Betty Boo Read online

  Meanwhile, after about ten minutes, the party walking through La Maravillosa sees Chazarreta’s house appear around a bend, at the bottom of a cul-de-sac. The property’s boundary is still marked off with that red-and-white barrier tape which, though it has no writing on it, clearly indicates that you’d be an idiot to go further. They aren’t idiots, though; they are empowered by the presence and authority of Comisario Venturini. Before they can go in, however, Venturini has to give even more explanations to the private security guard employed by La Maravillosa than he’s already given to the Buenos Aires police officer on duty, with whom, he says, this visit was arranged two hours earlier. It’s not that the security guard has too much respect for the laws of this great nation to honour the arrangement, but that he’s unswervingly committed to following the orders of his superiors – in this case, the manager and owner of the security firm contracted by La Maravillosa – and his superiors have ordered that nobody must enter the house. And nobody means nobody. So it takes two or three bad-tempered phone calls on the Comisario’s part for the guard to get the necessary authorization from his superiors by walkie-talkie and finally allow them to duck under the police tape. Sorry, but I’m only following orders, says the security guard once more. It’s fine, it’s fine, my dear, says Venturini, and he’s about to cross the tape too, but then turns back to say: Do you know the anecdote about San Martín, the hobnail boots and the powder keg? No, I don’t know it, says the guard. Remind me when I come out, and I’ll tell you it if I have time, my dear, Comisario Venturini promises, and squats down again to pass under the barrier.

