The She-Devil in the Mirror (7 page)

I'll bet you anything she gives Villalta all his info. I saw them together,
that's what I'm telling you, I didn't hear it from anyone. It was pure
coincidence. I was walking down Paseo Escalón, about two blocks below Villas
Españolas, right near her boutique, when what do you know? I see that disgusting
Cheli walking with that detective. I didn't want to tell Marito about it; they'd
just say I was gossiping and the woman has a right to have a boyfriend. But can
you believe the prize she's found for herself? I told Doña Olga, of course. Just
so she'd know. The night before last, with Marito, after he was rude to me and I
had to put him in his place, I told him about Cheli and the detective. But we
weren't at his house anymore. Marito was very upset when I told him that some
people were saying that he might have arranged Olga María's murder. I swear he
went totally blank for about five seconds; not because he hadn't thought of it
or because nobody had mentioned it to him, but because I threw it in his face
right when he started making those filthy insinuations about her. All he managed
to say was that we shouldn't talk about it, the girls or dear Julita might show
up any moment, we should change the subject. Then I suggested we go out, because
I had several related issues I wanted to discuss with him, and it didn't seem
right to do it in the house. We went to the bar at the Hotel Fiesta, it's the
closest one. We each took our own car, obviously. The last thing I need is for
people to start gossiping about how I'm going out with Marito now that Olga
María is dead. All I wanted was to speak frankly, and to hear from him who he
suspects or blames for her death. You might not believe this, but it's been a
month since her murder, and we still hadn't had a heart-to-heart. For a thousand
and one reasons. Or maybe we were afraid. Sometimes you just don't want to know,
with so much garbage swirling around. But what made me fighting mad was hearing
Marito repeat the same lies against Yuca. Well, he didn't come right out and say
it, but just the fact that he insinuated it was enough. He's the husband, my
dear—anything he says or even hints at becomes the truth. That's why I wanted to
keep talking to him, to try to clear things up. The bar was empty; nobody ever
stays at the hotel itself, at least not during the week. I don't like that
hotel. There's a lien on it, because of the owner's debts. But it's the nearest
bar. That's why I suggested we go there. Looks like he's a regular, the staff
seemed to know him, especially one waitress, quite attractive, good body, but
dark-skinned, your average Salvadoran—not ugly, even kind of cute. So, this is
what we've come to, I said to Marito, because it was obvious he liked that
waitress, maybe he's even gone out with her, otherwise she wouldn't be so
friendly. That's what I told him. But he pretended not to understand. Men have
no staying power, my dear. His wife just died and here he is running after a
waitress. Marito ordered his usual: vodka with lemonade. I didn't feel like
deciding, so I ordered the same. Stand up, my dear. Sometimes I feel like an
idiot repeating all this drivel. Now, we can finally sit down. Let's see what
this despicable priest comes up with next; not that I'm even listening to him.
Right from the start, I got straight to the point with Marito: I asked him what
he knew about the murder investigation, I told him not to beat around the bush,
to tell me once and for all what had happened. He looked so sad, it was actually
touching: I realized he didn't know anything, either, he just has hypotheses
like we do, the whole month he'd been flailing around, at the mercy of
everyone's wagging tongues, without anything solid to hold onto. Poor thing.
Maybe that's why he's clutching at the possibility that Yuca had something to do
with the murder. I told him that later. What he told me is that nothing's been
proven: the murderer, that RoboCop guy, hasn't confessed to anything, he's kept
mum, he doesn't even admit he was the one who pulled the trigger, even though
the girls have positively identified him. Times are different now, you can't
apply the same kind of pressure you could before, because those human rights
communists will jump down your throat. Marito says that this Deputy Chief Handal
is pursuing a very discreet line of investigation. Seems RoboCop belongs to a
well-organized gang of criminals for hire. Marito thinks that if RoboCop was a
soldier and belongs to a gang there must be at least one high-ranking military
officer behind him. I don't understand why a high-ranking military officer would
have wanted Olga María murdered; I don't see the point, unless he wants to
become a politico at Yuca's expense. But Marito doesn't have many expectations:
he says that if RoboCop doesn't spill the beans, which will most likely be the
case, we'll never know who hired him. He also doesn't think Deputy Chief Handal
is digging deep enough; there are so many murders and most of them remain
unsolved. Marito says that the police are satisfied that they've arrested the
perpetrator, that in itself is a huge success, that's why they made such a big
to-do about it in the news, but he says they don't care about finding the
mastermind. I don't doubt it. This is the only prayer I know in full: Our
Father. The rest, I just know parts of them. You, too, right, my dear? Well, you
studied with nuns, you learned them when you were little, I didn't learn any of
it. What? Am I going to take communion? Are you kidding? If that priest gave it
to me, I wouldn't be able to resist the urge to spit it back in his face. Damn
him! We have to kneel again; what's going to happen to my stockings? As I was
saying, I couldn't get much out of Marito: he doesn't know anything we don't
already know. Unless he's a really good liar and was pulling the wool over my
eyes the whole time. You never know with men. You should have seen him flirting
with that waitress, like I wasn't even there. He thinks he's God's gift to
women, the poor thing. I don't know how Olga María could have married him. That
woman's got guts, you know, because Marito might be a really nice guy but to
have to put up with him every day, God help me. It's not that he's ugly, I just
don't see anything attractive about him: he's your ordinary dark-skinned guy.
