The She-Devil in the Mirror (2 page)

affaire
, as they say, with Olga
María, he fell head over heels in love with some accountant who worked at the
agency. That's what I'm telling you: you can never trust a man. He even tried to
seduce me, the brute. He was still going on about how much in love he was with
Olga María—and then he leapt at the first opportunity to ask me over for dinner,
with the excuse that he wanted to talk about her. I wasn't buying a word of it,
my dear. The way he looked at me when he asked me over, and then again, at a
soiree at Olga María's, let's just say it wasn't exactly the way you look at
your confidante. But he was very handsome, that Julio Iglesias, so I played
along. He told me he wanted me to see his apartment; after all, we could speak
freely there, and he promised to whip up a fettuccini al pesto, his own special
recipe. He's a really good cook, my dear. I made it clear from the get-go that
the only reason I'd accepted his invitation was out of friendship with Olga
María. I swear the minute I entered his apartment I didn't let him change the
subject; I asked him what Olga María thought of his furniture, the pictures on
the walls, the décor in general. I hung out with him in the kitchen, because he
hadn't finished cooking, and he poured me a glass of delicious Rioja, then he
started rattling on about his great love for Olga María, his passion, the most
amazing thing he'd experienced in El Salvador; he even rolled his eyes, that
Julio Iglesias, when he repeated that nonsense about how he was willing to do
anything to save his relationship with her. Yes, my dear, men are disgusting.
Just imagine, when afterward I found out he was already going out with the
accountant at the agency. But that evening in his apartment he was playing the
same old tape: Olga María's indifference was killing him, I needed to help him,
convince Olga María to get back together with him. I just let him talk; the wine
was delicious and so was the dinner. It was during dessert when I told him I was
envious of the intensity of his love for Olga María, nobody was in love with me
that way. Why did I say that, my dear? Suddenly, he changed: he was quiet for a
moment, then he started playing a new tape, and now it was as if Olga María had
never existed, he started off saying he couldn't believe me, he absolutely
couldn't believe that somebody wasn't deeply in love with a woman like me, he'd
noticed how beautiful I was the first time he saw me, but he'd always thought I
looked down on him or just wasn't interested. He took off from there, my dear,
seducing me, absolutely shamelessly, not taking at all into account the fact
that I'd come to his apartment to talk about his relationship with Olga María,
and pretty soon he was brushing up against me, flirting, whispering in my ear,
holding my hand, trying to kiss me. But I didn't let him, no, my dear, I didn't.
I told him to behave himself. But he kept pushing himself on me—so pigheaded. At
one point he almost managed to kiss me. That's when I stood up and told him I
was leaving, he wasn't showing me any respect. To tell you the truth, though,
that Julio Iglesias was gorgeous, and I was plenty tempted to let him have his
way with me, and maybe, my dear, he read my mind, because he sure didn't put the
brakes on, he just kept insisting. Men are not to be trusted. That's why I
divorced Alberto, and I have no regrets: it's the best thing I could have done,
and I said as much to Olga María at the time: it isn't worth complicating your
life, it's better to be with one man or none at all. I'm glad they've already
started serving coffee, my throat is dry, and I'm so exhausted I'm afraid I'm
going to collapse. Pass me a cup. If you want, let's go out on the terrace for
some fresh air. There are so many cars parked in front and half the people
haven't even arrived yet. This place will be packed later tonight, my dear, with
everybody from the advertising world and Sergio's friends from the association
of travel agencies. I wonder how many of our classmates from the American School
will show up. It's been so long since we had a class reunion. Chele Yuca will be
here, that's for sure, considering how in love with Olga María he's always been.
