Then she just smiled at me.
‘Did you really write a book called I Love Myself?’
I laughed. Then my eyes were watering and my whole body was shaking. My reaction was as ferocious as it was unexpected. I fell back into the sofa. Lucía looked at me, surprised at first, then bit by bit she was infected with laughter, too, until it wore the two of us out. We grew calmer. Now was not the time to flood Lucía with uncomfortable questions like how she had ended up becoming her ex-husband’s ghost writer. Making the confession was already big enough.
‘Now you’re on your feet, don’t you think that below your shoe there might be a beautiful pair of fleas copulating?’
That got a smile out of me.
‘You’ve dedicated your life to human beings when what really interested you were mites; how could you get so far away from yourself?’
‘I got carried along.’
By midday we were both drunk. Lucía prepared a double espresso.
‘And you haven’t thought about trying to write novels?’ I asked, a cup of coffee in my hands.
‘I’ve never even considered it.’
‘You could write a graphic novel about copulating fleas!’ I teased. ‘You’ve certainly got enough imagination.’
‘It’s a serious interest, Claire,’ she said. ‘Anyway, you’re the one with the novelistic streak. Maybe this very moment you’re working on something and you don’t even know it.’
‘I’m a little old for that,’ I said.
‘Aren’t you always insisting that at this age we’re at our peak?’
‘Well, for some things. But for others … Guess who’s coming to see me in an hour.’
‘Who?’
‘Your ex-husband’s associate.’
‘Diazgranados?’
‘The very same.’
‘That’s odd.’
‘I know.’
‘A Muslim is more likely to believe in Baby Jesus than that guy is to believe in psychoanalysis.’
‘I don’t see why a Muslim has no right to believe in Baby Jesus,’ I said.
‘The point is, if those two have done what everyone says they’ve done, they’re dangerous.’
‘Those two?’
‘I doubt Eduardo is innocent.’
‘Do you think they’re capable of killing someone?’ I asked, feeling suddenly sober.
‘I don’t know. This is no joke,’ said Lucía. ‘They’ve stolen money through writs, in the name of dead patients, through medications and supplies that were never delivered … Here everyone’s entangled. It’s a mess. La Recontra reported three billion stolen. Go on, go to your appointment,’ added Lucía. ‘Thank you for coming over. And don’t call my phone if you want to tell me about any of it. I’m not joking.’
‘So let’s meet up next week. Want to come to mine? That way I’ll be able to tell you what Diazgranados was after, and we’ll work out what you’re going to do.’
‘It’s going to be a nightmare. No one will believe I didn’t know anything,’ said Lucía.
‘People might phone to ask you to tell them about it, but then everything will go quiet, you’ll see. But can I ask you something?’
‘Whatever you want.’
‘How did you fall in love with Eduardo? I don’t understand it.’
‘I don’t, either. I felt fondly towards him. He seemed helpless to me, I liked to feel I could be a comfort to him … I don’t know.’
We gave each other a long hug at the door.
‘Do you remember the Karen I told you about? A client of hers died in strange circumstances after a date with Luis Armando Diazgranados, Aníbal’s son. She’s been called to testify,’ I said.
‘And what do you think? That his boy was involved in her death?’
‘Honestly, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘But maybe they’re more dangerous than we imagine.’
‘I know. I doubt Eduardo understands how deep he’s in,’ said Lucía.
‘Do you think he’s innocent?’
‘Innocent, no. Even so: he might be a white-collar criminal, but he’s no murderer,’ she added.
‘Then you should warn him,’ I said. ‘He might be more naive than you think. Maybe he doesn’t realise the danger he’s in.’
‘Why? Do you think they could do something to him?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
‘They’re associates, but Eduardo is getting all the blame for this,’ said Lucía.
‘Exactly. Diazgranados might worry that Eduardo could get him in hot water. Don’t you think?’
‘Don’t leave me alone in this.’
We gave each other another hug and I left.
31.
Karen wasn’t one to look back. She was so absorbed in her day-to-day that she didn’t stop to remember. Yet every now and then, some part of her old self assailed her, even if only for a moment. At a client’s house in the Santa Ana neighbourhood, she stroked a curtain, thinking about the dress she could have made with its fabric. Every now and again, an idea, an image, a smell reminded her who she was. But who was she? On looking at herself in the mirror, ready to step out – her hair straightened, and wearing high boots, a handbag and a trench coat – she knew this Karen could walk into any building without being searched, that they would call her ‘Señorita’ or ‘Señora’, a certain respect in their tone of voice, and that this would be a response to her outfit, her silky hair and her way of modulating her words. Karen wanted to be the woman she saw in the mirror as she left the apartment with its marble floor and golden taps, not the woman who stroked a curtain and imagined a dress made from its fabric. And not the woman who was nostalgic for the sticky heat of Cartagena at midday, for the salsa dive where the walls sweated and she surrendered to a man’s body just to become one with the music, with no need to say a word, free to go and sit at her table as soon as the song finished. Despite her hunger, fear, lack of sleep and constant state of alert, Karen still wanted to be the scarred person she saw in the mirror; broken, but respectable.