His personality is the only thing worthwhile: he's calm, kind, generous. That's
why Olga María agreed to marry him—they were meant for each other. I can't
imagine them screaming at each other, much less fighting. But as much of a
goodie-two-shoes as Marito is, he kept on flirting with that waitress until I
told him to get a grip, he was going way overboard, not showing me any respect,
like I was a rag doll or something. So he cooled down. That's when I insisted he
tell me everything he knows, not keep any secrets, I was Olga María's best
friend, and he had no reason to hide anything from me. I stared right at him and
had a very serious expression on my face, just so he'd understand that I wasn't
joking, the best thing would be to stop keeping secrets from me. He told me that
Diana, her younger sister, had hired a private detective, while she was still in
Miami, someone named Pepe Pindonga, just like it sounds even though it sounds
like a joke, his name is Pepe Pindonga, some kind of weirdo who's already
questioned Marito and already started snooping around. Diana's the only one who
would have thought of doing such a thing: hiring a private detective, like this
is the States or something. She's nuts. Can you imagine, my dear? A private
detective in San Salvador? All he'll do is take her money and run. But, anyway,
that's her business not mine. Marito warned me not to be surprised if this Pepe
Pindonga tries to get in touch with me. It seems he's ordinary-looking, a bit
vulgar, and he asks questions with no consideration, like he belongs to the same
social class or something. I don't want to have anything to do with him. I told
Marito that's all I need: some charlatan who calls himself a private detective
coming and treating me disrespectfully, as if I haven't already had enough with
that Deputy Chief Handal and his gang. I told him I wasn't willing to be
questioned by a private detective, I have absolutely no interest in talking to
somebody who will probably use whatever information we give him to blackmail us,
only someone as demented as Diana could think there's such a thing as a private
detective in this city. Marito says the guy is intelligent, clever, but he
agrees that Diana is throwing her money away, because if we're dealing with an
organized gang of former military officers, this detective will resign from the
case in a second. Which doesn't mean he won't charge Diana, even if he hasn't
accomplished anything. That's what I think, anyway. We drank three vodkas each.
Marito wanted to keep drinking, but I told him it was late, I felt pretty
sloshed, and the truth is, I wasn't enjoying myself, and least of all when I had
to constantly remind Marito not to flirt with that waitress. Look at that, Señor
Saint up here is going to sweeten our ears with his homily, he's going to offer
us his spiritual and moral teachings. What a swine. I refuse to listen to him.
Hypocrite. After what he's done to Yuca he has the nerve to stand behind the
pulpit and speak in the name of God. Have you ever seen such barefaced
hypocrisy? Anyway, the thing is, my dear, the only thing I got clear is that
Marito's as confused as we are. Maybe the only ones who know anything are the
police, but if some ex-officer is involved we'll never find out anything. Oh,
and I forgot: there's some journalist who's also investigating the Olga María
case, a reporter from that newspaper,
Ocho Columnas
. Can you believe
it? That rag that only reports scandals—the very same newspaper that's been
waging its campaign against Yuca, that's been harassing him for weeks. And you
know who the famous reporter is? That pathetic creature named Rita Mena, the
same one who accused Yuca of assaulting her, as if she wasn't asking for it with
her stupid questions. Haven't you read the newspapers, about the journalist
union's accusations against Yuca? They say that Yuca and his bodyguards
intimidated the reporter, assaulted her—she claimed they grabbed her camera away
so they could destroy the roll of pictures she'd taken of Yuca. That's the same
reporter who's investigating the murder. It infuriates me. I suspect it's
precisely Yuca's enemies who are behind that newspaper, the same ones who
launched that press campaign to oust him from the party leadership, the same
ones who made that huge fuss about the stolen car this shameless priest sold
him, the ones who sent that reporter to Yuca just to provoke him. I don't even
want to think what she'll write about Olga María's death. I can already imagine
it. Yuca's enemies want that stupid woman to implicate him in the murder. I'm
sure of it. Marito was the one who told me that reporter has been harassing him
for the last few days. I don't know how she found out about my existence,
because she told Marito she wants to interview me. I'm just waiting for her to
call me, my dear, so I can tell her to go straight to Hell. She'll get what's
coming to her, for snooping around, for being stupid. Did that priest finally
finish with his nonsense? I don't believe you're going to take communion. Me?
