The Two Deaths of Senora Puccini (4 page)

Dalakis lifted his hands and pressed them together in front of his mouth. Then he blew through them, making a rushing noise. Malgiolio had stopped leafing through the book and was waiting to hear what Dalakis would say next.

“Can you imagine that moment? Of course Pacheco looked at her. Who can blame him? Think of her immaculate, untouched body. But at last he turned away. ‘Do you find me so ugly?' she called after him. He stood with his back to her. ‘Ugly?' he asked. ‘You are extremely beautiful. Unluckily, you are also my daughter.' Of course, she was astonished and at first she didn't believe him. Pacheco told her the entire story. Then she felt humiliated but Pacheco said there was nothing to feel guilty about, that only a simple mistake had been made.

“But, in fact, it wasn't so simple. Even though she knew Pacheco was her father, her feelings were unchanged. She told my daughter about it. She said she still desired him, that she hungered for him. It was not long after that she went to study in Paris. She couldn't stay in the same city with Pacheco, couldn't stay in the same country.

“My daughter hears from her occasionally. She knows no men, won't go out. Here she is, one of the most beautiful women in the city of Paris, yet she refuses to give herself to another man because the man she loves, whom she passionately desires, happens to be her father. Amazing, isn't it? If you look at the picture closely, you can even see a resemblance—those almond-shaped eyes, for instance, and that wide chin. . . .”

There was an abrupt squawking noise as Malgiolio tilted back his head and laughed up at the ceiling. “That's the most ridiculous story I've ever heard. Really, Carl, you should have been an actor. I'm not saying Pacheco didn't have a daughter under such circumstances, but I'll swear that the woman in the photograph is not she.”

I stood up and walked over to Dalakis. The story struck me as both charming and foolish. I put my hand on his shoulder. “You really are an incurable romantic, Carl. How could you bring yourself to believe such a thing?”

“It's true,” said Dalakis, half angry and half laughing. “The girl really is his daughter and it was my own daughter who told me the story. Why should I lie to you?”

He asked the question so forcefully that I retreated a little. “I don't mean to say you're lying, but even if your story is true, why are you so certain the girl in the picture is Pacheco's daughter? You said you saw her a number of years ago. Perhaps it's someone else, some third woman.”

“And I suppose you know who it is,” said Malgiolio.

His tone irritated me. “Perhaps I do,” I said. Walking to the liquor cabinet, I poured myself more mineral water. Then I looked again at the photograph. There was a yielding quality to the face, as if she were willing to let herself be taken but only by the right man. Truly, she was offering herself, offering and refusing at the same time. Returning the picture to the mantel, I walked toward the window. I had no wish for Malgiolio to laugh at me as he had laughed at Dalakis. Why should I tell my story when there was no hope of communication?

“Don't let Malgiolio upset you,” said Dalakis, standing up, “you know how he is.”

Yes, I thought, he's the man who squandered a third of a million in thirteen months. I looked out at the street. There was no one in sight. Over the buildings to my left a huge column of smoke rose up in the shape of a dog's head. The windows were the sort that had to be cranked open. I opened one, then sat down on the red cushion. Again there were gunshots and sirens, but they seemed far away. Behind me Dalakis and Malgiolio were quarreling about their respective stories.

The story I knew about the woman in the picture was quite different. I'd heard it from a reporter at the paper who had pointed her out to me in a restaurant several years before. Her name was Andrea Morales and her husband was an engineer for a highway construction company. Her beauty was well known and before her marriage she had been an actress and appeared in a couple of television plays.

She had met Pacheco at a dinner party. She and her husband had no children and my friend suggested she was bored and had no idea what to do with herself. Of course Pacheco wanted her. He called her, he wrote to her, and eventually they had an affair that went on for some months. Then her husband learned about it. He was deeply in love with his wife. Distraught and miserable, he took a bottle of sleeping pills. She found him on the kitchen floor after she came back from being with Pacheco. He was barely alive. She got him to the hospital and for a week he remained in a coma.

