A Dead Man's Travail

by Susana Pagano

  Natalia looks at herself on the mirror to check that the hair cut has come out the way she likes it; she smiles contentedly – it’s as if she hadn’t had any of it cut off at all.

  Well, I’ve a lot of things I have to attend to at the store. Come on, Ricarda. How much do I owe you, Valerio? Thanks for everything, bye bye.

  ⎯ Bye, sister, see you later at Los Bisquetes.

  ⎯ See you ⎯ Natalia and Ricarda leave the salon.

  ⎯ I’ll be off too, Valerio ⎯ says Florencia, holding her fingers out stiffly trying not to smudge her nail varnish.

  ⎯ OK then, Doña Florencia.

  ⎯ Bye, Linda. Bye Valerio and watch out for the Strangler, you wouldn’t want him to confuse you with a fifteen year old, would you?

  ⎯ Heaven forbid, love.

  62

  Me, have a motive for killing Lolo Manón? Mon dieu! I’ve never had reason to take the law into my own hands and even if I had, I wouldn’t harm a fly, let alone take it out on someone like that. No, sir, it must have been some fitness fanatic that did him in, ‘cause you’d have to have wall-to-wall muscles to be able to get the better of him.

  Aguinaldo Misiones? That a poor devil, he may have had the odd grudge against Don Lolo; in fact he may even have felt like strangling him at some point, but he’d never have dared to even raise his voice to him. The ones who say they are real machos are usually more of a poof than I am. Aguinaldo was Don Lolo’s lap dog; he played along with his nonsense, his bawdiness, his drinking and his women. He never stood up to him; Aguinaldo was well aware that he would pay dearly and so he was always careful. He was macho on the outside, but that was about it. I don’t like Aguinaldo Misiones, but to tell you the truth, I don’t reckon he’s a murderer. No, he’s so dumb, he simply wouldn’t have thought about doing such a thing.

  As I was saying, Sergeant, I can’t imagine who might have taken care of the Don Lolo, or who would have been brave enough to have killed the guy. You can be sure of one thing, though, someone like Lolo Manón was never gonna die of natural causes. His whole life, he left a trail of hate wherever he went, a build up of grudges, ridiculous arguments. One day someone got fed up with him and his bad manners, his bar fights, his endless binges, always looking for a fight. Whether he wanted to or not, Lolo Manón was the author of his own demise; he had it coming as plain as day, until he finally reaped the rotten fruit that he had sown.

  Francisco Tocino is a good, hard working man. You know the butcher’s shop that’s just past La Covadonga? The Yogi Bear, nice name for a butchery, isn’t it? That’s Don Lolo’s primo’s business. You’ll find Francisco Tocino there every day, filleting, getting the marrow out of the bones, deep frying pigskin and serving his customers. He closes the butchery at about three o’clock. After dinner he’ used to go out with Don Lolo to play billiards; it was more to do with keeping him company than to party. Francisco Tocino was one of those who doesn’t talk much and does even less, just enough to get by, preferably without being noticed. I’ve known both Don Lolo and Francisco Tocino for many years. Everyone here belongs to the barrio; we move a few blocks in one direction or another, it depends. But here is where we grew up and became young women, I mean, adults. Ever since he was little, Francisco wasn’t up to much; he was shy and tied to his mother’s apron strings. Francisco’s mamá was a very large woman with fat hands - and she was heavy handed. She always had a sour look on her face, but she was really the sweetest, loveliest woman in the whole world.

  Francisco wouldn’t have killed a fly, let alone his bosom buddy; someone he played marbles with, who shared his childhood and his whole life. No, Sergeant, Francisco isn’t one of your suspects. You might feel sorry for him, but I’m convinced he’s a decent guy. However, I wouldn’t stick my neck out for him. We’re all human after all, and Francisco was very envious of his primo, who had everything that Francisco never had – a wife who kept him, four healthy kids, and he was lucky with the ladies. Francisco Tocino, on the other hand, got himself a wanton wife; not only that, he also had a daughter who is extremely depressive, paranoid, and has schizoid tendencies ... crazy, really.

