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  Half an hour later there’s another call from the gatehouse. Carmen answers and passes the phone to Nurit: They’re calling from the gate for you to authorize someone to be let in. It’s the Crime boy, she tells her friends, then says into the receiver: Hello, yes? But the name they give her at the other end confuses her: Who? No, I was waiting for someone else. What did you say his name is? Matías Gallo, the guard replies. He says he’s a friend of your son Rodrigo. Ah yes, but what’s he doing here? Fine, yes, tell him to come in. Nurit’s worried now. Why has one of Rodrigo’s friends come to La Maravillosa? Something must have happened. Could he be the bearer of bad news? Her friends try to reassure her, but Nurit’s face is testament to their failure. Oh, please, why do you always have to get so dramatic about your children? Paula chides. I’m sure it’s nothing important. He was probably at somebody else’s house and he’s coming by to drop something in or to say hello, says Carmen. No, we’re not that close – he’s a friend of Rodrigo’s from university. I know him, I know who he is, but we don’t have the kind of relationship where he’d feel any obligation to come and see me. In that case he’s probably dropping something off for Rodrigo, Carmen insists. He’d have let me know. You really think so? Kids can be very flaky. Nurit calls her son’s mobile, but it’s switched off. Carmen tries evoking the principle of Ockham’s razor. Whose razor? Paula asks. It’s a philosophical principle devised by one William of Ockham, Carmen explains, stating that when there are two possible reasons for the same occurrence, the simplest theory is most likely to be right; for example, if the person you’re waiting for doesn’t arrive, it’s much more logical to think that he’s missed the bus or got held up at a friend’s house than that he’s been killed in a traffic accident. Paula and Nurit both stare at her. OK, admittedly that wasn’t the best example, but Ockham’s razor, when properly applied, is a useful tool for keeping calm. Carmen decides it’s safer not to say anything else. At Paula’s suggestion, they go to wait for Matías at the door. They don’t know from which direction he’ll come; the road Nurit’s staying on is a perfect semicircle and the house can be approached from the left or right. They keep looking both ways, as though watching a tennis match in slow motion. Time seems to stand still. How can it be taking the boy so long to travel from the entrance to here? asks Paula. What’s he coming in – a horse-drawn carriage? Would you like us to take the car and go look for him? Maybe that would be best, Nurit agrees. Her friend’s about to go and fetch her keys when the boy appears around a left-hand bend about twenty yards away, walking unhurriedly. Is that him? Carmen asks. And without waiting for an answer, all three of them run out to meet him. The boy, backpack on his shoulder and iPhone plugged into his ears, looks disconcerted by their approach. Nurit reaches him first and plants herself in front of him, grabbing his shoulders and saying: What’s happened? The boy stares blankly at her. Tell me what’s happened! she insists. What’s happened when? her son’s friend manages to ask. When whatever’s happened happened, she says. But what’s happened? Matías repeats. That’s what I’m trying to find out! Nurit shouts back. Matías looks at the other women as though to say: “Throw me a line, I don’t know what to do with this madwoman”. Nurit starts crying. Paula, although inclined to believe that this is an overreaction, hugs her and lets her cry on her shoulder. The boy, sweating, wipes his brow with his arm. Carmen, in an effort to keep calm, states firmly: If you have something to say, whatever it is, say it now. The boy thinks for a moment; it’s clear from his face that he’d like nothing better than to give these women something they could identify as the right answer, but he hasn’t the slightest idea what they expect of him. Come on, speak, Carmen insists, spit it out, whatever it is. Thank you? hazards Matías. Thank you for what? says Carmen, not understanding. Thank you, Señora Iscar, for inviting me to spend the day at your country house, the boy recites. Nurit leaves the shoulder on which she’s been sobbing and says: What? I invited you to do what? Well, not you personally, but Rodrigo invited me to spend the weekend at your country house. My country house. Yes, me and a few friends. Haven’t they arrived yet? No, says Nurit with a deep breath, feeling calmer now but also murderous. Oh right, they set off in a van from Plaza Italia, but I made my own way here since I was coming from my grandfather’s house in San Isidro. The women and Matías have been standing in the street and the driver of an Audi sounds his horn, a discreet beep to usher them out of the way. Everyone moves to the side to let the car past, and then they follow it towards the house. So tell me, Nurit asks Matías, exactly how many are coming in the van. Well… not many: four or five. Four or five, Nurit repeats. Without counting Rodrigo, the boy clarifies. No, we’d better not count Rodrigo, because I have a suspicion he may be about to have a nasty accident, Paula says. Seeing that the boy doesn’t get the joke, she looks heavenwards and murmurs: Thank you, Lord, for giving me only nephews and nieces.

