Replay (32 page)

“So you don’t want to wait?” Andrew asked in a daze.

“Why postpone an article this important, and one that’ll make our competitors green with envy? You’ve done a great job. See you on Monday. Have a lovely evening.”

Olivia kissed him on the cheek and said goodbye to Valerie as she left.

“She seemed very pleased. It’s the first time I’ve seen you smile all day. You can relax at last.”

Valerie was happy, and Andrew felt good, exceptionally good. Until, as they came out on Hudson Street, he glimpsed a black SUV with its windows closed stopped at a red light. Andrew felt a lump in his throat.

“What’s that look on your face for?” Simon said, joining Andrew. “Have you seen a ghost?”

The light turned green and the SUV drove off.

“I’ve jumped forward two weeks, Simon.”

“You’ve done what?”

“They’ve vanished into thin air. I was at Zanetti’s getting my suit tailored the day after you took me to Novecento and he told me the same thing had happened to him. He knew my whole story. I don’t know what happened. It was a nightmare, and when I woke up, it was two weeks later. I’ve jumped through time again, but into the future this time. I don’t know what’s happening anymore.”

“That makes two of us, if that’s any reassurance. You’re not making any sense at all. What are you talking about, Andrew?” Simon asked, seriously worried.

“About what’s going to happen to me! About us, Pilguez, Mrs. Capetta . . . I’ve only got eight days left! I’m terrified.”

“Who are Pilguez and Mrs. Capetta?” Simon quizzed, more and more intrigued.

Andrew stared at Simon for a long time and sighed.

“I’ve lost you and Pilguez by jumping through time. You don’t have the slightest idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

Simon shook his head and put his hands on Andrew’s shoulders.

“I knew marriage caused side effects, but you’re taking it a bit far!”

Valerie walked over and put her arm around her husband’s waist.

“You won’t be cross with me if I keep him to myself on our wedding day, will you Simon?”

“Keep him for the whole week. Until the end of the summer if you like. But give him back to me mentally and physically sound, because right now he’s off his rocker.”

Valerie led Andrew to one side.

“I wish the day was over so I could be alone at home with you,” Andrew sighed.

“You took the words right out of my mouth,” Valerie replied.

* * *

They spent Sunday at Valerie’s apartment. It was pouring rain; one of those summer storms that drenched the city.

After lunch, Andrew immersed himself in reworking parts of his article based on Olivia’s notes. Valerie took the opportunity to write up some surgery reports. Late in the afternoon, they went for a short stroll to the grocery store, walking huddled against each other under their umbrella.

“The East Village isn’t bad either,” Andrew said, surveying his surroundings.

“Would you change neighborhood, then?”

“I didn’t say that. But if you heard of a nice three-room apartment going, I wouldn’t be against seeing it.”

Back at Valerie’s place, Andrew carried on working while she read.

“This isn’t exactly a great honeymoon,” he said, looking up. “You deserve better.”

“Depends how you look at it . . . But you’re the love of my life.”

Andrew finished his article as the sun set. It was past nine o’clock. Valerie proofread it and clicked “send” on the computer.

Andrew was shuffling his rough drafts together when Valerie took them out of his hands.

“Go lie down on the sofa and let me put this stuff away.”

Andrew willingly accepted. His back was hurting and the idea of lying down for a moment was very welcome.

“Who’s Marisa?” Valerie asked a short while later.

“My contact in Buenos Aires. Why?”

“Because I’ve just found a small envelope with a note to you on the front.”

Andrew held his breath as Valerie read it to him.

For you, Andrew,

A gift borrowed from Luisa.

In memory of Isabel and Rafael.

Thank you on their behalf.

Marisa

Andrew jumped up off the sofa and grabbed the envelope out of Valerie’s hand. He opened it and found a small black and white photo inside. Two smiling faces were frozen in the paleness of time.

“Is it them?” Valerie asked.

“Yes, it’s Isabel and Rafael,” Andrew replied, moved.

“It’s weird,” Valerie said. “I don’t know if it’s from knowing their story or from reading your article, but her face looks familiar.”

