Minutes later, Anabella appears at the door with the phone in her hand. Gladys Varela is asking how much they’re going to pay her. Tell Gladys that we’re serious journalists and that serious journalists don’t pay for their pieces, Jaime Brena says quickly. But she got paid for going on television, the woman insists. Precisely, says Brena, because that was television, not us. Tell her that El Tribuno doesn’t pay its sources, but if she can help us we’ll take a lovely photo of her and she’ll come out in one of the most widely read newspapers in the country. A nice big photo, quarter of a page, tell her. Did you hear that, Gladys? Anabella says into the phone, then waits for the other woman’s response. There’s a short silence, and then: Fine, I’ll tell him, Anabella says into the phone. Addressing herself to Brena, since he seems to be leading the negotiation, she says: Gladys says she’ll come, for the photo in the paper, even though you’re not paying her, because she doesn’t like how they treated her on television – she’ll tell you all about that. Anyway, she’s coming for the photo, and on one condition: that you let her enter through the visitors’ gate. Brena stares at her, uncomprehending. That you let her in through the same gate you use, Anabella tries to explain: Gladys will go up to the road, catch a taxi and come into the club through the visitors’ entrance; otherwise she’s not coming. Because she’s not coming to work, like she used to. She’s coming because you’ve asked her to; you’re inviting her. And you have to pay for the taxi. Yes, of course, Nurit answers hurriedly; after living here for a week she’s quicker than the others to grasp the niceties of the woman’s request. But let somebody at the gatehouse know, Anabella cautions, otherwise they’ll make her go through the staff entrance, and if she thinks you haven’t kept your word she’ll go away and never come back. I’ll tell them, and I will keep my word, don’t worry, Nurit says. Are we good to go, then? Anabella says into the receiver, and then confirms: She’ll be here in half an hour or thereabouts. Then she closes her mobile and leaves the room. Why is coming through the visitors’ entrance one of her conditions? asks the boy. So that she can feel that she gets to use the same door as everyone else, even if it’s just the once, Nurit replies. I have to say, they didn’t make us feel all that great when we came in through the visitors’ gate, Brena says. It’s not about how they treat you, but what they call you, says Nurit.
An hour later Gladys Varela rings the bell. Nurit Iscar ushers her in and introduces her to the others. There weren’t any taxis; I had to wait twenty minutes, the woman explains apologetically, so I’ve told him to wait outside, otherwise I’ll be stuck here for ages. You’ll pay for him to wait for me and take me back, won’t you? Yes, of course, says Brena. It’s obvious that the woman has put on her best clothes: black skirt, shiny white shirt, high heels, faux leather bag. Gladys Varela sits down and prepares to be interviewed again. Shall I tell you what happened that day? she asks. No, we already know about that, says Brena and although he simply meant to speed up the proceedings, Gladys is momentarily disconcerted by the bluntness of his manner. Why have you asked me to come here, then? It’s the boy who steps in to smooth her ruffled feathers. We saw you explain what happened that day on television. Oh, so you saw me, she says, noticeably proud. And on YouTube, says the boy, I saw you on YouTube, too. Yes, my kids told me I’m on it. They saw it in the cybercafé. Lots of people have seen it on YouTube, it’s had loads of hits, the boy enthuses. But the TV people weren’t true to their word. They gave me less money and they didn’t pay my travel expenses, the woman complains. And they only put me on one day when we had agreed that I’d be on three times. Three: do you see what I mean? Including once on the evening bulletin. More people watch television in the evening. I mean, even my husband never got to see me. The kids are going to take him to the cybercafé so he can see me, but there hasn’t been a good time. There never is with my husband, says Gladys Varela, sadly shaking her head as if letting the movement speak for some grievance she’s decided it would be better not to articulate. So? she asks. What have you brought me here for? We asked you here because we want to ask you about one detail, something we noticed in the house, says Jaime Brena. You’ve been into the house? Gloria asks. Yes, with the police. When? Just now. It must be very dirty. Not particularly, Brena says. But it must be. Nobody’s been in there to