Authors: Carmen Posadas
“I don’t want to thee, I don’t want to be here,” cried Gomez before turning his face toward the wall. That, you see, is why he did not see me reach the ground floor, where I quickly and efficiently made sure that my father would never open his eyes again. It was so easy. A good hand mirror has so many different uses. There we were, in that darkened mansion, my mother upstairs, Gomez facing the wall like an orphaned puppy, his hands still covering his ears, assuming that the inevitable had already occurred. Of course, in point of fact the inevitable occurred just a little later, when nobody was looking. Now, what do you think of that, my dear?
Satisfied with the confession I made to my imaginary sparring partner, I thought that perhaps I might be able to confess it, blow by blow, to the widow I have so closely observed over the past few days, so that she too might see that nothing is quite what it seems. And why not? That way she would learn the story of a real bad girl, straight from the horse’s mouth. A person unlike herself, whom I believe to be innocent of the things Sánchez believes her to be guilty of. Unlike my mother as well, whose only crime was being paralyzed by fear at a terribly tragic moment. No, no—I speak of another bad girl, one who came to life that night in the house at El Prado . . .
You do see who the real “bad girl” is, don’t you, dear? Of course you do. The real “bad girl” is the one who was caught by surprise in a dark bedroom filled with old clothing, lacy things and crinoline petticoats. And now tell me: What do you really think of me?
The blond chain smoker’s curls of smoke laughed no more. I saw quite clearly that I seemed not fabulous but rather quite terrible to her now, because those curls of smoke now called out to me:
How could you, Molinet? How could you have kept that secret for so long? Why didn’t you at least tell your mother, so that she wouldn’t have to live all those years filled with such unnecessary guilt? And what about the gossip she had to endure, all the conjecture about what she might have done? Oh, Mr. Molinet, how could you have hidden your guilt for so long? Didn’t it matter to you that people blamed your mother for his death? People talk so much. They talk and they talk . . .
At this point, I ended my little conversation with my blond friend’s smoke curls. Nobody understands anything—of course they don’t. I suppose it is a good thing I never told this story to anyone, for very few people would understand what she always knew. My mother always knew that it had been another blow, final and definitive, that had killed Bertie Molinet, that a fifteen-year-old child had been responsible for his death. What, then, had Gomez seen? Nothing, obviously. The stunned eyes of Bertie Molinet, however, most definitely saw the mirror with the silver handle rise above his body and the reflection of its glass face bounce off the ceiling, illuminating my mother’s countenance for an instant before it came crashing down upon him in a single, sharp thud. Just one hit. That was enough. Words were unnecessary, for that moment of fleeting light was enough to make Mama realize what had happened. And
I
knew that
she
knew, even though she never allowed us to mention it. Oh, those stupid curls of smoke simply couldn’t understand that there are times in life when it is easier for a person to bear the burden of gossip and suspicion than to admit, even to herself, the far more appalling guilt of a person she loves more than anyone else.
That which is not spoken does not exist, and as such, a secret untold has a way of disappearing in the end. The fact that I killed Bertie was
her
secret, not mine. Can you understand that? I would have preferred, a thousand times over, to have been able to confess my guilt to someone—even to Dr. Pertini, that distinguished London psychiatrist to whom I am grateful for having prescribed me the three vials of sleeping pills which will come very much in handy over the next few days. But foolish Dr. Pertini would never have guessed the truth, and I could never have told him, because one cannot go around divulging other people’s secrets, especially when there is no reason for it. Now, however, things are different. She is dead, and I have since come across a real-life story that is identical to hers. How could I waste the opportunity to set the record straight this time?
“Mr. Moulinex . . .”
. . . Silent for so many years, unable to do a thing as everyone else told lie upon lie.
“Are you listening to me, Mr. Moulinex?”
I would say that this is a most singular circumstance.
“I would say that it is as cold as an icebox out here. This breeze has turned gale-force. Don’t you think we ought to go in?”
