House of Beauty

by Melba Escobar

  My intuition had stopped being something I could trust. I saw in Karen a gentle person. Aware of even the slightest gesture. Well-rounded. Sharp. Thoughtful. Caring. Spontaneous. Good. And all of it was a deception. Karen was none other than a cold-blooded killer, a woman who did away with my friend’s husband, who even had the audacity to tell me about one of her victims, playing the martyr. She won over my compassion and sold me a story completely counter to reality: Karen was no more than a hooker, corrupted by ambition to the point that she was capable of murdering for money.

  I got home close to midnight. I decided not to call Lucía. I took a sleeping pill, closed my eyes. It was useless: I tossed and turned, got up, switched on the light, saw that it was two in the morning, took another sleeping pill, switched off the light, could only see Karen with her kind face, Karen talking about her son Emiliano, Karen dressed at first in clothing bought cheap in San Victorino, and months later in a fine coat, boots, a genuine leather handbag. How did I fail to realise? How didn’t I see it earlier? Karen complaining about the bills she had to pay, Karen suffering, Karen hurting herself, Karen running her hand through her hair, Karen smiling, Karen sideways, her hand resting on her waist, Karen caressing my back, Karen arousing me, disturbing my good sense with her out-of-control sensuality. Her behaviour was textbook, it was as if I were a novice at this job. Karen was a sociopath; quite possibly she was capable of anything. No doubt the first time she saw me come into House of Beauty she thought, Here’s the person I need. And so she pounced on me, I was her prey yet I didn’t see it because Karen has a power and she knows it, her beauty is a weapon, that’s why she looked at me as she did, that’s why the touch of her hands sent shockwaves through my skin; I should have suspected our conversations, the laughs shared, the false complicity that grew within the cubicle. I turned on the light. It was already five, I had to sleep, I wasn’t thinking straight. My mouth was claggy. I got up, poured a glass of water, drank it in great gulps, saw her face again, her child’s face with the deep rings under the eyes, her crinkled brow as she heated the wax, her flat stomach, her pert breasts, her willowy body, her dimpled chin and her mouth – those pillowy lips, exquisite as a wild strawberry.

  40.

  When Luz woke me, my first patient had already arrived. I splashed water on my face, got dressed and hurried into the consulting room. I was exceedingly distracted, couldn’t get Karen out of my head. I saw two more patients, and at midday got out my planner and called all patients scheduled that afternoon to cancel their appointments. Then I called the police and said I had information about the Toll case. They gave me another number and after much back and forth I was speaking with the prosecutor in charge. He said he’d just been assigned the case, after the previous prosecutor was promoted. It seemed as if he wanted it solved as soon as possible. He said he could see me in his office the same afternoon.

  I quickly had lunch and drove my car there. The prosecutor was an older man. I wanted to know what had happened to the previous prosecutor. He didn’t go into detail, said the orders had come from above. He couldn’t say anything further.

  Now I know I was acting out of spite, out of a desire for revenge. I felt betrayed, which is why I didn’t stop to think about what I was doing. I was frank. I spoke for close to a quarter of an hour. I gave him the recording, as well as Karen’s address. I explained where to find the suitcase. He promised my name would be kept out of it. I thanked him. I felt a certain relief, or I did for a short while, at least, because once I was in the car and headed home, the doubts started. The prosecutor’s attitude didn’t seem all that trustworthy. He had said, ‘The working theory is that Karen hired someone to contact Sabrina via Facebook and arrange a date with her, with instructions to hurt her.’ According to him, she did so because she was in love with Eduardo, who Sabrina was after.

  ‘The typical story of a love triangle,’ the prosecutor had added. The working theory? I asked myself. And who put forward such a theory? Who was behind that painstakingly pieced-together story about a ‘love triangle’?

  ‘Her colleagues at the salon back up the theory about her mental deterioration; there’s no doubt she is, as you say, Doctor, an unstable person,’ the prosecutor had insisted.

  When I’d asked how he knew about the relationship between Sabrina Guzmán and Ramelli, the prosecutor had said it was ‘an anonymous tip-off’. What if it was Diazgranados? What if he was behind a cover-up? I left the car in the basement and got into the lift. As soon as I reached my apartment, my phone rang. It was Lucía. I wasn’t capable of answering. I asked Luz for a herbal tea, thought about getting into bed and trying to rest before doing anything else. On sitting down, I saw the flickering light of a message on the other side of the room. I went over to the telephone, hit the button and heard the voice of Consuelo Paredes saying she wanted to see me. ‘Karen Valdés said to contact you. I’ve got information about Sabrina Guzmán’s death. I’m her mother.’ I called her back straight away. We agreed to meet an hour later at Il Pomeriggio. Time passed slowly. Time and again I went over what had happened in the past few days. Finally, I set off on foot. I found her sitting outside, wearing large, gold-framed sunglasses, her hair covering her face.