clean since I stopped going, and all the dust gets in and gathers. Men don’t notice these things, Nurit interrupts, but yes, there was a lot of dust. Like you wouldn’t believe, says Gladys Varela. The dust here is terrible. We wanted to ask you specifically about a photo frame in Señor Chazarreta’s study, one with no photo in it, says Brena, getting to the point. The woman visibly stiffens, and looks like she’s considering leaving. Do you know the photo frame I mean? Gladys doesn’t answer, but clutches her bag, ready to rush out at any moment. Is something wrong? the boy asks. What does the frame matter to you? she says. It’s the photograph that matters, Brena says. The woman gets more upset. Are you Chazarreta’s lawyers? she asks. No, Brena says vehemently, and he can’t understand why she would think this – for him, for Jaime Brena, to be taken for a lawyer is far from flattering. We’re journalists; what makes you think we could be representing Chazarreta? He said that if the photograph wasn’t found he was going to call his lawyer and the police. When did he say that? When the photo went missing. But when was that? A few months ago, or a year, I don’t remember any more. I thought the whole thing was cleared up, or at least that Señor Chazarreta knew that I had nothing to do with it. With what? With the missing photograph. He blamed me to start with, until one day he said that he’d realized I didn’t have anything to do with it. He acknowledged that, but he never actually said he was sorry, and afterwards he never mentioned it again. I was very upset: I never touch anything that isn’t mine. Not anything. What would I want with someone else’s photograph? She looks at each of them anxiously and says again: How can I be sure that you aren’t lawyers? She’s a writer and we’re both journalists from El Tribuno, says the Crime boy. If you don’t believe us we can call the newspaper now. Gladys Varela interrupts him: No, it’s fine, I do believe you, she says to the boy. She asks for a glass of water, and Nurit brings her one. The woman drinks. I thought the whole business was over. I forgot about it. I didn’t like what Señor Chazarreta had said to me, but I let it go. You can’t work in a place and have bad blood with your employer, she says, leaving Jaime Brena to think over just how much bad blood he has with his. What would I want that photo for? And what was that photo? What was it of? the boy presses. It was a photo from years ago, of him and some friends: there must have been four or five of them, friends from secondary school. Jaime Brena and Nurit exchange glances. There were two matching frames; one of them had a picture of his wife and her friends and the other one had a picture of Señor Chazarreta and his friends. Do you happen to know which secondary school he went to? Nurit asks. Well, the name was in the photograph, but I can’t say I paid much attention to it. There was a flag they all held among them, and it was a saint’s name, but it wasn’t San Pablo, San Pedro or San Agostino; I don’t know, it was an odd saint. A lesser-known saint, do you know what I mean? That’s why I can’t remember it. And why do you think that it was so important to Chazarreta? I don’t know. But to make things worse, soon after it was lost one of the friends who was in that photo died. Such a shame. And that it should be someone from that photograph, too. Do you know the name of that friend? Brena asks. Yes, Gandolfini. He was a member of this club too, of La Maravillosa. He had a weekend house here. He was killed on the Pan-American. He liked driving fast, apparently, and one day he drove straight into a pillar. Chazarreta was in pieces, as you can imagine. He was never one to talk, he wasn’t chatty, but he let the odd thing slip sometimes, after a whisky. And with good reason. I mean, first his wife and then his friend. I think somebody used that photo to fix him. Because it’s a big coincidence. You’d have to hate someone a lot to do a fix like that, says Gladys Varela and then she falls silent, pressing something she’s wearing under her shirt and which
