The She-Devil in the Mirror by Horacio Castellanos Moya Page A

bring the traffic to a
standstill. Of course Olga María and I talked about Yuca. I told her in detail
what had happened; well, I didn’t tell her I let him kiss me, just in case they
started seeing each other again, then I’d be in trouble. When Yuca left for
Houston I called to give her the good news, because she wasn’t taking his calls.
I told her that when Yuca got back and was clean, they could try again. But now
you probably understand how Olga María is—she sounded completely cavalier when
she said she’d never go out with Yuca again, not for anything in the world, for
her that chapter was over and done with, she’d have to be crazy to get involved
with a guy like that. Maybe she was right, my dear, but I felt sorry for Yuca,
because what motivated him to get treatment was the possibility of seeing Olga
María again. That’s what I think, anyway—I can’t believe he did it for Kati’s
sake; he’s not at all interested in her anymore. We’re here, my dear. Look how
beautiful the lawns are, they’re so well-manicured. It feels peaceful, doesn’t
it? This is the best cemetery. They say it belongs to that Arab, Facussé, who
also owns Channel 11; apparently he’s made a fortune off all the dead people,
enough money to buy and run that TV station. Papa hates him. Well, dear, papa
hates all Arabs, I’ve never understood why. It’s something visceral. He says
that before, the Arabs in this country didn’t have a pot to piss in, and that
it’s only thanks to the communists that they now own the country. Papa has his
own opinions about these things, and for him, the Arabs are to blame for a whole
bunch of bad things. Now that I think about it, he’s probably right, because
that Deputy Chief Handal must be an Arab. But this cemetery’s beautiful, isn’t
it? Olga María loved it here. Don Sergio is buried here; they’ll bury her next
to him. It’s going to be impossible to park with all these cars here, and it’s
going to be impossible to get out when it’s over. Look at that section over
there, I’ve never seen it before: this cemetery sure has grown, the Arab must be
drowning in money. I’m going to park over there, under that tree, next to that
arbor, the sun is still pretty strong. Oh, dear, I hope my skirt hasn’t gotten
wrinkled. That’s what I don’t like about this material: it wrinkles too easily.
Don’t bother: the doors lock automatically. My goodness, what a lot of cars.
Come this way. Let’s let the family go first. How beautiful they all look next
to the coffin: Marito, José Carlos, Yuca, and Sergio. The four men who loved her
most. I’d even say she’d be happy to see them all together. Let’s get closer.
Look at Doña Olga, poor thing. What a tragedy, my dear—do you have more Kleenex?
The wretches: how could they have done such a thing. They’ve got no guts. My
darling girls, come here.

3. NOVENA
    I ’M CALLING YOU, MY DEAR, because I didn’t manage to talk to you
about anything during the service. Then my mother started bugging me and I had
to go with her to La Galleria to buy a gift to bring to a tea party tomorrow. I
couldn’t say no. They did a good job on that mall, except for that big old
colonial mansion they left right in the middle; they should have torn it down;
such a crummy old dump surrounded by all those pretty, modern shops. It took
forever; you know how my mother is when she goes shopping: she can never make up
her mind. We got back about fifteen minutes ago. That’s why I didn’t call you
sooner. The service was lovely, wasn’t it, my dear? So many people there, and I
loved what the priest said about the dead: it fits Olga María to a tee. That
thing about pure spirits dedicated to helping others. Beautiful. I like that
priest: he only talks about spiritual things; not even a little bit communist
like