“It’s easy to see that you had a lot of love for her, Madama,” Becerrita grunted.
“When she was Bermúdez’ mistress she looked down on everybody.” Ivonne sighed. “She wouldn’t even let me come to her house. That’s why nobody helped her when she lost everything. And it was her own fault that she lost it. Drink and drugs.”
“You’re delighted she was knocked off.” Becerrita smiled. “Nice
feelings
, Madama.”
“When I read the papers I felt bad, crimes like that always make me feel bad,” Ivonne said. “Especially the pictures, seeing the way she was living. If you want to say that she worked here I’d be delighted. Good publicity for the place.”
“You feel so very confident, Madama,” Becerrita said with a faded smile. “You must have found a protector as good as Cayo Bermúdez.”
“Gossip. Bermúdez never had anything to do with this house,” Ivonne said. “He was a customer like anyone else.”
“Let’s get back onto the pot, we’re crapping on the ground,” Becerrita said. “She didn’t work here, O.K. Call the girl she lived with. She can give us some information and I’ll leave you alone.”
“The girl she lived with?” Her whole expression changed, Carlitos, she lost control completely, she got livid. “One of my girls living with her?”
“Oh, the police haven’t found out yet.” Becerrita scratched his little mustache and ran his tongue over his lips avidly. “But they’re going to find out sooner or later and they’ll come to question you and a certain Queta. You’d better be ready, Madama.”
“With Queta?” Her whole world had collapsed, Carlitos. “What are you saying, Becerrita?”
“They change their names every day and people always get them mixed up, which one is she?” Becerrita murmured. “Don’t worry, we’re not the police. Call her. All we want is a quiet, confidential chat.”
“Who told you that Queta was living with her?” Ivonne babbled: she was making an effort to recover her smile, her naturalness.
“I do trust you, Madama, I am your friend,” Becerrita whispered with an open tone. “Paqueta told us.”
“The worst kind of a whore’s daughter who ever bore a whore.” At first a wiggy old dame with the airs of a great lady, Carlitos, then a frightened old lady, and, when she heard Paqueta’s name, a panther. “The kind that grew up gargling on her mother’s menstrual blood.”
“I do enjoy that mouth of yours, Madama.” Becerrita put his arm around her shoulder, happy. “We’ll avenge you, in tomorrow’s article we’ll say that the Montmartre is the joint with the worst reputation in Lima.”
“Can’t you see that she’ll be ruined?” Ivonne said, grasping Becerrita’s knee, squeezing it. “Can’t you see that the police will bring her in for questioning?”
“Did she see something?” Becerrita asked, lowering his voice. “Does she know something?”
“Of course not, she just doesn’t want to get into any trouble,” Ivonne said. “You’ll get her all messed up. Why would you want to do a bad thing like that?”
“I don’t want anything to happen to her, just for her to tell me a few intimate details about the Muse,” Becerrita said. “We won’t say that they lived together, we won’t use her name. Do you trust my word or not?”
“Of course not,” Ivonne said. “You’re another bastard just like Paqueta.”
“That’s the way I like you, Madama.” Becerrita looked at Santiago and Periquito with a furtive smile. “The way you really are.”
“Queta’s a good girl, Becerrita,” Ivonne said in a faint voice. “Don’t torpedo her. It could be bad for you, besides. She’s got a lot of good friends, I warn you.”
“Just call her and cut out the dramatics.” Becerrita smiled. “I swear to you that nothing’s going to happen to her.”
“Do you think she feels like coming to work after what happened to her friend?” Ivonne asked.
“All right, get hold of her and set up a date for me with her,” Becerrita said. “I just want a few facts. If she doesn’t want to talk to me, I’ll print her name on the front page and she’ll have to talk to the detectives.”
“Do you swear that if I can arrange for you to see Queta you won’t mention her at all?” Ivonne asked.
Becerrita nodded. His face was slowly filling up with satisfaction, his little eyes were gleaming. He stood up, went over to the table, with a determined gesture he picked up Santiago’s glass and emptied it in a swallow. A rim of foam whitened his mouth.
“I swear to you, Madama, get hold of her and call me,” he said solemnly. “You’ve got my number.”
“Do you think she’s going to call you, Mr. Becerra?” Periquito asked in the van. “I’ll bet she tells that Queta that the people from
La
Crónica
know that you were living with the Muse, get lost.”
“But which one is Queta?” Arispe asked. “We must know her,
Becerrita
.”
