affaire with Olga María? I get chills just thinking about it: it would be the end of his entire political career. What a weird route the driver of that hearse is taking. I would have turned left here: it makes more sense — why does he want to go all the way through Colonia San Francisco? He should’ve turned there and gone through Colonia San Mateo. I love this song by Miguel Bosé, especially the part where he whistles. Whose car did Diana go in? Oh, she’s with Marito and Doña Olga and the girls. And Julita? I didn’t see her. She’s probably in Sergio and Cuca’s car. Or maybe they had her stay and watch over the house; I doubt it, though. I was worried about that Deputy Chief Handal starting to poke his nose into the relationship between Olga María and Yuca. I should warn Yuca. I’ll find a chance at the cemetery. How could Handal have found out about it if Olga María and I were the only ones who knew? I don’t think even Julita realized what was going on; and even if she did she’d never tell, especially not somebody like him. The only possibility is that one of the girls from the boutique — Cheli or Conchita — one of them blabbed. I’m going to warn them: they shouldn’t talk to that policeman. I hate having to change gears every other minute; and the motor gets overheated when you drive this slowly. I don’t understand why there aren’t any cemeteries in any decent parts of the city — do you, my dear? They’re all so far away, so out of the way, and always in the middle of dangerous neighborhoods. Well, the truth is, this city’s contaminated with slums. That’s what Diana told me, it always surprises her how the neighborhoods where decent people live are practically surrounded by slums — where the criminals come from. That’s why it’s so easy to get murdered without anybody being able to do anything about it, like what happened to Olga María: the criminals do their dirty work, then quickly sneak back to their hideouts. In other cities it’s not like that: you live on one side and the bad guys live on the other, and there’s miles in between, which is how it should be. But in this country, everything’s all squished together. Olga María showed me how just as you enter her neighborhood, right next to the slums, there are three row houses up against one another, wall to walclass="underline" in one there’s a grammar school, the next one’s a whorehouse, and in the next one, there’s an evangelical church. Can you imagine!? Sheer madness. This stoplight is going to break up the procession. We’re going to lose each other. It takes forever for the light to turn green. We should have had a police escort to stop the traffic; I don’t know why nobody thought of hiring a policeman — that disgusting Deputy Chief Handal could do it instead of sticking his nose into things that are none of his business. The good part is that from here on out, once we’re on the highway, there won’t be much traffic, until we get close to the cemetery, that is, then the streets get horrible, super-narrow. Diana said she’s going to be here for only three days; she can’t stay longer, because of her job, she’s a top executive at some computer company with its headquarters in Miami, and she’s finishing up her master’s in business administration. That girl’s really talented. She’s three years younger than me and Olga María. Don Sergio sent her there for high school and then she just stayed on in Miami. She comes to visit from time to time, at the most once a year, especially since Don Sergio died; she’d rather Doña Olga come to her because she can rest there. She was asking me about what Olga María had been up to recently; they didn’t have much contact, according to her. I’m not going to go telling her everything Olga María didn’t tell her; I don’t want to make a faux pas or anything. She especially wanted to know if I suspect anyone in particular, if I can think of anyone who might have planned the murder, because as far as she’s concerned it was a contract killing, arranged by somebody who had a strong motive to get rid of Olga María. She kept insisting, I’m telling you, my dear, almost like that Deputy Chief Handal, wanting me to tell her what I thought. I told her the truth, that I’m pretty confused about everything myself. I don’t know anybody who could have even thought about committing such a brutal crime — maybe it was a mistake. But Diana said it couldn’t have been a mistake, the murderer was waiting specifically for Olga María, he knew who he was killing. What if it was a way of sending a message to Marito? I wondered out loud. Why did I say that, tell me?! Because then Diana started interrogating me as if I knew something. I told her I didn’t, it was just a question that popped into my head. Can you imagine if I’d told her about Olga María’s relationships with José Carlos and Yuca? Who knows what she would have imagined! She’s very upset, the poor thing. Anybody would be in her situation. Here we are at the roundabout; let’s see if from here to El Ranchón the driver of the hearse will step on it a little. We’re going so slowly. But what worries me most is this business with Yuca, because that Deputy Chief Handal is already making all kinds of conjectures. I care about Yuca, a lot; and he really trusts me. I mean, when his relationship with Olga María didn’t work out and she didn’t want to tell me any details, it was Yuca himself who filled me in. The poor guy was really down, almost desperate. He called me at home and said he needed to see me, urgently. I already knew what it was about, but I was still surprised because Yuca hadn’t called me for years, ever since he got involved in politics and married Kati. We were pretty good friends before that, I even dated him for a while. I never told you? Yes, we did. Nothing ever happened, but we went out several times. That’s why I wasn’t totally surprised when I got a call from him. At first I thought I should talk to Olga María before seeing Yuca, but then I told myself that if she hadn’t wanted to tell me anything, it was better not to insist. We agreed that the following afternoon I’d go to his house in Miramonte, where he’d taken Olga María. Look for that José María cassette, I love that Spanish singer. Have you heard him? I found poor Yuca so changed — handsome, as usual, but politics ages people, my dear. It’s a pity. But what was most noticeable was how her nervous he was. He couldn’t sit still. Every other second he was standing up, pacing around, calling someone on his cell phone, talking to someone on his walkie-talkie. I figured Yuca used that house as some kind of secret office. He and I were the only ones inside; but outside, in the garden and the garage, there were about half a dozen bodyguards. From the minute I got there he started telling me about how I needed to convince Olga María to see him again, how I was her best friend and only I could make that happen, how he would be forever grateful to me if I did. He didn’t even wait for me to sit down, get comfortable on the sofa; he didn’t even offer me something to drink, he just launched right into his tirade about what I should tell Olga María — it was like he was possessed. I told him to calm down and get me a drink, I asked him if he’d totally forgotten his manners, I told him to please remember who I was, Laura, remember me? Not some messenger-girl, and to please get off his high horse. That’s when he offered me a whiskey and poured another for himself, but not just a regular shot, more like a full half glass and he downed it in one gulp. I realized he was really in bad shape, he needed help. I asked what the hell was going on with him; I asked him to please calm down, have a seat, relax. These are the streets I was talking about that I don’t like. What’s this called? Colonia Costa Rica? Are you sure? I know how to get here, I’ve come here so often to bury people, but I’ve never known what it’s called. After you go under that bridge you can see the cemetery. I don’t know my way at all to the main cemetery, the one downtown; I get lost in that part of town; but I don’t think they bury anybody there anymore, my dear. As I was saying, Yuca calmed down, sort of. I told him I couldn’t do anything for him unless he told me in detail what had happened between him and Olga María. I warned him to not give me any cock-and-bull stories, to tell me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. He looked a little taken aback: he thought Olga María had already told me everything. I said she hadn’t, I said she was a very discreet woman, and she’d only told me that things hadn’t worked out between them. Then Yuca asked me to wait a second, he had to go to the bathroom, and off he dashed. What a mess this is, my dear. We’re at a standstill. That’s what I hate about these narrow streets, the tiniest thing goes wrong and there’s a major traffic jam. We could sit here now for fifteen minutes. That’s happened to me before. It’s because right after the bridge the street gets even narrower, sometimes the hearse can’t even get through. What a pain. But I was telling you about Yuca — I do feel like it’s somehow wrong to talk about it: it’s so private. Especially considering Yuca’s political position, my dear, it might be embarrassing, even dangerous. But I think he’s doing better. He looks good now, more relaxed, stable, self-assured, not like that afternoon I was with him in his hideout. When he got back from the bathroom he was acting totally different: like he was having tremors. Then I understood what was going on with him, and I got scared, why not admit it. A man of his stature in a situation like that, it’s enough to frighten anyone. So, again, I told him to relax, I suggested he have a seat on the sofa next to me and tell me all about what had happened with Olga María. First, he gave me a whole long song and dance: about how he’d always loved her, how she was the best thing in his life, how he needed such a sweet understanding woman by his side, how his relationship with Kati was dead. You know: what men always say to women. I let him go on for a while, but when I realized he was beating around the bush, I asked him point blank why Olga María had entered that house so excited and left it so disappointed. Yuca was sitting next to me on the sofa. He didn’t answer, he looked me right in the eyes and began caressing my hair, with the saddest expression on his face. I felt sorry for him, and he knew how to use that to his advantage, he knows I’ve always liked him. He inched closer and closer, a little bit at a time, then he kissed me. The weird part is that I didn’t do anything to stop him. On the contrary. It was as if I had the feeling that this was the only way I was going to get this man to settle down, the only way I was going to find out what had really happened between him and Olga María. Anyway, that’s the only way I can explain it, and to tell you the truth, once we started, it didn’t seem like we were going to stop. Yuca is so good-looking, so tender; he knows how to say such lovely things. And his body, my dear, if you ordered one custom made, it wouldn’t turn out better than his. But the more we kissed and touched each other on the sofa, the more frantic he got. He told me he loved my legs, he wanted to lick me all over. He almost tore my clothes off. I came there totally defenseless: I was wearing a gray plaid miniskirt and a white blouse. I had no idea that man was going to throw himself on me like that; if I’d known, I’d have worn pants. I managed to tell him to be careful or he’d tear my stockings, but he was totally beside himself; all he wanted to do was bury his head between my legs, like a dog. I managed to grab him by the hair and shout at him to calm down, I didn’t like it like that — now I understood why Olga María had been so disappointed in him; I asked him what it would take for him to go about it a little more gently. Poor Yuca. I still get an odd feeling when I remember the look on his face. He was on his knees on the floor and I’d already stood up. He rested his head on the sofa, and, right then and there, he simply fell apart. It was horrible — he started sniveling, can you imagine, a man like that. I don’t even care to remember it. He mumbled something about wanting me to forgive him, he couldn’t control himself, it wasn’t his fault, it was that filthy cocaine. I’d already figured that one out, my dear, that this man was not in his right mind, being that frantic doesn’t come from drinking whisky. I sat back down and started caressing his head, I told him not to worry, I was his friend, and he could trust me completely; he should go ahead and tell me what was going on, I would help him get Olga María back. Finally, he calmed down a little. I quickly pulled myself together, straightened out my clothes: I was worried he might call in one of his bodyguards. Then he started telling me the whole story, just like that, still kneeling on the floor, his head resting on my lap, like some kind of naughty child. He told me that with Olga María the same thing had happened, the same despair, the same evil demon ruining everything, because by the time they’d met he was already out of his mind, he’d been snorting cocaine every fifteen minutes, and when Olga María said the same thing I did, that he should take it easy, slow down, he’d reacted differently, because he’d been wanting her for so long, because he’d been waiting for her for so many years, there was no way he could stop himself; and she, as you can imagine, she just tried to get away. Yuca, the idiot, forced her onto the bed. He said to me, right there, and pointed to the bedroom where he took her, practically by force, where he