You know him, don't you? His first name is Gastón: he was the handsomest boy in
our class. Did you see my mother, she's standing next to the coffin talking with
Alberto? Those two always got along well. I don't know how my mother can stand
him. No, my dear, I've got nothing to say to him; we were married for a year,
and in that time we said everything we had to say to each other—and there was
plenty of time left over. Alberto is the most boring man you can imagine. I
don't know how I managed to put up with him for a whole year. He's always at his
computer, for hours and hours, the whole day if he doesn't have anything better
to do. It can drive you to despair, my dear, he doesn't want to go out, or meet
people, or go to the movies—it's atrocious. I practically had to drag him out to
dinner parties. But my mother says he's very intelligent and that's why his
business is doing so well, and she says he's the most knowledgeable person in
the country not only about finances but about everything that's going on in the
world, and that's why he has so much money, all her friends assure her that he's
the number one financial consultant. As far as I'm concerned, let him make all
the money he wants, my dear, let him go to Wall Street with his computers for
all I care, but don't let him dare get anywhere near me—he's like the plague, he
infects you with boredom in a matter of seconds. The problem is that my mother
still doesn't accept the fact that we're divorced, she just can't understand how
someone can send a man packing who makes that much money, even if he does bore
you to tears; as far as she's concerned, you're supposed to live with the same
man your whole life. No, my dear, I'm not going to change her this late in the
game. I guarantee you, the moment she hears I plan to marry someone else, she's
going to come to me with a ton of objections, unless, that is, he's got more
money than Alberto. Olga María didn't believe it either when I told her I was
divorcing Alberto; I told her I couldn't stand him anymore, I'd rather go back
and live with my parents than be so unbearably bored any longer. She told me not
to leave him—our problem was we didn't have any children. Can you imagine? I
wasn't about to have kids with somebody like that. Pure madness. No, I don't
think my father will come: he's at the finca dealing with no end of problems.
Now that I see what he has on his plate, I'm convinced Doña Olga did the right
thing to sell the fincas Don Sergio left her. Owning coffee plantations isn't
what it used to be, there's one setback after another these days, first the
communists taking them over and not allowing the harvest, and now the drop in
prices. It never ends, my dear. That's why Doña Olga was right to get rid of
them, it was for the best. My father should do the same, and I've told him so,
but he's pigheaded, very attached to his land. Hey, look who just arrived. I
can't believe it, it's José Carlos, that crazy photographer, I thought he'd
already left the country, what a surprise. He was working at Marito's agency
until a few weeks ago. He takes beautiful photographs, a real artist; he studied
in Boston, then stayed there for a few years and took photos of famous artists,
of afternoons on the beach and in forests, of old buildings. He published a book
of his photographs: Olga María showed it to me, inscribed with a poem José
Carlos wrote to her. He'll be going back to Boston in a few days. He could only
stand this country for a year. He says he's bored here. Just look at him, all
scrawny and awkward looking, but still, there's something attractive about him.
Olga María went out with him, for only a few weeks, but enough to get to know
him. It was sort of the same story: Marito and José Carlos went to grammar
school and high school together at the San José Externado, best friends growing
up, until the war, then they each took a different path, but as soon as José
Carlos decided to return, Marito offered him a job at the agency, and they
became thick as thieves again. So José Carlos started coming over to their house
a lot, whenever he felt like it, and he got to be better friends with Olga
María, it was only to be expected—she was the wife of his best friend and they
already knew each other, though not too well, from school. For Olga María it was
a revelation of sorts. José Carlos is so laid-back, nutty, he's got all kinds of
exotic ideas, even sort of half-communist ideas sometimes. At first, she wasn't
attracted to him physically, but little by little she realized how amazing the
guy was, he knew about so many things, one of those super-sensitive artist
types, he's traveled all over the world, been part of the artistic
milieu
in the States. That's what Olga María told me. There it was
again, that gleam in her eyes I was telling you about, that same gleam I saw
when we were at the American School, that she got whenever she'd start to get
