The Foreign Girls

by Sergio Olguin

  He didn’t exactly tell the truth in the email, but then he was a lawyer. Truth was not a quality held in high regard by his profession.

  III

  Verónica locked herself in her room and the first thing she did was connect the memory stick to her laptop. She felt her heart speeding up. There were forty-two saved images. The district attorney had made her a copy of all the photos in the camera. There was Frida and Petra’s entire journey, from the moment they had met in the city of San Miguel de Tucumán to their last days in Yacanto del Valle. First she glanced through them quickly. She found the ones in which she appeared, in scenes that were painfully familiar. There were also some photos Petra (or had it been Frida?) had taken of her without her realizing: lying on the lounger sunbathing, sitting reading the Marta Lynch novel on the veranda, preparing something in the kitchen. There was a photo, undoubtedly taken by Petra, in which Frida and she were returning from the swimming pool. The image captured an exchange of glances between the two of them, both oblivious to Petra’s lens. She zoomed in until her face and Frida’s were in close-up. Placing her fingers on the screen, she caressed Frida’s face, traced her cheeks, circled her eyes, delicately touched those lips she had kissed. She did to the image what her gaze had been doing to Frida on that brief walk through the garden.

  Afterwards she went back and looked at every photo in detail. She tried to imagine in which circumstances they had been taken, hoping to reconstruct Petra and Frida’s story before they had met her. They looked happy, carefree, beautiful. There were various images of Frida that Petra had taken without her realizing, just as she had done a few days later with Verónica. Only now did she appreciate the sensitivity with which Petra had observed them. Through her photos she discovered much more than Verónica – and certainly Frida – had intended to reveal. She also looked at the photos Frida had taken of Petra. In a couple of them the Italian was singing, guitar in hand. There were no photos of anyone else, apart from Verónica. She was the only person to have been incorporated into their story. The last picture was of the three of them sitting in the bar in Yacanto del Valle.

  She had been looking at the images on Explorer and only now did she see that there was a video that had surely been recorded with the same camera. Frida appeared holding the camera and focussing it on herself. She said: “I’m sorry, little one, you’re too much of a boy for a woman like Petra. But you know what, kid? Your Italian granny has written this song for you.”

  Then the camera swivelled round to show Petra with her guitar who, starting with her habitual eh, began to sing: “E dimmi quanti anni quanti anni ho / tu dimmi quanti anni quanti anni ho / ho molti anni molti anni più di te / ma quanti anni, quali anni non lo so/ caro bambino, imparerai, / il tempo vola e va, / non te ne accorgi, ma no, lui non ritornerà.”

  At that point Petra stopped singing. “There’s been an accident,” Frida was saying. They both burst out laughing. The video ended there, with their laughter.

  It had got late. She wanted to talk to Chief Superintendent Suárez. Verónica went to the police station, but he wasn’t there and they couldn’t tell her how to reach him. She returned to the hotel, where her friend María was coming to meet her in a few minutes.

  Luca was smoking in the door of the hotel and, accepting his offer of a cigarette, she stood beside him.

  “Did you two know anything about the murder of a girl six years ago, here in Yacanto?”

  “That was a year before we moved here. I think I heard something about it, but I can’t remember anything in particular.”

  “Do you know El Gringo Aráoz?”

  “Impossible not to know him if you live round here. The guy was completely out of control. Tearing up and down the streets in his car like an idiot, getting wasted, getting into fights. He caused all kinds of mayhem, but since his family owns half the region he could misbehave with complete impunity. Notice I said half the region – not half Yacanto, but much more than that. Fields of soya, citrus fruits: the Aráoz family has everything. That’s what Argentinian landowners are like: untouchable bastards.”

  “You said he was out of control. Did he change?”

  “Oh yes. When he got married he turned into a respectable gentleman. He drives around in his 4 × 4 with his wife and baby. The wife’s from a traditional Tucumán family, with links to the media.”

  “Apparently this guy might have had something to do with the murder of that girl.”

  “I don’t think El Gringo would have deprived himself of any crime in his youth. Anything is possible.”