  Ernestina Tocino has been in and out of mental institutions several times. Poor thing, I feel sorry for the poor girl. She’s a woman destined to be a martyr. You know, it wouldn’t have surprised me if she had masterminded the crime, even though she never speaks; I don’t mean she actually masterminded it, ‘cause she was, and has been, in the mental hospital since the day of the murder.

  They say that Tinita was healthy and full of life when she was born. I don’t know personally as I only knew her from when she was four or five years old, ‘cause Florencia was careful to keep her hidden away all that time, no one knows why. They say that Florencia used to beat her ever since she was a baby, so she ended up wrong in the head. They also say that Natalia gave her the evil eye as she was jealous ‘cause she didn’t have a girl (that was before she had the twins). Anyway, I don’t take any notice of tall stories, especially if they have to do with a good woman like Natalia. The rumour mongers spread lots of slanderous tittle-tattle, but I just talk about what I hear, without adding anything of my own. I like a bit of gossip but I don’t like nasty lies.

  63

  THE AJUSCO STRANGLER STRIKES AGAIN

  A fifth victim

  By Virginia Morales

  Mexico City. –For the fifth time in the last five months, the Ajusco Strangler has had his way again. This time it was the turn of Mayelyn Pino, a young, fifteen year old girl, killed in the same circumstances as her predecessors (see Alarma! No.11339).

  Gustavo Andrés Adolfo Hernández, school mate and personal friend of the deceased, identified the victim, as her parents refused to do so, arguing that they had too much to do in their respective affairs.

  The Federal Judiciary Police, the Government Prosecutor and the State Judiciary Police, in collaboration with the Office of the Director General of Traffic and Public Safety, have detained three of the eight miscreants who have masterminded the heartless crimes, setting nerves on edge and sowing fear in the community in the face of such deplorable, unspeakable deeds. The perpetrators are a gang who call themselves, “Los Podridos”, surely a fitting description for the souls of these criminals.

  The authorities have compared their DNA with the DNA from semen taken from the bodies of the victims and, in each case, the results were positive. In the face of such irrefutable evidence, the murderers have no option but to admit their guilt.

  However, there are still five members of the gang of thugs still at large. The police have made assurances that they will be detained, as their whereabouts is known. This will put an end to the wave of affronts to public decency and acts of depravity. Thousands of mothers will again allow their nubile daughters to venture into the street.

  64

  I may be a bad mother and all that. I was never cut out to be a Mamá like Natalia was; she always cared for her kids a lot and supported them. It was really only for them that she worked from dawn ‘til dusk. Not me. I was never like that and, to tell you the truth, I never wanted to get pregnant. On the other hand, I’m still a bit of a softie, and it upsets me every time my daughter I have to have my daughter admitted to hospital, but there is nothing else for it. It reaches a point when I cannot control her. When she goes off, her craziness is more than anyone could stand. Poor thing, I guess I was born to be a tart and she was born to be a crazy, and to live with a disturbed mind and her mouth shut.

  After the antics in the park, when the ambulance came and took her away in a straight jacket, Natalia and I took a taxi to the hospital to sign the admission papers and all of that bureaucratic crap. Afterwards I felt so depressed and battered that we went to have a coffee to Los Bisquetes, where we usually go. Natalia and I had already planned to go there, but that was about ten thirty after Natalia closed the shop. But under the circumstances, she left the twins to look after everything and we went straight to the cafe to revive ourselves. There we were, the two o
f us all washed out and looking grim, watching the people go by, secretly being a bit snaky without saying anything. I remember that day the little love birds from number seven were there. They acted as if they hadn’t seen us, although they probably hadn’t ‘cause the two of them only had eyes for each other and no one else. They were sitting there all proper like, holding hands and looking at each other as if they were Tom Cruise and Charon Éston. Some other people from the barrio arrived as well, but the just said hello from a distance, ‘cause by this time the whole neighbourhood had found out about the incident in the park and no one wanted to come near us, as if we were going to infect them with the plague or something. When we arrived, I had intended to just have a coffee with milk but, with all the emotion, I was as hungry as a horse and ended up ordering huevos divorciados...Have you ever had huevos divorciados? They’re like huevos rancheros, just that one has green salsa and the other one has red salsa and in between the two they have frijoles refritos, just so’s you can see they really are divorced. They’re just delicious, they really are. Natalia ordered some tamales and coffee with milk. For a long while we sat in silence, but once we got over being quiet, we talked about lots of things. It’s funny, although Natalia and I are so different, we always find something to talk about; the neighbours, the shop, her kids, our husbands, the weather – that’s always good topic of conversation when you have nothing in common with the other person. Other times we talk about deeper, more personal things, like Ernestina...