  Back inside the house, Anabella tells Nurit that Viviana Mansini has called to say that she’ll arrive after lunch (Who invited Viviana Mansini? asks Paula) and that the security guard has called again: There’s someone at the entrance who needs authorization to enter, the maid says, then carries on cutting up lettuce. I’ll call through now, says Nurit, sizing up the quantity of salad and realizing it won’t be nearly enough. We’ve got more guests coming than I expected, she says, so throw in another lettuce and two or three more tomatoes. I’ll go and get some more empanadas in a minute. Nurit calls the security guard: Yes, apparently I have to authorize someone to come in. She listens to the name of the new visitor. Juan? she says. Yes, yes, let him in. He’s my son. It looks like Juan is coming too, she tells the others. They never answer my calls, then they descend on me unannounced. Do you mind if I put on my trunks and swim for a bit while I wait for Rodrigo and the boys? Matías interrupts. No, go ahead, please make yourself at home, says Nurit, with a light irony that goes unnoticed by her son’s friend. She looks pointedly at him without adding another word, leaving the boy to deduce that the best thing he can do is go and throw himself into the pool. Looks like I won’t be gracing the swimming pool today, says Paula, once Matías has disappeared to get changed. Why? Nurit asks. Did you see that body? That skin? That youth? All that’s going to be multiplied by five when Rodrigo arrives, and by God knows how many more when Juan turns up, and I’m just not braced for the contrast. Oh, cut the crap; we’re past fifty, nobody’s expecting youth from us, Carmen says. Maybe not youth, but self-awareness, respect for others and dignity. Dignity above all. I agree with you there, says Nurit, and she remembers herself standing in front of the mirror a few days ago, ashamed that Lorenzo Rinaldi should see how her body has aged in these last three years. I should have followed the example of Greta Garbo, says Paula. Or Mina. Women who chose their moment to retire from public view. Mina who sang “Parole, Parole”? asks Carmen. Yes, Mina. I didn’t know she’d retired. She shut herself away. Old age is frightening for us artists: we’re aesthetic beings, young souls in bodies that age. And somewhat narcissistic, Carmen adds. Call it whatever you like, but I was once a renowned artist, even if that boy didn’t seem to recognize me, Paula complains. Do you realize he’s got absolutely no idea who I am? He walked right past without even noticing me. All the more reason to get in the pool – you can safely assume the boy won’t spare you a glance, Carmen says. Yes, I’m aware the risk is low, but it’s there all the same. What if one of Rodrigo’s friends happens to have seen me in an old film on cable, recognizes me, takes a photo and it goes viral? I’ll get in the pool tomorrow; after all, the boys aren’t staying the night, are they? I got the impression this Matías guy was talking in terms of “the weekend”, says Carmen. The three women exchange glances. Paula walks over to the window to touch wood.