The husband recovered, but not completely. Physically he seemed perfect, but he had some nervous disorder. His wife took care of him. Even so, he no longer trusted her or found pleasure in her company. He was constantly making scenes in public, even bursting into tears. The woman decided to remain with him no matter what, feeling she was responsible for his condition and that perhaps he would improve. But, according to my friend, he showed no signs of improving and the two of them, man and wife, remained locked in this suspicious and guilt-ridden relationship without pleasure or love.

Malgiolio and Dalakis continued to argue. It occurred to me that even if we were wrong about the photograph, the stories themselves were probably true. And of course there were other stories about Pacheco and women, there were hundreds of stories. As I walked back across the library, I was struck by the idea that the stories probably said more about the men who had told them than about the photograph or even Pacheco— Dalakis's story was romantic and basically kind, Malgiolio's showed envy and lasciviousness. And my own, what did my story tell? And who, if anyone, was right?

—

But then at last Pacheco arrived. There was a noise on the other side of the door. Then it opened and he hurried into the room, pulling on a dark gray suitcoat. Pacheco's expression was apologetic yet good-natured, as if he were sincerely happy to see us.

“I'm terribly sorry. A man on the next street was injured and I had to see to him. Clearly, this is an awful night for our dinner. Carl, it's good to see you. And Batterby. You too, Malgiolio. How brave of you all to come.”

Pacheco hurried to each of us and embraced us. He was a tall, thin man, seemingly very muscular, with long silver hair combed back over his head. His face too was long and thin. It was an angular face with bright blue eyes and it reminded me of someone in an El Greco painting. All he needed was one of those pointy little beards. As on other occasions, I was struck by the care of his movements. Even as he hurried to us, his every motion seemed studied and precise, as if it would be impossible for him to do anything by accident or to act on impulse. He had thick, full lips and his teeth were somewhat crooked and stained with nicotine from his constant Gauloises. The first two fingers of his right hand were also stained yellow because of the way he smoked a cigarette down to its last half inch. He always dressed conservatively but with a bright tie or brightly colored handkerchief. Tonight the tip of a garishly orange handkerchief protruded from the breast pocket of his gray coat. With me, he took my hand and asked about my health, especially about my blood sugar level. It had been low recently, but I didn't care to mention that. To tell the truth, I have always been slightly offended by the degree of intimacy doctors assume. He put his hand on my shoulder and turned back to the others.

“I'm afraid they've called a curfew,” he said. “But there's plenty of room here and I'll see that you're made as comfortable as possible. We may make quite a small group. There've been cancellations. Cardone called before the phones went out and said he had to work.”

Although I had no wish to sleep at Pacheco's, neither did I want to go out on the street if there was still trouble. “He's covering the demonstrations?” I asked. Cardone was a reporter for my paper's main rival and I often envied him his job.

“Yes, that's what he said, although I gather there's been a total news blackout. Several reporters, including some from the foreign press, have been detained.”

“Who else isn't coming?” asked Dalakis.

Pacheco had made himself a drink, French dry vermouth with a little ice, and was refilling Malgiolio's glass with brandy. He moved quickly, lighting a cigarette, holding up a glass to see if it was perfectly clean, assuring himself that neither I nor Dalakis was in need of a drink, glancing at his watch, slipping a small wedge of lime into his glass, and all the while he would turn to us and nod or give a slight smile. He had a way of drawing people into intimacy, of almost, by his manner, suggesting you shared a secret that set you off from all the others. He made you want to trust him, which was partly responsible for his success as a surgeon. I thought again how I knew nothing about him.

“I very much doubt that Hernandez or Serrano will come,” said Pacheco, handing Malgiolio his brandy. “Hernandez will be kept quite busy at his church, and Serrano, what with his government clients, will stay quiet until he senses the turn of the political tide. As for the others, Kress is in the military and Schwab is with the police, so I don't expect them either.”

“I expect we can cross off Sarno as well,” said Dalakis. “His market is in a poor area and he'll be afraid of looting.”

“So there'll only be four of us,” said Malgiolio. He seemed pleased that the rest weren't coming. “It will be our duty to eat for ten. It's too bad that Batterby only picks at his food.”

