So you’re looking for somebody, eh? he said, sitting down again, theatrically. Yes, an American friend, I haven’t seen her in years, but then some friends of mine told me she’s a parishioner of this church and had mentioned to them that she was coming here, that’s why I’ve come to look for her. Oh yes, he said, chance, chance is the ink in which God dips his pen in order to plot the destinies of men, and what leads you to believe that she’s here in this particular branch of our church? I looked at him and said, absolutely nothing, just my intuition.
The man scratched his neck and caught a bead of sweat as it trickled down behind his ear.
The fact is, there’s nobody of that name here, you’ll have to give me more information. As I said before: she’s of Latin origin, forty years old, and has worked for other evangelical churches. . And why do you imagine she may be with us? He was nibbling at the cap of a ball pen. I repeated: because of what our mutual friends told me, that’s the only reason. I paused and added, I’m a writer, I’m used to doing research.
When he heard that, his face changed color, and he spat the pen cap from his mouth and said, you aren’t one of those filthy opportunists who write about the crimes of the church and crap like that to fill their pockets by deceiving people? No, how could you think that? I’m not even writing, in fact I haven’t written anything in more than two years, I only mentioned it to. . But the man was beside himself. And what’s to guarantee that after this visit you won’t recover your inspiration and start slinging all kinds of shit at us? The scene was starting to be grotesque, but I was enjoying myself, so I said: I’ve never done that, I mean sling shit, I only want to know if among your parishioners there’s a woman who fits the description I gave you, from what I know the Coptic Church isn’t a secret society or anything like that, its followers don’t have anything to hide, it doesn’t do anything criminal or shameful, or does it?
He went to the window, put his hands on his hips, thrust his body back, and let out a big breath. All right, my friend, I think it’s time we put our cards on the table, don’t you? let me tell you how I see things: you’re a writer and you came to this country for the conference in Jerusalem; you say you’re looking for a long-lost friend but that wasn’t in your mind at all when you first arrived; but then a tragedy occurs, and one day later you get it into your head to come here and inquire after your friend, don’t you think that’s a rather curious coincidence? I looked at him in surprise and said: maybe so, but that’s all it is, a coincidence. The woman I’m looking for worked with the dead man years ago in an evangelical church in Miami, don’t you find that a bit disturbing?
By Christ and his cross, said Eddy Peters, I can see it now, you are writing a book, I can see it in your eyes, the way they’re shining. Let me see if I can guess the plot: you think it wasn’t suicide but murder and that the Coptic Church may be involved? My God, I can just see it: millions of copies, you and your publishers are denounced, there’s a great scandal, but then it all fizzles out and everything goes back to normal. . Do you have a title yet? I looked at him with a neutral expression. There is no title, because there is no book, but if you insist we could call it. . Death of a Biographer, what do you think?
He played with the ball pen in his fingers and said, quite catchy but there’s something missing, I don’t know, maybe it should mention the Church in the title, don’t you think? Then he stood up and said, even though you clearly have no scruples I like you, I must confess. The Coptic Church has nothing to do with that man’s suicide, and it’s not our fault that it happened; you must surely know that suicides are the work of individuals, and that they’re all different? How many reasons can there be to give up on life? To me there are none, because life doesn’t belong to us, it isn’t ours; you may be obsessed with finding out what happened, but you mustn’t lose sight of the fact that the truth doesn’t have to be known by anybody for it still to be the truth. Write your details for me on a piece of paper, how long you’re going to be in the country, and your full name, and if I come across her, I’ll be in touch, now good afternoon.
When we came out, the sun was still beating down. It was a bit early to go back, so we crossed the avenue and went into a café to have a drink. As we were about to sit down at one of the tables, I noticed a woman putting a bill down on the counter and picking up a package. Her face seemed familiar, and a voice told me: talk to her, it’s her.
The woman turned and looked at me in surprise.
Seeing her full-face like that, I realized that it was not from the photographs that I recognized her but. . Was it possible? She was the woman I had seen at the opening cocktail party! Yes, it was her, but it was also Jessica, because she stopped when she heard her name. I asked her if she was who I thought, but she shook her head and headed for the door, so I said, in Spanish, I’m a friend of José Maturana, I have to talk to you. She stopped again and gave me a searching look. Look, let me buy you a coffee, please. We walked to a table. A friend of José? she said, her voice was soft and beguiling, and I replied, yes, I’ve come from the conference, I didn’t know that José was sick and I was impressed by his story, I was the first to reach his room when. . when that happened, you know, I saw his body with the cuts on it, I found his notes, anyway, are you, Jessica?
She put her bag down on the table and said, I know who you are, you’re the writer, aren’t you? I saw you at the conference. I told her I had gone to the church to look for her but the Metropolitan’s secretary had said he did not know her and that there was no Jessica in his church, had she changed her name? No, she said, I asked them not to give out any information about me, that’s why, but why were you looking for me? why are you interested in Maturana? I told her there were things about José that I was trying to understand. I’m not an investigator or anything like that, nor am I, as Peters thought, planning a scandalous book, at least I don’t think so; it’s a very human story and for some strange reason I’d like to find out more, to get to the bottom of it, it just seems the right thing to do.
They brought two coffees in big cups.
Jessica looked at the steaming liquid with an anxious expression, and said, all right, all right, let me tell you a few things, you’re a writer and if you’re going to put this in one of your books it’s best you know what really happened, anyway, it’ll be better if I talk but don’t tell me you’re not going to do a book — I had been sincere, I did not know it yet — I’ve lived surrounded by people who say they won’t do this or they won’t do that, and then it’s the first thing they do, so don’t come to me with that.
Having said this, she began her story.
When he first arrived at the Ministry, José scared me. He was a tall, strong man, with a face pockmarked from smallpox or acne, swollen veins on his arms, bulging muscles, and those horrible lacerations he called tattoos, which he’d gotten in prison. If Walter was an angel who walked preceded by a ray of light, José was the king of shadows. Everything in him was an expression of evil, starting with his eyes. I had seen murderers, really perverse, cynical people, and I knew what was in a cold look like that. But Walter’s affection for him made me lower my guard. Maybe I was wrong, maybe José was like one of those mythological creatures who are all dried up but still have a few drops of life in them, and if somebody can extract those drops they revive, and I imagined that was what Walter had done.