The Last Resort (24 page)

If a professor of language and literature were watching Sánchez’s fingers galloping across his Sony VAIO keyboard, he might wonder how the great radio announcer planned to connect the dots between the blind exhibitionist and Mercedes Algorta. Suffice it to say that after devoting six or seven lines to the topic of his first day at L’Hirondelle, Sánchez (who is such a keen observer of people) notes that two guests in particular caught his eye and raised his suspicions the minute he laid eyes on them.

“There is something serious going on between Mercedes and Arce here,” he writes. “But they made a big mistake, an uncharacteristically idiotic mistake for two such intelligent people, when they selected L’Hirondelle d’Or as their rendezvous point scarcely two months after the rather questionable death of the lady’s husband. Both Algorta and Arce are sophisticated—they should have known that the golden rule of illicit lovers (and perhaps accomplices to an unspeakable crime—who knows?) is to never ever pick a remote hideaway as a meeting place. How stupid, how nearsighted of them to have even thought of coming here. A date in a bustling, popular location always comes off as much more innocent—but then again, guilt is a nearsighted exhibitionist, exposing its ignominy in the least appropriate place.”

The words that Antonio Sánchez now types into his computer have an intense, suffocating quality to them. On the surface the prose is simple, but inside it is rotten to the core—his words seem to evoke the Puritans (or witch-hunters, to be more precise) of Salem, the sins that beg for punishment, the sound of wicked flesh burning at the stake as people cry “Guilty! Guilty!” and other zealous accusations. This is even more remarkable since Sánchez has never heard of Nathaniel Hawthorne or his masterpiece
The Scarlet Letter.
Even so, the same themes are all there in black and white:

“The general public—an exceedingly wise group when it comes to these matters—has begun to point its fingers at Mercedes Algorta as the potential culprit of this very abominable crime. How did she do it? How did she lead her husband so definitively to death’s door? Simple: She didn’t do a thing. That is what all of Madrid is whispering these days—and please remember that I am merely presenting the information that I have in my possession. They say that on that fateful night, our lady friend found her husband gasping for breath, and she very simply did nothing to help him. What could be easier? Or more innocent? And yet what crime is more despicable than the crime—the sin—of omission? An omission that kills, an omission that looks on impassively at the agony of another human being, an omission that watches on as a dying man turns to the one person he believes can save him and looks up to see nothing but an icy smile . . .”

At this point, Sánchez’s fingers pound out their electric phrases and crude images at full blast:

“Poor Valdés, breathing his last breath, watches as Mercedes coolly closes the door to the room, as if to say that life exists outside that room, as does the woman Valdés almost made love to a few minutes earlier—Isabella, his impossible love, his desire. Inside the room, he has only his ruthless wife, who so cruelly and ironically sits beside him and pretends to loosen his tie despite the fact that death, procuress of so many unspeakable infamies, has already come to call on her husband.”

How his fingers sail across the keyboard now! The article, no doubt, is slightly erratic and far too long, but he is not concerned, for there will be plenty of time to edit it later. Naturally, it will have to be written in another style—not because what he has written is untrue, of course. What he has written is as true as life itself. And the proof is right there under everyone’s nose: The two lovers are right here at the hotel, which must mean that Mercedes Algorta killed her husband. Case closed. When he reworks the article he will have to tighten it up a bit, throw in a few shocking tidbits, the kind he uses to spice up his radio programs. Still, all that can wait. For the moment, our great man is content to sit back and see what other brilliant ideas find their way out his fingertips and into this magic machine.

Sánchez runs a very admiring finger across the top of his Sony VAIO. “How grand it is to be so very talented,” he says to himself, certain that this sort of thing never happens to anyone but bona fide geniuses. Talent always seems so elusive, and then it creeps up on you just like that! All right, he tells himself, let’s see what I come up with now.
Click, click, click
go his fingers across the keyboard. As he rereads the next paragraph he pounds out, he notes with satisfaction that it has a delicious gossip-magazine tone, with a dash of malice thrown in, Elsa Maxwell–style this time:

“The angular jaw of screenwriter-of-the-moment Santiago Arce, an attractive man drooled over by women of all ages, would have dropped a full four inches had its master dared express his feelings out loud: ‘What a colossal, irrevocable mistake!’ he would say. And he would be right. After pulling off the most perfect crime with his lover, bumping off Mercedes Algorta’s husband—
this
was the very worst mistake he could have possibly made.”

