Crocodile Tears - Mercedes Rosende - E-Book

Crocodile Tears E-Book

Mercedes Rosende

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Beschreibung

The setting: Montevideo's Old Town, with its dark alleys, crumbling facades and watchful residents. The gig: an armoured truck robbery. The cast: Diego, a failed kidnapper with weak nerves, Ursula Lopez, an amateur criminal with an insatiable appetite, the Hobo, a notorious hoodlum with excessive self-confidence. Dr. Antinucci, a shady lawyer with big plans. And finally, Leonilda Lima, a washed out police inspector with a glimmer of faith in justice.

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CROCODILE TEARS

Mercedes Rosende

Translated by Tim Gutteridge

 5

Abracadabra Offering

Oh gloomy rose exuding musk

and seer of Libyan reveilles,

to Gonk-Gonk you offered warm entrails

and hearts of panthers dark as dusk.

You called forth spirits of the rains

and sang of dead debaucheries

’mid tepid bones and mortuaries

and captive fair-haired damsels’ manes.

Thunder roared. To dying spates

of fire and blood in mystic hush

the addled idols did abate…

The rain fell sharp in crackling files

and in the distance softly sighed

the languid tears of crocodiles.

julio herrera y reissig (1875 – 1910)

Contents

TITLE PAGEPART ONEIIIIIIIVVVIVIIVIIIIXXXIXIIXIIIXIVXVXVIXVIIXVIIIXIXXXXXIXXIIXXIIIXXIVXXVXXVIPART TWO9.23 a.m.9.28 a.m.9.29 a.m.9.31 a.m.9.35 a.m.9.40 a.m.9.42 a.m.9.43 a.m.10.15 a.m.10.25 a.m.10.35 a.m.10.40 a.m.10.44 a.m.10.48 a.m.PART THREEDADDYURSULALEONILDAABOUT THE AUTHORCOPYRIGHT
7

PART ONE

9

I

The women arrive, tired from their early start, the journey, the queue. Leaving the humiliation of the police search behind them, they enter and look to either side and then at each other with an air of futile defiance, of bewilderment and poverty, of hatred. In the visiting shed, plastic tables and chairs have been set out in groups and the visitors break these up and reorganize them, dragging chairs to and fro, lifting and dropping them with a clatter. The shed is big, some fifty yards by twenty, with a corrugated iron roof that leaks at the slightest hint of rain, a bare floor, walls scrawled with names and prayers and songs, daubed with drawings of hearts and crucifixes and genitals. The only window looks onto a cement yard and a dirty grey sky: there seems to be no horizon between the two. The bathrooms are on the north side. The door of the men’s cubicle has come off its hinges and is propped against the frame, barely concealing half the toilet bowl. There is a dense odour in the air.

A policeman stands at the door, picking his teeth, spitting out pieces of wood or bits of food.

Diego, waiting for his lawyer, has taken a seat as far as possible from the other prisoners, in a gloomy isolated corner. 10He’s wearing faded blue overalls, his stubble is flecked with grey, his fists are clenched. His throat is tight.

The women open old ice-cream tubs filled with cold pasta stew, tough breaded cutlets and polenta with meat sauce; they bring out bananas, packets of yerba mate and tobacco, lemons and mandarins, soft-drink sachets. From outside comes a dry repetitive sound, a ball bouncing against a hard floor, while inside the voices grow, the volume and pitch rising. The world is a little worse in this place, Diego thinks.

That man walking down the corridor, with his hair combed and slicked with gel, a burgundy tie and Ray-Ban glasses, that is Antinucci. The small scar above his right eyebrow, halfway between his nose and his hairline, looks as if it was made by a fist, although it must have happened a long time ago because the skin is tight and shiny around the mark. Although he isn’t ugly or old, that’s the impression he gives; it’s hard to say why. His eyes are his most noticeable feature, large, bulging, pale grey and with fleshy lids. Sometimes they become smaller, flattening, narrowing until they are just two lines. Right now they are hidden behind the Ray-Bans, very dark in this half-light. He carries a briefcase that the guards don’t check. Ever.

“In you go, sir.”

“Thanks, boys.”

