“No, don’t do this, no, help me, please, someone help me!” he tried to scream, but his voice was a thin falsetto.
Mid-wail, Ramiro swallowed water and began to splutter. He started to wave his arms wildly about, the worst course of action for someone hoping to stay afloat. He went under, then resurfaced. No shouting; he no longer said anything. He went under again. He tried to lift up his head and with one last effort managed to stretch out his body, as though to swim a few yards. He advanced a little, but couldn’t lift his head high enough to breathe. He sank again, silently.
Little waves lapped against the side of the boat.
III
Verónica sat for a few minutes, watching how Ramiro’s body sank until it was lost in the depths of the lake.
She looked at her phone. The last missed call from Federico had been a quarter of an hour earlier. She put it away again in her bag, took off her shoes and dived into the water. She should at least look as if she had tried to save him. But she hadn’t taken into account the fact that it would be difficult to move once in the water, despite her light clothing. Verónica swam nervously back to the boat, which appeared to be moving on its own and away from her. Those little waves were playing dirty. She felt – or thought she felt – Ramiro’s body floating back to the surface and touching her back. After swimming as fast as she could towards the boat, she felt exhausted, unable to climb back on board. Gripping the edge, she tried to pull herself up, but her arms seemed to have lost their strength. She should have taken off her clothes, or not jumped in. Verónica was terrified Ramiro’s body might be pushed by the current towards her, that it might touch her, embrace her, pull her down into the water. With her remaining energy, she made one last effort and managed to haul half her body over the edge of the boat. Then, with a final heave, she thrust herself forward and, once on board, let out a long and desolate wail.
Verónica threw the shoe overboard that Ramiro had left behind. So too the life ring. Then she started up the engine and motored towards the shore at full speed, sounding the horn. She saw some people emerge from the boathouse. As she got closer, she started shouting for help. On reaching the jetty, it was all she could do to stop the boat, carrying forward several others that were tied up there. Without getting out, she quickly told the assembled group that Ramiro had fallen into the water, that she had tried to rescue him but he was very heavy, that they had shouted but nobody had heard them, that by the time she’d managed to get out of the water and thrown him a life ring, it was too late. Some men got into another boat and went off in the direction she indicated. There were now a lot of people – employees, a few club members. She saw a security guard on the phone calling for an ambulance. They were asking her what had happened. She cried and shivered. Somebody wrapped a large towel around her. Verónica repeated that Ramiro had tripped and fallen into the water, that he didn’t know how to swim very well and she had only made the decision to jump in and help him when she saw that the life ring was deflated, that it had not occurred to her to launch a distress flare. Verónica saw two other boats heading towards the site of the accident. She couldn’t stop crying. She felt empty, exhausted. She thought of Frida, of Petra, of how unfair it was that they were dead.
The wail of an ambulance could be heard as it arrived, parting the crowds. A doctor came towards Verónica, asking how she felt. They gave her a tranquillizer. A woman offered to go with her to the changing room so she could put on different clothes. The tranquillizer quickly began to take effect.
Somebody passed Verónica her handbag so she could get out her phone and call someone from her family. She thought of calling Federico, but it was a bit late for that. Instead she called Mariano and told him to come and fetch her from the club, that Ramiro was dead. She hung up and remained sitting, oblivious to the brouhaha around her. She didn’t fall asleep, but a kind of calm took possession of her whole body.
18 Girl Seeks Girl
I
It hadn’t been difficult to gain access to the club. The security guards barely looked at his membership card and didn’t give him a second glance. They raised the barrier and let him through. He left the car, which he had rented with fake ID, in the members’ parking area. If anything went wrong, he could abandon it there and leave the club by a back door that led to a road.
Five had his gun on him, loaded and fitted with a silencer. He walked calmly through the wooded grounds. Lighting a cigarette, he went towards where he was supposed to intercept Verónica Rosenthal. He wasn’t intending to stay there, just to familiarize himself with the area. There was still time in hand. Five walked towards the boathouse, strolling around the place like any other club member, and sat on one of the benches that looked onto the lake. He saw Rosenthal and the man who had hired them setting off in a boat. Usually he didn’t know exactly who had ordered a job, but this one had been plagued by so many problems that Doctor Zero had been explicit: nothing can happen to Rosenthal’s companion. He’s the one paying.
Noticing the boat stop in the distance, he thought it would be a good moment to start taking up his position. He walked back along the path and picked a spot about a hundred yards from the boathouse, where a thicket would hide him from sight. From this vantage point he also had a good view of the lake.
He noticed the boat make some odd, almost spasmodic movements. It went forwards, slowed, reversed, drifted to one side, advanced again, turned in small circles, stopped again. It was like some strange and indecipherable dance.
As he was trying to make sense of what was happening in the distance, he saw the boat pick up speed and head dangerously fast towards the dock. Only Rosenthal was on the deck. The man was nowhere to be seen. She was shouting, but he couldn’t make out what she was saying. People started running towards the jetty. The boat had collided with other vessels. Rosenthal got out, shaking. She had to be supported to stop her from falling.