  A car and an outside broadcast van came down the road. María was sitting in the back seat of the car and motioned to Verónica to get in beside her. In the front, next to the driver, was a producer from the channel for which María worked.

  “Do we know who they’re going to arrest?” asked Verónica.

  “They’ve just confirmed it. We’re going to Los Cercos. There’s a terreiro there. Do you know what that is?”

  “A kind of temple, right?”

  “It’s where Umbanda is practised. They’re going to arrest Pae Daniel. Decaux has already passed on all the details: Pae Daniel is a Brazilian priest who’s been living in Los Cercos for ten years. According to Decaux, the pae and his followers carry out black magic ceremonies. Ritual orgies. He and some of his followers – who haven’t yet been identified – kidnapped the girls and subjected them to an Umbanda rite.”

  “I happened to write a piece on some umbandistas in Mar del Plata a few years ago and, while I wouldn’t say they were all angels, accusing them of carrying out black masses seems like quite a leap.”

  “There are Catholics who do good works and others who carried out the Inquisition, so I think you have to allow that the gods of Orixás preside over all kinds of behaviour.”

  They pulled up behind some patrol cars outside the police station. The producer got out, went into the building and returned two minutes later.

  “We’re leaving right now,” he said as he got back into the front seat.

  Moments later a number of police officers appeared and climbed into three patrol cars. Chief Superintendent Suárez and DA Decaux travelled in one of them. The police vehicles drove off, the television crews following them.

  “Are you going to broadcast the arrest live?” Verónica asked.

  “We’d like to,” the producer said, “but the DA has asked for discretion. I think he’s worried in case something goes wrong. So we’ll film the arrest and then get the broadcast truck ready to go out live from there over the next four hours.”

  “Or more,” said María.

  “Or more,” repeated the producer with resignation.

  “It depends on our ratings,” María explained. “And I really hope they’re good, otherwise next time they’ll be sending me to check the price of lettuces in the Mercado de Abasto.”

  Pae Daniel’s terreiro was on the edge of town, surrounded by houses, rather than in the country, as Verónica had imagined.

  The police got out of their vehicles and so did the cameraman, the sound engineer, gaffer, the producer and María. They were ready in eight seconds, like a Formula One team changing tyres. The police advanced on the order of Chief Superintendent Suárez, the cameraman bringing up the rear. Further behind came María, then other members of the production team, the district attorney and another court official. Verónica went with them. Decaux was surprised to see her there.

  There was just a few minutes’ wait. Verónica felt strange. She was about to see the face of the man who might be responsible for the deaths of Frida and Petra. Yet something told her this impressive display of force was more for show than anything else.

  If the television producer was hoping for a shoot-out, injuries, or at least some shouting and screaming, he must have felt very frustrated. The police emerged almost immediately from the house, with Pae Daniel in handcuffs. He was a man of about fifty, dark-skinned and stocky, verging on fat. A mixed-race Brazilian from Bahía, transplant
ed to Tucumán. That did seem strange. Verónica was as certain the man was a fall guy as she was that El Gringo Aráoz was somehow involved in the crime. Or was there some connection between Pae Daniel and El Gringo Aráoz? Either of them could have been responsible for the girls’ deaths. No: Verónica couldn’t be sure of anything.

  After the arrested man had been bundled into a patrol car, the camera turned to María, who started to reprise what she had already told Verónica. Her ability to speak without hesitating or getting muddled was incredible. Verónica could never have done it. After wrapping the segment, they started getting the truck ready to broadcast live. The producer was trying to find some member of the priest’s family to interview. The neighbours turned up and surrounded the truck, waving to the camera even though it wasn’t rolling. Verónica’s mobile rang. It was Mariano.

  “Frida’s parents are here.”

  When Verónica said nothing, he added:

  “They wanted to stay in the hotel where their daughter had been. Tomorrow they’re meeting the judge.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I accompanied a police operation in Los Cercos. At the home of an Umbanda priest.”

