5. THIRTY DAYS
I’M SO GLAD WE SAT HERE in the back, my dear, in the last row, so we can chat, even if only in a whisper, quietly. There’s been so much going on. Anyway, I don’t want to look at that priest up close. Papa’s right: all priests are twisted and corrupt, but this one has turned out to be a real scoundrel. Did you hear what he did to poor Yuca? It’s all anybody’s talking about. Yuca’s become the laughingstock of the entire world. It’s all a plot. They say it’s his political enemies. The press has turned against him, too. Luckily they haven’t mentioned anything about Olga María. I told you they were going to use the Olga María thing to try to finish Yuca off, and that’s exactly what’s happened, even if they don’t say so publicly, they’ve started accusing him of other things. They already made him resign from the leadership of the party. Terrible. The man who is far and away the best leader, and the most charismatic — everybody was supporting him. They’ve done him in — just because of that stolen car they say he bought. A Mercedes Benz this damned priest sold him and now says he doesn’t know anything about. No, my dear, I haven’t been able to talk to Yuca. He’s been too busy: he’s at the very center of a political storm — fending off the low blows, defending his reputation. What worries me is that he’ll get hooked on coke again, he’ll sink back into a cycle of depression and turn to drugs. They haven’t stopped attacking him — just look at the media. How possible is it: a high-ranking leader of the governing party buying a stolen car!? What idiots! But the way they say it, it makes people think he’s somehow involved in the stolen car racket, as if Yuca needed to be, like he isn’t rich enough already. They set a trap for him, and that no-good priest helped lure him into it. I’m sure of it! Yes, my dear, I’ll lower my voice, it’s just that I get so furious when I realize what they’re doing to that man. They’ve ruined his political career, and now they want to sink him completely. It’s not fair. But that’s not the worst of it; the worst is what people are saying in private, what people everywhere are mumbling about under their breath. Horrible: people you thought were Yuca’s friends are now out to slander him, they’re saying awful things, like he ordered Olga María’s murder because she was threatening to expose him as a drug trafficker. Can you imagine? It makes me furious. It’s one thing that the man’s an addict and another that he’s involved in drug trafficking. People say such vile things. Even to me, and they know I’m his friend, you wouldn’t believe the atrocious things they insinuate; that happened a few days ago — at the club no less. According to this person, the gringos discovered Yuca’s connection with the drug traffickers, and they decided to take him out of the running, politically speaking, but since they couldn’t expose him without spreading the shit all over other high-ranking government officials, they decided to invent this whole farce about the stolen car. Nobody in his right mind can actually believe something like that. Others are saying that Yuca, in a fit of cocaine-induced madness, hired a hitman to kill Olga María, and the authorities found out, and when he refused to resign, they invented this scandal about the stolen car. What a mess. All fantasies. Yuca never would have had Olga María killed. I’m not denying that he gets crazy sometimes, but it would never have occurred to him to hurt that woman. All I know for sure is that Yuca insists he bought that Mercedes from this priest. So it must be true. But now the priest is playing the fool and says he knows nothing about the car. Just look at him, that hypocrite up there saying Mass, as if nothing were wrong. Poor Olga María, if she knew that despicable priest, who is part of a plot to destroy Yuca, is the one saying her Requiem Mass, she’d die of outrage — I’m sure of it. It would make her furious. I had no idea he’d be the priest. If I’d known, I’d have warned Doña Olga. I just realized it, just now when I walked into the church — that’s why I stayed here in the back row, as a form of protest. That’s what I explained to mama when she asked me why I was sitting way back here: nothing in the world would get me to sit in the front row and listen to that scheming priest. I’m so glad you came, too. I swear, the only reason I’m staying at all is to show my respect for Olga María. On the way out I’m going to ask Doña Olga why she chose that priest. But she’s been pretty out to lunch ever since the murder; she’s completely devoted to those girls. Maybe it wasn’t even her who chose that disgusting priest; it could have been Cuca or Sergio, or even Marito himself. Something’s not right, now that I’m thinking about it. Don’t you think maybe they chose this priest so that Yuca wouldn’t show up? I’m not crazy, or paranoid. With everything that’s going on, you imagine the worst. Picking this priest was the best way to prevent Yuca from coming. Seeing as how people always think the worst of other people, most people would assume from the fact that this awful priest is giving the Requiem Mass that the family considers Yuca guilty of Olga María’s murder. There’s something very fishy going on, I can tell you that, and I’m going to find out what it is, my dear. This can’t just end here; this is one more piece of the whole big plot against Yuca. Maybe Doña Olga is taking part in it without realizing it, innocently, she’s so naïve and in so much pain, the poor thing. Look at that priest: can’t you just see him lowering