Sánchez is very pleased by the
in crescendo
tone, for his fingers have finally asserted that the two of them, Mercedes and Arce, killed her husband together. Bravo, bravo! Now it is a homicidal duo he is dealing with, not just one little murderess. Of course, when he uses these notes to write the final version of the article, he obviously cannot spell it out quite so clearly, but there are plenty of ways to allude to certain things—after all, allusions can be far more effective than straightforward factual statements. What about the truth? you might ask. What if it turns out that the husband did in fact choke to death before anyone could get to him? What if it turns out that the little tête-à-tête between Mercedes and Arce is entirely coincidental and that they never even laid eyes on each other before coinciding at L’Hirondelle d’Or? In that case . . . the story would be of no interest to anyone. Elsa Maxwell was fully aware of this in her day too, but she was a master of her craft, and never allowed real life to get in the way of a good story. Sánchez feels precisely the same. Faithful to his mission, he allows his fingers to click away:

“In reality, ladies and gentlemen, everyone in Madrid suspected she was guilty of this sin. People were buzzing about it in living rooms all over town. And the lovers would have gotten away with it had it not been for one minor detail. A truly unfortunate detail, one that has proven time and again to foil even the most perfect crimes. After pulling off their great effort, criminals all too often make the mistake of toasting each other with champagne or dancing a rumba over the dead man’s grave. When they do this, they commit acts not of sacrilege but of mortal stupidity. No, my friends, our fair Arce and his divine lover did not commit the specific post-mortem gaffe mentioned above. But there are many ways to drink champagne or dance a rumba on a dead man’s grave, and theirs was as follows: Once they had completed their abominable deed, they made the very idiotic decision to take off for a vacation at a luxurious Moroccan hotel to celebrate their despicable success. Criminals, you see, are often too impatient to lie low for an appropriate period of time after committing their crime.

“Uncovered! Exposed!

“It is a real shame, but destiny has no mercy on impatient murderers. An unfortunate ending for an otherwise perfect crime, I’m afraid, because this couple will face a bitter finale to their wayward adventures. A few days later, free as birds, so very vulnerable in their belief that they are safe and sound in their golden hideaway, Arce and the lovely Mercedes suddenly bump into the one person capable of exposing their little sham to the rest of the world. And that
one
person is, of course . . .”

Sánchez’s fingers would have written something like “this humble servant,” but “servant” doesn’t really go with the Elsa Maxwell bit. For this reason his fingers stop short precisely when they are about to finish off the story by explaining how their master (that is, Antonio Sánchez López himself) discovered the truth about Mercedes Algorta, a mousy little Nobody from a good family who turned herself into a merry widow and wealthy heiress.
What a delicious story,
thinks Antonio Sánchez. It has all the ingredients—some real, others not so real, but who cares? Anything goes, as they say.

Sánchez rereads his text, breathless. It’s so odd, so unfamiliar, slightly incoherent too, perhaps—but that is what you get with stream of consciousness. It is unpredictable, anarchical . . . and brilliant. He scrolls back up to the first line:

“Crime doesn’t pay.”

What an uncanny beginning. Until this moment, he hadn’t fully realized the magnitude of journalistic possibilities presented by Mercedes Algorta’s story. For the moment, he plans to tell it without mentioning any names, for that will serve to add intrigue. “Who can it be?” everyone will whisper. Magnificent idea, yes, that is exactly what he will do, and he’ll look for a good title, something like “Crimes of the Rich” or “Days of Wine, Roses and Treachery”—yes, yes, something like that. Perfect. Of course, he has much more material than he can actually use; his notes are endless. But he is in no rush, for he doesn’t have to hand the thing in until next week, which gives him plenty of time to perfect it. Although, no, his day’s work isn’t quite done yet. He still has one more detail to take care of, one that some people might find irrelevant, but he believes it to be paramount, for it is the key to his success. Ever since his earliest days on the airwaves, Antonio Sánchez has always practiced his sermons. Someone, an ordinary person who more or less represents the average man (someone pretty dense, in Sánchez’s opinion), must listen to Sánchez recite his spiel out loud and in person. That is the very best way to make it perfect. Only by reading his material out loud can he determine both the strong points (which he will later accentuate) and the weak points (which he will later eliminate). This little method also happens to work like a charm with written articles. As such, what he needs right now is a standard run-of-the-mill set of ears, those of an average person. And all of a sudden it hits him.
What a stroke of luck,
he thinks. For goodness’ sake—I have the perfect specimen right under my nose.