  Now they’re walking along the veranda, as Gloria Echagüe supposedly did the evening she died. And they enter the living room by the glass door through which she fell. Comisario Venturini takes out a handkerchief and uses it to turn the handle without leaving new prints. Just in case, he says, with a wink to Brena. In fact, please make sure you don’t touch anything, he says to the others. Even though the forensic work has been completed, everything must stay exactly as we find it, OK? OK, say Brena, Nurit and the Crime boy, in unison. They begin the tour in the living room on the ground floor, the scene of the crime. Around them are expensive wooden fittings, polished to a shine, silver ornaments, glassware, paintings that may not be worth much but are displayed in ornate frames in distressed gold to make them seem old. The decor isn’t what one would expect of a country club, but instead reflects a more traditional, conservative aesthetic, like something you’d find in an apartment in Belgrano or Recoleta. There’s a polished wood and bronze bar with different kinds of drink: gin, mango vodka, whisky – the same label that Chazarreta drank the night of his death – and Baileys; a kilim under the cherrywood dining-room table and another, smaller one under a coffee table made out of the same wood; and two three-seater corner sofas, upholstered in beige velveteen with oversized cushions striped in different shades of green, brown and burgundy. At the side of each sofa stands a little Carrara marble table bearing a bronze-based lamp with a white lampshade. But the group’s inevitable focus is the green velvet armchair (there’s only one) facing the window and stained with blood. The place where Chazarreta met his end in the hours before dawn. Without planning it, Nurit, the Crime boy and Jaime Brena converge in front of the chair at the same time. Nurit is more affected than the men; not because of the blood, or the death it inevitably brings to mind, but because of the literary coincidence. Could Chazarreta have realized, before he died, how closely his final scene resembled the one in that Julio Cortázar story, “The Continuity of Parks”? she asks and, without waiting for an answer, continues: Chazarreta wasn’t reading when he was murdered, but perhaps while he was sitting there drinking his whisky he was thinking of a crime, like the character in that story. He was imagining an intruder breaking into a house and cutting somebody’s throat and finally, seconds before he died, he realized that it was going to happen to him, that somebody would come up behind him and cut his throat. But would Chazarreta have read Cortázar? Brena asks her, while the Crime boy takes pictures of the armchair and then types “Continuity of Parks + Cortázar” into his BlackBerry and runs an Internet search. I believe in fate, and that the scene could still have happened even if he’d never read Cortázar. Anyway, he probably did read him, at secondary school, Nurit goes on; we all read Cortázar at secondary school. Then she thinks for a few seconds and a chain of thoughts prompted by free association makes her ask: Which secondary school would Chazarreta have gone to? Jaime Brena says: It never crossed my mind to find that out. Would knowing make a difference? I don’t think so, she says. Yet for some reason you thought of it, he says. Curiosity, no doubt, Nurit says. Or fate, says Brena: You just said you believe in fate, and thought works along the same lines. Nurit Iscar looks at the boy and says: Did you read Cortázar in secondary school? And the boy says: Yes, deliberately avoiding Brena’s gaze because he knows that his colleague from El Tribuno will identify this as a lie. Or a half-truth, at any rate, because he has in fact read Cortázar, but only “House Taken Over”, which is less than two hundred words long. And if he’s ever read anything to do with a green velvet armchair and the continuity of parks, he can’t remember it. The text of the story appears in the list of results his Google search returns, but it doesn’t seem quite right to start reading it now in front of everyone and on such a small screen. Comisario Venturini walks over to them and suggests they continue the tour around the rest of the house. First they go to the kitchen, impeccably appointed, with white tiles, a brick-coloured floor and a black marble-topped island in the middle over which hangs a variety of pots and pans in different shapes and sizes, none of which appear to have been used more than once or twice. The boy goes over to them and swings some of the stainless-steel utensils: a ladle first, then a slotted spoon. No touching, I said, chides Venturini, and the boy quickly pulls his hand away. The appliances are the same as you might find in any house in La Maravillosa: a double-door fridge freezer, microwave, Nespresso coffee maker, waffle maker, electric hob and oven. How strange to have a washing machine in the kitchen, Brena says. It’s a dishwasher, Nurit corrects him. Oh, I could definitely do with one of those, Brena says. What you could do with is a wife, not a dishwasher, my dear, says Venturini with a laugh. That’s what I think, too, ventures the boy. Nurit, of course, doesn’t appreciate the comparison: Well, how flattering to know that you put women and dishwashers on a par with each other. The three men exchange glances, and nothing more is said about the respective merits of wives and dishwashers. Not even as a joke. Second stop is the utility room, which is almost as immaculate as the kitchen. An industrial washing machine that must have far exceeded the household’s needs, even when Chazarreta’s wife was still alive. A dryer. Two sinks. Above one of the sinks there’s a metal sign, like a small street sign, that says No bleach to be used in this area. Shelves. And through the window, clothes lines hidden behind a fence as per the regulations of La Maravillosa. Barbecue area, swimming pool, storeroom. They continue to the first floor. At the top of the stairs is a chill-out area with an LCD television, DVD, sound system and squashier, friendlier armchairs than the ones downstairs. A small bathroom. And then a corridor with two rooms leading off it: a study and a guest room (presumably the Chazarretas had found new uses for rooms they had once hoped would be filled by children, Nurit thinks). Finally the master bedroom suite: a severely ordered room and obviously one that is – or was, until recently – occupied by a man. You can tell from the dark scheme of the bedspread, the articles of perfumery in the bathroom, the lifted lavatory seat. Nurit wonders if the room would have been like this when Gloria Echagüe was still alive, but she doesn’t raise the question with her male companions. Would Echagüe have allowed such masculine domination of this shared room? Did she give in to it? Or is this decor the product of the change wrought in Chazarreta by widowhood? They leave the room and walk back down the corridor. In the guest room there are two single beds, two bedside tables, a wardrobe, a TV set (much smaller than the one on the
landing, but also LCD), a rocking chair and a chest of drawers. And in the room that Chazarreta used as a study there is a big table, and on top of it: a computer, a printer, a tray (presumably for papers still to be dealt with), a few outstanding bills, and a diary. Two chairs, one on either side of the table, an old globe, and a small bookcase in which the few shelves are divided equally between books and ornaments. The ornaments look like souvenirs from foreign trips: Peruvian earthenware; three gold metal pillboxes in different sizes with black drawings typical of Toledo on them; glass miniatures from Murano; some stones and shells. The books are novels by bestselling foreign authors (Sidney Sheldon, Irving Wallace, Wilbur Smith); investigative works on current affairs, written by journalists, ex-civil servants, politicians and economists; and a few blue-leatherette-bound classics of national and world literature from a series that was produced in association with the newspaper La Nación: One Hundred Years of Solitude, The Leopard, The Inverted Cross, The Tunnel. On his BlackBerry, the Crime boy takes photographs of the books, first all together, then close up, or in groupings that allow the titles to be read. He takes a few more random shots and, by the time he’s finished, realizes that Jaime Brena and Nurit Iscar are no longer standing behind him waiting but have moved to the window, where there’s a side table crammed with framed photographs. Chazarreta and Gloria Echagüe; Gloria Echagüe alone; the two of them with other couples; Chazarreta receiving a golf trophy with a partner; Gloria Echagüe in a tennis tournament; Gloria Echagüe and two children; those same two children but older this time, standing with a couple who may have been her parents; Gloria Echagüe with a group of friends in a picture taken years ago, perhaps at the time of their school graduation trip because the Andean background scenery looks like Bariloche. The boy watches them; they have their backs to him and are standing still, without talking. He isn’t sure whether it’s a pleasing or unsettling scene, but he takes a photograph of it: their backs in front of a table full of photographs next to the window. Brena hears the camera click behind him and turns around. Come here, kid: get a photo of this. The boy comes closer and Nurit moves aside to make room for him. Of all the pictures or one in particular? All of them, says Nurit. Everything, agrees Brena. But when the boy steps forward ready to take it, his position suggests that he’s about to leave one photograph out of the composition. The frame on the end, too, says Nurit. Yes, kid, don’t leave that one out, Brena agrees. Even though there’s no photo in it? he asks. Even though there’s no photo, Brena confirms. The boy steps back to alter the focus, then takes a shot incorporating the frame which has glass edges and backing, but contains nothing.