Diego hears loud decisive steps, heels clicking along the corridor. He looks up and sees Antinucci approaching. It’s as if a military march is playing inside the man’s head. Antinucci greets Diego with a martial nod, and Diego observes the hand moving forward with a precise movement, like a switchblade. The lawyer takes Diego’s hand slackly; the contact is flaccid and cold, a jellyfish that passes, touches and then goes on its way. Antinucci places his chair so he is 11sitting directly opposite Diego. He sits down and opens the leather case, takes out a folder, also leather, which he places neatly on the table. He opens it and extracts a few sheets of paper. The cartapacio, thinks Diego, as he recognizes the worn dark leather spine that he has already seen before, on another visit; the lawyer guards this folder the way he guards his own life, or the way he thinks he should guard his own life. The object makes Diego shiver. Who knows why? The lawyer’s Ray-Bans erect a barrier between the two men. Diego has no way of knowing where the eyes behind the lenses are focused. He doesn’t know if the eyes are looking at him or are attending to the precise ritual of laying out each individual sheet of paper, a pencil and a couple of ballpoints, blue and red, a mobile phone, an eraser – and a watch that he removes from his wrist and places behind everything else, propped up so it is facing him. Diego prefers to believe that the lawyer is not looking at him and he, in turn, avoids looking at the glasses; he avoids them the way somebody avoids a revelation he knows he will, ultimately, have to hear.

Antinucci places the case on the floor, upright, perfectly parallel to the chair; he crosses his legs, takes a mint from his pocket and slowly removes the wrapper, pops the sweet into his mouth and folds the wrapper four times.

“You’re a patsy,” says Antinucci, and he pronounces the word slowly as if savouring the way it sounds.

Without looking away, he puts the folded wrapper in a plastic bag, which he puts in his pocket; he takes out a pack of cigarettes and an expensive lighter; he lights a cigarette, takes a couple of drags and blows the smoke in Diego’s direction. The laws that forbid smoking in public spaces haven’t reached Guantánamo Bay or the jails of Istanbul. And they 12haven’t reached the prisons of Uruguay either. Silence settles between them, thrumming like an old engine. Diego would like to speak but the words trip each other up and refuse to come out of his throat. He looks at the policeman standing at the door, picking his teeth, spitting out splinters of wood or shreds of food or both.

“And Sergio, your partner in Santiago Losada’s kidnapping, is living it up somewhere in the world with the cash he got from his victim.”

He taps the ash onto the floor, well away from his case.

“I said you’d be out soon and I wasn’t wrong. I’m never wrong. You’ll be out in a few days.”

Diego thinks he should be happy, smile, stand up, pat the lawyer on the back, shake his hand or even give him a hug, burst out laughing, applaud. But he does none of these things because he doesn’t feel happy or even enthusiastic, he just feels a faint sense of relief, which comes over him gradually. The prison night gets inside you and no daylight, no good news, is enough to get rid of it, the way you’d get rid of a patch of dust on your clothes. He barely even feels relieved.

“Bizarrely enough, the victim’s statement helped you. That’s right. Losada said just those words to the judge: that you were a patsy. That the other kidnapper, Sergio – who worked for Losada’s company, who fled with the loot – was the brains behind it all. He set you up, didn’t he? He left you waiting with the captive while he disappeared.”

Diego doesn’t know what he’s expected to say. He stares at his hands while he tries to think of an answer to a question he doesn’t understand, and Antinucci goes on.

“Listen to me carefully. Do you want me to tell you something? Losada even went so far as to say you weren’t a bad 13guy, that you treated him well during the kidnapping and that, in short, he didn’t come to any harm. And as the wife, a certain Ursula López, said she never received a ransom demand, the witnesses did you a favour.”

Diego extends his fingers, gazes down at his hands, and thinks – or guesses – that Antinucci’s eyes are looking him up and down, scrutinizing him, trying to get inside his head.

“Strange, wouldn’t you say? Tell me something. Didn’t you say Sergio had convinced you to kidnap Santiago to ask his wife for money? So, when you realized your partner had taken off with the money Santiago had in his car, why didn’t you go ahead and ask the wife to pay the ransom? I mean, you were already at the ball, so you might as well dance. I don’t understand. Why hold the guy hostage for three days if not to demand a ransom?”

He extinguishes his cigarette on the floor, on the other side of the case; he treads on it, crushes it, grinds it down with the heel of his shiny leather moccasin. There is an awkward silence.

“Tell me the truth: did she pay up or not? Losada’s wife, I mean. Ursula, she’s called Ursula. Not a name you could forget. Maybe she kept it quiet to avoid getting into trouble with the law. Be honest with me. Do you know this woman or not?”

The lawyer speaks, he asks questions, holding an invisible melon in his hands.