  ‘Are you Claire?’ she asked on seeing me.

  ‘I am,’ I said, ‘how did you know?’

  ‘I guess your appearance matches your name,’ she said. She raised her sunglasses. She had deep rings under her red eyes. ‘Pleased to meet you, I’m Consuelo Paredes.’

  ‘Claire Dalvard.’

  My hands were shaking. We were sitting near the water fountain. It had stopped raining but it was cold, a dry cold that seeped into the bones.

  ‘Did Karen tell you about me?’ I asked.

  ‘She did. You look surprised.’

  ‘A little. What did she say?’

  ‘She said she trusted you.’

  I felt my heart sinking.

  ‘Claire, I think she’s in danger. Look. I know they’ve changed the prosecutor in charge. I spoke to a forensics investigator. He explained that sometimes they do this when they want to manipulate the investigation.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Someone wants to alter the course of an investigation, so they change the prosecutor in charge, as well as the people who make up the Technical Investigations Unit. They replace them with individuals who have already been bought off, with a prefabricated theory, a culprit, an alibi.’

  ‘And who would be behind all this?’ I asked, though I already knew the answer.

  ‘Aníbal Diazgranados. Did you know he’s the father of the person we think killed my daughter?’

  ‘I had no idea,’ I lied. ‘But do you have any proof?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about.’

  The waiter came over. ‘Ready to order?’

  ‘A cappuccino for me,’ said Consuelo Paredes.

  ‘And I’ll have a gin and tonic, please,’ I said. ‘You were saying?’ My throat was dry.

  ‘To cut a long story short, we hired a private detective who has a lot of experience. He found a note in Sabrina’s bedroom signed L.A.D.’

  ‘Luis Armando Diazgranados?’

  ‘The very same. The investigator got a sample of the young man’s handwriting and got a handwriting test done.’

  ‘And did it come back positive?’

  ‘It did,’ said Consuelo Paredes.

  ‘Is that proof enough to link him to your daughter’s death?’

  ‘We’re going to try, though it looks like the new team in charge of the case is not going to consider it. They say it was obtained through illegal means, so it’s invalid.’

  ‘That can’t be,’ I said.

  ‘My lawyer quit because they threatened to kill him. Claire, this is serious. Someone wants to frame Karen for the death of my daughter to cover Diazgranados’s back.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘My daughter’s Facebook page was hacked. At least, that�
��s what Cojack corroborated. It was done by the new investigation unit that has taken on the case. They want to fabricate evidence for the night she died.’

  ‘Who is Cojack?’

  ‘The detective.’

  ‘His name is Kojak, like in the TV series?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Consuelo, impatiently.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, taking a long sip of gin. I had nothing to add.

  ‘I expected more support from you, honestly. You don’t seem that bothered. The only thing they need now to incriminate Karen for three homicides is binding proof. And in the meantime, Luis Armando walks free and so does the reprobate responsible for Toll’s death. Do you realise they could extradite her? The DEA is behind this. The government wants to charge someone, and Karen will end up the scapegoat for Sabrina, Ramelli and Toll’s deaths, even though she never laid a finger on any of them.’

  I felt dizzy.

  ‘You’ve gone pale,’ said Consuelo. ‘Are you feeling okay? Claire, don’t you see? If Karen committed a crime, it was being an escort, but that’s very different from being a killer!’

  ‘And how do you know all this?’

  ‘Cojack. He got in touch with Susana, a colleague of hers from the salon. She said Karen was an escort, that she was in a relationship with Wílmer Delgado, though she didn’t know that he robbed Karen’s clients or whether they had some kind of agreement, just that he had a taxi and was her friend’s husband. She said she was positive Karen wasn’t a criminal. The problem is, if Aníbal Diazgranados is behind this, it will be easy for him to link her to the other cases.’

  ‘And the taxi driver, the one who took Sabrina to San Blas? You haven’t looked for him?’ I asked.

  ‘Cojack had arranged to meet him at a billiards hall a few days ago. He never showed up. Then we found out that six days ago he was reported missing.’

  ‘I have to go.’

  ‘I’ll pay,’ said Consuelo curtly. She seemed annoyed. ‘If you have to go, then go.’

  ‘Do they have any proof to incriminate Karen?’