  Then without saying a word the three of them leave the study, and the tour is over. Comisario Venturini is waiting for them in the garden, having left earlier to smoke a cigarette. The guard is talking to a Maravillosa neighbour. This man, dressed from cap to trainers in Nike sports apparel, intently observes the party emerging from the house, making no effort to disguise his interest. But he leaves before they have all ducked back under the police tape, slapping the guard on the shoulder as he goes. A few yards further on he pauses to do some stretches. See you later, dear, says Comisario Venturini to the guard. Aren’t you going to tell me that story about San Martín and the soldier? the guard asks. Ah yes, I’ll tell you, but it’ll have to be a short version because I’m a bit pressed for time: the soldier had to guard the powder-keg, and it was San Martín’s order that nobody go in wearing hobnail boots, because they could cause sparks, see? Spark plus gunpowder equals explosion, right? But that night San Martín himself came along in his boots, wanting to go into the store, and the soldier wouldn’t let him no matter how much he insisted and pulled rank. What do you make of that? The guard says nothing. Would you have done the same? The guard hesitates. Do you know what San Martín did the next day? He decorated the soldier, that’s what he did. See? He gave him a medal. So – was that a good anecdote? Yes, yes, says the guard, thank you. As he turns to leave Comisario Venturini says: It was another age, dear, another age. That’s the lesson: that times have changed. Then he raises his hand to say goodbye and hurries to catch up with the rest of the group. But now it’s Nurit’s turn to stop and walk back to the guard. Who’s that man? she asks, gesturing in the direction of the Nike-clad neighbour, who is still doing his stretches. That’s Luis Collazo, a friend of Chazarreta, says the guard. He comes by the house every day. You can tell he isn’t coping well with what happened. Nurit stares after the man, who seems to sense her gaze and turns around to see her looking at him. Rather than avert her eyes, she keeps looking, trying to match the face with one she knows she’s seen on several other occasions since arriving at La Maravillosa. The man turns away again and clumsily speeds off. He seems like an anxious type, Nurit observes to the guard. Maybe; since Chazarreta was killed things have changed here. Not for everyone; some people carry on as though nothing had happened. For other people life has changed. I understand. Do you mean it’s changed more than when Gloria Echagüe died? Nurit asks. In all honesty yes, says the guard. Nurit hesitates for a moment, studying the house until Jaime Brena comes back looking for her. Another stone in your shoe? he asks. Either that or a real pea; we’ll soon find out, says Nurit Iscar. And they start walking again.

  15

  On the way back to Nurit Iscar’s house, Jaime Brena tells Comisario Venturini about the suspiciously empty photo frame. But Venturini is unmoved: Sounds like hooey, dear. Don’t you have the odd empty photo frame in your house? Neither empty ones nor filled ones: there are no framed photos in my house, Brena replies. Well, I certainly do. There’s been one on my bedside table for three months that I can’t find the right photo for; do you think I’m about to be murdered, too? Nurit thought it was significant as well. Oh, you writers and your fantasies! I’m not a writer, I’m a journalist. Same thing, Brena. No, don’t waste your time chasing red herrings. Stick to writing, since that’s what you do well, and let us do what we know how to do. Unto Caesar what is Caesar’s; right, my dear?

