The She-Devil in the Mirror (6 page)

in
place. Lots of foreigners. Every
night it's bursting at the seams. In this city it's not easy to find a place
like this—José Carlos likes it: he told me he's been here several times and he's
even given Mirna some tips about how to display the paintings and artistic
photographs. Of course they know each other, my dear; I've even heard that Mirna
was doing it with him. I asked José Carlos, but he told me they were just
friends, Mirna's not his type, ever since being with Olga María he hasn't been
able to get interested in anybody else. Go figure. But yesterday afternoon when
we went to the beach we made a pact: we'd avoid talking about Olga María so we
wouldn't get depressed, so we could enjoy the trip. We went to San Blas. Of
course, my dear, I prefer our place in La Barra de Santiago, but it's too far
away. The idea was to go for a little while, a few hours in the afternoon. We
bought some beer at the port. Poor José Carlos: we didn't mention Olga María,
but he spent the whole time talking about Marito. Please, do me a favor! He's
full of guilt, remorse, I can't tell you how much. And really afraid, terrified:
what scares him most is that Marito will find out about his
affaire
with Olga María. He kept asking me over and over if I thought Marito had already
found out. I have no idea. That's what I told him. The only one who could let
the cat out of the bag is this Deputy Chief Handal, if he goes blabbing to
Marito. José Carlos says he's afraid of the same thing: of that policeman
showing Marito the photo of Olga María. That's why he wants to leave the country
as soon as possible, and avoid the whole thing: it would be degrading,
unbearable. Marito has been one of his best friends, if not his very best. But
that's how men are, my dear, who told him to get involved with his best friend's
wife? Now there's only sorrow. He told me about his friendship with Marito: how
they lived in the same neighborhood, went to the same school, were in the same
grade, even the same class. Can you imagine? They spent their entire lives
together. Olga María already told me the whole story. That's why when we got to
San Blas I told him that talking about Marito was another way of talking about
Olga María, so he was violating our pact. I told him it'd be better if he told
me his plans, about what he was going to do in Boston. He's really lovely, that
José Carlos. Now I understand why Olga María fell for him. He's sensitive. His
way of seeing the world, even though it's different from yours or mine, it's
very interesting; he's an artist, after all. He told me he's not sure he has a
job in Boston, but he's not worried about it, he lived there long enough to find
something that'll let him get by. What he doesn't want to do is work in
advertising anymore; he finds that environment unbearable—he told me he's
planning to work on a major exhibition of his photographs, pick the best ones,
and go for it, try to get into the major leagues. That's what he said, like he
was talking about baseball: “the major leagues.” Shall I pour you more wine?
Jesus Christ: look at how those people are dressed. God save me. And that
frightful-looking creature, where did she come from? Look at that one with the
miniskirt: she looks like she's a cellulite saleswoman. People no longer have
any sense of the ridiculous, my dear; vulgar is as vulgar does. The beach was
lovely, empty, and it was low tide, that's the good thing about going during the
week: the lower classes can't get there. On weekends it's unbearable: all that
riffraff from El Majahual, they simply invade San Blas. They're all thieves and
whores. I don't understand why they can't just fence it off—that's what papa
says. If you have a place at the beach you have to put up with all that scum
just looking for someone to rob. Horrible. The beaches should be gated to
prevent all that garbage from El Majahual from invading San Blas. But papa says
you can't do that, legally; I say, to hell with the law. But during the week
it's peaceful, like yesterday afternoon with José Carlos, we had a wonderful
time at the beach. Though he didn't go in the water—he was stubborn, he didn't
want to wear one of my father's swimsuits; I have some bikinis there so I took a
dip, I went out to the breakwater, it felt so good being tossed about by the
waves. Then we sat under the almond trees, next to the swimming pool, just
talking. I don't know if I should tell you this, my dear, but now I understand
why Olga María had such a thing for José Carlos, even if he does dress like a
scruffy slob. He's got a charm all his own, like you wouldn't believe. But, let
me ask for a glass of water, this wine has made me thirsty. Here he comes. Do
you want some, too? I can't seem to get Rodolfo's attention so he'll come over
here, the cutie-pie. As I was saying, we were next to the pool when the couple
who looks after the house said they were going to the port to do some shopping.
