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 Handaclass="underline" 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 same old accusations — he’s taken advantage of his contacts with people in the government to make millions off those superstores — the same nonsense they pull out of their hats whenever they want to ruin an honorable person. I really like Yuca, my dear, I always did, ever since we were small, at the American School, and Olga María did, too, even though all they ever did was say hi when they ran into each other at the club, their teenage romance already long forgotten, but even though they’d both gotten married, made separate lives for themselves, and taken different paths, Yuca always carried a torch for Olga María, I’m absolutely sure of it, and Olga María always carried a torch for him, that’s why I wasn’t at all surprised three months ago when she told me she saw him again, apparently they ran into each other in the parking lot of the Villas Españolas Mall; as usual she wa