“Wow.”
“Wow what? I bet I’ve had more pre-match chorizo hot dogs than you.”
In the butcher they bought a chunk of flank steak, two chorizos, a black pudding and half a kilo of offal. At a grocery store they bought tomatoes and lettuce, as well as a bag of charcoal just in case, because Federico was hoping to use dry branches. It was past four by the time they started lunch, and past six when they finished it. Federico ignored a couple of calls from the office. If it was very important, Aarón himself would call. Verónica went to her room.
That night they ate what remained of the steak – which was almost all of it – then went out to the garden. It was the first time he had held her like this. They sat on the same lounger and stared at the sky while he gently stroked her stomach and breasts. Afterwards they didn’t watch a movie but went to his room. Since their timetables were still off-kilter, they chatted and fucked until dawn. Later he fell asleep. He woke up at about ten o’clock in the morning, had a shower and got dressed. Glancing at his phone, he saw that he had four missed calls from Nicolás Menéndez Berti, and went to the kitchen to call him.
“I didn’t have anything to do with the murder of those girls,” said Nicolás without preamble.
“I’m sure you didn’t.”
“But everywhere they’re saying I’m responsible. I even saw it on the website of the magazine that Rosenthal girl works for.”
“The real culprits have to be found so everything can be cleared up. Did you do the DNA test?”
“Yes, yes, I didn’t have any contact with either of the girls.”
“Were you calling to tell me that?”
“No. But they’re playing a dirty game. They pushed those corpses onto me.”
“What do you mean?”
“I didn’t give all the recordings to the police. I want you to see the one I’ve kept back and tell me what to do.”
VII
When she opened her eyes, Verónica found herself alone in Federico’s bed. She looked at her watch. It was eleven o’clock. For a moment she thought of going back to sleep, but she ought to get on with things. What was she doing, though? Had she gone mad? If she wrote to Paula, she’d get called every name under the sun. All her friends would shake their heads disapprovingly. Even her sisters, who wanted nothing more in the world than to see her marry Federico, would eye her suspiciously.
But what did they know? For years she and Federico had shared more than would be usual even in an average marriage. And if it was so common for a couple to realize after several years that they were no longer united by either love or passion, why couldn’t the opposite happen? Why not believe that, after sharing so much else in their lives, love and desire could burst forth between two people who already had affection for one another? Had she really said love and desire could “burst forth”? Had she turned into a character in a romantic novel without anyone alerting her to the fact?
This silliness must be a sign that what she had with Federico was serious. When she had come out of the morgue, completely broken, there he had been, waiting for her outside. The way he’d held her had kept her from going completely to pieces. And he had been with her every moment since then, looking after her and accompanying her. When they found out Peratta and his accomplice were on the loose, Federico had suggested going to San Javier and for the first time in ages she had felt something approaching the anxiety of desire. Yes, she wanted to go, wanted to be with him, alone and far away from everything. He was angry with her for going to Coronel Berti alone and she was thinking that tomorrow they’d be on their own and together. It was strange, because she had always preferred him not to be around when awful things happened in her life: her mother’s funeral, Lucio’s death, her grief afterwards. She had always sought out solitude or the company of other people, even people she loved less. Now, though, she wouldn’t want to be with anyone other than him. On more than one occasion she had caught herself gazing at him in silence. Because the Federico capable of so many things (even killing for her) wasn’t the nice, attentive boy she used to see in her father’s office, the one she’d fucked. He was much more than that. Passion burst forth, she said to herself, and imagined the words scrolling along the bottom of some sensationalist news report.
Verónica got up and went to her room without seeing Federico, who must be in the kitchen or the garden. The asado was lying heavy in her stomach. There were some charcoal tablets in her pouch of remedies, and she took two with a glass of water. Better not tell Federico about this or he’d make fun of her. She looked for her cigarettes and lit one.
She sat on the lavatory, thinking that she should call Robson to see if he had any news. Beside the toilet was a copy of Nuestro Tiempo. The latest edition was already out in Buenos Aires, but it wouldn’t reach Tucumán until the next morning. Verónica picked up this old copy and flicked through it absent-mindedly. There was Vilna’s piece on the crimes. How quickly that black magic angle had dated. Verónica skipped through the sections and other articles to get to Vilna’s other piece, which she hadn’t yet read. She was curious to see what the Politics editor had to say about drug traffickers. Police from the forces in Salta and Tucumán were implicated, but it was clear Vilna was trying to save their necks.
Suddenly something caught her attention. The secretary of justice in Tucumán was Menéndez Berti. The alleged narco cop in Salta was called Posadas and was the son of Eusebio Posadas, one-time chief of the Salta police force. Posadas was the second surname of her cousin’s wife. It wasn’t an altogether unusual name, of course. There must be lots of people called Posadas in the country – even in Salta, from where the Witch hailed. But Verónica remembered that, a few years ago, when she was writing an article about the suppression of a protest, the Witch’s father had put her in touch with Alberto Posadas, an uncle of Severo’s wife and at that time chief of the Salta police. The Posadas currently in custody was his son.