Are you kidding?

6. THE TERRACE

L
UCKILY
I
FOUND YOU,
my dear. I made up my mind to stop by your house
once and for all to tell you all about it. Nobody else is home, right? Thank
goodness. Bring me a glass of water, I'm very agitated. You wouldn't believe
what happened to me, what I've found out. What a news flash. Let's go out on the
terrace: there's a nice breeze. Yes, I'm in shock. It's something you wouldn't
believe. Try to guess. It's got to do with Olga María. You can't guess, can you?
Are you ready, my dear: apparently Olga María and Alberto had an
affaire
. Yes, my ex-husband, if you can believe it. I'm going to
tell you everything, blow by blow. Settle in, because it's a long story. I love
how you can see the city from up here, especially at this time of day, when the
sun has already set. The chaise longue turned out so pretty with that printed
fabric. Well, the thing is, this morning I went to Mercedes's beauty salon to
get my hair done. Do you like how it turned out? I told her to straighten the
ends, like Turlington wears it, that model from the States—though they say her
mother is Salvadoran, but who knows what kind of family it is. Anyway, I was at
the beauty salon for about an hour, chatting with Mercedes—she's really nice. At
some point, I don't know when, we started talking about Olga María. Mercedes
loved her a lot. She's been doing our hair for ten years. I don't understand why
you've never wanted to give her a try. Anyway, the thing is that while we were
talking about Olga María I sensed a change in Mercedes's voice, a different
tone, like there was something she didn't want to talk about, or like she had
something to hide. I was flipping through a magazine. But then I looked up and
saw Mercedes in the mirror, and something had changed, she had a completely
different expression on her face. She realized that I'd realized. You know what
I mean? Something weird was going on. Since I don't know how to keep things to
myself, I asked her what was wrong. She turned her back to me and asked me why I
was asking, she said nothing was wrong, other than that she got really sad
whenever she thought of Olga María. But sadness wasn't what I'd seen in her
face: she knew something she didn't want to tell me—that was my intuition, my
dear. You know I'm not paranoid. Maybe it struck me so hard because I'd never
thought that Mercedes might know something about Olga María's death: she was
only her hairdresser, like she's mine. The point is, she was anxious to change
the subject, and I couldn't keep insisting, mainly because she had other clients
waiting, and one of them was Inés Murillo, who is such a busybody—I don't like
her at all. The whole incident left me with a bad feeling. This terrace is so
refreshing. No, my dear, no, thank you, I've already had enough coffee. But
that's only the very beginning; the best part happened afterward, when I'd left
the beauty salon and was about to get into my car. Can you guess? I had a flat
tire. I was mad as hell. Those things always happen to me at the worst possible
moments. I was about to go back to Mercedes and call the Automobile Club when
this person suddenly appeared: he came right up to me and told me not to worry,
he'd change my tire. I was suspicious, as you can imagine. I said, thank you
very much, but I don't want to bother you, I'll call the Automobile Club, and
they'll send somebody out. The guy was adamant: he told me I would waste more
than an hour waiting for the Automobile Club truck to come, he was a member,
too, and he'd had a similar experience a few weeks ago. I checked the man out
more carefully: he didn't look like a hooligan, though these days one can never
be sure, but also there was a guard with a huge machine gun right across the
street at the mall. That's why I figured I wasn't risking anything, and there
was no question he'd change the tire long before anybody from the Automobile
Club showed up. When he saw me hesitating, he took off his blue linen jacket and
walked around to the back of the car, then he motioned to me to open the trunk
so he could get out the tools and the spare tire. He's dark, short, he's got a
typical-enough face, but he was wearing khakis and a white Polo shirt and those
Bostonian shoes everybody and his brother wears. I told myself he'd just
happened to be walking by and he wanted to be chivalrous and maybe ask me out
for a date afterward. You know how men are, my dear. We don't expect them to do
something like that for nothing. And I was right. He hadn't even finished
changing the tire when he started staring at me: he had this look of surprise on
his face, as if he knew me from somewhere and had just then recognized me. I
expected him to come out with something stupid, like those idiots who say,
“Haven't we met somewhere before?” but then he asked me if I was Laura Rivera. I
stood there staring at him, very serious and not very friendly, I felt like
asking him what it was to him who I was, don't be so nosy, just change the tire,
which anyway I'd never even asked him to do, he's the one who insisted on