  Comisario Venturini takes his leave and the others go back into the house. Why do you care so much about the empty photo frame? the Crime boy asks when the three of them are sitting in the living room. Because it’s a break in the sequence, says Brena. Because what’s there speaks to us and what isn’t there raises questions for us, says Nurit. We need to know who originally occupied that space, why they ceased to occupy it, and when. Where is that photograph now? Who took it? She isn’t expecting answers to these questions, but the boy tries to find an explanation anyway: There could be a mundane reason; for example, somebody could have given Chazarreta the frame very recently, just a few days before his death, and he hadn’t yet chosen a photo to go in it. It wasn’t new, says Nurit. The glass was scratched on the bottom left-hand corner and the bronze frame had the kind of marks that old metal gets. Besides, it’s identical to the frame which had the picture of Gloria Echagüe and her secondary school friends in it, says Brena. I’d be willing to bet that the relationship between the two frames was also shared by the two images and that the empty one once contained a photograph of Chazarreta and his school friends. The Crime boy takes out his BlackBerry to confirm the descriptions that Nurit Iscar and Jaime Brena are able to make with such confidence, as if they had the collection of frames in front of them now. Also, says Nurit, Chazarreta’s house is the home of an obsessive: the T-shirts are organized by colour, bottles in the bar are ordered from tallest to shortest, the towels are all white, the dishtowels are all tartan. And an obsessive doesn’t put an empty frame on a table intended to display photographs. He keeps it wrapped up in its box until he’s decided what to put in it, Nurit concludes. That frame contained a photograph that, for whatever reason, has been removed, says Brena, and Chazarreta left it there because it speaks, because it’s saying something; otherwise he wouldn’t have kept a frame with scratched glass. The boy says nothing, dazed by so much logical argumentation. I wouldn’t want to leave this area unexplored, no matter what Venturini says,
says Nurit. I’d never forgive myself. I agree with you, Betty Boo, says Brena. Without knocking, Viviana Mansini opens the door and asks: And Comisario Venturini? He’s gone to work, says Jaime Brena. We’re working too, Nurit says meaningfully. What a shame, says Viviana; I’ve made some banana fritters I wanted him to try. Would you all like some? Go on then, says Nurit. Tell Anabella to bring them through with some drinks. Maté? she asks the others. Yes, maté, the Crime boy and Jaime Brena agree.

  Nurit suggests asking Luis Collazo about the missing photograph. She gets his phone number from the gatehouse and calls it, but as soon as she introduces herself – It’s Nurit Iscar, from El Tribuno: we saw each other this afternoon in front of Chazarreta’s house – whoever said “hello” at the other end immediately hangs up and Nurit is left listening to the dialling tone. She tries again: no response. She tries once more: nobody answers. It seems that Collazo isn’t keen to speak to us. Who else might know what photos used to be in the frames of a man who lived on his own? Nurit wonders aloud. Some relative? Some other friend, more sociable than Collazo? From what I know, his relations were few and far-flung, and I doubt Chazarreta would have brought many friends up to his study, says Brena, but we could try asking – if we knew who his friends were, of course. Nobody speaks for a moment, as if they need to let their brains work in silence. The Crime boy stares at the empty frame on the screen of his BlackBerry, looking for clues. Then he gets up and goes over to the window, drawn by the game of football Nurit Iscar’s sons and their friends are just finishing. It’s tempting. His feet itch to get involved. But he’s here to work and learn, even if he does feel like a hindrance some of the time. And in the last few hours this intensive course in crime journalism he’s on has gone from fast to high-speed. The door opens and Anabella brings in the fritters and maté. Do you need anything else? she asks. No, thank you, says Nurit. Don’t forget to let me know if I got them right, the woman says. Oh, did you make these yourself? Nurit asks, unsurprised. Yes, of course, replies Anabella. Who else would have made them? As she’s about to leave the room, the Crime boy stops her. There is one other thing, he says. Do you know the woman who was Chazarreta’s housekeeper when he was murdered? Gladys Varela, says Anabella. That’s her name. It was on the news. Yes, I saw it on the news too, but do you actually know her? Could you find her? I don’t know her very well, but I’ve got her number in my phone. Could you call her, says the boy; call her and tell her that we’re journalists, that we work for El Tribuno and that we’d like to have a quick chat? Nurit and Brena look on, startled by the boy’s shrewd intervention; not because they wouldn’t have thought him capable of it, but because he finally seems to have woken up. I’ll ring her, sure, says Anabella. I’ll go and get my phone from the kitchen and call her. She leaves the room and the boy smiles with satisfaction at his beginner’s luck. Don’t get too big-headed, Brena tells him, but you’re learning. That’s all there is to it: if a person wants to learn, he’ll learn. And the boy, without letting it go to his head, feels good.