Thursday Night Widows (29 page)

“The thermal overload tripped, but they were already dead.”

“What is the thermal overload?”

“I thought you knew all about circuit breakers…”

“You know, that must be the mother. She has a look of El Tano about the face.”

“Do you want me to tell you what I think killed them?”

“What?”

“That monstrosity Carmen Insúa cooked up with the photos.”

“Oh please! Just thinking about it makes my skin crawl.”

At eleven o'clock on the dot, three coffins arrived: El Tano's, Gustavo's and Martín's. Apparently it was Teresa's idea to have them buried in a row. In death, as in life, she said. They had been together on their last night together, as they were every Thursday, without fail. Ronie Guevara had had a miraculous escape. He had gone home earlier – some say because he felt unwell, others that he argued with El Tano. For whatever reason, Fate had not chosen him to die that night with the others.

“Nobody dies before his time is up.”
⁷

“Where have I heard that before?”

“This is a case in point.”

Teresa had taken charge of all the arrangements, before and during the ceremony. She must have been on something. She looked awful, yet serene. She seemed
to be coping reasonably well. They say that she paid for Martín Urovich's plot. Lala would not have been able to meet that expense. When the three coffins entered the chapel, there was a bit of whispering among some people who were not from The Cascade. Apparently they were Martín's relatives, from the Jewish branch, who objected to the choice of officiant to bless his journey to the next world. But nobody said anything. Not even his parents, who wept in each other's arms. The three widows sat together in the front pew. Teresa and Lala arm in arm, Carla a little apart. From the pew behind, a friend not known to the rest of us stroked her back. El Tano's children, and Martín's, were weeping, supported by friends and relatives. The priest spoke of the Lord's call, of how difficult it was to understand that He should call people so young and of how one must learn to accept His wisdom. He invited us to recite the Lord's Prayer. Those of us who could intoned the words. It wasn't very many, considering the number of people who were present. When it came to “Forgive us our sins…” many of us uttered the older form: “forgive us our trespasses”. And in the murmured prayer, there was a commingling of trespasses and sins, trespassers and sinners. We made the sign of the cross. A mobile rang; various people fumbled in their handbags and pockets, but the ringing continued. “Hello, I'm at a funeral… I'll ring you back.” May the Lord receive Martín, Gustavo and Alberto into his glory, said the priest. We all looked at each other. “Alberto” meant nothing to us. God must receive El Tano into his glory. El Tano Scaglia.

Afterwards the priest announced the times of mass in his chapel at the weekend. “Remember that the one on Saturday at 7 p.m. replaces Sunday's service.” And
he extended his sympathy to the bereaved widows, the relatives and friends. He was brief. They always are brief in those places. And monotone, lacking intonation, like a registrar performing the last marriage of the day in his office. It would have been unbearable to spend much more time in there. The chapels in cemeteries are very small. And inside this one there were three coffins, three widows, too many people who did not know the Lord's Prayer, the smell of flowers, weeping.

We walked in a group along the cobbled path. On either side, the freshly cut grass looked immaculately green. As we walked, our procession was joined by various latecomers. All of them silent. All of them wearing dark glasses. Our halting steps marked a beat for the coffin-bearers. A funeral march. Some cries were sharper than others. Some cries were younger: the cries of children. At the end of the path we came to the place where three graves had been dug. Beside them were green carpets. The cemetery workers stood beside the mechanism that would be used to lower the coffins into the graves. We grouped around the three pits. The administrative staff from Cascade Heights, the tennis teachers and the Starter kept a discreet distance. Alfredo Insúa said a few words: “I speak, not as the president of Cascade Heights, but as a friend.” It was his first public speech since the elections which had named him president of the Council of Administration of our community. He stood next to Teresa as he spoke, firmly holding her hand. El Tano's mother cried out in the midst of her tears. And Urovich's bent down to embrace her son's coffin. Alfredo spoke of the pain that would linger in The Cascade, but also of “the pride in having known them, of having had them as neighbours and friends, of having shared games of
tennis, conversations, country walks. The history of Cascade Heights is graven with their names.” Someone automatically greeted this speech with applause and more clappers followed suit, but others joined in only tentatively, and there were some who wondered if it was even appropriate to clap at a funeral, so the applause was short-lived. Then the cemetery workers turned the handles and the three coffins descended together. El Tano's mother cried out once more. Carla walked forwards to throw some earth into her husband's grave. El Tano's children threw in some flowers that were passed to them by Insúa's new wife. Urovich's daughter hugged her mother's legs and would not look up while her father's coffin was being lowered down. Someone led El Tano's mother away. Now Lala kneeled down, embracing her daughter and weeping. The workers allowed a few more seconds' lamentation, then they pulled the green carpets over the open pits in the ground. Now each of us went up to kiss the widows. The bravest among us first. And then we hugged their children. We hugged one another. “I can't believe it,” someone said. “I can't believe it either,” people replied.

Finally, we drifted away from the graves and took the path back to the cars. Teresa and her children got into El Tano's Land Rover, but she was not driving – it was a brother or a brother-in-law, doubtless someone from the family, because we didn't recognize him. Carla left with a friend. And Lala with Martín's parents.

