world, that is no longer mine, that I don’t understand and that becomes daily more radical and dangerous. I will overcome the echoes from voices that pursue me in the night destroying the peace of solitude, and will reach out to the greater good of your forgiveness.
Today, when I decided to write to you and begin my search, I felt that I regained a different attitude of mind, an energy I thought lost, and I devoted almost all day to cleaning your library. It is the first time in months that I have returned to this sacred place in the family memory, because it is too painful, it recalls the happy times in our lives and the lives of the whole family. I have looked again at the books your grandfather bought in his youth, with that passion that made him never hesitate for a second when it was a choice between a book or a pair of shoes; those gathered by your father on the days he worked at the office, in the university, in the period he had political commitments; and above all those that you, driven by the family fervour, bought in every corner of the city and hoarded like treasure, books that aroused so much envy in those privileged to see them. I saw your private collection of books on legal matters and customs regulations and your business magazines and, I can’t deny I felt my heart crushed by the thought that you will perhaps never again touch their leather covers, grainy pages or read the words that meant so much to you. Consequently, when I finished cleaning I reminded your daughter that whatever happens, whoever dies, everything in this sanctuary is absolutely and eternally sacred: not a page may leave, not a single volume put in a different place, so that the day you return – because against all the odds I know it will come – you will be able to walk with your eyes shut to the bookcase of your choice and take out, as was your habit, the book you want. I have arranged for the bookcase doors to be opened once a month, for a few hours and always on a hot day, when no rain threatens, to allow the books to breath and gather strength, as you would say. Once every six months, a cloth and feather duster will pass along the spines and tops of the books, which will never be moved, to avoid the slightest disorder entering your personal order. But above all I wanted these decisions to ensure that if anything should happen to me, that no hand, not even your children’s, can penetrate the most hidden secrets of your life and mine, that from today await you between the pages of these books.
Dear love: I will say farewell for a time. I won’t write until I have news from you or have my hands on the truth. And no matter if that truth, as the voices persecuting me say, is my worst punishment. Because I cannot stand you despising me and blaming me for a crime I have not committed. But rest assured that I will go on loving you as now, even more deeply, ever more longing for you to return…
Your Nena
23 January
Dear Love:
A few days ago I swore not to write again, at least not until I had news from you, or could tell you what we are desperate to know. I was so disappointed by your silence and blinded by my own situation and the accursed voices speaking to me in the night, intent on driving me crazy, that I forgot the importance of this date: happy birthday, my love!
As soon as I remembered your birthday I decided I should celebrate it, even without you. Sadly, because it will be like a party without a host, where I will be privileged to be the main guest, the only one in fact, because your children are ever busier and more remote, swept up in the whirlwind of changes being brought in from day to day. Then I made a mistake, another mistake. Exhilarated by feelings of joy, I went to the library and looked for that cookbook you were so fond of, do you remember?, the one you often used to select the dishes you suggested for our meals at home. As I leafed through, I remembered how you liked ox-tongue in sherry, cod in parsley sauce following Juanito Saizarbitoria’s Basque recipe, those Creolestyle prawns that were so tasty, or the stuffed turkey a la Rosa Maria that in recent years you preferred as the main dish for Christmas Eve dinner (forgetting, naturally, all those jams you thought a Yankee aberration…) How surprised I was as I flicked over a few pages looking for the recipe for your favourite dish (kidneys in red wine) to come face to face with a photo of the dead woman and the news that she had given up singing. Can you imagine what I felt? No, you cannot. Can you imagine how much I hated her, how pleased I was by her death? Yes, I am sure you can, because your silence tells me daily, ever more insistently, you think I provoked her death, though you know I would be unable to contemplate any such thing.
That was when my party ended. My solitary celebrations fell flat and I was strengthened in my conviction that my life will only regain meaning if I succeed in discovering the truth you demand to exonerate me from those unfounded accusations. And I will find a way to that truth, because I love you always,
Your Nena
The smell of recently watered soil, the morning scent of flowers, the blue sky untainted by a single cloud and the mockingbird’s song from a fruit-laden avocado tree represented for Mario Conde extraordinary evidence of life, gifts of nature without which life was impossible. What if one had to pass through this world without the chance to enjoy those simple miracles? – if one awoke each dawn to a magma of ugliness and filth, trapped in quicksands dragging you into theft, violence, the daily sauve-qui-peut and most diverse forms of moral and physical prostitution? And does the mockingbird really trill alike for everyone, the same melody and harmonies? Mario Conde looked at his apparently clean hands, and then back up at the yard, certain that, despite the shortages and frustrations over the years, he could still think himself a fortunate human being, because neither he nor his nearest and dearest had ever been forced to cross the final frontiers of debasement in the struggle to survive.
The aroma of coffee hit home and, anticipating its delicious taste, he lifted a cigarette to his lips, preparing to perform the fusion of those two wonderful sensations so lambasted by medical hype. But the grief and doubt clawing at his brain almost stifled his smile when Pigeon, tray in hand, offered him a china cup threaded with gold.
“Go on then, how’d you get on?” he asked after drinking the infusion and lighting up.
“I started with Pancho Carmona, as always. While I was at it, I sold him fifteen books, at a much better price than we were expecting. I’ll settle with you in a tick.” As promised, Pigeon went on to tell him the results of his investigations which had thrown up a negative, if revealing result: nobody in the old book trade knew of the tall black man, with a lame right foot and an evangelical gift of the gab, who’d appeared in such untimely fashion at the Ferrero’s.
“That man has some features you can’t change,” the Count thought aloud: “he’s tall and black. But lameness can be faked and so can a particular way of speaking.”
“I swear I’d never have thought of that,” Yoyi had to admit.
“So you’re not the brain-box you think you are… And the other thing you can’t change is familiarity or unfamiliarity with the book trade. If that man homed in on six specific books it’s because he’s familiar…”
“Like the blind musicologist… Do you know what Pancho told me? They’re selling the book Rafael Giro chose, the first edition of the book by Borges, dedicated to one Victoria Ocampo, for twenty thousand dollars in a bookshop in Boston… So the item you swapped for that poxy record is worth a fortune… So you’re not the brain-box you think you are either, man.”
“I’ve always said I’ve got a diploma and various postgrad certificates in shit stupidity. And yesterday I got my masters and tomorrow I’m up for my doctorate.”
“Why? What happened?”
With a fresh cigarette between his lips and holding a second cup of coffee, Conde gave his business partner a short report on his walk in the valley of shadows, carefully leaving out his at best dubious escapades and confirmation of his father’s murky loves.
“Didn’t you know what that barrio was like?” smiled Pigeon as soon as he’d finished. “You only scratched the surface. There’s worse underneath. I swear.”
“I can imagine… You know what? I reckon this city is changing too quickly and I’ve lost my grip. Pretty soon I’ll have to start taking a damned map with me… Well, I’m off to Police Headquarters. I want to find out if they’ve got anywhere. We could do with knowing if that mysterious black guy’s fingerprints are on file and they know who he is. I’ll also see if they can help me find something on Lotus Flower. I’ve got to think how to persuade Manolo to give up that information…”
“And what do I do?” enquired Yoyi, stroking the prow of his sternum.
“I’ll ring and let you know whether I get anything on the black guy. If not, do what you did yesterday, but bear in mind the suspect is probably not lame and doesn’t talk like a preacher.”