interested in a classmate, the same gleam I saw with that Julio Iglesias. I
couldn't quite fathom that my best friend could be interested in such a
bizarre-looking guy. You wouldn't have believed it, either, would you? Look at
him over there: in blue jeans and a sports shirt at a wake, no jacket, only he
would dress like that. I'll introduce him to you a little later so you can see
that he's a little off his rocker. I admit he could be interesting as a
friend—it's always like that with artists—but not to fall in love with. It was
just like what happened with Julio Iglesias, there came a moment when Olga María
decided to visit José Carlos's studio, but this time she didn't need me to give
her a ride because she had the perfect excuse: José Carlos was going to take a
series of photographs of her to include in his next exhibit. That's what she
told Marito, and me, too. But I already knew what she was going for. José Carlos
did take some gorgeous pictures of her—very suggestive—for what it's worth: in
the pictures Olga María is made up like she's Oriental, and she's wearing
nothing but a semi-transparent silk tunic, and she's carrying exotic-looking
crucifixes of some kind and is surrounded by mirrors. It was hard for me to get
her to tell me what was going on, because during that period, for a number of
reasons, but especially because of her constant visits to José Carlos's studio,
we barely saw each other. I was afraid Olga María was going to fall in love, get
herself mixed up in some mess she wouldn't be able to get herself out of. I told
her it was none of my business and I didn't want to stick my nose in where it
didn't belong, but she should be careful, calm down, take more precautions, I
reminded her it wasn't in her best interests for Marito to find out what was
going on or even suspect anything. One afternoon, finally, I found her at the
boutique, and she invited me out for a cup of coffee and told me not to worry,
her relationship with José Carlos wasn't going to go any further, she was sure
of that. She liked him a lot, but she could never live with someone like him, he
was too unstable, and she told me that even he was aware of that and from the
get-go he'd told her straight out that he loved being with her, making love with
her, but that was all—he would never take his best friend's wife away nor was he
in any position to live with her and the two girls. Hearing that reassured me,
and that same afternoon Olga María showed me the first photographs José Carlos
had taken of her, and she told me he was very professional—he'd made her pose
for several hours and when he finished shooting, he took her to bed—and he was a
great lover, not like that Julio Iglesias, who shot his wad before the word go.
But you know what men are like, my dear, don't you? Turns out a month later,
Olga María completely lost interest, and out of the blue she told José Carlos
that enough was enough, she wanted to end their relationship, Marito was getting
suspicious, and she wasn't willing to take any more chances, it would be better
for them to stop seeing each other, and they should just be friends like before.
And that's when José Carlos lost his head. It's like I told you: you can never
trust anybody or predict anything. He started going on about how much he was in
love with her and there wasn't any reason for them to stop seeing each
other—he'd never had a relationship like that, he'd never fallen in love with a
woman like her or in that way, so intensely, he'd never experienced such
intimacy. Can you believe it, my dear? He was the one who said it was only about
friendship with sex thrown in, and now here he was, singing the same tune as
Julio Iglesias: he was willing to give up everything for her, he even suggested
the stupid idea that they go live in Boston together, the girls would get a
better education there. But she put her foot down, she told him in no uncertain
terms to cut the crap, there was nothing between them anymore, she had no
regrets, she'd had a great time in bed, and she was grateful for the pictures,
but he should get it into his head that their relationship was over, finished.
One thing was different, though, one way he wasn't at all like Julio Iglesias,
and that was the way they each got over their heartbreak. You know what I mean?
José Carlos, maybe because he's an artist, I don't know, or whatever, he
couldn't get over being in love with her, even though he stopped calling her and
almost stopped visiting her (he went to their house only a few more times—mostly
for business dinners—and only after Marito insisted that his best friend and
star employee show up). He had a chip on his shoulder, as if Olga María had
cheated him, emotionally, and whenever he saw her he put on this pathetic
expression, like he was the victim, the innocent babe she'd taken advantage of.