A few of us were left, still making our goodbyes in the car park, when Ronie arrived. In a wheelchair pushed by his wife. His leg was in plaster. He was dry-eyed. So was she. But their expressions would tear out the heart of anyone bold enough to look at them. Ronie's eyes
were fixed straight ahead, as if willing people not to stop him, not to say anything. A futile hope. Dorita Llambías went straight up to him and squeezed his hand. “Be strong, Ronie.” And Tere Saldívar placed her hand on Virginia's shoulder. “We're here whenever you need us.” She nodded, but did not stop.

“They're beside the tub of fuschia Alpine violets,” someone pointed out, but Mavi was already walking on as if she knew where to go, retracing our own footsteps on the path. Every so often the wheelchair got caught in the cobbles and she wrestled the chair back and forth to free the wheels, but she never stopped. We watched them as they went on. They did not pause until they reached the three open graves covered with the green carpet. Then Mavi positioned her husband's chair beside them and stepped back a few paces. Ronie, with his back to us, in line with the three graves, completed the quartet.

We got home at about lunchtime. Juani wasn't there, and that was something else to worry about. I made Ronie comfortable in the living room, positioning his wheelchair in front of the window that looks onto our grounds. “Would you like some tea?” He said that he would and I went to the kitchen to make it. I screwed up the courage to ring the Andrades' house. Juani was there, with Romina, and that made me feel a bit better. I poured two cups of tea and took them on a tray to the living room. The wheelchair was empty.

“Ronie!” I screamed. I searched frantically for him downstairs, then I went into the garden, as far as the
street, looking in all directions. He could not have got very far with one leg in plaster. I went back into the house. I shouted his name again. I couldn't make sense of it – until I saw the staircase. Ronie was up on the terrace, clutching the balustrade, holding up his plastered leg and shaking from the effort of having hopped his way upstairs on the uninjured leg. He was looking at the Scaglias' swimming pool, behind the poplars. I approached him quietly, almost noiselessly. I put my arms around him. I couldn't remember how long it had been since I had last embraced my husband. He caught my hand and squeezed it hard. He began to sob, softly at first and then harder. Then he made an effort to calm down. He turned to face me, looked in my eyes and, still holding my hand, took me back to that night, the 27th of September 2001, when he was eating dinner with his friends at El Tano's house.