Andrew peered more closely at the photograph.

“It’s got nothing to do with my article,” he replied, astonished. “I know this face too; much better than you’d imagine.”

“What do you mean?” Valerie asked.

“I’d thought of everything—except this. I’m a complete and utter fool.”

* * *

Before entering the doors of 620 Eighth Avenue, Andrew glanced up at the black lettering emblazoned across the façade of
The
New York Times
. He hurried through the lobby, got into the elevator and went straight to his editor’s office.

He sat down in a chair opposite Olivia without waiting to be asked. She looked at him, intrigued.

“Have you read the end of my article?”

“It’s exactly what I expected of you. I’ve sent the text to be laid out. Unless something major happens today, it’ll be on tomorrow’s front page.”

Andrew pulled his chair up to the desk.

“Did you know there’s a village with the same name as you close to where Ortiz lives? Strange to think there’s a place in the middle of nowhere called ‘Olivia,’ isn’t it?”

“If you say so.”

“You don’t seem to find it strange. Perhaps if it was called ‘María Luz,’ you’d have found it stranger—a village with the exact same name as yours.”

Andrew took the small envelope out of his pocket, pulled out the photograph and put it down in front of his editor. She stared at it at length, then put it back down without saying a word.

“Do you recognize that couple?” Andrew asked.

“I know who they are, but I never knew them,” Olivia sighed.

“The woman in the photo looks so much like you that for a moment I thought it
was
you. You’ve known since the day Luisa revealed your true identity to you, haven’t you, María Luz?”

Olivia stood up and walked over to the window.

“It happened in a café where we university students used to hang out after class. Luisa went there many times, but she never approached me. She would sit on her own in the corner of the room and watch me. And then one day she came over and asked if she could sit down at my table. She had important things to tell me—things that would be hard for me to hear, but that I had to know. My life was turned upside down when she told me the story of Isabel and Rafael, my real parents. I didn’t want to believe her. You can’t imagine what it was like finding out that twenty years of my life had been one big lie, that I didn’t know anything about my roots, that I loved a father who was partially responsible for their fate, and mine. Accepting the truth was a terrible ordeal. I’m not complaining—I got a chance that others haven’t, or haven’t yet: to rebuild my life.

“I left the house I’d grown up in that very same day, without saying a word to the man who’d brought me up. I moved in with my boyfriend at the time and applied for a scholarship to Yale. I became a dedicated student. Life gave me the opportunity to come out of this dreadful experience a stronger person, to pay tribute to my parents, to make them triumph over those who wanted them wiped out forever. Later on, with the help of my professors at Yale, I acquired American citizenship. When I’d finished my studies I joined
The New York Times
as an intern, and worked my way up.”

Andrew picked up the photograph of Isabel and Rafael, and looked at it again.

“Did my investigation in China give you the idea? Did you say to yourself: he’s managed to track down stolen children before, he could do the same thing in Argentina? Was it Luisa or Alberto who sent you the file?”

“Both of them. I’ve never lost touch with them. Luisa’s like a godmother to me.”

“You sent me after Ortiz the way a hunter would send a dog to drive a wild animal out of its lair.”

“I was able to hate him, but not to denounce him. He brought me up. He loved me. It’s much more complicated than you imagine. I needed you.”

“You do realize that if we publish this article, he’ll probably be arrested and condemned to spend the rest of his life in prison?”

“I do this job because of my love for truth. It was the only way I could survive. I turned my back on him a long time ago.”

“You’ve got real nerve talking to me about truth. You’ve manipulated me since the start! Everything was fixed: Marisa, Alberto, Luisa; Ortiz supposedly spotted visiting a customer. You already knew everything, but you wanted me to find it out. You needed a journalist, an outsider in the whole affair, to put the pieces of the puzzle together for you. You’ve used me and this paper to carry out a personal investigation.”