“Then he'll have to pick carefully,” said Pacheco, giving me a wink, then smiling at Malgiolio. These seemed automatic gestures, facial responses that had little to do with what was said or going on around him, existing only to soothe and reassure. “As a matter of fact, you can eat for twenty if you like. I told my cook that a large number of hungry men were expected. Unfortunately, I may have to go out again. There have been many injuries.”

“Do you have any idea what's going on?” Dalakis asked. Pacheco and I had sat down on the couch, while Dalakis and Malgiolio stood by the mantel. Dalakis was leaning forward as if to hear better. His face when listening reminded me of two hands preparing to catch a ball.

“There seems to be trouble within the military itself,” said Pacheco. “Not surprising, considering what we've heard about disagreements between the army and air force. But there's also trouble at the university. The students took over the main campus last night and this morning the military tried to take it back.”

“You mean they're killing the students?” asked Dalakis.

“I gather it's a stalemate. The students seem to have destroyed a tank. You find it amusing, Luis?”

Malgiolio's small eyes were almost twinkling with pleasure.

“Malgiolio is still looking for a job,” I said. “He feels there'll be a lot of vacancies after today.”

Pacheco gave Malgiolio a scientific sort of look, as if he were looking at a machine about which he had no feelings. “If Luis is not careful, he will become a vacancy himself. There's been a great deal of random shooting.”

There was a knock at the door. Pacheco got up, then stood aside as the housekeeper pushed a large cart with a tray of canapés into the library. Although I was expecting a feast, both the variety and physical beauty of the food almost made me forget Pacheco's warning to Malgiolio. There must have been twenty varieties of canapé, some with caviar, some with smoked salmon, some with pâté. I studied them all to see what my diet would allow me to eat. Not much, I was afraid. The prettiest were the tips of four asparagus decorated with a small red X made with strips of pimiento. My favorite was made up of alternating slices of lobster and grapefruit, garnished with black olives.

“I had no idea what you might like,” said Pacheco, “so I ordered a little of everything. Put the cart by the fireplace, Señora.”

I watched the woman push the cart past Malgiolio, who reached out to take a square of toast topped with a small circle of shrimp. She didn't look at us. Although not unattractive, she seemed so removed from the room that it was hard to think of her as more than a piece of furniture. Once the cart was in place, she began arranging the white napkins and straightening a row of little silver forks. As she bent over, a wisp of black hair fell across one eye and she paused to tuck it back.

Malgiolio finished his shrimp and reached for something with black caviar. “By the way, Pacheco,” he said, “we've been having a discussion while waiting for you. Perhaps you can help us.”

Pacheco stubbed out his cigarette in a green ashtray. “I'd be happy to do what I can.”

He was famous for that sort of phrase, or offers of assistance, or inquiries after your health, and I've never had the slightest idea if they were sincere. Of course, he does help and give advice, but his civilized manner is so flawlessly constructed that one almost wishes to see him fall apart, to tumble into hysteria or grief, just to learn what kind of animal lies behind the mask.

“It's about that photograph on the mantel,” said Malgiolio with his mouth full. “I think it's a picture of Cecilia Mendez. Dalakis says it's a picture of someone named Sarah, and Batterby has some third idea which he is being coy about.”

“I thought it might be Andrea Morales,” I said. Was Malgiolio being offensive? Perhaps that's not quite possible with someone one has known since childhood. Certainly we have changed in forty years, but, in our dealings with one another, instead of being nearly fifty, we are all those different years at the same time; we are ten and fifteen and twenty-one and thirty-five—and we each see the others in this same way, so that Pacheco was both the successful surgeon and the solitary adolescent who prowled the city at night carrying a sword cane.

“So tell us,” said Malgiolio. “Who is correct?”

Pacheco resumed his place on the couch. In the curve of his lips there was just the slightest suggestion of disdain. “I am afraid you all are mistaken,” he said. “The picture is of my housekeeper, Señora Puccini, the woman who at this moment is offering you another cracker, Malgiolio.”