-encrusted crucifix that hung from her neck and took two steps to the side to let the guests behind me greet the couple. I wanted to say goodbye to Lucía, but I’d lost her among all the people. I turned and walked towards the Country Club entrance, where they found me a driver to take me home. I was about to leave when I bumped into Diazgranados’s wife, Rosario Trujillo.
‘Do we know each other?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘House of Beauty, I often go there. If I’m not mistaken, we see the same girl.’
‘Karen?’ I asked.
‘Of course,’ she said, before excusing herself and moving towards her husband.
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