A long time ago she had worked on several articles with a photographer called El Tano, who could come across as gruff at first but was actually very kind and a mentor to young journalists like herself. On one occasion, Verónica had told him she was writing an article on a fight between barra bravas, notorious soccer hooligans at the Boca ground. El Tano told her to look into the violent suppression of a teachers’ protest that had taken place a few days previously at the city legislature building.
“Why? What’s that got to do with it?”
“Listen, love, a journalist’s basic job – and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise – is to find a link between two apparently separate events that are in fact connected. Find out who the leaders of the barra bravas are, who beat up the teachers and what political affiliations the two groups have. I bet you find out it’s all part of the same thing.”
“In other words, they have two jobs. Hired thugs and professional fans. Violent in either case.”
“Violence is the language they use to show their power or to intimidate. You don’t just need to connect people but also events: the fight between the barras wouldn’t have happened if the teachers’ protest hadn’t been suppressed.”
Menéndez Berti in two news stories, a cousin of the Witch on one side and another cousin in Yacanto del Valle. Would the girls have been murdered if the narco cop hadn’t been arrested? And there was the father of Posadas, perhaps the father of Menéndez Berti, the father of Aráoz, perhaps the father of Elizalde? And so much interest from her own father in what was happening there. What game was being played out through Petra and Frida’s deaths? She had to get back to Yacanto straightaway to find the missing pieces.
When she came out of her room, she saw Federico in the living room. She was about to tell him she had to go back when he said:
“Pack your things. We’re going to Yacanto del Valle.”
14 Working the Land
I
Nothing was worse than delays. They were dead time when you wanted to get the job done. It was better when they told him who and where
the target was so he could go there and eliminate them. This job was already taking too much time. First he’d had to rescue Three, wait for him to recover, stay hidden. And now Doctor Zero was telling them to wait for new orders. In the meantime, they had to lie low in this shitty barrio on the outskirts of San Miguel de Tucumán.
Five had learned to be obedient, though. If they told him to spend a month in one room, he would do it. He didn’t get frustrated or rebel, much less make the mistake of disobeying orders and walking out. So when Doctor Zero had ordered them to hang fire, they complied. There was nothing for it but to wait, putting their lives on hold until new instructions arrived.
But Three didn’t seem to agree. No sooner had they escaped from the police station in Coronel Berti than he wanted to go back to the hotel where the chick was staying. He’d had to grab Three by the neck and tell him very clearly to his face that they had escaped thanks to Doctor Zero, that they worked for him and must obey his command. Without relaxing his grip on Three’s neck, Five had used his free hand to call the Doctor, who had told them to leave town immediately for San Miguel de Tucumán and to wait there. The other man had looked on angrily, realizing he had no option but to fall into line. He repeated that the surprise factor was crucial, which was why they should go the same day. Five had explained to him that the first thing the police would do on discovering their escape would certainly be to send cops to the hotel. Not only to protect the chick, but to catch them.
Five realized it also bothered Three that all Doctor Zero’s instructions came through him. Three still believed himself to be the most important of the Doctor’s men. He was wrong. The Doctor’s right-hand man now was him, Five.
“How about this: I go alone, do what I have to do and don’t charge. It’s on me,” Three said again.
Five was struggling to keep Three cooped up in the hideout. He had no option but to call Doctor Zero and explain the situation, using the excuse of going out to buy cigarettes so they could speak privately. After a ten-minute conversation – much longer than usual – Five had new instructions.
“Doctor Zero says the wait is over. We’re leaving for Yacanto del Valle.”
Three took a deep breath. Finally his moment had come.
“I was on the verge of going anyway,” he confessed to Five.
They set off early for Yacanto del Valle. Five drove all the way in silence. He was in a terrible mood. He didn’t like any of this. But he was following orders.
A few miles outside Coronel Berti, Five turned the car off the road and drove it towards some trees where he could observe the road without being seen.
“What are we doing here?” Three asked.
“Watching the road and waiting.”
After a quarter of an hour, Five said:
“I’m getting out for a piss.”
Five walked towards the trees behind the car, unzipped his flies and unleashed a long stream of urine. He walked slowly back, approaching on the side of the passenger window. He could see Three fiddling with the radio dial. When Five was half a yard from the window, he took out his gun and shot Three in the head. Instantly Three slumped forward. He hadn’t even had time to realize he was about to be killed. A quick shot without any of the terror that comes before death. It was the best he could do for his partner in crime.
He pulled Three out of the car and left him lying in a spot that was more visible from the road. The police should find the body quickly. If the journalist saw Three’s corpse, she and her entourage would let down their guard. That would make his work easier.
It was true Three’s death made things simpler. But it was also true that the Doctor was doing this because Three had become too visible and could end up compromising him. The Doctor could get someone else tomorrow to kill Five. Rules were there to be followed.
What a fucking terrible day, Five thought as he returned to Tucumán to await new orders.
II
Federico decided it was better not to tell Verónica the reason for their return to Yacanto del Valle. He didn’t want her to know he was meeting Nicolás. Verónica, for her part, spent some of the journey developing her theory on a possible link between the narco cops scandal and the girls’ murders. It couldn’t be coincidental that the murders had taken place the same week as prominent members of the Salta and Tucumán police forces were arrested.