“She must be one of the exclusive ones who work at home,” Becerrita said. “Maybe we do know her, but under a different name.”
“That woman’s worth her weight in gold, my good sir,” Arispe said. “You’ve got to find her, even if you have to turn over every stone in Lima.”
“Didn’t I tell you that Madama would call me?” Becerrita looked at them without vanity, mockingly. “Tonight at seven. Let me have the whole centerfold, boss.”
“Come in, come in,” Robertito said. “Yes, in the parlor. Have a seat.”
In that way, with the light of dusk coming through the single window, the small parlor had lost its mystery and enchantment. The worn
upholstery
of the furniture, he thinks, the faded wallpaper, the cigarette burns and rips in the carpet. The girl in the paintings had no features, the swans were misshapen.
“Hello, Becerrita.” Ivonne didn’t kiss him, didn’t shake hands. “I promised Queta that you’re going to do what you promised. Why did you bring these people with you?”
“Have Robertito bring us some beers,” Becerrita said without getting up out of his chair, without looking at the woman who’d come in with Ivonne. “I’ll pay for these, Madama.”
“Tall, beautiful legs, a mulatto girl with reddish hair,” Santiago said. “I’d never seen her at Ivonne’s, Carlitos.”
“Sit down,” Becerrita said with the air of the master of the house. “Aren’t you people going to have something to drink?”
Robertito filled the glasses with beer, his hands trembled as he handed them to Becerrita, Periquito and Santiago, his lashes blinked rapidly, his look was frightened. He almost ran out, closing the door behind him. Queta sat down on a sofa, serious, not frightened, he thinks, and Ivonne’s eyes were burning.
“Yes, you’re one of the exclusive ones, because you’re not seen much around here,” Becerrita said, taking a sip of beer. “Do you only work outside, with special customers?”
“It’s no business of yours where I work,” Queta said. “And who gave you permission to use the familiar form with me?”
“Take it easy, don’t carry on so,” Ivonne said. “He’s someone we can trust and that’s all. He’s only going to ask you a few questions.”
“You couldn’t be my client even if you wanted to, be happy with that,” Queta said. “You’ll never have enough money to pay what I charge.”
“I’m not a client anymore, I’ve retired,” Becerrita said with a mocking smile and wiped his mustache. “How long did you live with the Muse in Jesús María?”
“I didn’t live with her, that’s one of that bitch’s lies,” Queta shouted, but Ivonne took her arm and she lowered her voice. “You’re not going to get me mixed up in this. I warn you that …”
“We’re not cops, we’re reporters,” Becerrita said with a friendly
expression
. “It’s not about you, it’s about the Muse. You tell us what you know about her and we’ll go away and forget all about you. There’s no reason to get mad, Queta.”
“Why the threats, then?” Queta shouted. “Why did you come and tell this lady you’d tell the police? Do you think I’ve got anything to hide?”
“If you haven’t got anything to hide, there’s no reason to be afraid of the police,” Becerrita said and took another sip of beer. “I’ve come here as a friend, to have a little chat. There’s no reason to get mad.”
“He’s a man of his word, he’ll do what he says, Queta,” Ivonne said. “He won’t use your name. Answer his questions.”
“All right, ma’am, I know,” Queta said. “What are the questions?”
“This is a conversation among friends,” Becerrita said. “I’m a man of my word, Queta. How long did you live with the Muse?”
“I didn’t live with her.” She was making an effort to control herself, Carlitos, she was trying not to look at Becerrita, when her eyes met his her voice fell apart. “We were friends, sometimes I slept over at her place. She moved to Jesús María, it must have been a little over a year ago.”
“Did he mount an attack and break her?” Carlitos asked. “That’s Becerrita’s method. Break down the patient’s nerves so they let
everything
out. It’s the method of a detective, not a reporter.”
Santiago and Periquito hadn’t touched their beer: they were following the conversation from the edge of their seats, silent. He’d broken her, Zavalita, now she was answering everything. Her voice was rising and falling, he thinks, Ivonne was patting her arm, giving her courage. The poor thing was in bad shape, very bad shape, especially when she lost her job at the Montmartre, especially because Paqueta had been so bitchy with her. She’d thrown her out knowing that she’d starve to death, the poor thing. She’d had her affairs, but she couldn’t get a lover anymore, someone who would give her something every month and pay her rent. And all of a sudden she began to cry, Carlitos, not because of Becerrita’s questions, but over the Muse. Or maybe loyalty did still exist, at least among a few whores, Zavalita.