They had eaten pasta, home-made and cut into ribbons by El Tano himself. With tomato and basil. Afterwards they played
Truco
⁸
– one game, two, three. And they drank, a lot. Ronie doesn't remember who was
winning, but he does remember that Martín and Gustavo were playing against El Tano and himself. While they played, the subject of Martín's move to Miami came up. He doesn't remember the context, but it was El Tano who raised the subject. You have to stay, he said. What for? To die with dignity. I stopped feeling any dignity a long time ago. Because you're not going about things the right way. I've got the worst luck: just when I decide to go to Miami, they blow up the Twin Towers. Shall we play a trick? What are you going to Miami for? So that they can put anthrax in your water?
Truco
. To blow the few savings you have left? Pass me the wine. You're going to end up getting any job you can, while your wife cleans the house.
Quiero
. And if it comes to it, someone else's house too, for extra cash. I've got no choice. Yes you do. What? Stay here. You can't make a life here any more. Who said anything about life? Who wants more wine? If you can't live with dignity, die with dignity. Silence. Whose go is it? All four of us have the chance to make a grand exit. An exit? To get out of this. I don't understand you. I'm planning a grand exit and I'm giving you the chance to join me. Hey, I've still got a job, Gustavo laughs. And dignity? El Tano asks.
Envido. Envido.
Why do you say that? Twenty-nine. For no reason. What do you know? Me about you? What's important is what we all know about ourselves.
Voy callado.
And what each of us does when no one sees us.
Truco
. Or when we think that no one sees us.
Quiero retruco.
Why do you say that? I am going to die with dignity, tonight, alone or with you all. Tano, you're having a laugh, right? Me? Not at all, Ronie.
Parda
. No one here lacks a motive to do the same as me. Silence. It's in your hand, Tano. I have a five-hundred-thousand-dollar life insurance policy. That's a
pretty dignified sum…
Truco
. If I die, my family can claim the premium and continue to live as they always have done, exactly as they always have done.
No quiero.
You're well prepared, Tano. You also have life insurance, Martín, worth less money, but still more than enough. You're wrong: I don't have life insurance. Yes you do, I pay for it along with your health insurance.
Maldón
. Silence. For how much did you take it out? Hey guys, can you stop this fucking around?
Envido
. I've never been more serious in my life.
Real envido
.
No queremos
. It's important that people don't suspect. Suspect what? That it was a suicide – otherwise they won't pay out. It has to look like an accident. Shall we go for a
truco
? No, we're folding. So have you forked out for life insurance for me, too? Gustavo asks. No, in your case it's better not to have a policy. Is this some sort of wind-up? Exactly what is my “case”? Hit your wife for real. Silence. Ronie takes a drink. The way you hit her at the moment is nothing; hit her hard, where it hurts: in her pocket. Gustavo throws his cards on the table. He gets up, walks around the table. He sits down again. Everyone in the club knows, Gustavo; your neighbours lodged a complaint in the duty room the last time, because of the shouting. Pick up the cards and deal, come on. I'll deal. Cut. I don't hit her.
Envido y truco. No quiero el primero, quiero el segundo. Quiero retruco
. I don't hit her.
Quiero
. There was one time, things got out of hand, but I don't hit her.
Quiero vale cuatro
. At least five off-the-record complaints have been lodged with Security. That's not me, it's not like that, she makes me do it… Have you got the ace, too? Shit. Pour me some wine. So how would it be? Come on boys, change the subject, Ronie insists. It's not me that wants to go to Miami – I'm doing it for them. Kill yourself for
them, and leave them more money than you would ever make in the rest of your life, in Miami or anywhere else. Gustavo drinks: one glass, then another one. Let's make this good, says El Tano. I really don't appreciate this kind of wind-up. It's not a wind-up, Ronie. I don't believe you. So, how would it be? We die electrocuted, in the pool. First we go for a swim, we're drunk, we listen to music and when I want to pull the stereo closer, from the water, the extension lead falls out and slips into the water. Two hundred and twenty volts shoot through the water at the speed of lightning. We're killed outright. We all have to be touching the side, to be grounded. I've over-ridden the trip switch so that when the thermal overload jumps on the external circuit, we'll be home and dry. In the pool, but dry? Urovich laughs. You're all out of your minds. Don't make the wrong choice, Ronie. And you're the craziest of all. The craziest can also be the most clear-sighted, Ronie. Sometimes only a few of us see the reality: companies collapse, foreign capital leaves, more and more people fight over one managerial position – and you say I'm the madman? Have a drink. You should read up on oriental culture – the Chinese, the Japanese – they certainly know the value of ending one's life at the right moment. And since when have you been a fan of oriental culture, Tano? Ever since he started growing the goatee beard, jokes someone, not Ronie. Perhaps one day, one year, when this country is run by other people, things will change and we'll become a serious country. But by then it will be too late for us; we'll be too old to enjoy it. We can't save the house or the car, but we can save our families from falling. I'm not falling. You've already hit the ground, Gustavo. You're already broken into pieces. Shall I deal? I'm not playing any more. Don't leave us
like this, Ronie. Go on, one more hand. Cut. And if the plan doesn't work? If they find out?
Flor
. About what? About the deception? Four victims of electrocution can't be suspected of suicide. Quite apart from being mad, you fancy yourself much more intelligent than everyone else, says Ronie. I don't know if intelligent is the right word, but this isn't Guyana and I'm not Jim Jones. No one will suspect.
Truco
. Are you in or not, Ronie? You're sick in the head, Tano. Is that it, or do you not want to confront your own reasons for suicide? I'm not as scared of falling as you are, Tano. True, I do believe that falling doesn't worry you, and that's why you don't want to face up to your own motive for killing yourself. It doesn't interest me: it would be your motive, not mine. It must at least interest you. You're unhinged. Do it for your son, Ronie. Don't get my son involved in this shit. Your son's already deep in shit. Ronie stands up and grabs him by his shirt collar. Martín and Gustavo separate them as best they can. They make them sit down. El Tano and Ronie watch each other. You're a failure, Ronie, and that's why your son takes drugs. Ronie moves to grab him again. You fucking son of a bitch. Let him go, Ronie. I'll beat the crap out of you. That's enough. Never mention my son again. He lets him go. How far do you plan to take this, Tano? There's no further to go – I'm already there. Don't get me wrong, Ronie. You've got no limit. No, that's true. You're a bastard. I'm not the one selling drugs to your son. Neither am I. But you're showing him the way to failure. And what is failure, Tano? Am I a failure? What about you? Is electrocuting yourself going to save you from being a fraud? He looks at the other two. And you, what kind of failures are you? My kind, or El Tano's? You should leave, Ronie, says
Martín. That would be best, Ronie, says Gustavo. Off you go, Ronie, they tell him. They've given you their answer. They've given me their answer. You're not equal to the circumstances. No, I'm not. What about you two? You can go home, Ronie, seriously, says Gustavo and he accompanies him to the door. Ronie goes. To his house, to his terrace. Ours. Convinced that they're mad, drunk, idiots but that – when it comes to it – they won't do it, that this will all have been hot air, that when the moment comes a jot of sanity will prevail and there will be no swimming, or music, there will be no cable, or electricity, or suicide. He's sure of it. They were right to ask him to leave; Gustavo and Martín will handle El Tano better than he could. Or perhaps the three of them have all conspired in this ruse and now they're laughing about it and pouring another drink. Ronie reaches his home and climbs the stairs. He sits down and waits, certain that events on the other side of the road will take a different course. However, upstairs on the terrace, while he drinks and the ice slides on the tiled floor, while Virginia talks to him and he fails to listen, while that sad, contemporary jazz plays and the poplars whisper in the heavy night air, what he sees through the trees shows him how wrong he was.