18.
She finished giving Rosario Trujillo a slimming massage, and took no notice when she spoke in English, just as she didn’t care when she slipped on her Carolina Herrera overcoat, or when she looked Karen up and down, an expression of disgust on her stretched face.
Karen gave Rosario a broad smile in return for her 5,000-peso tip. She was learning to put on a poker face, was starting to realise that practising the art of falseness made her more likely to win. Rosario Trujillo was one of those women who couldn’t spend more than five minutes anywhere before making her superiority felt.
I think Karen was relieved, in a way, once she realised that Rosario acted like that out of insecurity or bitterness; once she understood that she was an unhappy woman, just playing her inevitable part like Karen and all the other actors in this plot. It was like a Shakespeare tragedy where the characters can’t escape their destinies, even when they can foresee what’s coming; Karen knew that taking one more step would mean plunging into the abyss, but even so she still took it.
But for Lucía, my reading tended to idealise Karen’s motives, ennobling them and giving them a fantastical sheen to transform her into a heroine. ‘Karen’, Lucía said when we started the writing process, ‘is the heroine of this story, no doubt about it, but she’s a real woman. This is no fairy tale, no epic.’ In Lucía’s interpretation, Karen stopped viewing Rosario Trujillo as a threat when she started living in the north and working out how she could own the same Carolina Herrera overcoat or Prada handbag, now that these weren’t completely out of reach.
In purely pragmatic terms, the major difference between them consisted in that handbag. Well, in the handbag, the coat, the shoes: in a nutshell, in her things. Karen was a good observer.
In those encounters – the two of them sharing the same fifteen square metres behind a closed door, surrounded by the smell of lavender and the sound of New Age music – it was not Rosario Trujillo’s naked body that made her superior, it was the price of what that body was clothed in. At least, that’s how Karen saw it.
Was it her Bogotan accent, her shrill voice and the intonation she used for servants? Was it because she had a servant, and Karen did not? Was it that way of saying how is everything? with a sharp stress on the final syllable and a rising inflection? It didn’t matter; the point is that something granted her the right to treat Karen coldly, a privilege Karen would have loved to have at certain moments, because just as all her clients could treat her badly – because they were having a bad day, because that’s the way they were, because they felt like it – she always had to turn the other cheek, smile, put up with it, or else look for another job.
That August afternoon, Karen thought about the exchange she’d read on Susana’s phone. She wanted to call Emiliano. She thought about the million pesos mentioned. Susana earned in a single weekend the money Karen saved up over eight months and lost in one night. She got out her phone to call Emiliano before her six o’clock appointment. Unlike other times, her mother was affable. She seemed upbeat and told her the interdiction was being processed, which would certify Uncle Juan’s psychiatric inability so she could collect his pension. She would have it in a few weeks. That signalled a big change; now her mother would be the one managing the money and her uncle would be dependent on her, not the other way around. She sounded happy. Then she put Emiliano on, and he told a joke Karen didn’t understand. He spoke at high speed until he was out of breath. He repeated the joke twice.
‘When are you coming, Mamá?’ he said finally. It was so long since he’d called her Mamá. When she heard that word, she felt far away.
‘Soon, baby, soon.’
‘At three?’ asked Emiliano.
‘I would love to be able to be there at three,’ said Karen. ‘I’ll be there on Monday.’
‘Today is Monday,’ said Emiliano. Karen was surprised he knew.
Emiliano told her that he was the best at football and he didn’t want a bike any more, only some football boots, some good football boots.
‘If I have enough saved, I’ll get you both for Christmas, sweetheart.’
‘That’s a long way away. How many Sponge Bobs until Christmas?’
‘A lot, but time flies.’
‘Christmas is a long way away,’ Emiliano repeated.
‘That’s true. It’s a long way away, but it will be here before you know it,’ said Karen, trying to suppress the thought that the conversation was boring her.
‘And my football boots?’ he asked again.
‘I’ll bring some, my love. I promise.’
That afternoon, Karen and Susana left together, as if they’d been colleagues their whole lives. A day after, Karen took her things to Susana’s. And that night, while they were settling into the same bed, Karen dared to ask about the exchange she’d read on her phone.
‘Well gorgeous,’ Susana said, turning out the light. ‘I’ve been working as an escort for the last year.’
‘Have you been able to save?’ asked Karen, surprised at the ease with which they could talk about this.
‘I’m buying this apartment.’
‘And how much is it?’
‘Three hundred and fifty big ones,’ Susana said.
‘Can I ask how much you make in a month?’
‘In a month? Between eight and ten.’
Karen went quiet. She calculated in a flash: it was eight times what she earned at House of Beauty. It’s a deputy minister’s salary, I said when she told me.
‘And do you have to do awful things?’
‘Sometimes, but everything fades.’
‘I’ve only ever been with one man,’ Karen said.
Susana laughed.
‘You’re considering it. Solina. Solina the man-eater. I said that name was a premonition. For the record, it wasn’t me, it was the Jet chocolate bar that set you on this course.’
‘Hey, there’s nothing man-eater about me.’