“The poor thing must have been completely ruined then.” Becerrita grew sad, his hand on his mustache, his sparkling eyes focused on Queta. “From drinking, from snuffing coke, I mean.”
“Are you going to put that in too?” Queta sobbed. “On top of the horrors they’re printing about her every day, that too?”
“That she was in bad shape, that she was half a whore, that she drank and screwed around, everything the newspapers have said,” Becerrita sighed. “We’re the only ones who have stressed her good side. That she was a famous singer, that she was elected Queen of the Nightclubs, that she was one of the most beautiful women in Lima.”
“Instead of digging into her life so much, you ought to be worrying about who killed her, who had her killed,” Queta sobbed and covered her face with her hands. “They don’t talk about them, they don’t dare.”
At that moment, Zavalita? He thinks: yes, there. Ivonne’s petrified face, he thinks, the suspicion and upset in her eyes, Becerrita’s fingers immobilized on his mustache, Periquito’s elbow on your hip, Zavalita, alerting you. The four had remained silent, looking at Queta, who was sobbing strongly. He thinks: Becerrita’s little eyes perforating the red hair, all aflame.
“I’m not afraid, I print anything, the paper can take anything,”
Becerrita
finally whispered softly. “If you dare, I dare. Who was it? Who do you think it was?”
“If you’re dumb enough to get mixed up in something, that’s your lookout.” Ivonne’s frightened face, Carlitos, her terror, the shout she gave. “If those dumb things you’re thinking about, if that dumb thing you’ve invented …”
“You don’t understand, Madama.” The small, almost weepy voice of Becerrita, Carlitos. “She doesn’t want the death of her friend to stay just like that, nowhere. If Queta dares, I dare. Who do you think it was, Queta?”
“They’re not dumb things, you know I’m not making it up, ma’am,” Queta sobbed, and she lifted her head and let it out, Carlitos: “You know that Cayo Shithead’s strong-arm man killed her.”
All pores sweating, he thinks, all bones creaking. Not missing the smallest gesture, not a syllable, not moving, not breathing, and at the entrance to his stomach the little worm growing, the snake, the knives, just like that time, he thinks, worse than that time. Oh, Zavalita.
“Are you going to cry now?” Ambrosio asks. “Don’t have anything more to drink, son.”
“If you want me to, I’ll publish it, if you want, I’ll tell it just the way it is, if you don’t want me to, I won’t put anything in,” Becerrita said. “Is Cayo Shithead Cayo Bermúdez? Are you sure he ordered her killed? That bastard’s living a long way off from Peru, Queta.”
There was the face deformed by weeping, Zavalita, the eyes swollen and red, the mouth twisted with anguish, there were the head and hands denying: not Bermúdez.
“What killer?” Becerrita insisted. “Did you see him, were you there?”
“Queta was in Huacachina,” Ivonne interrupted, threatening him with her forefinger. “With a senator, if you want to know who with.”
“I hadn’t seen Hortensia for three days,” Queta sobbed. “I found out about it in the papers. But I know, I’m not lying.”
“Where did the strong-arm man come from?” Becerrita repeated, his little eyes fastened on Queta, pacifying Ivonne with an impatient hand. “I won’t publish anything, Madama, only what Queta wants me to say. If she doesn’t dare, naturally, I won’t either.”
“Hortensia knew lots of things about a certain moneybags, she was starving to death, she just wanted to get away from here,” Queta sobbed. “It wasn’t out of meanness, it was just to get away and start all over again, where nobody knew her. She was already half dead when she was killed. From the awful way that swine Bermúdez behaved, from the awful way everybody behaved when they saw her down.”
“She was getting money out of him and the guy had her killed so she wouldn’t blackmail him anymore,” Becerrita recited softly. “Who is the guy who hired the killer?”
“He didn’t hire him, he must have talked to him,” Queta said, looking into Becerrita’s eyes. “He must have talked to him and convinced him. He had him under his power, he was like his slave. He could do whatever he wanted with him.”
“I dare, I’ll print it,” Becerrita repeated, in a low voice. “What the hell, I believe you, Queta.”
“Gold Ball had her killed,” Queta said. “The killer was his pratboy. His name is Ambrosio.”
“Gold Ball?” He leaped to his feet, Carlitos, blinking, he looked at Periquito, at me, he regretted it and looked at Queta, at the floor, and repeated, like an idiot: “Gold Ball? Gold Ball?”