He looks at his watch. Six o’clock in the evening. More than an hour to kill before dinner, which is very convenient, for that will be just enough time to recount the whole story to Ana Fernández de Bugambilla as she gets dressed for dinner.

“How would you like to hear the story of a real bitch, darling?”

Let’s see . . . that opener is definitely out, for he already used it as an introduction to a previous conversation, and Antonio Sánchez is not a man to recycle conversation starters. No. The prelude will be different this time around—much simpler, something like “Sit down, darling.” And then he will launch into his story while caressing the contours of her neck or one of her divine calves.

Sánchez sits up, saves what he has written, and before closing his word-processing program he thinks:
Fuck the fat congresswoman.
And he thinks this because he no longer has the slightest doubt that the piece he has been asked to write for the special Sunday supplement will be a hell of a lot more successful if he sticks with the story of high-society infidelity and murder.

“I feel sorry for you, but you fucked up, Santiago Arce and company,” he says as he closes his laptop. “You really fucked up.”

Sports

Careful! To play paddle tennis, don’t even
think
of wearing tennis clothes, for that would be terribly gauche. Men will look perfectly fine in a pair of old cutoffs that land right about mid-thigh level (shorter shorts are only for French backpackers who frequent campsites) or a simple pair of bathing trunks with a T-shirt (if possible, as well-worn as the cutoffs). Oddly enough, an unspoken rule seems to dictate that the best players are always those with the most ragged, disheveled appearance.

—Carmen de Posadas,
Yuppies, jet set, la movida y otras especies
(Yuppies, jet-set, the movida and other species, 1987)

Paddle Tennis, Cellular Telephones, and Sneakers
(
Two Days Later
)

The Muguet bedroom at L’Hirondelle, occupied by Bea and Bernardo, pays homage to its name even in the tiniest of details. Lilies of the valley decorate the porcelain in the bathrooms, the subtle wallpaper is dotted with faint petals and stalks, and lovely little flower buds cover the bedspread. Bea stops to admire these little flowers, alternately wrinkling and smoothing them as she chats with J. P. Bonilla, whom she has just telephoned in response to the message he left on her machine.

“I can hardly hear you, J.P. Please tell me you’re not in a restaurant because, I might remind you, it is the height of bad taste to sit there talking into your Nokia unless you are eating alone, and I doubt you are, given how terribly popular you say you have become.”

Bonilla assures her that, no, he is playing paddle tennis at the moment. He does not, however, wish to waste his one hour of athletic activity by talking to Bea and so he quickly explains the reason for the message he left her. As it turns out, he wants to offer her a little assignment, one that he claims is tailor-made for her.

“It’s a real cushy job,” he says. “You are going to absolutely love it—it’s easy, well paid, a real deal. Look, for someone who’s well connected, speaks English, and knows how to be a guardian angel it’s a breeze.”

Bea raises her hand—not to indicate enthusiasm for such a hearty pitch, but to search for the pack of Gitanes she has left somewhere on the bedspread. She locates it and lights a cigarette, despite the fact that such strong tobacco hardly jibes with the delicate
muguet
decor of the bedroom. And she listens.

“Are you familiar with Harpic Arvhaubi, darling?” asks J.P.

“No. I don’t think I could even pronounce the name, matter of fact. Someone important?”

“Darling, darling, come back to planet Earth. She’s in all the newspapers. Harpic Arvhaubi is the writer everyone’s talking about these days, or haven’t you heard?”