Perhaps because of this – because she poured so much effort into being a woman of rich and educated appearance, because she yearned to be truly the image she projected – Karen was loving strolling through the Andino Mall one Sunday morning, amid expensive display cases, mothers racing to buy a birthday present for a friend’s daughter at the last minute, chubby kids getting on the indoor amusement-park rides over and over again, older people going into the cinema for the discounted senior-citizen session, businessmen searching for an anniversary or birthday gift. Looking rich was enough to make Karen feel welcomed by those who had rejected her previously.
Perhaps that’s why Doña Josefina de Brigard’s comment took her by surprise. She asked about the lipstick she’d started wearing the past few weeks. Naively, Karen responded enthusiastically. Then she asked where Karen had bought her coat, boots and handbag. Finally she said:
‘You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.’
In response to Karen’s shocked, offended expression, she continued.
‘None of it goes together, honey. You look like a jumble of all the women who pass through your cubicle.’
Karen didn’t say anything for a moment.
‘May I excuse myself, Señora?’
‘You may,’ said Josefina de Brigard, fixing her eyes on some papers, not looking up at her again.
Karen shut herself in the lavatory once more, but this time, instead of crying or cutting herself or calling Wílmer or me, she scrutinised herself for a long time in the mirror, trying to understand where she had gone wrong.
32.
I got home ten minutes late. Aníbal Diazgranados opened my door and motioned for me to follow him.
‘Claire, my dear, welcome.’
He invited me through to the little room where I conduct my therapy sessions and took my place, so that I had no option but to sit in the patient’s spot. I wondered where Luz, the maid, could be, but didn’t dare ask.
‘Luz h
as ducked out to the pharmacy to get me my blood-pressure pills.’ He had read my thoughts.
‘She agreed to leave you here alone?’
‘Let’s just say I can be persuasive.’
‘Through threats?’ I asked.
‘Through being empathic,’ he winked.
‘And how does one learn that kind of empathy?’
‘Why don’t you tell me, Doctor Claire? Are you the kind of person to mistreat the maids? My wife does – and she’s a good woman, don’t get me wrong. To this day, I’ve never met a good woman who doesn’t.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘Is this how you earn 300,000 pesos per hour? Answering questions with counter-questions?’
‘Is it so difficult for you, Minister, to earn your wage?’
‘Let’s say it’s more difficult than lying on a couch asking silly questions.’
‘Is that how you see my occupation?’
‘Your questioning style reveals a certain aggressiveness, Doctor,’ said Diazgranados.
His mole eyes shone, tiny in his large and flabby face, offset by a voluminous double chin.
‘Can I offer you a glass of water?’
‘Yes please,’ said Aníbal.
I went out to fetch one. I wondered how he got Luz to leave the apartment. I came back with the glass and found him loosening the knot in his tie, as if he were short on air. I desperately wanted to throw him out of my apartment, but I contained myself. Then I wanted to throw the water in his face, but I didn’t. I’m a coward. I passed him the glass of water, which he drank in long gulps while I thought about how to do away with him right there, in my consulting room. Perhaps with the wrought-iron candelabra, I said to myself, or with the letter opener inherited from my grandmother. The manatee man made noises as he drank. His hands were thick and hairy, with small fingers. Now I wondered how he got in – not only into the apartment, but into the building. Luz has strict instructions, as all maids do, and so does the security guard. He isn’t allowed to let in anyone without authorisation from the owner or tenant of the property.
‘Why did you make an appointment?’
‘I saw you talking to my wife at the minister’s daughter’s wedding.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You said hello to Rosario, my wife.’
‘We go to the same beauty salon. Is that a crime?’
‘Why, is someone talking about a crime, here?’
I felt suddenly suffocated by the faint drunkenness that was not letting me think, by my fear and the excessive aftershave in the air. What must he smell like when he doesn’t pour half a bottle of patchouli on himself each morning? Nausea churned in my stomach.
‘Imagine: my grandfather was a dedicated conservative. He would tell me how he used to swing machetes during La Violencia. He used to train fishermen to cut off heads like plucking the petals off daisies. Did you know a head can keep screaming after it’s been lopped off?’
‘I didn’t, but it seems scientifically improbable.’
‘And you don’t find it funny?’ said Diazgranados. He cackled.
‘Honestly, no.’
‘Look, Doctor, I was brought up in a tough family. We’ve always been involved in politics; we’ve defended our own with our teeth, like wolves.’
‘I still don’t understand what all this is about.’
‘It’s simple: you give what you get. Reap what you sow. Understood?’ said Aníbal.
‘Are you threatening me?’
‘You’ve got a fixation on that little word, Doctor. You might need to psychoanalyse that.’
‘Our time is up,’ I said, looking at the clock while Aníbal pulled out a wad of notes.
‘I can buy your time. A week, a month, a year. Your entire life.’
‘That’s not how it works,’ I said.
‘I get it. You’re just like all intellectuals and academics. You stick to the rules and regulations, but ignore reality. Doctor, allow me to tell you something loud and clear: you’re the one refusing to see the way the world works.’
