She slept very badly. She fell asleep and the nightmare was immediately reborn; with a background of catastrophes, fires, earthquakes, she was rolling down a steep slope, a bus was bearing down on her, and, paralyzed by terror, she could not move away, and when it was about to run over her, she awoke. Finally, when the gray light of dawn appeared at the windows, she dozed off, disturbed by the bad night.
She had showered and was getting dried when she heard someone knocking at the door. Frightened, she gave a start. “Who is it?” she asked, raising her voice a good deal. “Ceferino Argüello,” the photographer said. “Did I wake you? I’m really sorry, Shorty. It’s urgent that I speak to you.”
“Wait a minute, I’m getting dressed,” she shouted. “I’ll be right there.”
She dressed and let the photographer in. Ceferino’s face was devastated with worry and his eyes were irritated and red, as if he had been rubbing them very hard. He was wearing wrinkled trousers, sneakers without socks, and a black polo shirt decorated with a red lightning flash. His voice sounded different, he spoke as if it was very difficult for him to articulate each word.
“Forgive me for bothering you so early, Shorty,” he said, standing in the doorway. “They’ve killed the boss, I didn’t know whether you knew.”
“Come in, Ceferino, sit down.” She pointed to one of the chairs that emerged from among the piles of newspapers in the living room. “Yes, yes, I know. The police came to see me last night. They took me to the morgue to identify the body. It was horrible, Ceferino. I’d better not tell you about it.”
He had dropped into the chair and looked at her, very pale, eyes staring, mouth open with a thread of saliva hanging from it, waiting. Shorty knew very well what was passing through Ceferino’s head and she felt fear again, a fear as great as the one reflected in the photographer’s face.
“They found him up here in Five Corners, it seems,” she explained. “With his body full of knife wounds. And those sons of bitches destroyed his face with stones.”
She saw that Ceferino Argüello was nodding. His hair was on end, like a porcupine. His pockmarked face was livid.
“It’s what the papers and the radio stations are saying. That they were very brutal with him.”
“Yes, yes, real butchery. Something that sadists, that savages would do, Ceferino.”
“And now it’ll happen to us, Shorty.” The photographer’s voice broke. She thought that if he started to cry she’d insult him, call him a “damn faggot,” and throw him out of her house.
But Ceferino didn’t cry, his voice just broke, and he sat looking at her as if hypnotized.
“I don’t know what can happen to us.” Shorty shrugged and decided to put on the finishing touches. “They might decide to kill us, too, Ceferino. Especially you, you’re the one who took those pictures.”
The photographer stood up and spoke with troubled solemnity, raising his voice with each sentence that he said:
“I knew this was very dangerous, damn it, and I told you, and I told the boss.” He was shouting now, beside himself. “And they can kill us for goddamn greed, to get money out of that millionaire, damn it. You’re guilty too, because I trusted you and you betrayed me.”
He dropped into the chair, covered his face with his hands, and sobbed.
Shorty, seeing him like that, so defenseless and drowning in panic, felt sorry for him.
“Make an effort and try to think clearly, Ceferino,” she said gently. “You and I need to have cool heads if we want to get out of this safe and sound. Don’t waste your time looking for the person who’s to blame for what’s happened. Do you know who’s to blame? Not you and not me, not even the boss. It’s the work we do. And that’s enough.”
Ceferino took his hands away from his face and nodded. His eyes weren’t crying but they were very irritated and shining; a stupid grimace distorted his face.
“When I told you I had those photographs, it was only to ask your advice, Julieta,” he said in a quiet voice. “That’s the only thing I wanted to remind you of.”
“You’re lying, Ceferino,” she replied, not raising her voice either, as if she were advising him. “You told me you’d held on to them for two years because you wanted to see whether you could get anything out of them. I mean, publishing them and making a little money with them.”
“No, no, I swear that’s not true, Shorty,” Ceferino protested. “I didn’t want them published. I knew something very ugly could happen, like what’s happened now, exactly like this. I guessed this would happen, I swear.”
“If you didn’t want them published, you would have burned them, Ceferino.” Shorty was becoming angry. “I mean, cut the bullshit. I told you that the person who’d make the most out of them was the boss. And you authorized me to tell him everything. Didn’t you take those photos to see what he could do with them? Don’t you remember that now?”
“Okay, okay, let’s not argue about what can’t be helped.” The photographer softened, again putting on his usual face of a whipped dog. “Now we have to decide what to do. Do you think the police will call us to testify?”
“I’m afraid they will, Ceferino. And the judge, too. There’s been a murder. We worked with the victim. It’s logical that they’d call us to testify.”
“And what am I going to tell them, Julieta?” Suddenly the photographer seemed desperate again. His eyes were sunken, and his voice, hoarse now, was quavering.
“Don’t be stupid enough to admit that you took those pictures,” said Shorty. “That’s all we’d need.”
