by Jorge Magano
“At least the bastard got what he deserved. Poor Señor Genaro—all that food gone to waste. What did the police have to say?”
“Not much,” said Jaime. “The van’s stolen, the license plate’s phony. Luckily they left my cell phone in the glove box so I won’t have to buy another; I’ve already lost three this year.”
“Did they say anything about that Sandra woman?”
“They said they’ll look for her. But she could be in Guadalajara by now.”
“Wait till Laura hears about this. I bet anything you just took your last vacation.”
“I accept your bet. Actually, I’m hoping Laura can shed some light on all of this for me, at least about Amatriaín. She’s the one who told him I was here and that I’d written an essay on the Medusa.”
Roberto looked away.
“You know something,” said Jaime.
“Me? Don’t be silly.”
“Really?”
“Well, security guards do hear things . . .”
“And what did you hear?”
“Fuck me, what is this? Some kind of interrogation? It’s just that Laura and Amatriaín had a meeting a few days ago. It looks like they’re up to something, and the CHR and the journal are involved.”
“Up to something?”
“That’s all I know, I swear on my grandmother’s life. Last night Laura called during my shift. I thought she was unreasonably worried about you.”
“Sure. That’s why you jumped in the van and drove straight here?”
Roberto took a sip of coffee. “I couldn’t sleep. Anyway, I thought you’d need some help with all the booze and women.”
“Well, you weren’t wrong about that.”
Roberto glanced at his watch. “We should go. Laura wants to see your face as soon as possible. Though the way you look, she might regret it.”
“It’s not even ten o’clock yet. Laura can wait a little longer. I have to do something first.” Jaime stood.
“Where are you going?”
“We’re off. You’re going home to sleep, and I’m going to the Prado Museum.”
Roberto frowned. “What a hipster. You’re going to see paintings now?”
“No. Not paintings, exactly.”
8
Madrid
It was just past two in the afternoon when Paloma Blasco walked out of the Prado Museum’s new building. The statue of Goya stood solemnly, impervious to the passing of time. A group of tourists pointed their cameras at it as the sun projected the statue’s immortal silhouette onto the grass. Paloma was wearing dark sunglasses and didn’t even notice.
But Amanda Escámez wasn’t fooled by her coworker’s outward calm. She knew Paloma had just come from a meeting that may have sucked the life out of her, and she had a gut feeling things hadn’t gone well.
“Paloma!” Her voice was like a thunderclap to the people passing by, but the person she was addressing just kept walking. Amanda’s ample body broke into a run. When she caught up to her friend, she tried again.
“Paloma, honey. Are you okay?”
Paloma didn’t answer immediately. The two kept walking, one beside the other, until they reached the crosswalk on Calle Felipe IV, where a crowd of pedestrians waited for the light. Paloma looked at Amanda through her tinted lenses and nodded.
“I’m fine.” Her voice was thin.
“Yeah, right. You want to talk about it over lunch?”
“I told you, I’m fine!”
Amanda sized up the situation and shrugged her shoulders. “Suit yourself. See you tomorrow.”
She was walking toward the statue of Neptune when she heard a shaky voice behind her. “Amanda, I’m sorry.”
At just that moment the light turned green, and the crowd started marching across the street. If any of them had been facing Amanda and Paloma, they would undoubtedly have sighed with emotion at the sight of the two friends hugging each other as if making up after a decade-long quarrel.
Both women were of average height, but that’s where their similarities ended. Amanda, were she standing nude with a cupid beside her, could have been the model for Rubens’s Venus at a Mirror, while Paloma, petite and graceful, would have blended in perfectly among the handsome festivities of a Watteau painting. Their fashion choices further identified them as people of contrasts. Amanda wore a tight purple top that showed off her generous figure. Her body was abundant, but not obese, and passersby couldn’t help but look at her. Her calves showed beneath a floral skirt that contrasted with her tall leather boots. A lock of dark blonde hair fell provocatively over her right eye, forcing her to blow it out of her face every few steps. Paloma, on the other hand, cut a darker figure. Her hair was bobbed, and she wore a gray suit and black raincoat.
“Were you going to see your mom?” Amanda asked, releasing Paloma from her embrace.
“No, she’s eating with a friend today. And you’re going to do the same.”
“What?”
“Eat with a friend.”
They crossed the Paseo del Prado arm in arm and strolled past the touristy souvenir shops toward a restaurant they liked near Plaza del Emperador Carlos V. It was the definitive place for platos combinados and menús del día, where Japanese tourists could be found eating paella at all hours of the day. A waiter in a white shirt and black apron greeted them and showed them to a table surrounded by a semicircular couch. When Paloma took off her sunglasses Amanda’s suspicions were confirmed. “So you were fine, huh?” she said, noting the mascara marks around Paloma’s honey-colored, unusually reddened eyes.
Paloma gave her a sad smile and shrugged her shoulders.
“Do me a favor and let’s have a stiff drink before lunch, like in Sex and the City.” Amanda waved the waiter over. “Excuse me, do you make cosmos?”
He smiled. “Vodka, Cointreau, and lemon juice.”
“And cranberry.”
“Of course. Two?”
