“Because I loved you so much,” The words weren’t in my head anymore, they were slipping out into the silent, empty world of the ghost station, As though Uncle Paul weren’t buried in Calvary Cemetery, but could hear me with the ears of this old man who looked too damn much like him, “Because I wanted to be just like you. And I am.” My voice broke. “I’m just like you, Uncle Paul I’m a drunk.” I put my head on my knee and sobbed like a child- All the shame of my drinking days welled up in my chest. The stupid things I’d said and done, the times I’d had to be taken home and put to bed, the times I’d thrown up in the street outside the bar. If there’s one thing I can’t stand …
“Oh, God, I wish I were dead.”
The bony hand on mine felt like a talon. I started, then looked into the old man’s watery eyes. I sat in the ghost station and saw in this stranger the ghost that had been my dying uncle.
“Why should you wish a thing like that?” the old man asked. His voice was clear, no booze-blurred slurring, no groping for words burned out of the brain by alcohol. “You’re a young girl. You’ve got your whole life ahead a you.”
My whole life, To be continued…
One day at a time. One night at a time.
When I got back to the District, changed out of my work clothes, showered, would there be a meeting waiting for me? Damn right; in the city that never sleeps, AA never sleeps either.
I reached over to the old man. My fingers brushed his silver stubble.
“I’m sorry, Uncle Paul,” I said, “I’m sorry.”
Born in Manacor, Majorca, Spam, MARIA ANTONIA OLIVER also maintains a home in Barcelona. A leading Catalan writer, she has written more than six novels and is also a noted translator of American and English classics into her native language. Her mystery novel A Study in Lilac was very well received in Europe and North America.
Her translator, Kathleen McNerney, is a professor of Spanish and Catalan at the University of West Virginia in Morgantown.
WHERE ARE YOU, MONICA?
Maria Antonia Oliver
I
“Is Mr. Guiu here?” he asked.
“I’m Ms. Guiu,” I said.
We looked each other over, eyebrows arched by surprise. He sure hadn’t expected to find a female detective. For my part, I certainly never expected to find a man like him in my greasy office. What a man-tall, well dressed, well built, the kind that turns your head on the street, the kind you want a hug from when you have them nearby.
“May I help you?”
He took a chair from in front of Quim’s desk and sat down in front of mine. His gestures were secure and indifferent, as if he hadn’t done anything in his whole life except move chairs from one place to another in my office. He had gray eyes, and his fingernails were manicure-clean and polished,
“Look, I … it’s kind of sensitive, you know? I mean …”
“Does it have to do with fucking around, by any chance?” I cut in quickly. It was a system that on more than one occasion had spared me having to play the role of psychiatrist or confessor, and then lending a shoulder to cry on,
“What?”
“Your wife has a lover and you want us to catch them ‘in flagrante,’ right?”
“Good heavens, lady!”
“Then maybe your lover is messing around with someone else and …”
He smiled sadly. No, it wasn’t that, either. He even seemed offended.
“Then …” I was about to let out another guess, but I withheld it. If I kept on chasing wild geese like that, I could lose my client, and Guiu Investigation Agency couldn’t afford such a luxury.
“Look, it’s that my wife disappeared three days ago.”
So I wasn’t so far off base after all, shit! He didn’t need to put on such an act, for Christ’s sake!
“Just like that?” I asked. “Has she called you, or did she leave a letter or anything?”
“No, nothing at all”.
“Did you have a fight? I mean, do you have any idea why she might have wanted to disappear?”
“No, not at all.”
“Are you very wealthy?”
“I’ll pay whatever you charge.”
“No, I didn’t mean that. I wasn’t worried about my fees, I was thinking of the possibility of a kidnapping,”
He turned pale and looked scared, I thought he was going to fall off his chair.
“Why don’t you tell me about it in more detail?” I said immediately,
“Okay, maybe, but …”
“But what?”
“Before giving you more details I want to know whether you’re going to take on the job …”
“But our policy is not to accept any job until we know the details…. Have you called the police?”
“No, her family doesn’t want that.”
“Why not? What about what you want? Have they looked for her themselves?”
He gestured for me to stop. He was smiling, but barely.
“Look, her family, especially her father, doesn’t want anyone to know about it, because they’re high-class people, know what I mean? Me, I’d do anything to find her … just to know she’s okay. You understand, right? If she doesn’t want to come back, what can I do? We can’t force people to do things they don’t want to do, after all….”
“So both you and her family believe that she ran away from home….”
“No, no, we don’t have any idea, not at all.”
He didn’t say anything for a while. I waited. I was prepared to be patient. After all, that morning’s work was pretty mechanical, and for me it was a lot more fun to contemplate those eyes, that mouth half hidden by a moustache cultivated with a studied nonchalance. Much more fun than typing up reports on people who had purchased televisions or refrigerators and then tried to pay for them in installments.
“We started to call the hospitals,” he finally said. “But then we figured there were professionals out there who could do it better, more discreetly, than we could-you know what I mean, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“So, will you take it on?”
“You said before that we wouldn’t have to argue about money, or something like that, right?”