  ⎯ So, what do the doctors say? ⎯ she asked me between sips of coffee and stuffing herself with the tamales.

  ⎯ Nothing. What are they gonna say?

  ⎯ Well, if she’s gonna get better or if she’s gonna stay that way.

  ⎯ Look, whatever they say, I don’t understand a jot of what they’re saying anyway; in other words, it’s as if they didn’t tell me nothin’.

  ⎯ But are they doing anything to treat her?

  ⎯ Supposedly. They give her medicines and probably drugs too. They wanted to get her into therapy, something like a get together where everyone talks about their craziness and their problems. But ‘cause Tina doesn’t talk, it’s hardly worth it. Truth is, they don’t know what to do with her and all they say is that until she decides to talk, they can’t do anything for her. There’s nothing else for it.

  ⎯ Maybe you haven’t taken her to the right doctor.

  ⎯ I’m gonna take her to see a witchdoctor, maybe he can work out what the problem is.

  ⎯ No, Florence. Those things are the work of the devil.

  ⎯ Well just maybe the devil does know and he can cure her.

  ⎯ How can you say that?

  ⎯ It’s just that I’m sick and tired of taking her to shrinks, doctors and even homeopaths. None of them has known how to cure her and all that happens is that I spend more and more money that I don’t have. Once I took her to see a psychologist, s’posedly very good, studied in Europe and in Timbuktu, specialist in this and expert in that. In the end, what do you think he did? While I was in the waiting room bored out of my brains, the bastard was getting on top of her.

  ⎯ What do you mean?

  ⎯ Yeah, they way your husband gets on top of you when he’s in the mood. After waiting for hours and hours, I became impatient and went into his rooms without knocking or anything; and there they were on the couch, he with his pants down around his knees and Tinita underneath him looking as if nothing was wrong. I was furious, as you imagine. I threw him to one side and you should have heard me scream at him. Ever since then, I’ve never gone to any other doctor that hasn’t been from the hospital.

  That’s how we talked that day and the time just flew. Just before eleven at night, Natalia left for La Covandonda to do the accounts and the ordering for the next day, and I went off home. When I got to the apartment, Francisco was snoring, as always, in a lounge chair in the lounge with the tele on. I say, always, ‘cause he watches the television s’os he can get to sleep; he only has to turn it on and his eyes begin to close. I don’t think he’s watched a programme right to end ever in his life.

  ⎯ Common, lazybones, go to bed ⎯ I said to him loudly so he’d wake up.

  ⎯ Are you alone? ⎯ he asked me between yawns and sleep in his eyes.

  ⎯ Who did you expect me to come home with?

  ⎯ And Tinita?

  ⎯ In the hospital, where else?

  ⎯ So, now what for?

  ⎯ If you hadn’t been in the cantina or on the moon, I’d have found you and you could have helped me with her. Natalia rang the ambulance.

  ⎯ Ernestina, my poor little daughter.

  ⎯ Stop moaning and go to bed.

  ⎯ With you?

  ⎯ Don’t be an idiot.