I looked at her, I’m afraid, as if she were an extraterrestrial. Bea, the blond clone, remained exactly where she was, which I found extraordinary—so very many ideas had been racing through my head over the past few minutes that I could scarcely believe I was still sitting there facing this woman, listening (so to speak) to the very long-winded story of her life, or her children’s lives, or whoever’s life she was presently concerned about. I turned to her and smiled attentively as she thanked me profusely for my patience and for the time I had devoted to her confidences. Yet another example of how things are
never
what they seem.
“Your advice has been such a help to me,” she said.
Advice? I had barely opened my mouth.
“You are an awfully perceptive person, Mr. Moulinex,” she added.
I really couldn’t understand how on earth she could possibly think I was a perceptive person and not a complete lummox based on the two or three words that I had spoken to her. But we all know, don’t we, that people have a way of confusing things, and of believing a seemingly sympathetic ear to be the sign of great intelligence. Such a typical mistake.
“It has been so wonderful to have been able to share this conversation with you,” she said.
“Likewise,
madame.
You can’t imagine how much it means to me,” I replied with the same attentive airs I had been feigning as she told me her story.
I took her hand and bid her farewell with a few more gallantries: “Good-bye, my darling. You really are a truly lovely young lady.”
Kill Sánchez! That was it, I had to stop him from spreading false suspicion!
“Do take care to cover up,
madame,
it is quite nippy out here.”
Forty! It’s been forty years! I’ll set things straight soon enough.
“Allow me to help you up.”
Mama would have preferred silence. But things are so different now . . .
“My God, Mr. Moulinex. It’s so windy you’ve sprouted tears!”
“Really, dear?”
“Yes—come, come in with me, let’s go back inside.”
Preparations for a Demise
This, I must say, is a terribly sad chapter, for nobody in the world escapes death, and etiquette, which does not shirk its responsibility under any circumstance, must dictate the manner in which grief is to be experienced, or at least demonstrated.
—Baroness Staffe,
Usages du monde
Five Bluebottles
Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three . . . how many sleeping pills must a suicidal man ingest if he wants to be certain of achieving his goal? Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six . . . how many sleeping pills must a murderer administer if he wants to be certain of killing his victim? These are the kinds of highly delicate questions that arise when one finds oneself at the edge of the desert, many miles from civilization. Not a single pharmacy in a fifty-mile radius, no way to increase my supply . . . Forty-seven, forty-eight, and . . . forty-nine pills of a highly effective substance for battling insomnia stared out at me from the inside of three childproof vials sitting on the bedspread.
It was early in the morning on October 22. A day and a half, according to my calculations, before Sánchez and his friends were to return to Madrid. And there I was, measuring pills like a shipwreck victim on a deserted island counting his ration of fresh water. Forty-nine pills to be split between two people: twenty-five to kill Sánchez and the rest for me. Would it be enough? Naturally, I knew that it was in my interest to err on the side of excess, and as such I could not allow myself the luxury of wasting even half a tablet to help me fall asleep that night. Which meant that I would die of exhaustion and a bloody inconvenient case of insomnia as well.
It must have been around four-thirty in the morning. Gomez slept peacefully next to my bed, as he always seemed to do whenever I was assaulted by my most troubling thoughts. Ungrateful mutt. His ears, flapping out like soft wings on either side of his head, always made me so maddeningly jealous, for they were so innocent, so oblivious to everything around him—completely oblivious, no doubt, to the plots I had been hatching over the past twenty-four hours.
I have spent those hours planning the murder. And, believe me, it is not easy to figure out the proper way to finish off an individual at a hotel like L’Hirondelle d’Or. I suppose I have already mentioned that the location comprises a large redbrick building that is quite grandiose but, unfortunately, free of any masonry detailing. The facade of this stout building is extremely smooth, with scarcely more than one or two plants in the immediate vicinity. As such, I had to rule out all the classic accidents, like a calamitous fall from a dizzying height, such a simple method for eliminating an undesirable subject. Even the idea of bopping the victim on the head with a blunt object launched from a nearby window did not seem terrifically promising: First I would have to locate an object heavy enough for my purposes—an alabaster vase, or else a hefty chunk of molding, neither of which was available. And second, my firing skills would have to be similar to those of William Tell, so I need not bother going into the futility of that idea. The one and only thing I have in common with such a skillful hero is that I, too, despise apples.