helping me with who knows what ulterior motives; I even had the urge to tell him
to get away from my car immediately, don't touch it again, or my tires, or my
tools, go, get lost now, I'll call the Automobile Club like I should have from
the get-go. I was about to walk over to the security guard and ask him to watch
my car very carefully and make sure that man leaves it exactly as it is while I
go to Mercedes's salon to use the phone, I was on the verge of blowing up over
the nerve of that dark, fat-lipped dwarf, when he mentioned Olga María. This is
what he said: that I was best friends with Doña Olga María de Trabanino, he
recognized me from several photos he'd seen at her house, photos Don
Mario—that's what he called him—had been kind enough to show him. The man spoke
quickly: he didn't give me a chance to get a word in edgewise, and I could tell
he was trying to make a good impression. It made me furious to think that
Marito's the only person I know who'd even think of going around showing
pictures to the first person who asked to see them. Then the man said what a
coincidence it was: he was on his way to the beauty salon to interview Mercedes,
and here he'd run into me, how fortunate, fate was clearly on his side. That was
when I realized who I was dealing with: he had to be that detective Diana hired
and Marito told me about. To top it off, his nose looked like a fried egg. I was
incensed, it was obvious this guy had been looking for a chance to meet me; I
got the feeling there was much more than met the eye behind this supposedly
chance encounter. But just then he held out his hand and told me his name was
Pepe Pindonga, it was an honor to have this opportunity to meet me, several
people had spoken very highly of me. I was about to tell him to get lost, make
yourself scarce, but my curiosity got the better of me, my desire to find out
why this detective had decided to question Mercedes, so I didn't send him on his
way right then and there. I like this terrace; and if you had a drop of
something to drink, now that things have cooled off, it would be fantastic; yes,
I'd love a shot of Kahlua. While he was putting the tools away in the trunk and
sweating like a pig, I asked him, pretending I was just curious. He told me that
one of his hypotheses in the case—that's what he said, “hypotheses” as if he
were Deputy Chief Handal himself—had led him right to this beauty salon I had
just left. I wanted to tell him that it seemed like a dirty trick for a phony
like him, a charlatan who passes himself off as a private detective, to try to
implicate a working woman like Mercedes in Olga María's murder. But this Pepe
Pindonga didn't let me talk, he was irrepressible, vehement, gesturing wildly,
it was like the world was about to come to an end and he had to utter the most
amount of words in the least amount of time possible. He told me it wouldn't be
appropriate for us to discuss such a delicate subject there in the parking lot,
he would very much like to talk to me in private, try to corroborate some
information he had, and he'd be delighted to tell me all about his hypothesis
about the beauty salon if I'd accept his invitation to go with him to have a cup
of coffee. This Pepe Pindonga doesn't beat around the bush, my dear; he's
dangerous, he swallows you up, as if he were a hypnotist or a magician. At some
point, I don't know when, he'd gotten into my car and sat down next to me, then
he asked me to put the air conditioning on full blast otherwise he'd never stop
sweating. The guy is like a machine gun, he doesn't stop talking, and about any
subject whatsoever: he said he loves BMWs, he's a great admirer of these cars,
even though he's never had one, but at one point in his career as a journalist
he worked for a magazine about automobiles, that's why he knows so much about
them and nobody can get anything past him. I had to force him to be quiet so I
could ask him where we were going. Mercedes's beauty salon is in the Balam
Quitzé mall, as you know, that's why he suggested we go to the Hotel El
Salvador; that was the nearest place. I wasn't so sure about it: I didn't relish
the prospect of walking with that guy into a place where I'd probably run into
more than one person I knew, but I couldn't think of anyplace else to go, and I
wanted to hear all about the Mercedes connection. This Pepe Pindonga should be a
radio announcer instead of a private detective: in that short ride to the hotel
he managed to tell me a huge chunk of his life story. During the war he lived in
Mexico, where he worked as a reporter for one of the major newspapers there. He
told me how one time he came to San Salvador to do a report on the bizarre
suicide of a captain in the armed forces, a squalid story that implicated
several other officers and resulted in Pepe Pindonga having to make a quick
getaway to avoid being killed. That was during the war, according to him. He was
telling me all this on our way to the hotel, and I wasn't paying much attention
because all I wanted to know was about Olga María's case and his hypothesis
