All Yours (14 page)

I arranged my wig in the rear-view mirror.

And off I went.

36

Photocopy of a book edited in Spain, a compendium of essays presented at the XII National Congress of Applied Psychology, 1995. The photocopied article is titled: ‘An approach to dactylo psychology: psychic traits and other considerations’. Its authors are a group of Spanish psychiatrists. The photocopy was found in the glove compartment of the car hired by Inés Pereyra. There were no notes in the margin.

L’uomo delinquente.
Such is the title of a work by Cesare Lombroso, an ex-army surgeon and director of the insane asylum at Pesaro. While working at Pesaro, Lombroso studied more than six thousand cases of people who had committed crimes and reported finding certain characteristics and physical peculiarities which, he argued, tended to recur in certain humans who were “born criminals”.

For Lombroso, the typical delinquent had a projecting jaw, large ears, long arms and high cheekbones. His studies showed, he argued, that arsonists had small heads; fraudsters were strong, with protruding jaws and high cheekbones; pickpockets had long hands and were generally tall with dark hair.

Lombroso was not alone in his views. The Viennese doctor Franz Joseph Gall developed a theory of phrenology, widely accepted at the time. According to this theory, a person’s character could be discerned through observation of his cranium. He believed domestic tendencies to be concentrated at the back of the head; intellectual aptitude at the front; generous instincts to be uppermost in the brain; selfishness and egocentrism to be on the sides. His followers went on to identify more than forty characteristics and insisted that measuring the head was sufficient to know if the subject was a hopeless drinker, a compulsive gambler or a thief.

The theories of Lombroso and Gall gradually lost favour. However, although their techniques may now be discredited, the essence of their argument is not entirely dead. Psychoanalysts, both forensic and otherwise, are still searching for a pattern that might identify potential future delinquents. Or murderers.

Perhaps the most interesting aspect of this search is that it is not so much directed towards identifying this potential in other people, but in ourselves.

We seek the guarantee that we could never be transformed into one of these little monsters.

