The She-Devil in the Mirror by Horacio Castellanos Moya

horrible—he started sniveling, can you imagine, a man like that. I don’t
even care to remember it. He mumbled something about wanting me to forgive him,
he couldn’t control himself, it wasn’t his fault, it was that filthy cocaine.
I’d already figured that one out, my dear, that this man was not in his right
mind, being that frantic doesn’t come from drinking whisky. I sat back down and
started caressing his head, I told him not to worry, I was his friend, and he
could trust me completely; he should go ahead and tell me what was going on, I
would help him get Olga María back. Finally, he calmed down a little. I quickly
pulled myself together, straightened out my clothes: I was worried he might call
in one of his bodyguards. Then he started telling me the whole story, just like
that, still kneeling on the floor, his head resting on my lap, like some kind of
naughty child. He told me that with Olga María the same thing had happened, the
same despair, the same evil demon ruining everything, because by the time they’d
met he was already out of his mind, he’d been snorting cocaine every fifteen
minutes, and when Olga María said the same thing I did, that he should take it
easy, slow down, he’d reacted differently, because he’d been wanting her for so
long, because he’d been waiting for her for so many years, there was no way he
could stop himself; and she, as you can imagine, she just tried to get away.
Yuca, the idiot, forced her onto the bed. He said to me, right there, and
pointed to the bedroom where he took her, practically by force, where he ripped
off her clothes. She’s so strong willed, she rejected him, just like I did. But
he didn’t stop, like with me; no, he forced himself on top of her and buried his
face between her legs, totally possessed, frantic, until Olga María had no
choice but to give in, though she was probably disgusted, she must’ve been. Then
it got even worse—that’s what tormented Yuca most of all: because of all the
drugs he took, he couldn’t even get it up. Pathetic, my dear. Can you imagine a
hunk of a man like that, right there for the taking, all your very own, and his
thingy doesn’t even work, all because of his vice!? That’s why all that
desperation, all that anxiety, wanting to eat and eat and eat, because he knew
it didn’t work when he was so high on cocaine. A true tragedy. Then I understood
why Olga María had left so disappointed, why she’d decided not to tell me
anything, and why she totally broke off her relationship with Yuca. She did the
right thing, my dear, there’s no point taking risks with a man like that. But
that first time, after his pathetic performance, Yuca told her he was sorry, he
begged her to forgive him, he didn’t usually act like that or take so many
drugs, he promised her it would never happen again, he wouldn’t be so high the
next time, and that’s why Olga María went to him one more time. But the same
thing happened: the man was high, impotent, anxious, frantic, all in all pretty
pathetic, Like I’m telling you, that’s exactly how Yuca told it to me: he was
kneeling on the floor with his head resting on my lap, he was falling apart,
sobbing. I know, it’s hard to believe. I told him he had only one option: get on
the next plane to the States and check himself into a detox clinic. That was the
only sensible thing to do, the only way he could save his relationship with Olga
María. Yuca took my advice, my dear. I don’t know if I was the only one who
suggested that, but the fact is, three days later, he was on his way to Houston;
the official word from the party was that it was for a routine medical exam.
Finally, we’re moving. I think this is the longest it’s ever taken me to get to
the cemetery. I told you, after the bridge, the street is so narrow you can get
stuck here forever; all it takes is one idiot to