Paloma nodded and the waiter disappeared into the forest of tables, occupied primarily by pink-skinned tourists who had burned in the Spanish sun. Only when he’d completely disappeared from sight did Amanda turn her attention back to Paloma.
“So tell me. Is this about Oscar Preston?”
Paloma nearly choked at the sound of that name. “Who? That bastard? No, this has nothing to do with that creep.”
“Well, start from the beginning then. How did the meeting go?”
“Honestly, it could’ve gone better. Ricardo Bosch told me a bunch of stuff he’s said to me before: he’s delighted with me, he’s bearing in mind my doctorate, my thesis, and my master’s in museum studies—”
“And your command of English and Italian,” Amanda added.
“He didn’t say anything about that, but I’m sure he’s taking that into consideration, too. No doubt he’s taking it all into account, including my decision making, my teamwork, my art courses in Rome . . .”
“Honey, that’s great. So what’s the problem?”
“Well, now, after a month of making us jump through hoops to compete for the new deputy director position, he suddenly says this isn’t an easy decision and he’s going to need to assess our research credentials.”
“You’ve lost me. What does that mean?”
“He’s going to take into consideration the articles and studies we’ve published in journals and catalogues. And that’s a real bitch for me. Preston has published at least a dozen.”
“You’ve published some, too, I’ve read them.”
“Nothing compared to what Preston has done. But wait for it: Ricardo also wants us to submit an original piece of research at the end of November. One that, in his words, ‘will serve as a dissertation.’ I mean, what does he think? That we’re still at school or something?”
“But honey, that sounds exciting. Do you know what you’re going
to write about?”
“Yeah, I have an idea . . .” For a moment Paloma stared ahead blankly, as if someone had pushed “Pause” on her thoughts. Then her expression hardened. “But I’m worried that there isn’t any point. Preston kisses Ricardo’s ass every chance he gets, and Ricardo likes that. I’d be too ashamed to do that. It’d make me feel sick.”
“Just be patient. Ricardo’s not stupid. I bet he realizes what’s going on.”
“Realizes? What’s he going to realize, Amanda? Preston’s been working with him for years and he’s the apple of Ricardo’s eye. Ricardo probably decided long ago and this project is just for show. When we were alone, he actually started telling me that Preston—a graduate of Princeton and Chicago, no less—had been the top student in his class and has curated exhibitions at the Met, MoMA, and I don’t remember where else.” Paloma paused when the waiter delivered their drinks. “So there you go,” she said when he stepped away. “The shithead has everything on his side.”
Amanda wasn’t so sure. She knew Ricardo Bosch well and could see that he valued Paloma, not just professionally but also as a person. But right now she was distracted by a man who was talking to the waiter. He was tall and slim, with a wild-looking mop of black hair and two-day-old beard, and he wore a leather bag over his shoulder. Amanda was rarely wrong about men, and she quickly concluded that he was gay. “When did you say you have to submit the project?” she asked Paloma.
“At the end of next month. But I’m sure Ricardo’s decision is more than made. He just wants to make me suffer.”
“Maybe.”
Amanda was still studying the new arrival. He had a bruised face and swollen lips, but what stood out to her most was the concerned expression in his brown eyes. Too much sensitivity for a straight guy, she thought ruefully.
“Are you listening to me?” Paloma’s voice thundered as if from a distance.
“Huh? Yeah, of course.” To Amanda’s surprise, the stranger was now heading toward them. He stopped at their table.
“Hullo.” His voice was hoarse, as if he had a cold. “May I sit down?”
Stupefied, Amanda scooted over to make room for him. Paloma almost dropped her glass when she saw that emaciated, unshaven face with its timid smile. She looked as if she’d seen a ghost, which in a way, she had. She couldn’t have been more startled if the new arrival had appeared draped in a sheet with his head tucked under his arm. When her lips finally moved, they did so just enough for her to murmur, “Jaime.”
“Hello, Paloma.”
Paloma was in shock. Her mind wanted to travel back in time, but somehow she kept it in the present. She drew a breath. “Amanda, this is Jaime Azcárate. An . . . old classmate from university.”
Despite them being the best of friends, Paloma had never told Amanda about her relationship with Jaime. Just as all their coworkers knew that Amanda was divorced and had a son, the staff at the Prado Museum was aware of Paloma’s long-standing status as a single woman. But no one knew anything of her romantic past. The sudden appearance of this handsome stranger combined with Paloma’s look of surprise made Amanda think there’d once been something special between them. Special and tempestuous.
So he wasn’t gay after all.
“How’s it going?” she asked, giving him the customary two kisses.
“Pleased to meet you.” Jaime looked meekly at Amanda, who was beaming. “But I need to speak to Paloma. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course! I was just—” Amanda moved as if to rise.
“Amanda’s a colleague,” Paloma interrupted. “We were about to have lunch.”
“Nobody’s going to stop you from having lunch. I just need to speak to you for a moment. I won’t trouble you for long, I promise.”
As the atmosphere grew increasingly uncomfortable, Amanda excused herself to the restroom.