‘Maybe not, but you’re scared. I can see fear on you. It’s a dark stain in your eyes, it’s all over you. You can see it in the way you jump at the slightest thing, in your nervous little laugh, in that tic you have of brushing the hair from your face. What are you going to do to get rid of that fear? You should throw yourself at what makes you feel it, like people who jump back on the horse after they’ve fallen off.’
Karen was quiet. Susana is psychic, she thought. She knew more about her than she did herself. And even if she didn’t think it right that minute when Susana said it, as she watched Rosario Trujillo leave her cubicle later, the memory of Susana’s words came back to her with a clarity they lacked before. She fixed her gaze on the 5,000-peso note and it was like when you remember your grandmother’s house from your childhood as enormous, but then you go back as an adult and it seems to have shrunk, or more than that, seems trivial, unimportant. That’s what happened with her client: once Karen earned enough money that she couldn’t care less about her rudeness, Rosario Trujillo began to diminish.
19.
He had pulled down her underwear and had her on the bed, where he was thrusting into her angrily and shouting with a tense, pained expression. Things will never be the same again, she thought. And a blow from Luis Armando made her cheek sting just before he poured more whisky down her throat and stuck his coke-smothered fingers into her mouth.
She was crying. Not half an hour had gone by since she arrived.
When Luis Armando had called, she had imagined a room with white roses, a bubble bath and a glass of champagne, and had thought he would be tender and considerate, that ‘there would be nothing she didn’t want’, a phrase he had uttered several times during their many phone conversations.
At one point, Luis Armando smiled. Like a drowning person spying land, Sabrina smiled back. For a second she thought it was all behind them. But then he pulled away and started laughing. It was as if he were saying, under his breath, ‘Got you again.’ Sabrina thought about her mamá. She thought about her saying, ‘If you don’t have
something nice to say, don’t say anything at all,’ but she couldn’t think of something nice – not to say, not to keep to herself – just as she would never think of anything, nice or not, ever again.
20.
In what she would later describe as a waiting room full of fifty-year-old timber furniture being slowly eaten away by weevils, Consuelo Paredes had been waiting for over two hours to see the prosecutor in charge of the case. Another seven people were waiting alongside her, their expressions grim.
‘What time did you say he was coming back?’
‘He’s on his lunch break, please take a seat,’ said the secretary, all the while filing her nails.
‘But I’ve been here more than two hours.’
‘He must have been delayed.’
Consuelo Paredes saw forensics officers coming and going, heard one shouting to the other: ‘Paleta, so was the body willing to cooperate?’ The other made a gesture of annoyance: ‘Not one fucking bit, and this time I offered it money.’ The first laughed half-heartedly.
When the prosecutor finally arrived, he whispered to the secretary, who brought him up to date with what had gone on in his absence. She was in front of a typewriter that took up half of her enormous desk.
The prosecutor turned around and greeted them with a smile and a wave.
‘I’ve got about five minutes each.’
The secretary sent in the four people who arrived before Consuelo Paredes, one after the other. It was almost five o’clock by the time she was called. The whole time, she had been thinking about the right words to use, so she could make the most of the minutes she had with the prosecutor. He was wearing a dung-coloured suit and a cream shirt. His tie was thick and twisted. He was balding, and couldn’t be over forty-five.
‘How may I help you?’
‘My daughter, Sabrina Guzmán, was murdered.’
‘Señora, I am so sorry for your loss. But, how shall I put it, if you look at the shelves, all those are cases. They are just this year’s, and I can guarantee there are more than five hundred.’
‘Excuse me, but that doesn’t seem possible,’ Consuelo remembers saying to him.
‘Señora, if you like, we can spend the five minutes we have together criticising the justice system, or we can talk about the case. Look, here I have everything from a report for stealing a phone, to a hold-up with a knife, a rape and several burglaries, to more phones, more hold-ups and a few murders; it’s – how shall I put it? – a diverse lot.’
‘But does all of it really have the same importance? Is committing murder the same as stealing a phone?’
‘No, Señora, it’s not the same, they have different statuses and different protocols. But tell me something, was your daughter murdered? We can focus, if you like, Señora.’
‘My daughter, Sabrina Guzmán, died on 23 July in unknown circumstances. According to the San Blas Hospital medical report, she died after taking Tryptanol pills, but the autopsy refutes this theory and showed signs of violence – there could even have been sexual violence. And apparently there was a high level of cocaine in her bloodstream …’
‘Are you telling me your daughter was raped and there’s been a cover-up to hide what happened?’
‘Yes,’ said Consuelo Paredes.
‘One: I can help you get special judicial consent from the Prosecutor’s Office to obtain the girl’s San Blas medical record. Two: try talking to the doctor, though doctors have the right to uphold confidentiality, so he may opt not to say anything. Three: if you want my advice, get a private investigator.’
‘But isn’t your office supposed to bring criminals to justice?’
‘Very well said, Señora, supposed to. And believe you me, we do the best we can, but look at this office. Do you see a computer? A tablet? No, what you see are five hundred cases filed in paper folders, for which we rely on a very limited, very underpaid forensics team. Señora: work is done to the extent it can be done, but we don’t have the time, or the resources. I assure you it is not a question of bad faith. And now, if you will allow me …’
‘But could you look at how the case is going? Could you tell me what’s happening?’