I told them to go right ahead, no problem, we were just staying a few hours, we
weren't going to spend the night. You remember the house in San Blas, don't you?
It's very secure because there's a big wall all around it. You can't see the sea
from inside, but nobody can see in from the outside. Like papa says: it protects
against thieves and Peeping Toms. Thank you, waiter. I was dying of thirst.
Let's finish the bottle. We were alone, José Carlos and I, next to the pool.
Then I said I was going to take a dip, and I wanted to take advantage of nobody
being around to swim naked. There's nothing better than swimming naked: you feel
free. I love it so much that every chance I get, I swim naked. Maybe because I'd
already had a few beers or because I already felt comfortable around José Carlos
or because the surroundings were so pleasant, whatever it was I wasn't feeling
shy. I dived in and once I was in the water I took off my bikini, placed it on
the edge of the pool, and started to swim, happy as can be, as if the rest of
the world didn't exist. That's what I was doing, swimming on my back, blinded by
the sunlight, totally enjoying myself, when I felt José Carlos next to me. Can
you imagine, my dear? Like getting an electric shock. Everything happened very
quickly. It was amazing. You've never done it in a swimming pool? Unbelievable.
That man is a bombshell. He gave it to me every which way. Delicious. His
equipment: it's off the charts, enough to make you drool. We did it in the pool,
on the grass under the almond trees, in the hammock, in the chaise longue, all
over the house. Just remembering it makes me wet again. That José Carlos, he's a
darling. He left me utterly exhausted, aching—he does it with imagination. You
should really give him a whirl before he leaves. An expert. Now I know why Olga
María didn't want to tell me too many details, so I wouldn't get any ideas about
him. I don't understand how she let him go. Having a lover like that is worth
the trouble, even if he does fall in love with you, who cares, you just deal
with it. Of course, it's easy for me to say because I know he's leaving the
country, so he doesn't have a chance to fall in love with me. But to marry him
and live with him? No, thank you, my dear, God forbid. And definitely not
someone to leave your husband for, who you already have a child with, like Olga
María with Marito. He's a nobody. This photography thing is fine as a hobby, but
nobody respectable can make a living off it. I can just imagine papa if I told
him I was going to marry a poor photographer; he'd think I'd gone crazy. He'd
disown me. No, he's good for a fling, nothing more. Well, my dear, when we
finished—lying in the hammock, my pussy red and swollen from so much in and
out—I asked him if he'd done it like that with Olga María, if he'd lasted that
long with her. Because the man can last with his thing standing at attention for
an eternity, it's really something, and you get to do whatever you feel like. He
told me that with her it had also been special, even the first time, but Olga
María was more reserved, more restrained, with me he felt more free. That's what
he told me, anyway. Also that he liked my body better than Olga María's, because
I'm more curvaceous, fuller, compared to her. I don't know. He told me he thinks
my body is voluptuous and Olga María's is more delicate. He prefers
voluptuousness. That's another charming thing about José Carlos: he explains
things so well. I love the way he talks, the words he chooses, you can clearly
understand what he wants to say. The weirdest thing is that we'd made a pact to
not talk about Olga María, and there we were, naked and in each other's arms in
the hammock, sweaty, exhausted, and thinking about her. At a certain point, I
got sad. I felt like crying because life is shit, how could it be that Olga
María had disappeared from one moment to the next. I mentioned that to José
Carlos, then I got tears in my eyes. He was so tender to me, and he got sad,
too, then he started comforting me, telling me there's no way to fight fate,
Olga María wouldn't have wanted us to be sad. Then I started sobbing, because
there's no good reason for so much injustice. José Carlos started caressing me,
stroking my head, whispering sweet nothings in my ear, until I calmed down and
we started kissing again. That man can turn me on in the blink of an eye, my
dear. A moment later, we were at it again, hard and fast, there in the hammock,
but more intensely, as if remembering Olga María had injected us with renewed
passion, something delicious, something I've never felt before. I swear: it was
spectacular. Like I was possessed. Then I started to come in this incredible
way, while I was still crying. That's where we were, right at the climax, when
the caretakers opened the door. It was horrible, my dear, because I couldn't
disengage, I couldn't stop: my feet were on the ground, and I was on top of that
man in the hammock, at the peak of my frenzy, knowing the caretakers were about
to walk in. I can't even talk about it, it was such a horrible experience. And I
only just managed to shout, “Don't come in!” That was when José Carlos realized
what was happening. We dashed into the bedroom where I'd left my clothes. So
embarrassing. The worst part was that we couldn't finish like we should have.