Diego wants to say something, he hesitates, he keeps it in.

Let’s just pause for a moment: there’s a lot to explore in that indecision. What’s happening to Diego? Fear, insecurity? It seems as if, for some reason, he can’t speak or, if he could, he wouldn’t know what version to tell his lawyer. Antinucci removes his dark glasses with a slow, pompous, 14theatrical movement, places them on top of the cartapacio, his opaque gaze fixing on a point somewhere on Diego’s face, and Diego feels an almost physical pressure between his eyes and nose. He sees that the lawyer is looking at him through narrowed eyes, like two slits.

“Another thing I don’t understand is why the police didn’t find a weapon in the place you were holed up with Santiago Losada. Am I supposed to believe you and Sergio were unarmed when you kidnapped this guy? I wasn’t born yesterday.”

Antinucci clicks his tongue, grimaces lopsidedly and continues to stare at Diego, who avoids his gaze. For a moment the world retreats, the visiting shed retreats. Diego feels sick.

“You’re not telling? I don’t care. It’s your business, nothing to do with me. This case won’t go any further: no custodial sentence, that’s what the committal document will say. Within a couple of years the judge will issue a ruling; maybe he’ll dismiss it, I wouldn’t be at all surprised. Given the state of the legal system in this country… You need to get ready because you’ll be out this week. A few days and, God willing, you’ll be back on the street. Before that, they’ll take you to court for a routine hearing.”

“A hearing? Who with?”

“Ah, good, so now you talk. The hearing is with Losada’s wife. With Ursula, Ursula López. Pretty name, wouldn’t you agree? I like the sound of it for some reason. No, it won’t be a problem. Like I told you, she said she never received a ransom demand from you. I still have my doubts, but if you confirm that in front of the judge… Now just fill out the forms, sign the documents. Here. And here.”

And what can he say to the lawyer? That he had a weapon and he can’t explain how the revolver disappeared from 15the shack where they were holding Santiago? That he asked Ursula for a ransom and the two of them ended up forming a strange partnership? That she offered him money not to release her husband but to do away with him? Nobody would believe that of the wife of a businessman like Losada, and Diego has no intention of accusing her. Ursula was good to him, and when he gets out he’s going to look her up and thank her.

He tries not to think, he tries not to feel the pressure of Antinucci’s eyes between his brows. He raises his head, avoiding the scalpel gaze. He looks at the ceiling of the shed, at the walls, at the people.

The prisoners’ wives are still arriving, with that stunned look – resigned, humiliated, freezing cold. The shed already smells of fried dough balls and damp clothes and houses with no shower. They settle down, occupy the chairs, drag them from one table to another, drink mate and talk loudly in their shrill voices.

Over there, next to the door, the policeman is talking on his phone, mumbling, laughing, still picking his teeth: talking, spitting and picking away.

Diego opens his mouth, just a little at first. “In a few days, you said?”

“That’s what I said. You can’t complain about my work.”

“I’ll pay you as soon as I can.”

“You’ll be able to pay me very soon, Diego. You’ll hear from me straight away, today or tomorrow.”

Diego feels a shiver at the nape of his neck, a queasiness in his stomach, but now all that matters is to get out. A month inside, one month. He looks at the yard, the piles of dry leaves that the end of autumn has blown in from the woods. Santiago’s wife lied when she said he hadn’t demanded a 16ransom, she lied because she’s a good person. But still, it doesn’t fit together, he feels confused, he senses that there are guilty people and innocent ones in this story, and they don’t match those who are really guilty and innocent.

17

II

Many years earlier

She’s just a hungry, frightened girl, just a little girl standing in the darkest part of the corridor, her back pressed against the wall, her eyes closed, frozen. Her forehead, neck and hairline are beaded with sweat, her breathing is agitated, like when she runs or when she jumps rope at school, and her hands are trembling slightly. She’s just a girl and it isn’t an easy decision but she’s hungry, she’s always hungry. Finally she moves, she bends down, she noiselessly removes her patent leather shoes with their silver buckles; very slowly she places them on the floor and advances in silence, her white socks sliding across the waxed parquet, a little further, then she hesitates, stops in front of the door, listens, carefully pushes open the swing door and peers round.