about Mercedes. But I couldn't figure out how to make him shut up. He told me he
came back to live here a few months after the war ended, when President
Cristiani had already surrendered to the terrorists, as papa says. He worked for
a while at
Ocho Columnas
. Can you believe it? Yes, indeed, my dear, the
very same newspaper that waged the campaign against Yuca. I was in shock when he
said that. The first thought that came to me was that this big-mouthed phony was
part of the conspiracy against Yuca. I was about to read him the riot act,
demand that he get out of my car immediately, when he asked me if I knew Rita
Mena, the reporter from the same newspaper who was in charge of investigating
Olga María's murder. That was the last straw. I told him I didn't, I told him I
had absolutely no interest in meeting that kind of trash, I consider journalists
to be a filthy race, buzzards, vultures after carrion, flies hovering over
shit—and that stupid reporter from
Ocho Columnas
more than any of them,
I consider her an accomplice in the plot against Yuca, and it's only because
I've got good manners that I'd give him a ride back to the mall because I had
nothing more to say to him. He told me to take it easy, not to get the wrong
impression: he hated
Ocho Columnas
, too, everybody who works there, and
especially Rita Mena; it was her fault he'd had to leave that paper, he could
deliver truckloads of dirt on that sleezebag. He convinced me to keep driving to
the hotel when he told me he was certain that Rita Mena and the newspaper had
been involved in a bigger conspiracy aimed at removing Yuca from the political
arena. The way he said it, it sounded like he was repeating my very own words.
He has absolutely no doubt that Olga María's murder is being used to finish Yuca
off. His words. If the case is rigorously investigated the clues will lead to
those who have been the main beneficiaries of Yuca's political demise. I was
stunned, my dear, that was precisely what I was thinking but I hadn't been able
to put into so many words, plus I realized that this detective knew a lot. You
know what else he said? That only an idiot or someone with ulterior motives
would think that Yuca or another one of her lovers would've had Olga María
murdered; we're dealing here with a crime committed for perfectly calculated
political motives, not a crime of passion, like that Deputy Chief Handal is
trying to make us believe. Precisely what I think. I managed to ask him if he'd
spoken about all this and in such clear terms to Marito. He told me they were
paying him to investigate a murder, not sink a recently widowed man into a deep
depression; if he was telling me this, it was because he was sure I already knew
about Olga María's escapades. “Escapades,” the moron said, like she was some
kind of floozy. Luckily, when we got to the hotel I didn't see anybody I knew,
and in the café I chose a corner table and sat with my back to the entrance. I
love how they remodeled that hotel; it looks so modern, so spacious, the decor's
in such good taste. I like the architecture of the boutiques the best. Did you
know that when they first started the remodel they asked Olga María if she
wanted to open up a branch of her boutique there? But she thought it was too
risky. The thing is, once we were sitting in the café, I asked him how he'd
found out about Yuca and Olga María's relationship. He told me that when they
threw him out of
Ocho Columnas
, he went to work as the head of PR for
the police academy. Can you imagine the contacts he established there? He's made
a lot of progress in the investigation. He told me a ton of things. Supposedly,
we were just going for a cup of coffee, but we talked for about four hours;
first in the café, then we went to the bar, and then we ate at the restaurant
next to the pool. He doesn't drink coffee or alcohol or smoke; the exact
opposite of the private detectives in the movies. He says he's already used up
his quota of drinking and smoking, he's already ingested enough toxins for a
lifetime. He doesn't look that old to me at all, but who knows what kind of life
he's led. He ordered a chamomile tea and I had a coca-cola. Then he told me that
Diana had hired him totally out of the blue, he's never met her, all he's seen
is a photo Marito showed him; they've spoken on the telephone, it would be
ridiculous if they hadn't at least done that. He says about fifteen days ago he
received a fax in his office, near Bloom Hospital, next to the university, in
that area, I'm not sure exactly where, I get lost in that neighborhood. The fax
was from Diana in Miami, requesting his services to investigate the murder of
Olga María. Diana doesn't trust the police. He claims he doesn't know how Diana
heard about him and decided to hire him. But he immediately plunged into the
case. He's had access to the police reports, he says, and I believe him, my
dear, because he knows more than we do: he mentioned Olga María's relationship
with Julio Iglesias, with José Carlos, with Yuca. Then I went totally numb when
he asked me if I knew that my ex-husband had had an