Let's order another half bottle, my dear. I'm already tipsy. Look, here comes
Rodolfo, that doll. I'm going to tell him about Olga María. Ro-dol-fo!!

5. THIRTY DAYS

I
'M SO GLAD WE SAT HERE
in the back, my dear, in the last row, so we
can chat, even if only in a whisper, quietly. There's been so much going on.
Anyway, I don't want to look at that priest up close. Papa's right: all priests
are twisted and corrupt, but this one has turned out to be a real scoundrel. Did
you hear what he did to poor Yuca? It's all anybody's talking about. Yuca's
become the laughingstock of the entire world. It's all a plot. They say it's his
political enemies. The press has turned against him, too. Luckily they haven't
mentioned anything about Olga María. I told you they were going to use the Olga
María thing to try to finish Yuca off, and that's exactly what's happened, even
if they don't say so publicly, they've started accusing him of other things.
They already made him resign from the leadership of the party. Terrible. The man
who is far and away the best leader, and the most charismatic—everybody was
supporting him. They've done him in—just because of that stolen car they say he
bought. A Mercedes Benz this damned priest sold him and now says he doesn't know
anything about. No, my dear, I haven't been able to talk to Yuca. He's been too
busy: he's at the very center of a political storm—fending off the low blows,
defending his reputation. What worries me is that he'll get hooked on coke
again, he'll sink back into a cycle of depression and turn to drugs. They
haven't stopped attacking him—just look at the media. How possible is it: a
high-ranking leader of the governing party buying a stolen car!? What idiots!
But the way they say it, it makes people think he's somehow involved in the
stolen car racket, as if Yuca needed to be, like he isn't rich enough already.
They set a trap for him, and that no-good priest helped lure him into it. I'm
sure of it! Yes, my dear, I'll lower my voice, it's just that I get so furious
when I realize what they're doing to that man. They've ruined his political
career, and now they want to sink him completely. It's not fair. But that's not
the worst of it; the worst is what people are saying in private, what people
everywhere are mumbling about under their breath. Horrible: people you thought
were Yuca's friends are now out to slander him, they're saying awful things,
like he ordered Olga María's murder because she was threatening to expose him as
a drug trafficker. Can you imagine? It makes me furious. It's one thing that the
man's an addict and another that he's involved in drug trafficking. People say
such vile things. Even to me, and they know I'm his friend, you wouldn't believe
the atrocious things they insinuate; that happened a few days ago—at the club no
less. According to this person, the gringos discovered Yuca's connection with
the drug traffickers, and they decided to take him out of the running,
politically speaking, but since they couldn't expose him without spreading the
shit all over other high-ranking government officials, they decided to invent
this whole farce about the stolen car. Nobody in his right mind can actually
believe something like that. Others are saying that Yuca, in a fit of
cocaine-induced madness, hired a hitman to kill Olga María, and the authorities
found out, and when he refused to resign, they invented this scandal about the
stolen car. What a mess. All fantasies. Yuca never would have had Olga María
killed. I'm not denying that he gets crazy sometimes, but it would never have
occurred to him to hurt that woman. All I know for sure is that Yuca insists he
bought that Mercedes from this priest. So it must be true. But now the priest is
playing the fool and says he knows nothing about the car. Just look at him, that
hypocrite up there saying Mass, as if nothing were wrong. Poor Olga María, if
she knew that despicable priest, who is part of a plot to destroy Yuca, is the
one saying her Requiem Mass, she'd die of outrage—I'm sure of it. It would make
her furious. I had no idea he'd be the priest. If I'd known, I'd have warned
Doña Olga. I just realized it, just now when I walked into the church—that's why
I stayed here in the back row, as a form of protest. That's what I explained to
mama when she asked me why I was sitting way back here: nothing in the world
would get me to sit in the front row and listen to that scheming priest. I'm so
glad you came, too. I swear, the only reason I'm staying at all is to show my
respect for Olga María. On the way out I'm going to ask Doña Olga why she chose
that priest. But she's been pretty out to lunch ever since the murder; she's
completely devoted to those girls. Maybe it wasn't even her who chose that
disgusting priest; it could have been Cuca or Sergio, or even Marito himself.