  Juan, who arrives in a car borrowed from his father, isn’t alone. I almost persuaded Dad to come, he says, greeting his dazed mother with a kiss. Instead he’s brought his girlfriend – whom Nurit has never met before today – as well as his girlfriend’s sister and his girlfriend
’s toy poodle. Bingo! cries Paula Sibona when she sees the dog jumping about in the garden. You never told me you were coming, Nurit says to her older son. I lost my mobile and I couldn’t remember your phone number. Are you pissed off that I came without letting you know? No, of course not, darling, she says and, despite the inevitable complications that arise from unexpected visitors, Nurit Iscar isn’t lying. If she is always silently bemoaning how little she sees them, then this sojourn at La Maravillosa has delivered an extra bonus. It’s a lovely place, Mum, Juan says, pulling up some loungers so that his girlfriend and her sister can lie down. The toy poodle runs off to bark at someone who’s just emerged from behind the privet. A dark man with a moustache, who isn’t Zippo, Paula tells Nurit. Excuse me, says the man, coming forward and trying to ignore the hysterical yapping of the dog jumping around him. Well, things are looking up, murmurs Paula, as Nurit goes to see who the man is and what he wants. Comisario Venturini, delighted to meet you, he says. I’m an admirer of you and your novels, Señora Iscar, and I’m anxiously awaiting the next one. Thank you, but I don’t write novels any more. What do you mean, you don’t write them? Not at the moment; perhaps some time in the future. I’ll keep waiting, then, in the hope of having another of your books in my hands one day. I like Moustache Man, he seems like a bit of a gent, Paula says to Carmen, who’s standing with her a few yards away. I could already tell you liked him, she replies. I was in the area, Comisario Venturini is telling Nurit, and I arranged to meet up with Jaime Brena for a quick chat in your house. If that’s not inconvenient, of course, he adds. Jaime Brena? Yes, he told me he was coming here. I didn’t know that. How can that be? Well, anyway, take it from me; I rang him an hour ago and he was just setting off. If you say so; I seem to have lost track of who’s supposed to be coming today, Nurit says with a sigh. Please do come in, anyway. No, not to worry, I’ll come back a bit later. There’s something I need to look at with a colleague in Chazarreta’s house. The remark piques Nurit’s curiosity; since arriving at La Maravillosa she’s been to Chazarreta’s house several times but has never managed to get past the red- and white-striped tape placed around it by police on the first day and now supervised constantly by a police officer from the Bonaerense and one of the club’s own security guards. I don’t want to compromise you, Comisario, but is there any chance you could take me into the house, too? Well, it isn’t standard procedure. I understand. But since it’s you – the police chief pauses, then grins – I think we can find a way. I’ll let you know for sure when I come back later to see Brena. Thank you; you can’t imagine how much that would mean to me. Before leaving Comisario Venturini says: Forgive me, I don’t want to be impolite to the ladies, and goes over to greet Nurit’s friends, clasping each of their hands firmly between both of his own, a gesture that irritates Carmen and thrills Paula. Comisario Venturini, he says, twice, holding Carmen’s hand first, then Paula’s. And that “Comisario” is like a knife twisting in Paula Sibona’s stomach, leaving her speechless. Aren’t you Paula Sibona? he asks. She takes a few seconds to react, then says: Yes, I’m Paula Sibona. Well, what an unexpected pleasure to meet you; you’re one of my favourite actresses. I remember seeing you in that film – what was it called? – the one in which you played the wife of a very powerful man … The Way to the Lake, something like that. The Way to the Lagoon, she corrects him. That’s it, to the Lagoon. I loved it, he says again, with Paula’s hand still pressed between his. Anyway, I’m off now, but I’ll be back later so we can talk more then, Paula, says the police chief; may I call you that? That’s my name, she says. The Comisario says goodbye to the three women and leaves. You really liked him, says Nurit. The bitch is burning up! Carmen says. I confess that I’ve a weakness for men with a good strong handshake, especially when they’re dark and hairy, too. I think you’d like him to squeeze more than your hand, darling, says Carmen. What’s that supposed to mean? She means you’d like to screw him, Nurit translates. I fancy him, for sure, but I can’t. Why not? What do you mean, why not? I studied at the Conservatorio. I’ve been Medea and Lady Macbeth at the Teatro San Martín. I did experimental theatre during the dictatorship! Do you understand? I can’t fuck a Chief of Police… it’s a question of ideology. And since when have you ever let ideology get in the way of sex? Carmen laughs. Since forever. Would you like me to run through a list of all the ideologically incorrect men you’ve laid? Nurit asks. No, I’d much rather forget them. And anyway, in each of those cases I found out afterwards: sex first, ideology later. He seems like a nice guy, though, plus he reads, says Carmen. Didn’t he say he’d read all of Nurit’s books? Don’t push me, girls, I wouldn’t be able to do it with a policemen; I’d freeze up, honestly.

  Twenty minutes later Rodrigo arrives with his friends – five of them in total – and ten minutes after them come the empanadas. Nurit is seasoning the salads and asks Carmen to settle up with the delivery man: Get some money from my wallet, on top of the microwave. The toy poodle comes into the kitchen and makes a beeline for Nurit, rubbing against her legs. Can somebody sort out this animal? she asks, trying to shake the dog off, but Juan, his girlfriend and her sister are basking in the sun like lizards and nobody answers. Returning with the empanadas, Carmen says: Will two dozen be enough for so many hearty appetites? I forgot to call and order more! Is that Alzheimer’s or mental strain? Strain, darling, relax, says Carmen. Nurit picks up the phone and orders four dozen more empanadas. How long? An hour and a half! she wails into the phone. Well, do what you can, she says, and hangs up irritably. Thank God the Crime boy still hasn’t arrived, she says, just as the telephone rings again. Leaving the salad, she answers the phone, listens to the voice at the other end and then says: Yes, let him in.