“Then what am I going to tell them?”
“That you don’t know anything about anything. You didn’t take those pictures and the boss didn’t tell you who did.”
“And what are you going to say when they call you to testify?”
Julieta shrugged.
“I don’t know anything either,” she declared. “I wasn’t at that orgy, I didn’t know about it until we prepared the information for Exposed. Isn’t that the truth?”
Julieta advised Ceferino not to go to the offices of the weekly; she wouldn’t either. If Engineer Cárdenas had hired killers, that’s the first place they’d look. And it would also be prudent if he didn’t sleep at home for a few days.
“I have a wife and three children, Shorty. And not a cent in my pocket. Because they haven’t even paid us this month.”
“And they won’t pay us, Ceferino,” she interrupted. “With the boss’s death, Exposed will pass on to a better life. You can be sure of that. So now you can begin to look for another job. So will I, of course.”
“So you think we won’t even get paid for this month, Julieta? This is a tragedy for me, don’t forget I always live paycheck to paycheck.”
“For me, too, Ceferino. I don’t have any money either. But since I don’t like the idea of one of Engineer Cárdenas’s hired killers coming after me, I’m not setting foot in Exposed again. I advise you to do the same. I’m saying this for your own good. Explain the problem to your wife, she’ll understand. Stay out of sight with someone you trust. At least until the situation becomes clearer. That’s the only advice I can give you. Because it’s what I’m going to do myself.”
Ceferino stayed a while longer in Julieta’s house. From time to time he’d say goodbye, but as if an irresistible force kept him from leaving, he would sit down again among the pyramids of newspapers and magazines, complain again about his bad luck, and curse the Chosica photographs, whose negatives he had kept, not to try to make any money—he swore to God!—but in the hope that the gentleman who hired him to take the pictures would reappear and pay him the amount they’d agreed on. He’d been stupid—yes, stupid—and he’d regret it the rest of his life.
Finally, after sniveling for a long time and complaining about his bad luck, he left. Shorty dropped into the easy chair among mountains of newspapers. She was exhausted and, worst of all, Ceferino Argüello had infected her with his confusion and panic.
She looked at he
r knees and saw they were trembling. It was a small movement, from right to left and left to right, almost imperceptible, rhythmic and cold. When she raised a foot, the trembling stopped, but only in that knee; it continued in the other one. She felt invaded by fear, from the roots of her hair to the soles of her feet. Ceferino Argüello’s cowardice was contagious. She tried to calm down, to think objectively. She had to do what she had recommended to the photographer: leave her house immediately, stay with someone she trusted, until the storm let up. Who? She reviewed the people she knew. There were a lot of them, of course, but no one close enough to ask that they put her up. She had no relatives or hadn’t seen them for years. Her friends were journalists, radio and television people with whom she had very superficial and occasional relationships. In reality, the only person whom she trusted enough for a matter like this was Rolando Garro. This murder had deprived her of the only real friend she had.
A small hotel or a boardinghouse, then. Nobody would know where she was. But how much would that cost? From a bureau she took the notebook where she carefully recorded her expenses and income. The amount at her disposal was ridiculous: less than three hundred soles. She would have to borrow the money. She knew very well that, with the boss’s death, it would be very difficult this month for her to receive her salary at Exposed. The magazine’s funds were probably in the possession of Garro himself or had been placed under judicial sequestration because of his death. The manager of the weekly always said it was about to fall into insolvency, which perhaps was true now. In other words, there was nothing to hope for from that quarter.
Then what are you going to do, Shorty? She felt depressed, cornered, paralyzed. She knew very well that it was dangerous to remain in the house, where they’d look for her first if they wanted to do her harm. She knew that sooner or later she’d find another position with no difficulty: wasn’t she good at her job? Of course she was, but now wasn’t the best time to visit newspapers, radio stations, or television channels looking for work. Now was the time to hide, to save her skin, to not let anyone know where she was. Until things calmed down and returned to normal. Where, damn it, where could she hide?
And then, at first in a confused, remote way, but then gradually taking shape, consistency, reality, the idea came to her. It was risky, no doubt about it. But wasn’t that something her teacher had taught her, something he had often practiced in his life, that great ills require great remedies? And what could be worse than feeling threatened in the practice of her vocation? That was the wager that had finished off Rolando Garro, wasn’t it, Shorty? He had lost his life, in such an awful way, for practicing investigative journalism and bringing to light the obscenities that the wealthy in this country without laws or morality could allow themselves.
It was risky, of course. But if it worked out, she would not only be protected, she might also gain some professional advantage.
Suddenly, Shorty felt that her knees had stopped trembling. And she was smiling.
16
The Landowner and the Chinese Woman
“It’s all over now, Quique,” said Luciano, patting his friend on the knee. “You have to forget about that subject and fatten yourself up. You’re as thin as a fishbone.”