Something's not right, now that I'm thinking about it. Don't you think maybe
they chose this priest so that Yuca wouldn't show up? I'm not crazy, or
paranoid. With everything that's going on, you imagine the worst. Picking this
priest was the best way to prevent Yuca from coming. Seeing as how people always
think the worst of other people, most people would assume from the fact that
this awful priest is giving the Requiem Mass that the family considers Yuca
guilty of Olga María's murder. There's something very fishy going on, I can tell
you that, and I'm going to find out what it is, my dear. This can't just end
here; this is one more piece of the whole big plot against Yuca. Maybe Doña Olga
is taking part in it without realizing it, innocently, she's so naïve and in so
much pain, the poor thing. Look at that priest: can't you just see him lowering
his eyes and speaking to God, the pig? It makes me want to switch religions. But
papa says they're all the same. He calls himself an agnostic. I've never really
understood what that means: something about believing in a God up there but not
in the priests or the religions down here. Papa says he doesn't need the
priests' God: he's happy hanging out on his finca most of the time or going a
few times a year to the racetrack in Mexico City and to the casinos in Reno;
that's what he loves to do. You should see how he makes fun of mama. He says
that all her piety, her devotion to the church, it all started when she was
already old—she never even went to church before; even my First Communion was
just a formality. He's right: when I was little, mama wasn't at all interested
in priests or services, she was on a different wavelength altogether. Fear of
death, my dear. According to papa, the war turned my mother into a zealot, as if
God would save her from the massacres, when it was the priests themselves who'd
stirred up the masses. That's what papa says. He makes fun of her, because as
far as he's concerned, now that the war is over mama should give up all her
piousness. But she's too old to change now. I understand her. But when you come
across disgusting priests like this one here, you can't help having terrible
thoughts. I want to see what he pulls out of his hat for the homily. Let's
kneel, my dear. This prie-dieu is filthy, it's going to ruin my stockings. Did I
tell you I had dinner with Marito? Night before last. At his house, so we could
be with the girls and dear Julita. He told me a bunch of things, and he
questioned me pretty aggressively. Not during dinner, because the girls were
there, the poor things, my darlings; no, after they went to bed. Marito's
business isn't doing so well: he's lost some clients. He says he's invoicing
about sixty percent of what he invoiced last year. Apparently advertising feels
the economic crunch first because it's the first item on the budget that gets
cut. That's what Marito explained to me. This crisis is awful, it's affecting
everybody, it's all the fault of that fat idiot we put in there as president.
Interest rates have even dropped. Luckily the price of coffee has remained
stable, if not papa would be furious. Let's sit, my dear. What Marito told me is
that Olga María didn't leave a will—how could she have imagined she would die so
young!? That's why at the beginning of last week I went to a lawyer to write
mine, my dear—I hope it doesn't bring bad luck. God forbid. Knock on wood. But
there's no problem because the girls inherit everything. Her only partner in the
boutique was Doña Olga. They kept things in the family. But Marito isn't sure
it's worth keeping the boutique: if you add to the economic crisis the scandal
of Olga María's murder, it probably isn't. I asked him what he was planning to
do about Cheli and Conchita, the two employees, because I'm sure they're the
ones who blabbed to the police. Doña Olga wants to keep them on and Marito
couldn't care less. Imagine that. I told him he'd better get rid of that pair of
harpies as soon as possible or he'd soon regret it. Okay, my dear, I'll keep my
voice down, the last thing I want is for that damned priest to tell me off. It's
just that when I talk about those you-know-whats, I get all riled up. The same
thing happened when I was with Marito. Luckily dear Julita had already put the
girls to bed. They're so lovely, so obedient, such good students. That's what
bothers me about going to Mass: you have to constantly be standing up, kneeling
down, standing up, and my clothes end up getting all messed up and looking
frightful. It was because I got so excited when I was talking about Cheli and
Conchita that Marito asked me what I have against them; he said they're good
employees, Olga María trusted them completely. I'm such an idiot, I went and
told him what I suspected: that the two of them had filled the policemen's heads
with all sorts of groundless rumors, especially that Deputy Chief Handal. Then I
realized I'd stuck my foot in my mouth, but it was too late to turn back. Marito