That's when he started saying he was going back to Boston, he was bored in this
country, he had contributed everything he could to Marito's agency. I told Olga
María that José Carlos's little song and dance about returning to Boston was
nothing more than a subtle form of blackmail, his way of complaining that she'd
forsaken him, she never paid any attention to him anymore. Olga María agreed
with me, and she was so naughty she even got it into her head to throw José
Carlos a goodbye party, a surprise party, this was about three weeks ago, but I
think he smelled a rat, and when Marito invited him for dinner on that
Saturday—just to chat about his work at the agency—José Carlos made up some
excuse, said he was working on a project of his own that he wanted to finish
before leaving for Boston, lunch the following week would be better, because he
was busy every night, trying to be disciplined and work on his art. No, my dear,
Olga María's plan didn't pan out, but that would have been something, don't you
think? Now he looks very upset, poor guy, just look at his face, he really was
in love with her, he'll be better off going back to Boston and taking all his
strange notions with him. I'm sure he was involved with the subversives, even
though he does come from a good family, just goes to show what those Jesuit
priests did to some of those boys, a lot of Marito and José Carlos's classmates
ended up being terrorists—those priests brainwashed them, indoctrinated them.
They say José Carlos went to the States so he wouldn't get killed, his parents
sent him away when they realized he was mixed up in shady goings-on, that's why
he didn't come back until the war was over—he was scared. Olga María told me
José Carlos never talked about politics, he spent all his time in the States
working and studying, but as you know, my dear, in this place, everybody knows
everything about everybody, and I heard he was involved with one of those
solidarity committees, taking photographs and working with them. I wouldn't be
at all surprised. Now it's really getting crowded, so many people I don't know.
Any minute now Doña Olga will arrive with the girls, those poor dears, so young
and they've already lost their mother. It's going to be very difficult for
Marito, he was such a good husband, but Olga María deserved him, she was also
totally devoted to him, it was a two-way street, she never complained much, not
even when she heard the rumors about him and one of his secretaries, Olga María
was always so discreet, so modest, so reserved, never had those fits of
hysteria, she defended her home and was totally devoted to her husband and
children, that's why her death makes me so angry, my dear, what's the point, so
many bastards they don't bother killing and a woman like that—a paragon, so
hard-working, look how she started that boutique from scratch, all with her own
hard work. Those two coming in now, they're the two policemen who came to Doña
Olga's to harass us, the one with the dark jacket is the one who says his name
is Deputy Chief Handal: riffraff, my dear, they've got no respect for other
people's pain, what's wrong with these people, how dare they come to a decent
person's wake, their heads must be full of rot—imagine: they wanted me to reveal
all of Olga María's secrets, as if any of her friends or acquaintances would
have planned her murder—they even suspect Marito. I think it was simply a
mistake, or most likely a thief who got nervous and didn't know what to do, so
he shot her, it wouldn't be the first time that's happened, a fiend like that,
the only thing he knows how to do is kill people. Nobody I know would have been
capable of even imagining doing Olga María any harm, it wouldn't have crossed
anybody's mind to even think badly of her, such a good woman, so generous, she
never stuck her nose into other people's business. Look, here come Doña Olga and
the girls, let's go, come with me, they look so lovely, they're going to sit
next to their daddy, they are the apples of Doña Olga's eyes, her only two
granddaughters, because Sergio and Cuca—I'm pretty sure—they can't have
children, and Diana is still too young and who knows what kind of life she leads
in Miami, you know how they are, women there don't necessarily have kids right
away anymore, and Diana's practically a gringa, she's been there almost twelve
years. I hope that brute Handal doesn't think he's going to interrogate the
girls here, then I really would get mad, they've got no right; anyway what are
they doing here instead of out looking for the murderer, they have the
description little Olga gave them, what more do they want? What infuriates me
most is that in the end, I bet you, they won't catch anybody—they're so
incompetent it'd be a miracle if they did. When have you ever heard of the
police catching anybody who is truly guilty of anything? Never. I didn't even
notice when dear Julita arrived, probably right after Doña Olga and the girls,
but with all these people I must've missed her. Dear Julita is so good, so
trustworthy, she loved Olga María more than anything, like her own daughter, she
took care of her for twenty years, can you imagine, that's a lifetime. She came
to their house when Olga María was ten years old, from a little Indian village,
Tacuba, way out there in Ahuachapán. You can't find servants like that anymore,
I'm telling you, my dear, everything has changed so much, now they're all
prostitutes and thieves, or both—you can't leave the house alone for a minute
because they'll ransack it. Horrible, my dear, you can't trust anybody anymore,
even if they do have references and recommendations, they're always up to some
mischief. That was a different world: servants used to be part of the family,
like our dear Julita, who is now going to have to finish raising little Olga and
Raquelita; Marito will need her now more than ever, and Doña Olga will, too.