they can’t see. A fix, she repeats. I told him that somebody must have fixed them up. What exactly do you mean by a “fix”? the Crime boy asks. Those things people who know about black magic do – voodoo. A curse, a hex. You pray to someone, you ask for something bad to happen to a person. I’m sure it was a fix – what else would it be? At the beginning I didn’t realize, because the wife was already dead when I first went to work there. But then there was Gandolfini, Chazarreta himself and a little time before that the one who died in the snow. Somewhere snowy in the United States, I think, because it was summer here. What? Nurit asks, but in her enthusiasm the woman doesn’t hear her. That’s not down to coincidence, that’s down to someone praying and willing bad things to happen to you; it’s a curse, Gladys Varela concludes. Who died in the snow? Nurit insists. Another of Chazarreta’s friends, says the woman, in a skiing accident. I don’t understand, says Brena. Was the one who died in the snow also in the photo? Yes, Chazarreta, Gandolfini and the snow one, all three of them dead, says the woman. Can you remember the name of the one who died skiing? the Crime boy asks. No, I don’t remember, but he had a house here too. It was a few months after Gandolfini. Anabella probably remembers, and if not we can ask around; someone is bound to remember. Everybody was talking about it. Imagine – he went on holiday with all his friends and wound up dead. And the guy really knew how to ski; he had prizes and everything, apparently, such a shame. Gladys pauses and drinks more water. Nurit, Jaime Brena and the Crime boy, while trying to appear calm and composed, can barely contain their astonishment. The Crime boy does his best: So, to sum up, you said that the photo showed five of Chazarreta’s friends from secondary school. Four or five at the most; it would have been five including Chazarreta, I think. Or was it six? the woman wonders. And of those four, five or six, three are dead, states Jaime Brena, though this is really a question, and then he speaks the names aloud: Chazarreta, Gandolfini and the skier. Yes, three dead, Gladys Varela repeats. Three dead, Brena says again. Three dead, whispers Nurit. That’s why it must be a fix, a curse, Gladys insists; they wouldn’t just all die for no reason. Added to the fact that the wife was already dead. And who knows if the thing will end there, says the woman, and Nurit shivers. Somebody prayed for misfortune to befall them. And so it did.
They’re shaken by the revelation, but Nurit Iscar, Jaime Brena and the Crime boy are also prey to an odd mixture of excitement and puzzlement. The Crime boy is awed, too, by his colleagues’ powers of intuition. Setting aside any logical explanation they might bring to bear, he’s beginning to suspect that in all this (and if he thinks “this” it’s because he can’t yet be sure of those other words: death, crime, murder) there’s a connection, a special perception that made Nurit and Brena sense – sense, not think – when they stood at that table full of photographs that the empty frame contained the key to the mystery. It’s a gift, he thinks to himself; those two have a gift.
Gladys Varela has to go, she says, they’re expecting her home. Nobody stops her; they don’t have much else to ask at the moment and need some time alone to organize their thoughts. There’s too much information, too many leads to follow, too many new doubts. And the photograph? Gladys asks before leaving. At first they don’t understand what she means, they’re still fixated on the missing photograph of the dead friends that they’ve recently found out about. Then the Crime boy reacts and whips out his BlackBerry. Let’s do it now, he says. You’re going to take it with that? the woman asks. Yes, it’s better than a camera, the boy says defensively, and he shows her how she looks on the screen when he frames it to take a photograph. Ah, she says, better than a camera? Way better, the boy confirms. Also, since it’s connected to the Internet I can send it from here straight to the newspaper and you’ll be able to see it in the paper edition as well as online. Ah yes, I can see it online, she says, and then, Where shall I stand? Next to the window, says the boy, and he arranges her in the right position, steps back, sets the frame and takes the photograph. He shows it to Gladys Varela: Do you like it? Yes, what do you think? she says. I think it’s come out very well, he says, but I’ll take a couple more anyway, just in case. And when is the piece going to be published? the woman asks. In a few days, the Crime boy says. We’ll have to check a few facts first, but it’ll be out in a couple of days or so. We’ll give you a call to let you know, Gladys, don’t worry. The boy offers to show her out and arrange payment with the taxi driver and Gladys Varela accepts, says goodbye and stands up ready to go. Before they leave the room, Nurit Iscar stops them. Just one more question, she says to Gladys, and I promise it’s the last. Could one of the other men in the photograph have been Luis Collazo? Yes, yes, Señor Collazo was in the photograph, Gladys confirms, but that one’s still alive, as far I know. Yes, Nurit replies. He’s still alive.
