I think all this began to stir after the visit from that persistent policeman, just over a week ago, do you remember? the one leading the investigation. The damned fellow came to see me to tell me exactly what you think: he is convinced something happened that he cannot get to the bottom of, but he is prepared to swear that she didn’t commit suicide, even when he hasn’t the slightest proof to back his idea. After saying that, he explained that in fact he had come to tell me the case was going to be closed on orders from his superiors, or, in other words, the investigation will not continue, in spite of his doubts. Nonetheless, while he was drinking his cup of coffee, he asked me ever so many questions, almost all the ones he’d asked before, about that woman’s friendships, possible enemies, unfinished business, drug addiction and, naturally, possible suicide motives. I told him yet again what I know, as sincerely as I knew how but not mentioning other matters I still think are unrelated to her death: you know what I’m referring to.
But that man’s suspicions, your doubts and the voices that speak of guilt, are undermining my convictions. Although there is something I am totally clear about (my innocence and, I hardly need to say this, yours as well), I have begun to think about what happened over that period of days, looking for a black spot, a detail that does not fit the usual patterns, to try to find, if one existed, an indication that her death might have been provoked by an individual who desired it.
I have thought, naturally, that someone like her, in spite of the unhappy past as an orphan girl she told you about, as a decent girl desperate to sing and be successful, must have left behind her enemies and hatred. So, the change you brought into her life might have sparked resentment in somebody determined to make her pay for a happiness she thought was undeserved.
What is terrible, given everything you and I know, is how the portrait of this individual keeps evoking my own face. The knowledge I am innocent allows me dismiss that false image, but does not help me find another, if one exists. Could one of her girlfriends have been the guilty one? Perhaps that good-for-nothing who used to visit her and even accompany her on her trips to spoil herself with your money, who even dared to pass herself off as a respectable lady when everyone knew what she did in life… But why should she want to? Was she really her friend? Could envy at your lover’s good fortune be sufficient to push her into preparing that road to death? She had opportunities enough: she went in and out of that woman’s house whenever she wanted, even used to spend afternoons at the flat with your friend Louis. But I don’t think envy is motive enough, because if you work through it in logical fashion, by killing her, she would have killed the goose laying the golden eggs, since when that woman became your wife, as you had decided, the other ne’er-do-well could continue to profit from her old friendship, thanks to which she’d succeed in gaining God knows what benefits, apart from the ones she already enjoyed because you were grateful to her for introducing you to that woman in the first place.
28 December
My love:
The voices pursue me, obsessed as I am by finding out. I put this letter to one side a few days ago because a frightful headache prevented me from writing. Today, I feel calmer and I will try to finish it, but only to say that a voice woke me up last night and told me it’s my fault because I don’t know what I ought to, what I would never wish to have known. What was it referring to? I don’t know, but I swear to you that, with or without those voices, with or without your agreement, I will continue to search for my only solution: the truth. Although it may be the most terrible of truths.
I hope you enjoy a lovely end to the year. We’ve experienced twelve wretched months, with all manner of misfortune, exacerbated by your being so far away for more than three months now. I hope these festivities and holy celebrations bring a little peace to your soul and that you have a happy respite. In my solitude, I console myself as ever with the idea that we will soon be into another year, and that it will be a year to favour us all.
I really hope you are very happy, as happy as one can be, because I love you…
Your Nena
One of the blessings Mario Conde never ceased to be thankful for was the fact he had three or four good friends. The almost fifty years spent in this world had taught him, sometimes perversely, that few states are as fragile as the state of friendship, and hence he fiercely protected his many layered camaraderie with Skinny Carlos, Candito and Rabbit, because he considered it to be one of his most precious gifts from life. Several years earlier, Andrés’s departure to the United States had provoked a sense of desertion among the remaining friends, but, at the same time, it had had the beneficial secondary effect of bringing them closer together, welding their connections, making them more tolerant of each other and transforming them into life members of the party of eternal friendship.
The permanent threat represented by Carlos’s physical deterioration meant the Count never failed to safeguard the time he spent near his old friend, dedicating all the hours he could to him, aware it was the best way to act in preparation for a future emptiness, the arrival of which drew nearer by the day.
In spite of Carlos’s insistence that his friend should set time aside to write the stories he invented and frequently promised to put on paper, the Count felt strangely fulfilled when he spent his evenings and nights in lethargic conversations meandering through the unpredictable labyrinths of memory, obstinately chasing a no doubt imaginary state of grace they dredged up from a rosetinted past, spurred on by dreams, projects and desires reality had crushed long ago. In these repetitive exchanges, refusing to discover anything new, they allowed themselves to be swept along by the illusion they’d once been really happy, and while they spoke, drank and reminisced, put despair to one side and resurrected the happiest moments from their sad lives.
That night the Count lamented Rabbit’s absence, then started to tell Carlos and Candito about the recent events he’d been implicated in and his corrosive reflections on the duties of a policeman that had come to him when he was being put on file. He concluded by telling them of the decision he’d taken that afternoon after the conversation with Silvano Quintero: to start searching for the once famous Lotus Flower, real name Elsa Contreras, about whose existence the journalist had received some vague but reliable information about ten years ago.
“So, after all that, you’re back to being a policeman, but on false pretences?” smiled Carlos as he poured himself a shot of the genuine rum they could now drink thanks to the Count’s economic good health.
“Ironies of destiny, as a good bolero might say. Although you said it: on false pretences.”
“Do you want me to help you look for her?” Candito ventured, and the Count shook his head.
“No, not now. I might need you to give me a hand later, but I’d rather start off by myself. I don’t want to kick up any fuss and frighten her off.”
“And do you really think that business is connected to what’s just happened?” enquired Carlos.
“How the hell should I know, Skinny? I’d certainly like to find out what happened to Violeta del Río. Yesterday I promised to forget her, but now she won’t budge from here…” and he hit his forehead with the palm of his hand, “at least until I know why the fuck she committed suicide. Or had it committed for her…”
“You’ve got it bad,” said Candito and the Count nodded vigorously, weighing up if that was the moment to relate the strange story of his father’s platonic love affair. But he opted to keep that under wraps.