She seemed surprised and looked at the Chevrolet again.
“Doña Sofía, right?” I asked, remembering the name I’d read hastily in one of the letters.
“I don’t understand,” she said, as though already counting in her head. “What hospital is Jacinto in?”
“In the one run by the Red Cross,” I said, “in the emergency room.” She finally undid the chain. I walked into a large room with rugs, paintings on the walls, and a small table crowded with family photographs.
“How do you know Jacinto?” she asked stiffly, without offering me a seat.
“It’s a long story,” I said. “I’m his friend. He told me about the tragedy, the events that drove him from this house. Where is your daughter?”
“At school.”
I wondered whether the ladies had managed to get into the house and where they might be hiding. I went over to the table with the pictures, but I didn’t see any of Don Jacinto.
“I still can’t believe it,” she said. “You’ll have to explain this bank account thing to me again.”
I began to despair. I needed a drink; I needed to be away from this place, far from this insidious woman. I asked her to get some paper and a pencil so I could give her the instructions. When she turned around, I took out my pocketknife and pounced. She dodged me, and struggled and screamed but I caught her with my arm. I thrust the knife deep into her stomach. I stabbed her until she went down, her mouth and eyes open. Her nails loosened from my arm. A young maid appeared in the hallway. She stopped when she saw my knife and my blood-spattered clothes. But I didn’t need to act — the four snakes attacked her as one. The poor thing crumbled and convulsed a few times before swelling up so badly that she looked like she might explode.
“Let’s go.” I said.
Once I got outside, I realized I was now limping like Don Jacinto. I had a sullen look and a budding beard. We climbed into the Chevrolet, and while I took down the cardboard, I asked them why they’d attacked the maid so savagely.
“So that wasn’t Don Jacinto’s daughter?” asked Beti, surprised.
I said no, they’d made a mistake. The girl was at school. They exchanged glances.
I started the car and went to look for a quiet place to park and rest after so much excitement, but I couldn’t find one anywhere. We went downtown, to the buildings destroyed by the earthquake, the sidewalks packed with street vendors selling piles of used clothing from the United States, the sound of hundreds of stereos playing at the same time, and the crazed crowds of people pouring out onto the streets. The yellow Chevrolet moved at a snail’s pace through the sea of bodies. It was hard to believe that what had once been the historic city centre had now been plunged into chaos, only as a result of the government’s indolence. I wanted to do my good deed for the day and help clean up the neighbourhood. I stopped the car where the crowds were thickest and told the ladies to go out for a stroll. I was worn out and needed to be alone for a while. I opened the car door. I reached for the bottle of rum, lit a cigarette and told myself the solution was to find a group of apartment blocks like the ones where my sister Adriana lived. Somewhere where the car wouldn’t be noticed for a few days. Why hadn’t I thought of it before?
The din outside was tremendous. The ladies were in a kind of orgy, biting everything in sight. I had closed the door and window to block out the screaming, but I could still feel the terror of the fleeing crowds beating in my eardrums. In just a few seconds the street had been destroyed. There were dozens of bodies lying twisted on the ground between the vendors’ stalls, as though there’d been a machine gun attack or an earthquake. I thought we shouldn’t call too much attention to ourselves. I opened the car door and yelled for them to come back. They came in excited and out of breath. I started the car while they gossiped liked maidens in a tearoom, which was unlike them.
We went to the other end of town, near the road that led to the harbour. I found a place far away from stores, pharmacies, or any other businesses. It was on a street near a row of newly built houses, most of them probably still empty, let alone equipped with a phone line. I turned the car off, put up the cardboard, took the beat-up address book from the glove compartment and headed out to find a phone booth. I had to walk about ten blocks. I looked under the A’s and found the late Aurora’s number. I dialled but no one answered. This could mean one of two things: either the guy was at work, or he didn’t live there anymore. Once again, I had nothing to do. I needed a newspaper (had there been any reports that two indigents had died in a scuffle?) and my television, but I couldn’t go back to my sister’s and face her questioning. I decided it was a good time to read the letters and newspaper clippings. The ladies had disappeared. I turned on the flashlight and made myself comfortable, with the cigarettes and rum nearby. First I read what the papers had to say. In the briefs section, I found the story. Mrs. Aurora Pineda, a secretary at the Steel Tube Company, had been murdered while coming home from work by a pair of thieves who snatched her purse, which contained her pay cheque, as well as her wristwatch and a necklace. It seemed the victim had fought back and the criminals shot her in the head. There were no witnesses. That was all. I was surprised that it had happened just three years ago. I quickly arranged the seven letters in chronological order. She was the pretentious type, with no notion of spelling or grammar. She’d be a useless secretary, unless you were sleeping with her. She was also an opportunist — she asked Don Jacinto to buy her clothes and trinkets and to pay her debts. In the fifth letter, her tone changed. She was worried because her husband suspected something. He was watching her. She scolded Don Jacinto for not taking her seriously, for not wanting to divorce his wife and marry her. In the sixth letter, she was no longer worried, but scared. Her husband had found out. A friend of his had seen her in Don Jacinto’s car during business hours. She talked about beatings and death threats. In the seventh letter her fear had turned into terror. She said Raúl had sworn that after he killed her, he’d ruin Don Jacinto. I spent some time turning it all over in my head, picturing this idiot woman getting herself involved in a passionate affair that got out of hand. I tried to figure out how Raúl had ruined Don Jacinto’s life, besides murdering his mistress. I stayed there wondering, mulling over different hypotheses until I fell asleep.
When I woke up, it was already dark. The ladies had left their hiding places and were sleeping peacefully. I went back to the phone booth. This time a man answered.
“Good evening. I’m calling from the telephone company,” I said. “This is a routine check. Is this 225-4435, the residence of Don Raúl Pineda?”
“That’s right,” he said.
“Your address, please.”
It turned out that we were fairly close, about half an hour’s walk away. The yellow Chevrolet was sitting in its spot, where it would spend that night, the next one, and as far into the future as possible. I’d left the bottle of rum in the car, but I needed it for the trip, so I went back to get it, without thinking of inviting them along. Limping, I covered the distance to a residential area with tiny houses built close together — the cells of the masses. The driveways all looked alike, and they were packed with loud groups of people, as though everyone wanted to spend the night out under the stars. I stopped in front of the house. There was music and loud laughter coming from inside. I rang the doorbell. Soon a man came to the door, eager, and certain that I was the guy they’d been waiting for. His expression changed when he took in my appearance. I could see at least half a dozen men making a racket and drinking around a table, under a thick cloud of smoke that reeked of marijuana.
“Is Gustavo here?” I asked before raising the bottle of rum to my lips.