The prosecutor opened a box he had beneath his desk and dug around in it. After a short while, he took out a folder, opened it, looked at it and said:
‘We are establishing the parameters of the investigation to be carried out by forensics.’
‘What does that even mean? It’s been two months!’
The prosecutor cleared his throat before going on.
‘It means an investigative matrix is being established, according to which a methodological agenda will be defined to initiate intelligence work,’ he said, raising an eyebrow.
‘And when will that be?’
‘When will what be, Señora?’
‘The intelligence work that will be carried out in accordance with the methodological agenda that’s being defined based on the investigative matrix?’ said Consuelo Paredes.
The prosecutor hemmed and hawed once more.
‘The problem, Señora, is that the medical report thwarted the investigation. If it hadn’t been for that, the autopsy would have been performed immediately and time would have been on our side, because it would have been established at once that the cause of death was homicide, you see. Instead, the autopsy was done barely a week ago. Then there is the fact that the autopsy is not conclusive with regards to the cause of the death, as it says that determining such is in the hands of the authorities.’
‘Are you telling me it wasn’t homicide? You’re the ones who should be clearing up whether it was a homicide or not!’
‘Exactly!’ said the prosecutor with an exaggerated smile. ‘Very well, very well, we understand each other, then. First up: establish whether it was a homicide. And only then can this little folder be taken out and given to the homicide unit. Do you follow?’
Consuelo Paredes felt more alone than ever. She realised this was going to be even more difficult than expected.
‘How long? How long until you have something, Prosecutor? Until you establish it was a homicide?’
‘Give me a week, Señora, just one week, and we’ll put you in touch with the forensics officer in charge of the case, so you can discuss these concerns with him. Come back in eight days and I’ll have the order to obtain the girl’s San Blas medical record. It’s a matter of not despairing, and of surrendering to God and praying, Señora, praying a lot.’
‘Excuse me, Prosecutor, but could I have your phone number or email address?’
‘Certainly,’ he said, hemming and hawing once more. After dictating the information, he added in a softer tone: ‘I’m so sorry about what you’re going through, Señora, but our five minutes were up a while ago.’
21.
Ramelli had been her first client and was fast becoming her best. They saw each other two or three times per week. On a couple of occasions, they ate together. Yet they had never seen each other during the day. So, when he called to invite her to lunch the following Sunday, Karen wondered if he wanted to see her or Pocahontas. Like an interpreter, she was getting better at switching between registers. At House of Beauty, she was still Karen, more so than ever after seeing what happened to Susana, who had been dismissed a couple of weeks earlier after she found her leather jacket stained with hair dye and launched herself at Deisy.
Karen knew that if she was careful, she could maintain her double life for a few months and then leave House of Beauty forever. But that would be when she wanted to, not when she had no choice. Susana’s example reminded her to keep her identities separate. Pocahontas showed up with Ferragamo boots and a Massimo Dutti handbag, while Karen still went to House of Beauty wearing her tennis shoes, her hair pulled up in a ponytail.
She leafed through magazines, as focused as a student studying for an exam. What to wear on Sunday? She had started to learn certain codes. Dolce & Gabbana, Armani or Versace were ways of speaking without needing to shout. That night she ha
d a date with a North American who had called her several times the past few weeks. She would have to buy another handbag, as she couldn’t always look the same.
The effort she put into playing the part was so intense that she poured all her money into what we might call her characterisation. Her surrender to Pocahontas was such that she forgot she had got into this game so she could bring Emiliano here from Cartagena. More than that, remembering him was growing painful. The person she was when she first came to the city was getting left behind.
After leaving the Santa Lucía apartment, she felt constantly tempted to expose herself to danger, to submit to it and freefall, perhaps so that this time she would be the one controlling the situation.
Karen didn’t speak about Wílmer much. Only at the end did we find out that they kept seeing each other. I think her relationship with him caused her so much guilt that she wasn’t even able to name it. She left the Laguna Azul motel tired, with 700,000 pesos in cash. She called Wílmer for no more than ten seconds and went on her way. It was early Sunday and the park benches on Calle 59 were occupied by drunks.
John Toll left the motel room a little after Karen; he went in the opposite direction and hailed a taxi off the street, unaware that the driver and accomplices would try to steal his bag and force him on a millionaire’s ride to the nearest ATM. Karen wasn’t there to hear him shout, or to see him tumble out of the car and run 200 metres before getting three bullets that left him sprawled on the ground, bleeding out.
Her North American client had sweaty hands and apologised for everything. He was so clumsy and insecure in bed. She would never have guessed that he had fought in Iraq and Afghanistan. He liked conventional sex and didn’t want her by his side for long, which had suited Karen just fine.
Karen liked this time of day, when night revellers, red eyed and smelling of alcohol, mingled on the same footpath with early risers on their way to the gym. Seeing them together in the same space made her think of a sort of fraternity, even a complicity. It was a concurrence that at any other time of day or night would be impossible.
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