He smiled. It was sort of a suppressed smile, as if he didn’t want to seem too satisfied. He brushed his hand across his forehead and installed himself more comfortably in the chair,
“You can send me the bill, Miss Guiu. To discuss money at the moment seems like an insult to my wife,”
“But you might be able to find another agency that would do it cheaper,”
“Perhaps, but I feel confident with you. I was surprised to find a woman doing this kind of work, but for the job I want you to do, I think it’s better to have a woman than a man.”
“Why?”
“Well, because it’ll be easier for you to get inside the mentality of another woman, and that way you’ll do better at tracking her down.”
“Okay. Now let’s start at the beginning,” I said.
I reached for a notebook and turned on the tape recorder.
“Listen, Miss Guiu, why don’t we go to a quieter place to discuss this?”
It seemed to me that it would be hard to find a quieter place, A more pleasant place, that would be easy.
II
When I got into the car, I was assaulted by an overly enthusiastic dog that jumped on me from the backseat and made itself comfortable on my lap,
“You’re the first person she’s paid any attention to since Monica’s not around. She hasn’t eaten a bite for two days, poor thing.”
I was moved as I watched Victor and the dog leaving. When the two had left the bar, I began to go over the notes.
Monica Pradell, thirty-two years old, married for eight years to Victor Cabanes, only child of Mateu Pradell and Angela Comessa.
Mr. Pradell, head of a construction company. High social standing.
Mr. Cabanes, architect, partner of Mr. Pradell in several development projects.
Architecture office together with A.M. and J.F.R.
Monica and Victor live in the pavilion located on Mr. and Mrs. Pradell’s land. No kids. Ideal couple.
Both Monica and Ms. Comessa, housewives.
Monica fond of enamel work. Serene character, sure of herself, not a show-off, a real homebody, reserved, not many friends, a few girl friends from high school. Classical dressing style, with some extravagant details-scarves, jewelry, flowers. Very high heels, always. Very good-looking legs, almost sculptured. Loves the sea. Good health. Not a spendthrift, except for the beauty parlor. Lots of changes in hairstyle and color.
She didn’t have any reason to run away: she was happy. She wasn’t scatterbrained; reject the possibility of a prank of some kind. A lover or affair was out of the question. So was suicide. How about kidnapping, then? So far, no signs.
Afraid that something has happened to her, but she always carried a card in her purse; in case of accident notify …
Datebook on her desk, but no significant notations. Normal appointments at the beauty parlor and with some girl friends.
Not a member of any club or association.
Last time seen: Thursday, February 17. Beige suit with lilac silk blouse and a beige felt hat with a ribbon and fabric flowers. There don’t seem to be any jewels missing, but they aren’t exactly sure how many she had. No large withdrawal from her personal account. She usually carried a couple of hundred dollars with her, plus credit cards. She was supposed to go to the beauty parlor, but she didn’t show up, Very curly hair, the color of mahogany.
The photograph Victor brought me didn’t give any details away. It was of a group, a blurry snapshot, and that silhouette in a bathing suit surrounded by other silhouettes could have been me myself.
III
“Mr. Cabanes, please.”
They put me through the sieve: the telephone operator, the head secretary, an overseer who insisted on knowing why and about what I wanted to talk to Victor. Finally the voice of his personal secretary said, as soon as I told her my name, that Mr. Cabanes was in a meeting but he had ordered that he should be notified right away if I called,
“Tell me, Miss Guiu … have you found something?”
“No, not yet. Listen, Mr. Cabanes, I’d like to talk to you, to find out more details.”
“All right, right now, if you wish …”
“By the way, remember I need another photograph. I’d like to have another look at the datebook, too, and if possible, I’d like to see her clothes, her jewelry, the atmosphere, in a word. To get a better idea, you know?”
There was a pause. Finally:
“Very well, come over for dinner. To the pavilion, I mean, around nine, is that okay?”
“I warn you I’m a vegetarian …”
“Listen, Miss Guiu, it doesn’t matter to me what you are or aren’t. The only thing I’m interested in is the job I gave you to do. Nothing more.”
Pedantic shit-head!
“All right then: your wife isn’t in any clinic, hospital, or hotel in the city. Nor is she at the morgue. That’s all I know at the moment. I’m not the Holy Ghost, you know.”
“It’s all right, don’t get mad. Tonight, come in through the door on Modolell Street. That way you won’t have to go through my in-laws’ yard.
I was ringing the doorbell of the pavilion at nine on the dot. It was a cozy house, and very luxurious, of course. It was a rich people’s nest, with all the comforts, both necessary and superfluous, and those are the most comfortable ones. Spacious. Pleasant. And Mr. Victor Cabanes-Jesus, I could have smothered him with kisses. But I kept my grip: a job was a job. Before dinner I scrutinized the belongings of the missing person. The quantity was indescribable: dresses, jackets, skirts, blouses, coats … lots of everything. Incredibly high heels, for sure.
“I couldn’t tell you whether anything is missing or not,” Victor told me. “But at least the suitcases are where they belong.”
