“Oh, I know, I know,” was her only comment. “Such a shame. . . . She’s always thinking about business.”
I arranged to have lunch with Valérie the next day, but she didn’t show up. Later, I learned that shortly after I’d left that night, her father, the retired Colonel Simònides Myrthil, had come home and hacked her and Adeline to death with a machete.
3. ECCENTRICITIES / THE ONLY ANSWER
“Hmmm . . . ,” said Dionisio, and the sound was the only indication that he was thinking, that he was pondering what I’d just told him; his body and face remained, of necessity, rigid. “Strange, very strange. Let’s see: tell me again.”
“I don’t know how to explain it,” I said. In the shadowy tavern, dozens of taciturn zombies drank and talked, occasionally looking at us out of the corners of their eyes. It was obvious that they envied the deferential treatment I received from Dionisio. “There’s nothing to tell, really. They’re eccentricities that I don’t understand. Three months ago—no, four—I moved into the laboratory where they work. Before that, I saw them sporadically, during my supervisory rounds, but now we see each other all the time. If they ever have any questions, they consult me, and I help them. At the mere sight of me preparing the workstation for an experiment, immediately there they are, wanting to help me without even being asked. Sometimes they even argue amongst themselves; each one wants the other two to go away and let her help me alone.”
“Hmmm. . . . Strange. Very strange.”
“You’re telling me? I’ve begun to suspect that they’re simply looking for an excuse not to do their own work, but the truth is that they’re very efficient and they’ve made more progress with their research than anyone else.”
“In other words, it would not be right to fire them.”
“Not in the least.”
“A pity. That would have been a very expeditious solution.”
“Dionisio, please. My wish is not to avert a situation that I don’t understand, but rather to try to understand it.”
“What else can you tell me?”
“Well . . . What do I know? For example, before, they didn’t smell like anything, and now they smell all the time.”
“They smell? What do they smell like? Of decay?”
“No! They do not smell of decay. They smell like—I don’t know—flowers? Perfume. Fragrances.”
“Hmmm. . . . And before they didn’t?”
“No, before they didn’t. Maybe every once in a while, but very rarely. Not like now. Oh, and they also dress differently.”
“In what way?”
“They’re showing more skin. . . . Now they prefer skirts, capri pants, sleeveless blouses. Their hair is perfect, and I never see them tying it up in a rubber band or with a pencil like before. . . . And their faces! They wear a lot more makeup now. All the time, as if they’re on their way to a party.”
“I see. . . . But they’re not going to any party?”
“No. What party would that be? They stay in the lab working all day long. I don’t know if they go out afterwards, but, in any case, they should be getting ready for that later, in the evening, not from the minute they wake up.”
“Yes, that would be the most reasonable way to proceed. The most logical,” said Dionisio. I’d never seen him so disconcerted. “But, what did you tell me about their attitude?”
“That’s the worst part,” I said, draining my glass. “As I told you, the three of them are best friends. But lately I’ve sensed a kind of tension in the air, sudden silences, silly quarrels over any stupid thing, whispered recriminations for things that must have happened a long time ago. It all puts me ill at ease, gives me a pit in my stomach, like vertigo, especially when they’re very close to me, individually or together. I don’t know how to describe it. You know me, so it should suffice to say that I can’t even concentrate on my work.”
“That’s saying a lot,” said Dionisio, and it seemed to me that he opened his eyes in disbelief.
“As I said . . .”
“Perhaps this has already occurred to you, I don’t know, but if your work is being affected, why don’t you move to a different laboratory?”
“I’ve considered that.”
“And?”
“The only answer that I could give you is completely incomprehensible.”
“Tell me.”
“I don’t want to.”
“What? Why don’t you want to tell me?”
“No, no. That’s the answer. I don’t want to. I don’t want to leave. I wouldn’t leave them for anything in the world, Dionisio.”
“Hmmm,” pondered Dionisio. “Strange. . . . Very strange.”
Transcription of the interrogation of Doctor Isadore X. Bellamy Pierre-Louis, conducted by Detectives Jaime Almánzar Soto and Reynolds Rivera Sagardí.
RRS: Good morning, Doctor.
IB: Good morning.
RRS: Come in.
JAS: Please, have a seat.
IB: Thank you.
JAS: Can I get you anything? Coffee? Iced tea?
IB: Iced tea, if you’d be so kind.
JAB: Coming right up.
[Detective Almánzar Soto leaves the interrogation room.]
RRS: I’d like to take advantage of this opportunity to thank you for your cooperation and for the courtesy you extended us over the telephone.
IB: Of course. No need to thank me.
RRS: We know this is a difficult moment for you. Unfortunately, in order to prosecute the individual in custody we must gather all the evidence as soon as possible, all the statements—to be brief, everything we can gather with regard to the case—and turn it over to the public prosecutor’s office so that they can move forward with the legal process. What I’m trying to tell you, Doctor, is that, at the end of the day, our job is the most thankless part of the entire legal machinery.
IB: I understand.
RRS: I hope so. Unfortunately, we didn’t have much luck with Miss Álvarez.
IB: Yes, I know. She’s . . . like that. Please forgive her.
RRS: If you cooperate with us, perhaps I will.
[Detective Almánzar Soto returns to the interrogation room.]
JAS: Here you are.
IB: Thank you.
JAS: Very well, Doctor, as we already told you over the telephone, you are here to give us your testimony with regard to the events that occurred yesterday, the 24th of March, 2009, on the corner of Arzobispo Márquez and Paseo de los Próceres, where Mr. . . .
IB: Yes, please, I know why I’m here.
JAS: Forgive me. Only a formality.
RRS: State your name for the record.
IB: