led 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 ripped off her clothes. She’s so strong willed, she rejected him, just like I did. But he didn’t stop, like with me; no, he forced himself on top of her and buried his face between her legs, totally possessed, frantic, until Olga María had no choice but to give in, though she was probably disgusted, she must’ve been. Then it got even worse — that’s what tormented Yuca most of alclass="underline" because of all the drugs he took, he couldn’t even get it up. Pathetic, my dear. Can you imagine a hunk of a man like that, right there for the taking, all your very own, and his thingy doesn’t even work, all because of his vice!? That’s why all that desperation, all that anxiety, wanting to eat and eat and eat, because he knew it didn’t work when he was so high on cocaine. A true tragedy. Then I understood why Olga María had left so disappointed, why she’d decided not to tell me anything, and why she totally broke off her relationship with Yuca. She did the right thing, my dear, there’s no point taking risks with a man like that. But that first time, after his pathetic performance, Yuca told her he was sorry, he begged her to forgive him, he didn’t usually act like that or take so many drugs, he promised her it would never happen again, he wouldn’t be so high the next time, and that’s why Olga María went to him one more time. But the same thing happened: the man was high, impotent, anxious, frantic, all in all pretty pathetic, Like I’m telling you, that’s exactly how Yuca told it to me: he was kneeling on the floor with his head resting on my lap, he was falling apart, sobbing. I know, it’s hard to believe. I told him he had only one option: get on the next plane to the States and check himself into a detox clinic. That was the only sensible thing to do, the only way he could save his relationship with Olga María. Yuca took my advice, my dear. I don’t know if I was the only one who suggested that, but the fact is, three days later, he was on his way to Houston; the official word from the party was that it was for a routine medical exam. Finally, we’re moving. I think this is the longest it’s ever taken me to get to the cemetery. I told you, after the bridge, the street is so narrow you can get stuck here forever; all it takes is one idiot to bring the traffic to a standstill. Of course Olga María and I talked about Yuca. I told her in detail what had happened; well, I didn’t tell her I let him kiss me, just in case they started seeing each other again, then I’d be in trouble. When Yuca left for Houston I called to give her the good news, because she wasn’t taking his calls. I told her that when Yuca got back and was clean, they could try again. But now you probably understand how Olga María is — she sounded completely cavalier when she said she’d never go out with Yuca again, not for anything in the world, for her that chapter was over and done with, she’d have to be crazy to get involved with a guy like that. Maybe she was right, my dear, but I felt sorry for Yuca, because what motivated him to get treatment was the possibility of seeing Olga María again. That’s what I think, anyway — I can’t believe he did it for Kati’s sake; he’s not at all interested in her anymore. We’re here, my dear. Look how beautiful the lawns are, they’re so well-manicured. It feels peaceful, doesn’t it? This is the best cemetery. They say it belongs to that Arab, Facussé, who also owns Channel 11; apparently he’s made a fortune off all the dead people, enough money to buy and run that TV station. Papa hates him. Well, dear, papa hates all Arabs, I’ve never understood why. It’s something visceral. He says that before, the Arabs in this country didn’t have a pot to piss in, and that it’s only thanks to the communists that they now own the country. Papa has his own opinions about these things, and for him, the Arabs are to blame for a whole bunch of bad things. Now that I think about it, he’s probably right, because that Deputy Chief Handal must be an Arab. But this cemetery’s beautiful, isn’t it? Olga María loved it here. Don Sergio is buried here; they’ll bury her next to him. It’s going to be impossible to park with all these cars here, and it’s going to be impossible to get out when it’s over. Look at that section over there, I’ve never seen it before: this cemetery sure has grown, the Arab must be drowning in money. I’m going to park over there, under that tree, next to that arbor, the sun is still pretty strong. Oh, dear, I hope my skirt hasn’t gotten wrinkled. That’s what I don’t like about this materiaclass="underline" it wrinkles too easily. Don’t bother: the doors lock automatically. My goodness, what a lot of cars. Come this way. Let’s let the family go first. How beautiful they all look next to the coffin: Marito, José Carlos, Yuca, and Sergio. The four men who loved her most. I’d even say she’d be happy to see them all together. Let’s get closer. Look at Doña Olga, poor thing. What a tragedy, my dear — do you have more Kleenex? The wretches: how could they have done such a thing. They’ve got no guts. My darling girls, come here.