16
The improvised and multitudinous social gathering taking place at Nurit’s temporary home has been ravaged by events. The sons, friends, girlfriends and dog, realizing that nobody is going to minister to them for the rest of the day, that nobody is planning a dinner for that night and that nobody is making up beds for them to sleep in, decide to accept a last-minute invitation to a barbecue in Banfield, promising to come back on Sunday if the fine weather continues. Viviana Mansini complains that nobody told her the party included an option to stay over: I haven’t closed the windows at home, I haven’t left food for the kids. Luckily my kids can cook for themselves, says Carmen. I never leave the windows open, because of the bats, you know? says Paula. The word alone makes Viviana Mansini shudder. There are no bats round my place, she says. How strange, says Carmen, considering that the rest of Buenos Aires is full of bats. Nurit accompanies the Crime boy and Jaime Brena to their car. So what next? the Crime boy asks. I think we should keep this new information to ourselves until we’ve checked it out, says Jaime Brena. I agree, says Nurit. But I’m the loser who’s going to get his balls cut off by Lorenzo Rinaldi when someone breaks this exclusive ahead of us, the boy protests. Jaime Brena looks at him thoughtfully. For the first time it dawns on him that, like it or not, he has no control over the way information about Chazarreta’s death is managed. That being the case, he says, without anger or empathy but with resigned conviction, the decision is yours to make, because you’re the Crime Editor. It’s up to you and Nurit; I’m no longer part of it. You’re our honorary adviser, Brena, says Nurit. Honorary and ad honorem, the boy adds. Do you accept? Brena says nothing for a moment, and then: You mean there’s not even a fiver in it? All three laugh. He doesn’t say it, but the truth is that Jaime Brena would pay to do this job: for a long time he’s felt nothing when working on a report or a feature – or rather he does feel something, but it’s apathy, frustration, weariness, anger – and now he’s rediscovering that vertigo, that passion that drove him to become a journalist in the first place. My honorary and ad honorem opinion is that you need to sit on this exclusive until it’s fleshed out, kid, you can’t go ahead and publish with so few concrete facts. What about the police? the Crime boy asks. Should we say something to them? All we know is that some time ago a photograph was stolen from Chazarreta’s house, and I’ve already mentioned that to Comisario Venturini himself and he didn’t give a damn. I don’t think it’s necessary, at the moment, to tell him that three people in that photograph have died, either coincidentally or otherwise, and two of them in accidents. I don’t believe in coincidence, says Nurit. I don’t believe in the curses Gladys Varela referred to, says the Crime boy. I don’t believe in either of those things either, says Jaime Brena, but I do believe that there are murderers in the world. I propose we start by establishing which school Chazarreta went to and who his closest friends were. I don’t want to push too hard on the Venturini side of things. He’ll get annoyed and cut off the flow. I’m going to try to be more sociable with my neighbours in La Maravillosa; one of them, other than Collazo, must know something, says Nurit. Whereas I, of course – and the boy addresses himself to Jaime Brena, as though dedicating what he’s about to
say to him – plan to submerge myself in the Internet. Somewhere on the Web it’s going to say where Chazarreta went to secondary school. The men kiss Nurit goodbye and get into the car. She stands there, waiting for them to pull away. She feels cold. The evening dew, added to a light, intermittent breeze gathering right in front of the house, prompts her to cross her arms over her chest, rubbing them at the very moment that Jaime Brena is lowering his window for a bit of air. Men and women have different thermostats, he says. That’s what they always say, she agrees. You must be one of those people who prefer an overhead fan to air conditioning, Jaime Brena says. And you probably keep the air conditioning on even in winter, says Nurit. You mean we’re doomed never to live together? Brena asks, and she blushes. You never know, Nurit Iscar would say, if she were the heroine of one of her own novels. But since she isn’t she doesn’t say this; she merely thinks it, and smiles. Why must she always keep a distance – especially, it seems, with men she really likes? Even at this age, she doesn’t understand it. Now Viviana Mansini, who’s suddenly remembered that her car is parked at the entrance to the club, comes running out of the house. Could you drop me off at the gate? she asks. Yes, of course, says the boy. She gives Nurit a kiss and gets into the car. Jaime Brena waves goodbye, tipping an imaginary hat, and the car moves away over the grey gravel before disappearing.
Betty Boo Page 15