  “Pae Daniel?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know him. Once we went there for a jogo de búzios ritual. It’s when the priest reads the future by casting cowrie shells. Did you drive?”

  “Actually, I was driven. Now I have to work out how to get back, because everyone here is busy.”

  “I’ll come and get you.”

  IV

  They were sitting in the armchairs in the lobby, coffee cups in front of them. Luca was with them and speaking in English. Verónica went up to them and introduced herself with a kiss. Mariano stayed a few steps behind.

  The father, Karl, was tall and blonde with a prominent bald patch. The mother was called Herbjørg and physically very different from her daughter: small, with silvery hair and very pale skin that was almost translucent. And yet her blue eyes and her gaze were Frida’s. The father’s physical similarity was less disconcerting than seeing the daughter’s gestures in her mother. They didn’t know who Verónica was, nor that she had shared the last part of Frida’s journey with her, as she explained now in English, a language they understood perfectly. They did, however, know Petra. They spoke quietly and seemed calm, but every so often the father took out a cotton handkerchief and wiped his eyes. The mother sat very upright and tried to smile whenever Luca refilled her water glass. They asked Verónica how they had met, what Frida had talked to her about, if she had seemed to be enjoying herself. Verónica tried to answer their questions, but she found it very hard. Not because it required talking about Frida, but because it also meant talking about herself, her feelings and her pain. And she didn’t want Frida’s parents to feel compassion for her, especially not when they were managing their own grief with such dignity.

  “Frida was always very special,” Karl said. “As a teenager she worked with an NGO that supported Bosnian immigrants. Later she helped build schools in Senegal. At some point she discovered Latin America and fell in love with Buenos Aires. We were happy she was coming to Argentina. We thought it would be safer than Honduras or Angola.”

  “In reality,” added Herbjørg, “we were always a little anxious when she was away from home.”

  Frida’s parents wanted to know if anyone had been in touch with Petra’s family. Verónica told them what she knew: that Petra had no family, apart from an Argentinian ex-boyfriend the embassy had not yet managed to locate. Karl and Herbjørg were going to meet the judge, with a view to taking Frida’s body back to Oslo.

  V

  Next morning, Verónica called Judge Amalfi. She had spent the whole night thinking of Petra, about how alone she was, even in death. She asked the judge what was going to happen with Petra’s body. Amalfi told her that an official from the Italian embassy was on his way to Tucumán to handle the matter. In any case, both Frida’s parents and the embassy were going to have to wait two more days before they could take possession of the bodies, since a few more tests needed to be done. The judge reminded her that there were also Petra’s belongings to be dealt with.

  “Doctor, forgive the indiscretion, but are you going to charge Pae Daniel?”

  “In a few hours I’m going to take his statement, and then I’ll decide what comes next. What’s clear is that he can’t have been alone in this. So far we have all the elements of an Umbanda rite, and these are being deciphered by a specialist. DA Decaux has requested his prosecution. Once I have the expert opinion, certain details I’ve requested from the medical forensic team and a statement from the accused, I’ll have a clearer picture.”

  Later, Verónica went to the police station. This time she found Suárez in his office. He beckoned her in.

  “Are you happy we’ve found the man responsible for the crimes?”

  “Do you really believe he’s responsible?”

  “The DA seems very sure. I don’t know if you saw him on all the news programmes last night.”

  “I didn’t watch television. And you – what do you think?”

  “The investigation is just beginning.”

  “Do you remember the Bibiana Ponce case?”

  “The name rings a bell, but I don’t remember the case.”

  “She was a girl from Yacanto who was raped and murdered six years ago.”

  “I’ve only been at this police station for two. I got sent here as a punishment for not doing as I was told in Tacitas.”

  “What did they want you to do?”

  “Not to arrest the son of a judge, who should have been tried for drug trafficking. I’m always coming up against the child of some lawyer, as you see. Refresh my memory: what happened in the other case?”

  “Bibiana Ponce turned up dead at the side of a country road. She had been raped and violently murdered. Nobody has gone to jail for the crime. But everyone knows who did it: Guillermo Aráoz, El Gringo.”