In normal circumstances, Five would not have abandoned his position. But nothing about this could be described as normal. He made for the jetty along with all the other people at the club, got as close as he could and heard something incredible: the guy had drowned. If Five had been a good citizen, a respectable person who paid his taxes and strove for justice, he would have started shouting She killed him, you idiots, can’t you see? But he was none of those things. He moved far enough away to be able to make a phone call to Doctor Zero.
“There’s a problem. The companion drowned.”
“The companion?”
“Yes.”
“Is he dead?”
“I don’t know what she did, but she came back alone in the boat.”
“Did she do it?”
“It seems so. What do we do?”
“The guy still owed me money. No pay, no work. Abort.”
“OK, Doctor.”
“I’ve never liked this job anyway.”
“Me neither.”
They hung up. He began to wonder if he hadn’t perhaps been lucky. Seeing how the job had gone, he could easily have ended up dead and Rosenthal alive. The girl had more lives than a cat.
He put on his jacket, lit another cigarette and walked slowly towards his car, enjoying the fine afternoon weather.
II
Mariano didn’t arrive alone. Federico was with him, walking a few steps behind, but he didn’t approach her. It was Mariano who asked how she was and spoke to the ambulance crew. The police also arrived. They asked Verónica what had happened, and she explained how Ramiro had tripped and fallen off the boat. She had to tell her story twice. Federico saved her from telling it a third time by calling the district attorney, who then spoke to the chief superintendent: given that what had happened was an accident, Verónica could present herself that afternoon at the courthouse in San Miguel and make her statement there.
She got into the car still wrapped in the club towel. Mariano drove, with Federico in the passenger seat and Verónica behind. Federico didn’t speak to her, other than to relay some details about what s
he had to do that afternoon. When they reached Yacanto, he said that he needed to go to the courts in San Miguel, that she could change and then follow on. He didn’t offer to wait for her.
Verónica had a quick shower, then called her friend María. She told her that she had two videos for her which incriminated a rich young man from Yacanto del Valle.
Federico sent her two texts. In the first he said: Sent copy of videos to DA and Suárez. Arrest warrant soon for NE. The second told her where she would shortly need to go to give her statement.
Mariano offered to take her, but Verónica thought she would rather go alone. In the car she listened again to Frida’s MP3 player. She felt the selection of music to be a gift that would always be with her. It was going to be difficult to go back to listening to other music.
When she reached the courthouse, it wasn’t easy to find the district attorney’s office. She called Federico but he didn’t answer. Finally, after much traipsing back and forth, she found the right place. The DA dealt with her fairly quickly. There were no awkward questions.
Are you coming back to Yacanto? she texted Federico.
Later on, he wrote back.
Shall I wait for you?
No.
Verónica returned alone to Yacanto to find someone waiting for her in the hotel bar: Rodolfo Corso.
“I’ve done my homework,” he said, showing her a pile of photocopied articles on the girls’ case.
“That’s not going to be necessary. I’ll give you all the material you need.”
“Darling, I didn’t come to the back of beyond to be your stenographer.”
“OK, OK. I’ll give you everything I have and then do whatever else you want. The owners of the hotel are friends. You can stay here for as long as you need. Within reason.”
“Your boss asked me to send the piece by Tuesday. I don’t plan to stay any longer. Small towns depress me.”
They chatted for two hours, during which time Verónica told him everything that had happened, the connection with the narco police case, the judicial power struggles and the repetition of the same crime in the town over a period of years. Rodolfo noted everything down. He knew an ex-chief of the Tucumán police force who could pass on information about feuding in the ranks. And he was also in touch with a journalist from Salta who had been fired from a local newspaper when it occurred to him to make a link between the massacre of workers at a sugar mill in the 1970s and some of the region’s powerful families. Surely the Elizaldes, the Menéndez Bertis and the Posadas also featured somewhere in that picture.
“The landowners, the wealthy political leaders, the upper-class señores who claim to be so horrified these days by corruption, they’re all the grandchildren or great-grandchildren of murderers who made their fortunes by killing indigenous people, workers and activists. It’s easy for them to preach from the pulpit.”
Verónica found it hard to accept that a colleague might do a better job on a story than her. But on this occasion she was delighted to know that Corso was going to turn in a much better article than she could ever have written.
She went back to her room and started packing, her plan being to catch the next morning’s flight. Verónica had hoped to return to Buenos Aires with Federico but had heard nothing from him for hours. She was beginning to worry when he walked into the room. He looked exhausted. Verónica sat on the edge of the bed and Federico in the armchair, opposite her. He said:
“First things first: they’re going to reopen the Bibiana Ponce case. Her friend will have to give evidence and, if Aráoz doesn’t return soon from his vacation in Europe, they will use Interpol to make him come back. That guy’s not getting away.”
“And Nahuel Elizalde?”
“There’s a warrant for his arrest. It’s very likely he’s still in the province. These types feel safer on their own territory than outside it. Given the media pressure, I wouldn’t be surprised if he hands himself in accompanied by an army of lawyers. I’m going to talk to Frida’s parents. It would be good if they could come forward as injured parties. I can represent them, or help them to find competent lawyers.”