  ‘They’ve got a video of her going into the motel with Toll. That does her damage, but doesn’t prove she was involved in the murder. Personally, I don’t think she was.’

  ‘Then what do you think?’

  ‘I think my daughter was her client at House of Beauty, then she got involved with Ramelli and the same with Wílmer, but never killed anyone.’

  I kept quiet.

  ‘But if there’s no evidence, they can’t incriminate her, can they?’

  ‘Yes, they can. To send someone to jail, they need three things: cause, motive and opportunity. They’ve already built a case around that sacred trinity. And, corrupt as they are, don’t be surprised if a piece of evidence suddenly appears.’

  After a long silence searching for something to say, I got up with difficulty.

  ‘Excuse me. I’m sorry not to be of more help. I have to go,’ I said.

  41.

  Slowly I’m getting used to the smell of sweat, to carrying my tin and plastic cup along the corridor before dawn in search of breakfast, to the screams each time a woman gets her sentence, to the idea of a God who chokes but doesn’t strangle, to the sad farewell parties when an inmate gets her freedom, to not seeing the moon or the stars, to not being able to drink a glass of water when I’m thirsty, to holding in the urge to urinate at the wrong time, to lining up to shit, eat and shower, to not sleeping. But I can’t get used to this wish to die.

  I’m writing because Claire asked me to. She finished writing her part of the book. Lucía is checking it over. Sometimes she makes a comment to add or delete something. They want me to read it to see if I think it’s okay. No matter what it says, I’m not going to think it’s okay. They say the book will help demonstrate my innocence. But it’s already too late. Being locked in here made me guilty.

  Since I’ve been here I’ve learned to read faces. Claire came again, once more loaded with apologies and presents, smelling of roses and lavender. I stared at her hands. She looked tired. She told me she’s going back to France; she couldn’t find her feet in Colombia and feels like she can’t do much for me. That’s what she said. She said that a few days ago Luis Armando Diazgranados was shot in the middle of the day, on an ordinary street. I remembered Sabrina Guzmán and felt a momentary relief. I wondered who must be giving Claire her waxes, her massages.

  Next week Lucía’s coming to collect these pages. That’s how we’ll put a full stop to the book Claire wrote; to my story.

  I don’t care that my hearing was adjourned again. I don’t care that Susana came to visit me, now married and pious, to tell me she forgives me. I’m never going to be able to cook like before, I don’t want to think about the outside world any more. The outside world abandoned me, just as the desire to do anything has abandoned me, even writing to Emiliano. Those few desires have left me. I’d rather die locked up in here than have to go back out there.

  I heard her the other night. The story is that once a woman hanged herself with her sheets, and the next day they found a red high heel hanging from her foot. From that day forward we haven’t been allowed to use sheets, and they say that the woman in heels comes calling just before an inmate dies. At breakfast this morning, I told the women that I’d heard her. First, they didn’t believe me. Then they bet on who’d be the next to die. Since I’ve been here, one woman has died. They say it’s usually about two per year. Maybe that’s another way to measure time. Maybe today the woman in heels will come for me. Maybe today will finally be my lucky day.

  Acknowledgements

  To Santa Fe University of Art and Design, New Mexico, for giving me the time and space to write, especially to María Alexandra Vélez for making it possible.

  To Santiago Salaza, Guillermo Puyana, Sandra Navas, Laura Escobar and John Jairo Muñoz, for the valuable information that helped make this story consistent.

  To those who helped me develop the text: Camila Segura, Paola Caballero, Laura Escobar and Carlos Castillo Quintero.

  To Ricardo Silva Romero, for being one of the first people to listen closely when I talked about this story.

  To Andrés Burgos, for giving me the key to Claire and helping me find an ending.

  To Marcel Ventura, for his exactitude, clarity and care in the difficult task of polishing the text until it reached its final version.

  To my sisters-in-law and sisters, for helping me clear the time and space to write.

  To my mamá, Myriam de Nogales, for her loving interest in my work.

  To Richard Ávila, the star and the engine.

  Bogotá, 12 December 2014

  About the Author

  Melba Escobar writes for the Colombian newspapers El Espectador and El País. Her novel House of Beauty was chosen as one of the best books of 2016 by the Colombian National Novel Prize. She lives in Bogotá.

  About the Translator

  Elizabeth Bryer is a writer and translator from Australia. Her translation of Claudia Salazar Jiménez’s Blood of the Dawn was published by Deep Vellum in 2016. In 2017 she was a recipient of a PEN/Heim Translation Fund Grant.

  About the Publisher

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