Then, the jewelry. Some real, some not. I mean costume jewelry. But good stuff, and lots of it.
“The only things missing are the enamel pendant and ring she made herself. She was very proud of them and never took them off.”
We dined by candlelight and started on the photos.
“Monica doesn’t like to have her picture taken. I couldn’t find many at all … a few from my in-laws, some I had, and a couple from her desk.”
The champagne was leaving the bottle little by little, and the warm atmosphere in the room almost made me forget why we were looking at the pictures. Let it be said in passing, they were all really bad. No works of art, that’s for sure.
“Where was this taken?” I asked.
“The Aegean Sea. Didn’t I tell you Monica was crazy about the sea? That must have been from our honeymoon.”
“You’re wearing the same sweater you’re wearing now.”
“Oh, yeah, it’s true!”
He laughed. It was a romantic story: Monica had given him that sweater when they were on their honeymoon. And now, a few months ago, on their anniversary, she had given him another one just like it that she’d come across by chance in a shop. Victor’s eyes watered a little as he told me the story, and I couldn’t help feeling a touch of jealousy. It was hard to have to recognize, but that’s what it was: jealousy.
“Is this the pendant you mentioned before?”
The photo we were looking at presented me with a woman with distinct features. She wasn’t pretty, but she had character: eyes whose smallness was well disguised by skillful makeup, a nose difficult to hide, and a rather formless mouth. An enamel pendant with matching ring, long fingers with exaggerated nails. It was the only photo that was of any use to me at all.
“Did she always keep them so long?” I asked.
“What?”
“Her fingernails.”
“Oh, yes, and picked up the habit of drumming her nails on the pendant, making a little noise like when you clink glasses together, and I’ll tell you the truth, it made me nervous.”
“Do you have the negative of this picture?”
“What do you want it for?”
“So I can make a copy for my partner … don’t worry, man, he’s going to help me find her.”
“Surely you don’t intend to go around showing pictures of my wife all over the place?”
“And I’m going to need the addresses of the people your wife sees the most.”
“But are you planning to go see those people and ask them about Monica?”
He was really scared.
“Oh, yes, and the datebook. Perhaps you didn’t find any thing unusual, but I’m more experienced, and …” I said in a very professional tone of voice.
“I’m sure I told you, Miss Guiu, that we wanted the utmost discretion in this matter.”
The man was capable of snapping up like an oyster. How exasperating! What did he expect me to do? How could I find a missing person who hadn’t left a trace if not by trying to pick up a few traces?
I said all that in shouts. Offended. And the oyster opened up a little.
“Now how come you’re sore, Miss Guiu?”
“I’m not sore. Well, could I see your wife’s makeup? To judge by the picture, she must have been an expert at playing cutaneous dress-up.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing, just she was real good at making herself up,”
“Oh, well, yeah, of course.”
He showed me to the bathroom.
But I had more lipstick myself than Monica had. Perhaps the only thing she took with her was her makeup. Among the few that were left, there was a gorgeous lipstick, of an incredible color, with a case that looked like gold. I fell in love with it.
“May I take this lipstick with me?” I asked.
“Sure … but what good can it do you?”
“A question of detail, Mr. Cabanes.”
IV
“Yes, we’re good friends, but I hadn’t seen her for about a month. As far as I know,
she was only seeing Patricia.”
“Who’s Patricia?”
“To be perfectly frank, miss, I think she’s a little on the murky side.”
“Where does she live?”
“Somewhere in the Eixample area, I think, but I’m not sure. But I think I do have her telephone number … that is, if she hasn’t moved … you never know, with her type,”
As I was leaving, Mrs. Culell held the door open and said, taking on a secretive tone:
“You may find out, miss, whether Monica and Victor are really the ideal couple they seem to be.”
What a hypocrite! And here I thought that people with bucks weren’t so gossipy, or at least that they had enough dignity to hide it.
I called from the first booth I could find. No answer.
I had another appointment that morning, with another of Monica’s friends. It might be useful to compare the information the Culell woman had given me and figure out how-much of it was bad blood; not that that would do me much good, but I was curious about it. However, the very thought of going through yet another session of good manners and hypocrisy had me in hysterics.
I pulled myself together and rang the doorbell. This lady had a maid.
“Victor must be beside himself,” Mrs. Torres said with a glass of whiskey in her hand.
For me, the maid brought in some orange juice, the kind you make with real oranges.
“When was the last time you saw Mrs. Monica Pradell?”
“It must have been-wait a minute.” She looked at her calendar. “Yes, two weeks ago. We ate together at the Pradells’, in the big house.”
“Do you know someone by the name of Patricia?”
She knew her, all right.
“I’ve never been able to understand it at all, such a close friendship. Wait, now that I think about it, I saw Monica with that girl, let’s see, about a week ago, yeah, I saw them from a distance. I always tell Monica, ‘I don’t know how you can be such bosom buddies with that … blockhead.’”
“Do they get along? The couple, I mean.”
“Victor and Monica? Oh, yeah, they make such a nice couple, both so good-looking. And so crazy about each other.”
A Woman’s Eye Page 37