37

I found a parking place. A bit tight, on a corner, twenty yards before the entrance to Ernesto’s office. A little before their garage exit. I put on some dark glasses I had bought earlier in the street, when I was doing the rounds of cash machines. Flimsy and cheap, but at least they were black. I waited. I thought of Lali. She was never going to cope. I put on the radio and fiddled with the dial, looking for someone really talkative and with a loud voice. Someone who wouldn’t let my mind turn to anything else, even to his own subject matter. I found one that fitted the bill and turned the volume up as high as my headache would allow. I waited. My legs were going to sleep, and I moved my feet in circles. Fifteen times to the right. Fifteen times to the left. I remembered the dark wig, with its soft, long, straight hair. Fifteen more to the right. Four to the left and then the doors to the garage opened. A car came out. I lowered the dark glasses minimally, just to see. It wasn’t Ernesto. I turned off the radio. Then turned it on again. Looked for some music. I left it on some old, slow tune. It reminded me of something, but I didn’t know what. It really upset me. I began to cry. But as soon as the first tears appeared, I turned back to the talkative man and put the volume on full blast. Now the receptionist, the head of personnel and a couple of office boys were coming out of the main entrance. The receptionist was walking towards me. I put the dark glasses on again. She passed right by me, but she didn’t even look at me. The garage door opened again. It was a van. Blue, like Ernesto’s car. I couldn’t tell what make; I don’t know the first thing about types of car. But definitely a van rather than a car. I was sure about that. I adjusted the wig a little, trying to pull it a bit more over to the right. How I loved that darker wig! Oh well, perhaps one day… The garage door opened again. This time it really was him. AVE 624. Ernesto Pereyra. My husband. Still my husband. I turned on the ignition of my hired car and prepared to follow him. Slowly. Ernesto was going very slowly. With his elbow leaning out of the window. As if the world were the same as it always had been. At the first set of lights, he put on his indicator. So did I. This wasn’t the way home, but that was hardly a surprise – why would he be going home? Was he going to be faithful to me all his life? Why would he choose me, instead of Charo? Two blocks further on, Ernesto parked on the corner. I didn’t have anywhere to leave my car. I didn’t want to drive past him – I preferred to keep a cautious distance, and double park somewhere I could observe from afar. I put on the hazard lights, then turned them off again. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself; that would not be a good thing. Time passed. Two minutes. Five. Ten. I saw Ernesto’s arm appear through the open window, waving to someone. I looked in that direction. There was Charo, crossing the road towards him. As the traffic lights turned to amber she quickened her pace. She almost ran. The running made her tits swing under the white T-shirt. I remembered that champagne glass. I pictured her tits trapped by suction in two champagne glasses. It almost made me laugh. She kissed him. I mean, Charo kissed Ernesto. She kissed him through the open window, then ran round behind the car and got in. Ernesto’s car moved off. My hired car did the same. Keeping right behind them. At a safe distance. They were chatting. Ernesto and I never talked when we were going somewhere in the car; each of us looked our own way – he drove and I enjoyed the view. They talked. They drove into the garage of one of those payper-hour hotels on Calle Monroe. Ernesto and Charo. I followed at a distance, then drove around the block. I passed in front of the hotel again. I drove around the block again. I looked for somewhere to park. Close but not too close. I found a quiet street three blocks away, on a street parallel to Calle Monroe. I parked outside a house with an exposed brick exterior and white woodwork. That wood wanted a lick of paint. I got out of the car, holding my bag. I walked towards the hotel. I walked past the door once, then went in. The employee said they didn’t accept women on their own. I told him that I wanted to masturbate. “No, I’m sorry,” said another man, with spots. Outside again, I cast glances up and down the street, thinking I might find someone to go in with me – then gave up this idea as too far-fetched. Sometimes you can lose the plot and end up thinking anything. Or doing. No, going in with someone else was not the right approach. So I went into the underground parking. Nobody saw me. I found Ernesto’s car. I tried the door; it was locked. I remembered very well points six and seven from the diagram, but I couldn’t fathom a way to carry them out. I stopped to think. I thought about it for quite some time. An idea came to mind – perhaps not my best option, but it was something. I went to the driver’s side and let down the tyre. I felt a great sense of relief. I knew that a mechanism was set in motion now that might work. I sat down between the boot of Ernesto’s car and the wall. I waited. I thought of Lali, who would never be able to cope. I thought of my mother; Mummy would be proud of me. I thought of Ernesto, but banished him from my mind as quickly as possible. It didn’t do me any good to think of Ernesto. He didn’t deserve my thoughts, that royal son of a bitch. I waited. I put on the glove. I heard steps. I knew that it was them, but stayed crouching down. I opened the bag. I could hear Ernesto’s leather-soled shoes scraping on the cement floor less than two yards away. That was a bad habit of his, dragging his feet when he walked. All his heels were worn down on the outside edges. Ernesto opened the door for Charo. She got in and opened the window. I listened, but even without listening I would have known what was coming next. I had known the man for more than twenty years. Ernesto walked in front of the car and round to his door. “Christ’s sake,” he said, and kicked the deflated tyre. He took off his jacket and threw it onto the driver’s seat, slamming the door. Then he started to walk towards the boot. I crept forwards. Crouching down. The lid of the boot opened and Ernesto was hidden behind it. I knew that it would take him at least two minutes to remove the spare tyre. Ernesto was meticulous and tidy. I stood up. Right beside Charo’s window. That window that had once been mine. The raised boot lid shielded me from Ernesto. She looked at me. I enjoyed that moment. I pointed the gun at her. She was frightened, in spite of her tits, in spite of her black hair. She was frightened and she couldn’t even scream. I squeezed the trigger and made a perfect hole in the middle of her forehead from which a trickle of blood ran out. I threw the gun, with Ernesto’s fingerprints, on the back seat and ran off. I knew that Ernesto would take a few seconds to react. Fear paralyses him. Like when I told him that I was pregnant. Seventeen years ago. That’s the way he is. These things don’t change, even when you’re going out with a woman fifteen years younger than you.

