The Foreign Girls. Sergio Olguin
Frida gestured towards the garden. “I think she’s gone out to smoke.”
“I need a cigarette too.”
It was hard to see Petra standing in the darkness, far from the lights of the house. She was smoking and looking at the sky. Verónica asked her for a cigarette.
“I love these moonless nights,” Petra said. “Guarda le stelle – they’re like gemstones on a velvet mantle.”
“Maybe. I’m not a big fan of nature.”
“I’m going to show you something that has nothing to do with nature. Concentrate on the sky. Let me see… Look over that way. Where the swimming pool is, above the light coming from that house in the distance. What can you see?”
“In the sky? Stars.”
“Look harder, city girl. There’s a star that’s moving to the right.”
“A moving star? Hang on, yes. A star’s moving!” She almost shouted it. “It’s the first time I’ve seen a shooting star go so slowly.”
“It’s not a shooting star. It’s a satellite. Perhaps one belonging to NASA, or the European Union. Perhaps a spy satellite. But tell me it isn’t poignant to see that little light lost in the immensity of the cosmos.”
“Are there others like that?” 49
“If you stayed out here a while, you’d see several other satellites.”
“I don’t think I’m patient enough.”
“Patience makes us wise.”
“I’m not patient, I’m curious.”
“And curiosity killed the cat. We’d better go back inside – Frida will be getting bored.”
But when they went inside, Frida wasn’t in the living room any more. After another glass of wine each they concluded that she must have gone to bed. Petra cleared their plates from the coffee table and Verónica put away the leftovers. Finally on her own, she poured herself one last glass of wine; she would have preferred whisky, but didn’t have the energy to go and get it. She wondered why Frida had gone to bed without saying anything to them. And also if it had been a coincidence that Petra had gone out to the garden when Frida was stroking her face.
Suddenly there was a blow against the door to the garden, as if someone outside had thrown something at it. Verónica jumped. She waited a few seconds but didn’t hear anything else unusual. Then she got up from the armchair and walked towards the window, holding her glass like a defensive weapon. The outside light was on and she could see nothing out of the ordinary, except for something on the ground. A small animal was lying there. She opened the door and from the doorstep could see it a bit better. It was a mouse or a cavy, or something similar. The animal was dead and streaked with blood, as though it had escaped from a predator. Not a clean escape, though. Had it crashed into the door? Swallowing her fear of rats and similar creatures, she approached the animal, prodding it with the toe of her shoe to make sure it was dead. She crouched down and studied it more closely. The area around the neck was ravaged. The blood was still sticky and 50smelt vile, but Verónica didn’t flinch. One leg seemed to have been yanked out of place, exposing a reddish bone. Without thinking, she put her free hand on the animal’s back. The body was still warm and soft. From the darkness, among the shrubs, came a noise. Verónica quickly stood up and tried to see if anything was there, but she could make nothing out. It must have been whatever predator had caught and killed this rodent. For a second, Verónica imagined the beast was going to launch itself at her. Could it be a puma, a fox, a wild dog? She stood and waited, alert to an attack that never arrived. Then she walked slowly backwards, without taking her eyes off the black denseness beyond the garden. Entering the house, she closed the door, still watching, but the quiet now was absolute. Seen from this distance, the rodent’s body was no longer repulsive. It was a stain, easy to forget. But she had seen it up close. And details are hard to forget.
51
I
They were arguing about the Argentina team: who should and shouldn’t be in it, strategies for playing at home and away, whether the coach should be changed or given another year. He didn’t actually know the two occupants of the front seats, just the one sitting beside him: Martínez. Chancha, or Snorter Martínez. Officer Martínez. Speaking for himself, Three wasn’t very interested in soccer. He preferred horses, poker, the lottery. So he spent the journey looking out at the city, not something he had seen much of in the last few months. He liked seeing how the other drivers gave way to their patrol car. That was the best thing about travelling in a police vehicle. Once they’d had a siren like the ones used by unmarked police cars, but it had attracted too much attention. They had to stop using it on orders of Doctor Zero.
Usually they didn’t take him in the patrol car, but in a van with any other prisoner who needed to go to hospital. This time, though, since he was the only one with a physio appointment, they were taking him by car. For five months now he had been having physiotherapy, as well as kinesiology and pain therapy. He had begun the treatment after they removed the plaster casts for the multiple fractures to his right arm and leg, and when the lacerations and internal injuries ceased to be a risk. The first months had been very hard. 52There was no lessening of the pain, even with painkillers, and his joints were stiff. He felt like a mummy, but without bandages (although he’d had those too, along with the casts, since leaving intensive care). He was much better now. His leg was responding correctly, despite a slight but noticeable limp, and his arm shook a little when he wanted to keep it firm. That didn’t worry him too much, though, because the right arm was the important one. He had never learned how to fire a gun with his left hand.
They arrived at the hospital and, as usual, drove round to the back, to the area reserved for ambulances and employees. The police sitting in the front of the car made some quip about the nurses and he smiled at them. Only two of them got out – he and Officer Martínez, who put a coat over his hands to hide the cuffs from view. Chancha had been accompanying him here for months and knew exactly where to take him. The reports described Three as a model prisoner. His behaviour on these trips had always been exemplary. Other prisoners required an escort of two or three police officers. He was a gentleman by comparison.
They arrived on the second floor and went into the room where Three was scheduled to see the physiotherapist, a female doctor, old, bad-tempered and smelling of cigarettes. It was still early. Their timings were spot on. They had deliberately arrived ten minutes before the appointment. Martínez closed the door so the two of them were alone in the brightly lit, antiseptic hospital room. He removed Three’s handcuffs and gestured for him to open and close his hands to increase blood flow and flexibility.
Calmly, Martínez told him, “You’ve got five minutes. Take the stairs on the left down to the ground floor. Walk out of the main entrance. Don’t rush, or dawdle, or do anything to attract attention. The policeman on duty at the door won’t 53even look at you. Hold your head high but don’t make eye contact with anyone. You might run into some of the doctors who treated you.”
“Chancha, I know what to do.”
Martínez walked out of the room, leaving Three alone. He waited a minute, put on the jacket and left. No sign of police in the corridor. He walked to the staircase that led down to the ground floor. It wouldn’t be the first or last time a prisoner had escaped from a hospital. That’s what the police authorities would say when the judge furiously demanded an explanation. It might not even get that far if the judge was also getting his cut from Doctor Zero, in which case he would simply instruct the clerk of the court to follow the relevant procedures, sending search and arrest warrants to all the country’s branches, which would then make little effort to find him.
He reached the ground floor without a hitch and continued, through a throng of people trying