just stared at me with a very serious expression on his face. We were still in
the dining room drinking coffee. What rumors? he asked me, in a
not-very-friendly voice. I didn't know what to do, my dear. I probably stared
back at him like an idiot, because he asked me again: what rumors? I felt
trapped, like he was reading my mind. But finally I managed to wriggle my way
out of it: I told him how it could appear suspicious that he bought a life
insurance policy for Olga María a few weeks before the murder. Everybody, of
course, thinks it's ridiculous, but those two put it into the policeman's head,
and that Deputy Chief Handal questioned me about it. That's how I explained it
to Marito. He told me it wasn't a hypothesis, it was pure nonsense, not even the
police were taking it seriously. Then, out of the blue, he asked me about the
relationship between Olga María and Yuca. I was shocked. I didn't expect that. I
was afraid Marito would find out about the photograph José Carlos had taken of
Olga María, the one Handal showed me; that's what I was most afraid of. But
Marito going straight to the business about Yuca? I never expected that. It's
not like him: he's not one for confrontations. That's why he got along so well
with Olga María: they were both calm, gentle, reserved. You can't imagine the
predicament I was in, my dear. Just look at him there, praying, as gentle as a
lamb, but he's a sly one, that Marito, throwing me a curve ball like that. At
first I had no idea what to say. All I could do was play the fool, ask him what
he was talking about, what was he insinuating. And maybe because it was the
second time I'd had to play the fool, I got angry. My head felt like it was
about to explode: I told him he couldn't possibly believe all that nonsense
those mean-spirited people were gossiping about, Olga María and Yuca had never
been anything more than friends, great friends since the American School, I knew
that for a fact, Olga María confided in me things she never confided in anybody,
and as far as I'm concerned it's utter nonsense for him to entertain any
suspicions at all about his wife, about someone who'd always been faithful to
him. I almost called him an idiot. I was getting quite worked up, I was
shouting, because I wasn't going to let that good-for-nothing doubt her and join
the conspiracy against Yuca. I ripped into him: I said those little bitches,
Cheli and Conchita, they must have had a hand in telling Deputy Chief Handal the
rumors that he's made it his business to spread around. All because Olga María
had been receiving phone calls from Yuca the last few weeks of her life. Those
hussies think that if somebody gets a phone call from a friend she's necessarily
sleeping with him. Just because that's what they're like, them and their
sluttish mentality. I'll bet one of them is going out with one of the detectives
who works under Deputy Chief Handal and that's where all the rumors are coming
from. But I made it very clear to Marito that if recently Yuca had been
communicating with Olga María, it was because he was having personal problems
and he was reaching out to old friends, lifelong friends, that's why he'd called
me, too. I wasn't about to go telling him all of Yuca's problems, those things
are private, the poor man has enough with all the dirty politics he's messed up
in. Marito asked me to calm down, the girls weren't asleep yet and they might be
listening. But I was already in a rage—he provoked me. I told him I thought it
was shameful for him to start questioning his wife's faithfulness, there wasn't
a bit of difference between his insinuations and what other evil tongues were
saying about him hiring somebody to kill her. Until I said that I couldn't calm
down! Yes, my dear, I just realized it—I'll lower my voice. Let's kneel again.
Did you see that look my mother just shot me when she turned around? I'll
pretend I didn't notice. Look at those saints. Perfectly awful. Whose idea was
it to dress them up like that? Such poor taste. Not at all like those statues
you see in the churches in Europe—look at the face on that one. Poor thing. Who
knows who he's supposed to be. I've never learned anything about the saints.
Papa says most of them are phonies or criminals. Mama's hair stands on end when
papa starts ranting and raving against the pope and the Vatican. All that's for
the lower classes, for people who are either stupid or ignorant, papa says.
Speaking of which: neither Cheli nor Conchita came to church. They've already
forgotten about Olga María. What I said earlier is true: Cheli is going out with
one of Handal's detectives. I know it firsthand, my dear. The one with the
square jaw, like a filing cabinet, Villalta I think his name is, he's really got
the mug of a criminal, he's the one who came to interrogate the girls right
after Olga María was killed. You know which one Cheli is? She's the chubby one
with big cheeks, kind of red in the face, very vivacious. It's not her fault
she's stupid, but it is her fault people are saying bad things about Olga María.