From the threshold she observes the familiar space, the large cheerful room, the sun filtering between the curtains, light bouncing off the oak table; she runs her eyes over the cupboards, the spice jars, the fridge. She looks at the fridge. She imagines what’s inside and her mouth waters. But she is also alert, she knows the housekeeper is taking a siesta in the servant’s bedroom, next to the kitchen. She listens to the woman’s rasping, deepening snores.

18She’s a hungry girl but her fear is powerful, she hesitates before deciding to desecrate the comfortable domestic order of the kitchen, to enter the forbidden territory, the dangerous geography, to enter a world that at once beckons her in and shuts her out, a world watched over by the housekeeper, the white-aproned woman who is asleep in the next room.

She thinks about food day and night, when she wakes up and when she falls asleep, before sitting at the table, as she eats what the housekeeper or her father has put on her plate, and while she finishes the small portions and gets up, her cravings scarcely dented, still thinking about food. She thinks about it while she’s at school, while she’s watching television, while she and her sister, Luz, are playing with their dolls. Luz is thin and is allowed to eat as much as she likes, but she barely even touches what she is served. Her sister is thin and her father says she’s beautiful, just like her mother. But as he says this he looks not at Luz but at her, and she feels right then that her body occupies too much space.

She pushes a little more and enters, she’s afraid but she’s also so hungry, she hears the deep snoring and takes courage, takes one step and then another, then halts, alert to the loud, regular breathing; she decides, her stomach instructs her brain, she crosses the kitchen in slow steps, her toes resting gently, lightly on the floor, first one foot and then the other; two more steps and she’s standing in front of the fridge, her hand moves of its own accord, reaches out, approaches the handle, touches it indecisively, her gaze vigilant, she looks to either side again and again, her small hand covers the cold metal, grips it, presses, pulls. She is very hungry.

She opens the door.

19She takes out a piece of chicken and raises it to her mouth, her teeth bite into it, rip it, tear at the meat, she swallows, bites again, one mouthful, two; she looks at the jar of jam, takes a piece of cheese and rolls it up in a slice of ham that she uses to push down the chicken; she chews, gulps, looks at the door, opens the jar of mayonnaise, inserts a finger and slurps with lips and tongue; she takes a chunk of potato and dips it in the mayonnaise, swallows, looks behind her, smears two fingers with dulce de leche; she smacks her lips, takes a meatball, some sauce, devours it, rice, another meatball, more sauce, mayonnaise, lips, teeth, the finger in the jam, sucking, slurping, tongue, fingers; she’s in a hurry and pushes it down, she looks behind her, at the door; another piece of chicken, which she swallows almost without chewing; something’s wrong, she eats faster, swallows more, plunges all her fingers into the sauce; palate, lips, teeth; slurps, swallows, again and again. This explosion of sensory and tactile sensations suddenly freezes, her fingers are paralysed, her tongue turns to stone, her lips are open. There is a discordant element, a sound; she hears footsteps in the corridor, approaching. She recognizes them, those footsteps.

She listens. And trembles.

She turns her head. The kitchen door opens smoothly. The man stands in the doorway and looks at the girl.

“Ursula.”

“No, Daddy.”

Her fingers descend and rub sauce on her dress, her sleeve tries to wipe her mouth free of mayonnaise, of jam, of gravy, of dulce de leche; she closes the fridge door with her body and leans against it, wishing she could sink and disappear forever into its misty white cold interior.

“No, Daddy. I won’t ever do it again.”

20The man is tall and thin, wearing a dark suit and tie, his black shoes glinting fiercely. He holds a golden cigarette lighter in his right hand and has a steely gaze.

“Come here, Ursula.”

“I promise, Daddy.”

She looks at the man, blinks, closes her eyes, tries to hold back the tears that slide down between the grease, the gravy, the sugar. She is familiar with the ritual of punishment and her fear erupts again, takes her by storm, overwhelms her. She takes a step, avoids looking at him, bites her lips until they blanch. Her room, her bed; her head is spinning. The kitchen is a bright cheerful place, the sun bouncing off the big oak table, around which are six chairs with red-and-white-checked cushions that match the curtains. She looks at the squares, one red, one white, one red.

“No, Daddy, please,” she whispers into thin air.

She knows what will happen and she begins to sweat, the fear assailing her, paralysing her. She will hear the sounds she already knows, the slow creak of the soles on the floor; she will see the shiny black leather, he will take her by the shoulder and push her forward a few steps, walking around his daughter; she will hear the altered breathing, observe him make two, three turns. Daddy will take her by the chin, forcing her to raise her head; she knows he will cough to clear his throat. He will play with the lighter, the flame will appear and disappear, each time a little faster. She imagines, and her teeth chatter.