  13

  Jaime Brena and the Crime boy are waiting in a long queue behind the barrier marked Visitors. Nurit Iscar has authorized their entry, and a guard has already checked the boot to speed up the process and indicated on a map which road to take to the house they’re visiting. But they still need to show their documents and have their photographs taken at the gate. And there are six cars or so in front of them, which means a wait of at least fifteen minutes. The Crime boy’s girlfriend got left behind at the first red light they hit en route to Jaime Brena’s flat. She had wanted to swing by her own home to pick up a bikini, and her boyfriend had told her (and reiterated several times) that it was too late, that people were waiting for them and that they were going to Nurit Iscar’s house for work, not for a pool party. But what am I going to do out there all day while you’re working if I can’t sunbathe? the girl had said as they waited at a junction for the light to turn green. You’re right, the Crime boy said. Then he had got out of the car, walked around to her side, opened the passenger door and helped her out, saying: You’d better not come after all. The girl was astounded. I’ve never been so insulted, she said, as he gave her a hand out. There’s always a first time, he said, then got back into the car and drove off. Jaime Brena wasn’t surprised to see the Crime boy arrive on his own, because he’d never known that the girl was meant to be coming, but he did notice the boy’s tense expression, his furrowed brow and awkward attempt to behave as though nothing were wrong. Is something up? he asked. Bit of a domestic, said the Crime boy, and they didn’t mention the subject again.

  As they travelled along the Pan-American Highway, they talked about football, the newspaper, the voluntary redundancy package that Jaime Brena might take, José de Zer, Karina Vives (Is it just me, or is she hot? Brena asked; the boy appeared bemused, saying only: She’s a pretty girl, but very disagreeable, to which Brena responded, You have to know how to handle her), and also Pedro Chazarreta, Lorenzo Rinaldi and Nurit Iscar. The traffic was heavy that Saturday afternoon, and Brena had to ask the boy to stop slamming on his brakes so close to the car in front unless he wanted him to vomit on the upholstery. They left the Pan-American two bridges before the exit to La Maravillosa and it took them more than one attempt to rejoin the highway and leave by the right one, but final
ly they managed it. To think that there are people who do this journey every day; they must be out of their minds, said the boy. Don’t underestimate them, Brena replied. Membership has its privileges, as American Express would say.

  Finally it’s their turn: documents, photos, registration number, car insurance, boot again – “But you’ve already checked it”, “Ah, my apologies” – and they’re inside La Maravillosa. Jaime Brena immediately recognizes that tree-lined road, the highest branches meeting above it to form a green tunnel through which the midday sun filters. He’s always remembered that green tunnel. Brena lowers the window and unfastens his safety belt, filling his lungs with air. Have you been here before? he asks the boy. No, not to this one, the Crime boy says. I haven’t been here for over a year, but it’s exactly the same as when I came to interview Pedro Chazarreta. Or it looks the same; it’s not really, of course. At that time he was still a suspect in his wife’s death. From the very first question he was trying to manipulate me, trying to turn the interview into a publicity campaign. He was a difficult man: cold, calculating, calm and very intelligent. What do you think happened? the boy asks him. You mean the murder? Yes. I think that he killed her or had her killed; or at least that the guy knew who killed her and why, and that he was the one ultimately responsible for her death. The Crime boy brakes to let some unsteady roller skaters – a woman and her daughter – cross the road in front of them. Do you know what Chazarreta said to the operator when he rang for an ambulance after finding his wife dead? No, says the boy. The call was recorded – I’ve heard the tape. He said: Please come straight away to Lot 23 in La Maravillosa. My wife’s cut her throat and is bleeding everywhere. She got distracted then slipped on a wet floor and smashed into a glass door. Can you believe it? It seems like a very long and complicated sentence for someone supposedly in a state of shock, says the boy. And it’s a sentence calculated to lead the listener to a particular conclusion: that it was all a terrible accident, Brena explains. Besides, unless he actually touched the body – and in his first statements he said that he didn’t until the doctors came – he couldn’t have known that the cut was across her neck because his wife was lying face down. So why was the case against him dismissed? I’ll never be able to understand that. The ruling stated that the evidence was “inconclusive”, but I’d convict him on what I’ve just told you alone. Then again, I’m not a judge.