“There are now at least three suspects,” said Federico.
“There are three guilty of rape and murder. But it must go further than that.”
“The fourth man, whose DNA was under one of the girls’ nails.”
“But what if there are more? How far can the long arm of the law reach? Obviously you’re the perpetrator if you commit rape, murder or assault, but who gave the order?”
“Well, there’s a crime of ‘intellectual author’, which is like an accessory before the fact.”
“I’d love to know how often these intellectual authors actually go to prison, though. Especially when they’re powerful people.” Verónica considered her theories for a moment before adding: “Intellectual author – and who’s the intellectual author of Popul Vuh? Who’s the intellectual author of Carnaval? Who’s the intellectual author of the circumcision of babies or female genital mutilation?”
“I don’t quite follow.”
“With femicide there’s an intellectual author who will never be condemned: the very society which tolerates and normalizes it.”
“I can imagine that line might sound good in an article, or in the closing arguments of a criminal defence lawyer, but with murder someone’s always physically responsible, whether as a direct author or an intellectual one. And I’ll tell you something else, not that I want to start an argument. It’s true that the majority of murders of women are committed by men. But so too are the majority of murders of men.”
“I suppose they taught you that at law school. And you repeat it like parrots. Male chauvinist parrots.”
Fortunately for Federico, they had arrived at Yacanto del Valle. They parked the car outside the Posada de Don Humberto and found Mariano at reception. He said they had dispensed with the security guard after Federico and Verónica left, but that they would arrange for Officer Benítez or whoever else was available to return that night. Mariano asked Verónica if she would rather stay in the hotel’s main building or in their house.
“We’re going to stay together in a double room.”
“Ah,” said Mariano, registering Federico’s poker face.
In fact it would be the first time they had shared a room, because at Severo’s house they had each had their own. It was strange to share so much intimacy.
Federico lay on the bed and watched her unpack. “Are you sure you want us to be in the same room? Because if it’s just to have sex, I can make myself available all the same. I can visit you in your room for a few minutes.”
“To have sex. I think my first mission in your life is to improve your language.”
“OK – fuck, screw. Is that better?”
“And what’s this about a few minutes? Why a few minutes? No, darling, I want to go to sleep watching TV with you beside me. It’s better if you learn to put up with my ways quickly. If you don’t like them, you can take off whenever you like.”
Verónica put her suitcase on the floor and lay down beside Federico. She hugged and kissed him. “I think I’m losing my mind,” she said.
“I, on the other hand, think this is the sanest I’ve ever seen you.”
Federico had to go and meet Nicolás and then bring Aarón up to speed with everything that was happening in the case, but Verónica had started to take her clothes off and he thought it would be very rude to interrupt her merely to attend to work. Verónica climbed on top of him, completely naked, before he had a chance even to unbutton his shirt. Federico grabbed her ass and pulled her towards his face while sliding further down the bed. It was a new perspective of her body, seeing her from underneath while he sucked her and she leaned against the wall, her b
reasts seen from below, her navel up close, her moans coming from above.
III
Ever since his wife had died and he decided to retire, Juan Robson liked every now and then to make an audit of his life, especially his working life. His family life was easier to evaluate: he hadn’t been the best father, but nobody (himself included) would hesitate to call him an excellent husband. He had always been by his wife’s side. He had loved her more than anyone, more than his two children, who always seemed distant to him.
When his wife fell ill, cancer attacked her slowly but inexorably. There were two years of treatments, of trips back and forth during which he never left her, just as he hadn’t in the last forty years. The children were worried, they came to visit, but they didn’t belong there any more, not even in the house. One lived in Mendoza and the other in Buenos Aires. Robson looked after his wife and would never have dreamed of reproaching the children for not doing more. He loved them in his way, and he knew they loved their mother.
When he ended up alone he didn’t seek refuge in journalism, as many had thought he would. There was no longer any sense in looking for a story, writing it, nosing out the truth and putting it in an article. He asked for voluntary retirement and went home to wait for his pension. He liked to spend hours cloistered away in those rooms that his wife had decorated and filled with what were now memories. If he closed his eyes he could imagine his wife was in another room, in the bedroom, or the bathroom, and that made him happy.
Every so often this routine was interrupted by a visit from some colleague who wanted to consult his famous archive. He took advantage of these opportunities to socialize a little and to revisit his own professional life. He liked to compare himself with whichever journalist was visiting and to think how he had been at their age, what things had interested him, at what stage of his career he had been.
When Verónica Rosenthal arrived on the trail of murdered women, he wondered if he had at any point been interested in such a case. And it was true that on more than one occasion he had been obsessed with discovering the perpetrators of some crime or other. He had turned up evidence that had eluded investigators. But when he started helping her to search the archive, Robson had a strange sensation, as though he had been found out. He couldn’t explain this feeling until he came across the case of Claudia Rinaldi, the girl murdered in Yacanto del Valle in 1982. There were two short articles about the crime. The one he showed to Verónica. And the other one, which he had written himself.
The Foreign Girls Page 28