Jaime took Amanda’s seat and studied Paloma for a few moments. She’d hardly changed since he’d last seen her, just after they graduated from university: same average height, honey-colored eyes, and black bob. Everything was still in its place. The only noticeable differences were the tiny wrinkles she’d gained under her eyes and little bit of weight she seemed to have lost. “You haven’t changed,” he said.
“Neither have you. Still appearing and disappearing when least expected. How did you find me?”
“I went to the museum. They told me you often eat here.”
“Only during the week. On Saturdays I usually eat at my mother’s house.”
“Your mom! How is she?”
“She’s well. But it’s best if she doesn’t know that we’ve seen each other. What do you want, Jaime?”
“To tell you something. I don’t want to scare you, but it’s something that affects you directly.”
When Paloma lifted her gaze Jaime saw that his ex-girlfriend’s eyes were almost as red as he knew his to be.
“You know what else affects me directly? You running off to Egypt without saying anything. I had to find out from Guillermo González.”
“Guillermo González! Whatever happened to him? What a brain.”
“He gave up studying for his doctorate and now he’s helping his dad in the butcher’s shop, if you must know. But I doubt you’ve come to see me after all this time just so you could ask about my mother and our old classmates.”
Paloma’s defensiveness brought back memories of a tender but draining past, and this dampened Jaime’s spirits. He was too tired to argue. Roberto had driven him straight to the museum, and he hadn’t slept since his arrival in Madrid. The last thing he wanted to do now was relive the kind of endless arguments he’d run away from in the first place. “Look, I’m sorry about what happened—”
“You’re sorry? For what? Using me for four years and then walking out?”
“I didn’t use you.”
“Oh, no? Face it, Jaime: I wanted a relationship, and you wanted someone to study with—and fuck. If I called on the weekend, either you didn’t answer or you said you were busy.” Her eyes filled with tears of anger. “You’d been gone for a month when I learned you’d disappeared to Cairo for a dig.”
“To Herakleopolis Magna. Many of the findings we made there are now in the National Museum of Archeology.”
“How lovely. But you couldn’t even call to tell me you were going. Were you scared of something? You were always afraid, weren’t you? And when you got back? I guess you forgot to call then, too.”
“Look, calm down,” said Jaime.
“Calm down? But I’m perfectly calm, can’t you see that? You’re the one who always got nervous when you didn’t know how to put me off. Or those times when you told me you couldn’t meet me because you were sick, and then later I’d find out you were really off on one of your adventures. You’re a coward, Jaime. You’ve always been scared of commitment.”
Jaime raised his hands. “Now that is true,” he admitted. His eyelids were heavy; he wasn’t going to argue.
Paloma burst into tears.
Jaime sat staring at her, not knowing what to do. Though the moment he walked into the restaurant he’d known reproaches would be inevitable, he hadn’t expected such a dramatic reaction. He had hurt her, sure, but it had happened so many years ago. He hadn’t expected the wound to still be so raw for her; he felt bad for not feeling the same way. He scooted around the circular couch and clumsily put an arm around her. “Don’t cry.”
“Why is everything going wrong today?”
Jaime didn’t know how to answer the question, but he was saved from having to try when Amanda showed up at the table and grabbed her purse. “Sorry, guys.” Despite the dramatic scene unfolding in front of her, she tried to act as though everything was normal. “I have to go. My boss wants to see me right away.”
To Jaime, whose arm was still around Paloma, this sounded like the lamest excuse he’d heard in his lif
e. Paloma, who also knew her friend was lying, lifted her head and managed a smile. “I’ll call you.”
“You’d better.”
Amanda winked—at whom, it wasn’t very clear—and left, swinging her hips. Without warning, Jaime let go of Paloma, scooted back across from her, and got straight to his original point. “I have to talk to you about our second-year piece on baroque sculpture.”
Paloma’s face went through a series of expressions: alarm, then panic, then momentary composure, followed by anxiety. As her hands clutched the edge of the table, they turned ivory, and her cheeks went a shade of pomegranate. “The . . . essay?” She tried unsuccessfully to sound calm.
“Gods and Monsters in Italian Baroque Sculpture.”
“So that’s why you’ve come: to thank me for letting you take credit for a piece I wrote almost entirely by myself?”
“I thanked you at the time.”
“How considerate. By the way, I read that trash you wrote in Arcadia. ‘The Curse of Medusa.’ You could have consulted me before quoting my study as a bibliographical source for that drivel.”
“It must have slipped my mind. But right now I need you to listen. Someone tried to kill me because they linked me to that study and to the bust of Medusa. I don’t know why, exactly, but I think you could be in danger, too.”
Paloma’s eyes grew bright and her grip tightened on the table until the ivory color almost reached her wrists. This lasted only a few seconds before she restored her state of feigned calm. “The statue was stolen from the museum in Verona last month.”
“Exactly.” Jaime raised an eyebrow. “Do you know something I don’t?”
Paloma turned her gaze away. “Only what the newspapers said. But what’s this business about someone trying to kill you? Is that true or just more of the same old bullshit?”
Jaime pointed at his swollen lips and the bruise on his forehead. “Do you really think this is about some old bullshit?”
“I wouldn’t put it past you.”
“What do you know about the Medusa, Paloma?”