Given that I do not particularly favor unnecessary violence, I also had to eliminate the more, shall we say, dirty instruments of murder, such as large butcher’s knives or certain gardening tools . . . although I must admit that I was tempted by a scythe I found resting against the garden wall—but only for a few moments. The inspiration owed more to allegorical reasons (e.g., the Grim Reaper) than practical ones.
Speaking of practicality, I should clarify that I was not hindered by any of the factors that typical assassins, at least those with a bit of foresight, generally must take into consideration. For example, I had no need to contemplate logistical issues such as: Will they find out it was me?, Will I be able to make my escape?, and Will they throw me in jail? Given the circumstances, I did not have to waste a single minute on these concerns, but on the other hand there were certain aesthetic issues to consider. And murder, like everything else in life, should be carried out according to a plan that is, if not elegant, at the very least imaginative. I had to find a way to dispose of Sánchez that was slightly more elegant than administering an overdose of sleeping pills. But I couldn’t come up with a single idea, not even after an entire day of strategizing. The hours went by, the sky darkened, and the day dwindled away, as did my hopes of finding a solution. It seemed that sleeping pills were my only choice. How many would I need to send the two of us—him first, then me—to the land of eternal rest? Movies never seem to explain the means of suicide in proper detail, and a good explanation certainly would have come in handy right then. Would a half dozen pills do the trick? I had no idea. If so, I could easily reward myself with half a tablet that night. But no. I couldn’t take such a risk, given the delicate matter at hand: When you decide to commit an act of this nature, you have to keep as many odds as possible on your side. No exceptions. For that reason, at 4
A.M.
on the morning of October 22, I found myself sitting in my room at L’Hirondelle as wide awake as an owl, with three vials of sleeping pills on my bedspread.
The night sky was clear, and the moon illuminated the broad land that spilled out before my eyes. I couldn’t quite see the mud baths, which were set in a very deep hollow, but I was able to see the left-hand side of the garden. The light was so abundant and crisp that had my lazy fingers been willing to reach for my eyeglasses, I surely would have been able to see the winter pool and even the surface of the water. The winter pool of L’Hirondelle d’Or, extravagant hotel that it is, is always illuminated at night for the visual appreciation of the guests.
What a peaceful evening,
I thought.
So utterly uneventful.
As uneventful as the past twenty-four hours I had spent performing my logistical research. In fact, the only fruitful moment of the day had been at breakfast, when I observed the various characters I had been spying on with renewed interest. An interest that was scientific, you might say, and somewhat capricious, not unlike the intense fascination of a little boy studying a handful of bluebottle flies he has trapped in a glass jar. There they are, five or six in all, and the little boy gazes at them through the glass jar, observing their every move. Picture, if you will, one of the flies trying to take flight inside the jar. “Silly,” the little boy says, smiling. “Soon you won’t have any wings at all.” And he slides a finger into the jar, scaring the fly, which tries to flutter its wings ever so briefly. He spots another fly cowering in a corner, and he watches it, pressing his face against the jar and declaring: “Don’t worry, little one, you’ll make it out, because I like that little spot on your right wing.” It is all so very arbitrary, so deliciously . . . divine. Yes, that is what it is: divine, in the most literal sense of the word.
Now that sleep was out of the question, I decided to mentally replay the early hours of the day. I had walked downstairs to breakfast very early, just before eight-thirty. Breakfast is a splendid time for observation, for people are truly themselves at such an early hour. Our social façades are generally not in place at breakfast time. As such, the stupefied, unrecognizable faces reflecting back at us through our morning tea or coffee are often the very mirror of our souls.