  I went to the bathroom, removed my makeup, did a pee, washed my hands and teeth; and I put on my night time mascara. Then I went to my room, slipped on my nightgown, got into bed and began to read a Vanidades. I’d only read one page when I heard the most awful screams. I’d never in my life been so frightened. I was imagining another earthquake that was finally gonna leave us buried under meters of rubble and rubbish, and with thirty French dogs sniffing away at people’s knickers. But they weren’t the screams you hear when there’s an earthquake, they were shouts of fear, of having seem the devil or something worse. I sprang out of bed and put on my dressing gown. Francisco came out of his room with his zipper half down and without his shirt. The shouts came from the floor above us. It must be from the German’s apartment, I thought; you know how odd those Europeans are. But then I said to myself, that’s not the German shouting, it’s a woman. Maybe it’s the blond in number seven getting her first thrashing. But I still wasn’t convinced that it was the blond in number seven. Ernestina? Maybe Tinita had come back from the hospital to cry out about her woes here at the top of her voice. But I know how my daughter shouts and she doesn’t sound frightening, just crazy. What could it be, then? I thought all of this in an instant as I went out of the apartment, up the stairs following the sound of the screaming and arriving at Lolo Manón’s apartment. The twins were at the door holding on to each other, crying in each other’s arms and letting out dreadful howls. I went in and in a flash I realised what had happened. It wasn’t an earthquake, it wasn’t the German and his strange goings on, it wasn’t the blond from number seven getting her first beating. It was Natalia holding on to an enormous hulk, saying the strangest things. It was Natalia holding the body of Lolo. It was Natalia and Lolo mingled together in a pool of blood.

  65

  Natalia washes the breakfast dishes resignedly and grudgingly. Josefa, the maid, hasn’t been all week, so she has to do all of the housework herself because the men of the house are too machos to do those jobs and the twins are still at school; and because in the afternoons, she has to go and attend La Covadonga as well.

  Hortensio comes into the kitchen and has a glass of orange juice as his breakfast.

  ⎯ Would you like me to prepare you some breakfast, hijo? Asks Natalia, knowing what the answer will be.

  ⎯ No, thanks ⎯ Hortensio looks somewhere into the distance, no really knowing quite what his mam”as question was.

  ⎯ I’ll make you some huevos a la mexicana, or with ham, if you like.

  ⎯ No, ma, thanks.

  From where she is at the sink, Natalia is tackling the challenging job of getting rid of the remains of yesterday’s breakfast while she observes her second son.

  ⎯ You can’t go out on an empty stomach, Hortensio.

  ⎯ I’m not hungry.

  Natalia turns off the tap, half dries her hands on her apron and leans back on the sink bench to face Hortensio.

  ⎯ What’s wrong, hijito?

  Hortensio looks at his mamá almost as if he doesn’t recognise her.

  ⎯ With what?

  ⎯ You’ve been looking a bit out of sorts lately. You’re kinda down.

  ⎯ I’m fine ⎯ Hortensio turns to go out of the kitchen. Natalia stops him by the shoulde
r.

  ⎯ I’ve been your mamá long enough to know when something’s wrong with you.

  ⎯ I said there’s nothing wrong with me.

  ⎯ So, why is it that you’ve been going around for quite some time lost in space.

  ⎯ Ay, má, I’m not a little boy you used to be able to grill like before.

  ⎯ Ok, then, if you don’t wanna tell me, you can keep your pain to yourself. But I don’t like seeing you like this. Why don’t you go with your friends to Cuernavaca this week end? Go with Ramiro and ...

  ⎯ I don’t wanna see that idiot.

  ⎯ Natalia nods her head as if she understands, if not everything, at least some of what is happening with her son, but she asks no more questions.

  ⎯ Well, then, what about el Carroña or el Marrano?

  ⎯ I’m not in the mood.

  ⎯ Well, it’s an order.

  ⎯ So, who’s gonna help you in the store?

  ⎯ The twins. You can help me next week.

  ⎯ But má...

  ⎯ You need to clear away the cobwebs ⎯ Natalia takes several hundred peso notes from her purse and gives them to Hortensio. At first he refuses to take them, but Natalia practically forces him to take them. ⎯ Come on, get your things ready and go away for a couple of days. Let’s see if you come back in a better frame of mind.