That's what I told Julita this afternoon. The poor thing must be very
distraught, but you know how Indians are, you can't tell what they're feeling,
with that face they've got, like a mask. Hey, I told you, and I was right: look
who just arrived, my dear, Gastón Berrenechea himself, the one and only Yuca,
look how handsome he is, and just as charming as ever, always so elegant, look
how impeccably dressed he is, in that suit with that tie, beautiful, I've never
seen that design in black; I swear, at the American School we all thought Yuca
and Olga María were going to get married, they would have made the perfect
couple, both so good-looking, as if they were made for each other, but they only
went out for a few months, such a pity, we couldn't understand why it didn't
last, but even then Yuca was too much of a womanizer—unmanageable. I met both of
them even before that, can you believe it, my dear, about twenty years ago, even
more, twenty-three years ago, when we started first grade, it's been forever and
a day. Now Yuca is a VIP, you know, he owns a chain of superstores, and he's a
deputy in the government and a high-ranking party official, it's so weird, I
never thought Yuca would end up in politics, they're even pushing him as a
candidate for president, my dear, but he's still pretty young, he's still got to
earn his stripes. You know he married Kati, Don Federico Schultz's daughter,
filthy rich, they're drowning in money, and she's the apple of Don Federico's
eye; it's largely due to Don Federico that Yuca has done so well. He's supported
him in everything, not only business—starting up that superstore chain—but also
politics, he's treated him like a son, without Don Federico's support who knows
how poor Yuca would have ended up, my dear, his family lost almost everything
during the agrarian reform, what a disgrace, the Berrenecheas were the richest
cotton growers in the country, but those communists with their agrarian reform
pretty much left them penniless, practically in the streets. That's what I mean
when I say Yuca owes so much to Don Federico, there are even people who say
terrible things about how Yuca married Kati for the money, people are so
spiteful, my dear, and now that he's a politician they just want to sling mud at
him. Yuca is a very hard worker, you've got to give it to him, and if he got
involved in politics it was because they took all his family's fincas, I
remember it well, my dear, right at the beginning of the war, Yuca was up there
with Major Le Chevalier, taking a stand against the communists. He hasn't had
anything handed to him on a silver platter, on the contrary, that man has worked
like a dog to get where he is, that's why Don Federico lent him a hand. Quite a
man, Yuca: nice, good-looking, intelligent. He'll be president in about five
years, definitely, no doubt about it, his rise is meteoric, he's getting more
and more popular all the time. He's got loads of charisma, my dear, people will
vote for him, people like to have a leader who's successful, in business, I
mean, someone who knows how to speak in public, and it's even better if he's
handsome, even very handsome like Yuca. He's so different from that idiot we
have for president now, that stupid fat old man, his own mother doesn't even
like him, I voted for him just so the communists wouldn't win. Imagine what a
terrible situation, my dear: we had to choose between that moron and the
communists. With Yuca it would be different; he's so distinguished. You just saw
him: nice, don't you think? He'd have as much pull as Major Le Chevalier, people
simply adore him. The communists are already afraid of him, that's why they've
started a campaign to try to discredit him, saying he was a member of the death
squads, he put bombs in some ministry or other during the agrarian reform—the