his eyes and speaking to God, the pig? It makes me want to switch religions. But papa says they’re all the same. He calls himself an agnostic. I’ve never really understood what that means: something about believing in a God up there but not in the priests or the religions down here. Papa says he doesn’t need the priests’ God: he’s happy hanging out on his finca most of the time or going a few times a year to the racetrack in Mexico City and to the casinos in Reno; that’s what he loves to do. You should see how he makes fun of mama. He says that all her piety, her devotion to the church, it all started when she was already old — she never even went to church before; even my First Communion was just a formality. He’s right: when I was little, mama wasn’t at all interested in priests or services, she was on a different wavelength altogether. Fear of death, my dear. According to papa, the war turned my mother into a zealot, as if God would save her from the massacres, when it was the priests themselves who’d stirred up the masses. That’s what papa says. He makes fun of her, because as far as he’s concerned, now that the war is over mama should give up all her piousness. But she’s too old to change now. I understand her. But when you come across disgusting priests like this one here, you can’t help having terrible thoughts. I want to see what he pulls out of his hat for the homily. Let’s kneel, my dear. This prie-dieu is filthy, it’s going to ruin my stockings. Did I tell you I had dinner with Marito? Night before last. At his house, so we could be with the girls and dear Julita. He told me a bunch of things, and he questioned me pretty aggressively. Not during dinner, because the girls were there, the poor things, my darlings; no, after they went to bed. Marito’s business isn’t doing so welclass="underline" he’s lost some clients. He says he’s invoicing about sixty percent of what he invoiced last year. Apparently advertising feels the economic crunch first because it’s the first item on the budget that gets cut. That’s what Marito explained to me. This crisis is awful, it’s affecting everybody, it’s all the fault of that fat idiot we put in there as president. Interest rates have even dropped. Luckily the price of coffee has remained stable, if not papa would be furious. Let’s sit, my dear. What Marito told me is that Olga María didn’t leave a will — how could she have imagined she would die so young!? That’s why at the beginning of last week I went to a lawyer to write mine, my dear — I hope it doesn’t bring bad luck. God forbid. Knock on wood. But there’s no problem because the girls inherit everything. Her only partner in the boutique was Doña Olga. They kept things in the family. But Marito isn’t sure it’s worth keeping the boutique: if you add to the economic crisis the scandal of Olga María’s murder, it probably isn’t. I asked him what he was planning to do about Cheli and Conchita, the two employees, because I’m sure they’re the ones who blabbed to the police. Doña Olga wants to keep them on and Marito couldn’t care less. Imagine that. I told him he’d better get rid of that pair of harpies as soon as possible or he’d soon regret it. Okay, my dear, I’ll keep my voice down, the last thing I want is for that damned priest to tell me off. It’s just that when I talk about those you-know-whats, I get all riled up. The same thing happened when I was with Marito. Luckily dear Julita had already put the girls to bed. They’re so lovely, so obedient, such good students. That’s what bothers me about going to Mass: you have to constantly be standing up, kneeling down, standing up, and my clothes end up getting all messed up and looking frightful. It was because I got so excited when I was talking about Cheli and Conchita that Marito asked me what I have against them; he said they’re good employees, Olga María trusted them completely. I’m such an idiot, I went and told him what I suspected: that the two of them had filled the policemen’s heads with all sorts of groundless rumors, especially that Deputy Chief Handal. Then I realized I’d stuck my foot in my mouth, but it was too late to turn back. Marito just stared at me with a very serious expression on his face. We were still in the dining room drinking coffee. What rumors? he asked me, in a not-very-friendly voice. I didn’t know what to do, my dear. I probably stared back at him like an idiot, because he asked me again: what rumors? I felt trapped, like he was reading my mind. But finally I managed to wriggle my way out of it: I told him how it could appear suspicious that he bought a life insurance policy for Olga María a few weeks before the murder. Everybody, of course, thinks it’s ridiculous, but those two put it into the policeman’s head, and that Deputy Chief Handal questioned me about it. That’s how I explained it to Marito. He told me it wasn’t a hypothesis, it was pure nonsense, not even the police were taking it seriously. Then, out of the blue, he asked me about the relationship between Olga María and Yuca. I was shocked. I didn’t expect that. I was afraid Marito would find out about the photograph José Carlos had taken of Olga María, the one Handal showed me; that’s what I was most afraid of. But Marito going straight to the business about Yuca? I never expected that. It’s not like him: he’s not one for confrontations. That’s why he got along so well with Olga María: they were both calm, gentle, reserved. You can’t imagine the predicament I was in, my dear. Just look at him there, praying, as gentle as a lamb, but he’s a sly on