“Stop the histrionics, Stilman. I handed you the best assignment of your career. When it’s published, your China exposé will be nothing more than a dim and distant memory. This report will make you famous. You know that as well as I do. But if you want us to be totally truthful . . . ”

“No, that’s not what I want, I assure you. And what about your sister? Ortiz told me his second daughter knows nothing about his past. Are you planning to tell her about this or let her find out for herself when she reads the paper? You probably believe it’s none of my business, but think carefully. I know what I’m talking about, even if I can’t tell you what to do.”

“My sister has known the truth for a long time. I told her everything before I left Argentina. I even suggested she join me in the States, but she never wanted to. It was different for her; she’s his legitimate daughter. I can’t blame her, and neither do I resent her for disowning me for the choices I’ve made in life.”

Andrew scrutinized Olivia’s face.

“Who does your sister look like?”

“Her mother. Anna’s breathtakingly beautiful. I have a photo of her taken on her twentieth birthday,” María Luz said.

She turned round, picked up the photo frame sitting on her desk and held it out to Andrew.

“Luisa sent it to me. I’ve never found out how she got hold of it.”

Andrew turned pale when he saw the portrait of the young woman. He jumped up and rushed over to the door. Before leaving, he turned around. “Olivia, promise me that, whatever happens, you’ll print my article.”

“Why do you say that?”

Andrew didn’t reply. Olivia watched him run down the corridor towards the elevators.

* * *

Andrew left the paper, his thoughts going wild.

A clamor drew his gaze towards a group of joggers trotting down Eighth Avenue towards him. His senses were on alert. Something was wrong.

“It’s too early. It isn’t the day. Not yet,” he muttered as the first runners jostled their way past him.

Panic-stricken, Andrew tried to retrace his steps so he could take cover inside the building, but there were too many runners blocking the way back to the door.

Andrew suddenly recognized a face in the crowd. The stranger from Novecento was walking towards him. She had an elevator slipped up her sleeve, and the blade was shining in the palm of her hand.

“It’s too late,” Andrew called to Anna. “There’s no point anymore. Whatever happens to me, the article will be printed.”

“My poor Andrew. You’re the one it’s too late for,” she replied.

“No!” Andrew shouted as she came closer. “Don’t do it!”

“But I’ve already done it, Andrew. Look around you. This is all in your mind. You’re already dying, Andrew. What did you think? That you’d risen from the dead? That life really had given you a second chance by sending you back to the past? You make a pitiful sight. All those dizzy spells and nightmares, that shooting pain in your back, that cold feeling that never goes away, those electric shocks bringing you back to life every time your heart stops . . . You’ve been fighting for your life in this ambulance since I stabbed you. You’re being drained of your blood like a slaughtered animal. You’ve fought all this time, reexamining your memories, reconstructing your past, on the lookout for the tiniest detail that could have escaped you—because you wanted to understand. And you finally remembered that photograph you’d seen so many times behind María Luz’s desk. Congratulations. I didn’t think you’d figure it out.

“I have nothing personal against you, but without realizing it you became an instrument of my half-sister’s machinations. She’s an ungrateful coward. My father gave her everything. He loved her as much as he loved me, and she betrayed us. Did that bitch truly think I was going to let her destroy us? I’ve been on her trail for weeks—since you left Buenos Aires. I hunted you down like you hunted down my father. Over and over again, I practiced the gesture that would silence you. I waited patiently for the right moment to attack. It was perfect—nobody saw me; nobody will remember anything. The hospital isn’t much further. I have to say you’ve survived longer than I thought you would. But now you understand, you can give up, Andrew. You have no reason to fight anymore.”

“Yes, I do,” Andrew murmured as the last of his strength ebbed away.

“Don’t tell me you’re thinking about your wife. After what you did to her? Andrew, you left her on your wedding night, remember? You fell madly in love with me. Believe me—you can let go of her. Your death will delight her as much as it does me. Farewell, Andrew. Your eyes are closing. I’ll let you live your final moments in peace.”

T
he ambulance transporting Andrew Stilman arrived at the emergency room at 7:42
A.M
. The traffic hadn’t been as slow as usual that morning. A team of doctors and nurses busied themselves around his stretcher as soon as it appeared.