‘And what’s the reality I’m ignoring, according to you?’
‘The reality that a head screams after it’s been lopped off.’
‘Another threat.’
‘Call it what you will. I’m just saying that there are things better left untested. Take it as advice from a friend.’
‘I thank you for it,’ I said. ‘Now leave.’
‘Is it true that what is said in here stays here? If it were any different, your professionalism would be called into question.’
I didn’t manage to respond. I was trembling. It was an effort to get out of the couch and open the door for him.
‘Please,’ I said.
Before getting up, he said: ‘That little friend of yours, Karen Valdés, she’s of no consequence, but I see you’ve got that coloniser I’ve-come-to-save-the-poor attitude. A word of advice, Doctor: let the girl accept her fate. We’ve got her case sorted; there’s nothing more to be done; whoever interferes will get burnt.’
‘What did Karen do?’
‘Karen is not what you think she is, Doctor. Karen Valdés is a prostitute and a criminal.’
‘That’s a lie. What are you going to do to her?’ I asked, my voice breaking.
‘Señora Dalvard, calm down, be grateful that you and your daughter are enjoying freedom and good health. And now, you will understand that, for a minister of the Republic, being absent from the plenary session has disastrous consequences for the fatherland. We’re debating projects of enormous magnitude, such as health reform, for example, and nothing less than the legal framework for the peace process. That’s why I ask, Señora, that you don’t give me reason to come back here. For your own good, for mine and for the fatherland. One last thing before I go: do you know what medicine I should take to slim down?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘Of course. Just as I thought. Your “medical” training is only good for grappling with imaginary illnesses.’
He got up unhurriedly from my chair, and on opening the door I saw Luz in the doorway of the kitchen, timidly clutching a package.
‘Thank you, sister,’ Aníbal said with a small bow.
‘Thank you, brother. It was a pleasure to be of assistance.’
‘How did he get in?’ I asked Luz as soon as the door closed.
‘He’s the pastor. Politician and pastor.’
‘He said that and got through?’
‘Yes, Señora.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s a brother at my congregation.’
A bout of retching made me run towards the bathroom, where I threw up the whiskies I’d drunk with Lucía. It was barely two o’clock. I had four patients to go before the end of the day. After gargling, I smoothed my skirt in front of the mirror, brushed a lock of hair behind my ear and went back to my consulting room, this time taking a seat on the leather chair.
The afternoon went by slowly. I listened to my patients as if I were inside a fish tank, their voices far off and distorted. When the last session finally ended, I went for a lie down and watched the news bulletin. Between images of the cold spell, of people stuck in mud with no roof over their heads or food, I found myself thinking about my relationship with Luz, built on a series of rituals learned from childhood. She had learned the bowed head – the ‘Yes, Señora’, ‘No, Señora’, ‘What time would you like to have lunch, Doña Claire?’ – and I had learned to give instructions, head held high, voice terse as a bowstring: ‘The chicken was delicious’, ‘You can go home now’, ‘Don’t forget to vacuum the consulting room.’ And Luz, head bowed, taught to nod, only smiled. Smiled and nodded. I felt a bit embarrassed that Aníbal could connect with her on a human level in a matter of seconds, when I’d seen her every day over the past year and a half. What did I know about Luz? That she was from Cómbita, that she had a son and two grandchildren. Nothing else. I didn’t even know if she took her coffee with sugar.
33.
There was a crack in the wall. She thought about telling Eduardo, but contained herself. He stroked her face with tenderness, his eyes glazed. To Karen, he looked older than ever.
‘I really like you,’ he said, caressing her shoulder.
It was 29 October, two days before Lucía’s birthday, Halloween, and Eduardo’s appearance in the tabloids as the man responsible for rerouting close to a billion pesos of the more than three billion stolen from the nation’s health sector.
‘I have a favour to ask,’ he said.
‘What is it?’ asked Karen, impatient to get in the shower.
‘Could you help me out by holding on to some money for me? It would be two weeks, tops.’
Karen didn’t answer.
‘If it makes you more comfortable, I’ll tell you the story, just so you know how much I trust you and that I wouldn’t hurt you.’
‘What story?’
Eduardo told her about the early hours of 23 July, when, lying on the sofa at his ex-wife’s after drinking too many whiskies, he got a call from someone close to him who wanted him to cover up the death of a young woman.
He told her about the encounter in the 24-hour Carulla supermarket, the morning they decided to cover up the death. He told her about the doctor involved, and the taxi driver, both of whom she had spoken to personally. Karen looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. It seemed impossible that the same man who had covered up a crime could be the author of the books she read. She felt disenchanted and at the same time trapped in her own story.
Karen supposed that the dangerous associate was Aníbal Diazgranados, Luis Armando’s father. At the end, as if talking about someone who had nothing to do with the events just recounted, Eduardo added: ‘If one day something happens, Aníbal Diazgranados, the minister, is a friend. Go to him. He knows you have the money.’
‘I still haven’t said I’ll safeguard it for him,’ thought Karen, but didn’t say so. Instead, she asked, ‘Would this have anything to do with Luis Armando Diazgranados?’
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