I didn’t look back.

It’s likely that Ernesto saw me. That he saw a woman running away. A woman, from the back, with straight chestnut hair, down to her shoulders.

38

“Full name and surname?”

“Laura Pereyra.”

“Age?”

“Seventeen.”

“I’m going to have to inform the judge.”

“…”

“Name of the father.”

“She has no father.”

“And where can we get hold of your parents?”

“I don’t have any.”

“Are you telling me that you are alone in the world?”

“No: I have a daughter.”

“I will have to inform the judge of this.”

“Do whatever you like.”

“Do you want me to inform anyone?”

“Weren’t you going to inform the judge?”

“As you wish, if there is no one else you care to let know.”

“…”

“…”

“Wait, could you take down this number?”

“…”

“…”

“Go on then.”

“Eight two five, eight three eight three.”

“Eight three, eight three.”

“Tell them that Guillermina has been born.”

“OK.”

“…”

“…”

“Thanks.”

“…”

“…”

“She’s a lovely, bonny girl, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she’s beautiful.”

“Who does she look like?”

“Nobody; luckily she doesn’t look like anyone.”

39

I’m walking down Calle Monroe and I can still hear Ernesto shouting. Only three blocks further on, and there’s the wail of a police siren. I feel calm. For the first time in months, I’m at peace. The sun hits my face. I’ve lost my dark glasses somewhere. It’s a beautiful day. Nothing bad could happen to me on a day like this. I don’t know how this story is going to end. One can never know. I think they’ll find me. You can’t spend your whole life running, no matter how many wigs you put on. Sooner or later you slip up and bring everyone down on top of you. But I am calm. I have peace of mind and that is the most important thing. I stop at a public telephone and call Mummy. She begins with reproaches, as usual. She won’t let me get a word in. Somehow, I don’t know how, I manage to halt the flow of words. I tell her what’s happened, but she doesn’t believe me. She doesn’t think I’m capable of it. I make her promise to take care of Lali. That was the only duty left for me to discharge. It was a great relief. I do believe that Mummy, with all her faults, will make Lali feel that she still has a family. That’s very important for a girl at such a difficult age as Lali is at. As far as Ernesto and I are concerned, obviously our marriage is over. This time we have reached the point of no return. Each will play their cards to their own best advantage. And I feel calm about that, too. Because justice may be blind, but I’ve given it a precautionary pair of dark glasses anyway. They may not be strong enough, obscuring the view only a little, but they are better than nothing. What’s certain is that if I have paid for Alicia’s death, Ernesto will pay for Charo’s. Point six: kill her. Point seven: incriminate Ernesto. I tear my little diagram into a thousand pieces and throw them into the wind. Pieces of paper flutter off in every direction. What does it matter who killed whom? Both of us have killed someone. But are not all humans equal? Aren’t our lives worth the same? When we come to court, Ernesto and I can argue that we did not commit the crime of which we stand accused, but neither of us will be able to claim that we are innocent. When it comes down to it, nobody is innocent. Even if we are all creatures of God. Alicia, Charo, Ernesto, me. Killing one or the other would not greatly alter the sentence or the punishment. The guilt, yes. I would not have allowed myself to kill Alicia. And certainly not Ernesto, who is the father of my child.

But Truelove, yes. Truelove is something else.

BITTER LEMON PRESS

First published in the United Kingdom in 2011 by Bitter Lemon Press, 37 Arundel Gardens, London W11 2LW

www.bitterlemonpress.com

First published in Spanish as
Tuya
by Ediciones Colihue, Buenos Aires, 2003

Bitter Lemon Press gratefully acknowledges the financial assistance of the Arts Council of England

© Claudia Piñeiro, 2006
English translation © Miranda France, 2011

Published by arrangement with Literarische Agentur Dr.Ray-Güde Mertin Inh. Nicole Witt e. K., Frankfurt am Main, Germany