“They don’t come much more competent than Rosenthal and Associates.”
“I don’t work for the firm any more.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve resigned. Well, officially I’m resigning tomorrow when I get back to Buenos Aires, but the decision’s already made.”
“Are you mad? The firm is your life.”
“No, my life is what you’re looking at. It’s not the firm, not a case, not you, not anything that can be reduced to one part of me.”
“Fede, my father adores you.”
“Your father knows, as I do, that I can’t continue there. Let’s say that I didn’t meet the standards of quality, fidelity and effectiveness that the company requires.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look, Verónica, just to be absolutely clear about this: I’m sick of the Rosenthals, of you and your dad. You’re a demanding machine that imposes rules and then does whatever it wants.”
“But what’s happened?”
“It’s over, Vero. A few days ago, in your cousin’s house, I dared to think we might be at the start of something.”
“We were! We are!”
“Not any more. You know what I was doing all this afternoon? Desperately looking for you. I went to Ramiro’s house, his gallery, I ran all over town not knowing what to do or where to go. I was convinced Ramiro had set some trap to kill you. When Mariano called me and asked me to go with him to Club Náutico, I felt as if I were dying. I thought he was going to tell me you’d been killed.”
“I’m sorry, Fede.”
“And nobody made you go. You went there because you wanted to. You didn’t give a shit what the consequences might be. For me, for Mariano, for all of us behind you. You couldn’t give a fuck.”
“You’re very important to me.”
“We’d agreed your work here was over. That you weren’t going to do anything else. Yet again you lied to me.”
“I didn’t lie to you. I couldn’t tell you where I was going.”
“I can’t live thinking you don’t trust me. It’s not fair for you to put yourself in danger and for me to be desperately wondering where you are. I’m sick of following you around like a dog, of hanging on your every decision.”
“Fede … it’s not like that.”
“It makes no difference, you lied to me once more, you did what you felt like. Just as you always have done, ever since I first met you. I’ve had enough.”
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t have told you, you wouldn’t have understood.”
“How do you expect me to understand your lack of consideration towards me? You’re a loner, Verónica. You exist only for yourself. You’re an egotist.”
“I was blind for years. I didn’t see that the person who mattered most to me was right beside me. I had to go through this hell to realize something very simple: I love you, Fede. Suddenly it all became clear. There’s one person I want to spend my life with, and that person is you. Nothing matters more than that. It’s so easy. Our love is so easy.”
He sat forward, face covered; she put her hands on his knees. Federico pushed her hands away and looked at her. What he was about to say was already in his eyes. She didn’t need to hear the words to know Federico was leaving her.
“Goodbye, Verónica.”
He stood up and walked away.
Verónica threw herself back on the bed. Staring at the ceiling, she watched it gradually disappear behind a fog of tears.
Next day, she woke up at dawn and finished getting her things together. She had hoped to run into Federico at the hotel reception but there was still nobody about, only the night receptionist. Verónica waited until Mariano came and confirmed that Federico had left during the night. He said nothing else to her.
Verónica went up to her room and into the bathroom for a piss. She stayed sitting on the lavatory for
a while, thinking over the last few weeks. The events of the previous afternoon. About how she had driven out of her life the only person she really wanted by her side. Was it the price she had to pay for that bastard Ramiro never to hurt anyone else? Was Federico right to say that everything she did was motivated by egotism?
She stood up, arranged her clothes and washed her hands. In the mirror she looked haggard, dishevelled, grey. She didn’t mind looking old or like shit. What she really hated was not recognizing herself. Not even knowing who that person was on the other side of the glass. She moved her face close to her own reflection and started repeating, like a mantra,
“Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid bitch.” She touched her head to the glass, rested her forehead against it. “Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid bitch.” She wanted to punch that idiot. Clenching her fist, she aimed at the face. The mirror smashed and she let out a shriek. She had blood on her knuckles. “Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid bitch.” Verónica sat on the edge of the bathtub, lost her balance and fell into it, crying and kicking the air as she struggled to get out. She picked out the broken glass that had fallen into the sink and turned on the tap, running water over her cut hand. The blood was washed away, the wounds were exposed, the damage was there to see. Would she always be like this, for the rest of her life?
She used an old T-shirt to keep pressure on her hand and, when she could see it was no longer bleeding, took her things down to the reception area along with Petra’s guitar and rucksack. Mariano was still there. Verónica tried to insist on paying her bill, but he would have none of it.
Mariano hugged her tightly and told her to come back. From inside the kitchen Luca appeared with Mechi. She looked happy.
“Let me introduce you to my new kitchen assistant,” said Luca.
Verónica took both Mechi’s hands.
The four of them walked out of the hotel, Mariano carrying the suitcase and Petra’s rucksack while Verónica carried her handbag and the guitar. She offered to drop Mechi off at her house. Verónica wanted to be alone with the girl for a while and tell her about the latest developments in her sister’s case. She said goodbye to Mariano and Luca. She was leaving the Posada de Don Humberto for the last time.
The Foreign Girls Page 34