  “Ah yes, I know the one.”

  “El Gringo Aráoz was at the party I went to with Frida and Petra. Perhaps he had something to do with this.”

  Verónica left the police station with the feeling Suárez didn’t altogether trust her theories. When it came down to it, he would very likely take some satisfaction from believing someone like her might be guilty. She didn’t mind him thinking that, so long as he took seriously any information she gave him.

  She returned to the hotel, where she had arranged to meet Federico so they could travel together to San Miguel de Tucumán. Federico was going to look into the Ponce case and she wanted to make a survey of similar crimes committed in the region. To do that, she would need to consult the archive of some provincial newspaper. Neither Yacanto de Valle nor the other cities nearby had their own newspaper, just local FM radio stations. The provincial newspapers only had digital versions of the last few years and so she was going to have to do what she most hated: trawl through the paper archives. She called Patricia Beltrán, hoping her editor could put her in touch with some Tucumanian newspaper that would let her visit their archive.

  “Does this mean you’re going to write something on the tourists story? Weren’t you supposed to be on vacation? Shouldn’t you be in Jujuy or some other godforsaken backwater?”

  “I probably will write something. But since I’m on vacation, I’m not promising you anything. And Jujuy isn’t godforsaken.”

  “Any place that doesn’t have a subway is godforsaken, my dear.”

  “Could you arrange for me to go to some Tucumanian newsroom with good archives?”

  “Tucumán … let me think. Would you want to see the whole paper, or just crime stories?”

  “I’m looking for crimes similar to the ones committed in Yacanto del Valle.”

  “Then I’ve got something better. Juan Robson, an old crime correspondent, retired now. They call him El Inglés, the Englishman.”

  “So I have to trust his memory
?”

  “Don’t be cheeky. El Inglés Robson was – and surely still is – obsessed with crime news. You can trust his memory, and his archive even more so. The guy used to cut out any crime story and keep it, just in case. He retired ten years ago. He worked in Buenos Aires for a time. About a year ago I ran into him at a celebration that had been arranged for a colleague. I have his phone number. I’ll call him and let you know if you can visit.”

  Ten minutes later a text arrived from her editor: Will be delighted to help you. He has the archive. Call him… And Patricia attached Juan Robson’s phone number. Verónica called him immediately. Robson wasn’t all that friendly on the phone, but he did say she could drop by that afternoon.

  While waiting to leave for the Tucumanian capital with Federico, she chatted to Mariano. She told him about Petra. Verónica was going to speak to someone from the Italian embassy to see if they would authorize her to take charge of the funeral and Petra’s belongings. She thought Petra should be taken back to Córdoba, where she had been happy.

  “Leaving aside the complications of moving a body,” said Mariano, “and the difficulty of finding a cemetery in Córdoba, I think it would be better to have the funeral here. The Partido cemetery is nearby, on the outskirts of Yacanto.”

  Not long afterwards Federico and she left Yacanto del Valle.

  “I have to meet up with a colleague who’s going to give me a copy of the case file. Have you thought where we might stay?”

  “At my cousin Severo’s house. I still have the key. Any news of Peratta?”

  “Nada. But I’m sure he’s very far away from your cousin’s house.”

  VI

  He couldn’t remember anything after Five arrived to get him out of there, just one long dream about his childhood in Quilmes. In it, he saw a coastline he identified as Ensenada. His brothers and sisters were there, all of them very small, and his parents, who were young, but he was an adult and was wounded, as though he had travelled through time from Tucumán to the Quilmes of thirty years ago. At some points in the dream he stood alone contemplating the immensity of the River Plate. At others, he followed his siblings when they wandered off from their parents. He was worried they would get lost, that they would drown. His siblings took off their clothes and went into the river. He couldn’t follow them because he didn’t know how to swim; he had never learned. But before the dream could become a nightmare, his siblings emerged from the river, accompanied by his parents. He couldn’t understand why they were all naked. It embarrassed him. Was his sister looking lasciviously at him?