“Do you think it’s all over because they killed that scoundrel and Exposed disappeared?” Enrique made a mocking face. “No, Luciano. It’ll pursue me till the end of my days. Shall I tell you what torments me most about all this? It isn’t even the physical and mental harm it has done to my poor mother, or that my name has been dragged through the mud. No, no. What has become a torture are the vulgar little jokes of my friends, my partners, even at meetings of the board of directors. ‘Great orgy, brother,’ ‘Why didn’t you invite us to that roll in the hay, compadre,’ ‘Can you tell me how many you fucked at that party, old man?’ I can’t bear any more of their stupidity, the winks from so many imbeciles. I’d prefer them to insult me or refuse to greet me, as some people have done. That’s why Marisa and I are thinking about taking a little trip.”
“A second honeymoon? The famous little trip around the Greek islands we talked about years ago?” Luciano laughed, but immediately became serious again: “Speaking of Marisa. I can’t tell you how glad I am that you’ve made up and she’s forgiven you. The truth is I see you both finally reconciled.”
“It’s true,” Quique agreed, lowering his voice and glancing toward the interior of Luciano’s house in case Marisa and Chabela, who had gone to see whether the Casasbellas’s little girls were already asleep, had returned. “At least it’s the only good thing to come out of all this melodrama. Not only are we friends again; our marriage is better now than before. The scandal and that brief separation have brought us closer than ever, old man.”
They’d had Chinese food, which they had ordered from Lung Fung, and since it was well before curfew, they sat on Luciano’s terrace to have a drink and chat. The two little girls had been with them for a while, but Nicasia had taken them to their rooms. The garden and tiled pool were lit, and they could see the two Great Danes playing among the trees. The butler had brought the whiskey, ice, and mineral water. It was a quiet night, with no wind and, so far at least, no gunshots or blackouts. Marisa and Chabela were returning, arm in arm and laughing.
“Share the joke, don’t be so selfish,” Luciano greeted them. “So the four of us can laugh.”
“Not a chance, my dear husband,” Chabela exaggerated, opening her eyes wide and pretending to be horrified. “It’s a piece of gossip about cheatings and beatings that would make you pass out, you’re such a saint.”
“Don’t trust the saints,” said Marisa, sitting next to Quique and taking hold of his face as if she were going to scold him. “This one seems so devout, and just look at the stupidities he was capable of.”
She laughed aloud, Luciano and Chabela joined in, but Quique turned pale and made a strange movement with both hands.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I know you don’t want people to make jokes about it, darling.” Marisa put her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek. “You’re blushing, I can’t tell you how red you are, my love.”
“That’s the worst thing,” Quique responded to her joke. “They’ve turned me into a wanton profligate, me, and I’ve always been so well behaved.”
“I have photographs that say the opposite. Come now, don’t play the good little boy, Quique,” Chabela chimed in, provoking general laughter.
“A toast,” said Luciano, raising his glass of whiskey. “To our friendship. Every day I’m more and more convinced that friendship is the only thing that matters in this life.”
“The four of us have to finally take that cruise through the Greek islands that we’ve talked about so often,” said Quique. “Before we’re too old. Two whole weeks in the sea of Ulysses, not reading any news about Peru. Two weeks without blackouts, terrorism, or the yellow press.”
“What you said about love and saints has reminded me of my maternal grandfather,” said Luciano suddenly, with a nostalgic smile. “Have I ever told you about him?”
“You haven’t told me, at least,” said his wife in surprise. “I don’t think you’ve even told me anything about your parents. Ten years of marriage and I don’t know anything about you.”
“The story gave rise to all kinds of rumors, I imagine,” Luciano added. “The kind that Limeños love. They’re the most gossiping gossips in the world.”
“Tell me all about it,” Quique was moved to joke. “Because I’ve recently received my doctorate in gossip-mongering.”
“My mother’s father was one of the most arrogant landowners in Ica, the owner of several ranches that General Velasco’s Agrarian Reform took away from us,” Luciano continued. “And the most pious man ever seen in this valley of the Lord. I remember him very well when I was a little boy. Don Casimiro. He wore a black suit and a vest with a watch chain to go to church. He attended daily Mass in the little chapel in the ranch house, as well as processions, baptisms, adora
tions, rogations, et cetera, in the small village church. At lunch and dinner, he would bless the table when we were all seated.”
Luciano stopped speaking. His expression had suddenly become melancholy; the memories of his childhood in Ica seemed to have made him sad; it was curious because the things he usually recounted about life on his grandfather’s ranch couldn’t have been happier: horseback riding, hunting trips, barbeques, the traps that he and his brothers set for foxes where iguanas were sometimes caught, Sunday excursions to go swimming in the ocean, and his grandfather reading aloud, pious readings, books of adventures, Salgari, Verne, Dumas, to him and his brothers, in his study with the Virgins from Cusco and old bookcases filled with dusty volumes.