Then he will say: It’s for your own good.

“It’s for your own good, Ursula. I have to correct your weaknesses.”

The tears run down her cheeks, slide over the grease and fall on the dress stained with jam, with meat, with saliva. Her 21father stops playing with the lighter for a moment, delicately takes her arm, draws her close, raises her chin again, gently forcing her to look him in the eye. She raises her gaze no higher than his chest, then trembles and looks back down at the floor, at those shoes like black mirrors. Fear attacks her, pins her down.

“Crocodile tears, darling.”

“No, Daddy.”

She begs but she knows it’s pointless, that all the pleading in the world won’t shake him. He isn’t listening to her; he pushes her lightly, leading her to the kitchen door, down the passage to her room, to the bed with the pink chenille quilt and the teddy bear and the dolls, which he carefully sets aside. Ursula looks at the shadows that invade the room as her father closes the blinds and the shutters, bars them, draws the curtains with their pictures of fairies, seals every chink through which light might enter. Now all that remains – for just a few moments, she knows – is the triangle of light that sneaks through the gap in the doorway.

“Okay, darling.”

She lies down on the bed and trembles, she curls up into a ball. She tries to remember the prayers she used to recite with her mother, which only come to her mind when she is afraid, with that fear that invades her, occupies her, possesses her. Fear of what is about to come.

“Please. I won’t do it again, Daddy.”

She sobs. Through the tears she sees her father’s serious face, the lighter flame once again burning bright and then going out, clicking and exploding, his furrowed brow, the narrow, tense lips, his tall thin body, the black shoes that now, without the light, are just dark, opaque. She sobs, afraid 22of what is about to come, and amid the tears a bitter taste gradually forms in her mouth, the start of a sticky resentment that makes her tremble more violently.

She hears other steps approaching from the kitchen, sees the silhouette of the cook in her white apron against the small triangle of light. Ursula can’t see the face but she hears the panting breath and closes her eyes, anticipating the woman’s smile before she opens her eyes again and watches the shadow disappear. She trembles, she tosses and turns, fear and rage turning her saliva bitter, burning it, dissolving it.

Her father, who on this sunny afternoon is still alive, removes the key from the lock, stops for a few moments, perhaps wavering; perhaps he might forgive her, Ursula thinks in a final glimmer of optimism, perhaps he’ll open the windows, let the light in and allow her to leave. Yes, she watches him hesitate at the door; Daddy is good and she doesn’t hate him, she’s just a bit afraid of him when she sees how tall and thin he is, the tallest, thinnest man in the world.

“One day of punishment, Ursula; no light and no food. The darkness will make you strong, fasting will cleanse your body.” The black shoes, no longer shiny, creak on the wooden floor. The flickering flame of the lighter only illuminates his steely eyes.

“Alicia will come before night to bring you water and take you to the bathroom. I’ll see you at eight o’clock in the morning. Your punishment finishes at eight o’clock on the dot.”

Her father closes the door and shuts out the last fragment of this sunny day. Ursula hears the key turn, once and then once more. She still doesn’t want to look at the shadows 23that surround her; she curls up into a ball, sinks her face deeper into the pillow that is damp with her tears, and a voice whispers to her that one day somebody will have to pay for all this weeping.

24

III

In prison, everything is dense. Everything makes his heart pound and fills him with claustrophobia and it’s not difficult to understand why they call this place the tomb: dirty corridors where smells intermingle, huge dark rooms furnished with a few wobbly chairs and scabby tables, photos of naked girls tacked to the crumbling walls, and that clammy cold that sticks to the body, filling the empty spaces with fog.

And there are the people. There are people here who are walking Chernobyls, carrying inside them a silent deadly poison that spreads every time they exhale, with every word they utter, contaminating whatever is in front of them with every act. They carry the germ of evil so everything they touch rots; even their breath, even their gaze, corrupts. Every time he sees Ricardo, Diego has the urge to flee, like a cornered wild animal. Now he watches Ricardo walk down the empty passageway towards him and he turns his head from side to side, although he knows there is no escape. Anguish and confusion make him dizzy and nauseous, sometimes he faints, and that’s the last thing he’d want to happen in front of the Hobo.

The guy is chewing something. He smiles, shows the gum between his teeth, walks around Diego, almost dancing, like a boxer circling his rival, bobbing and weaving; he rolls up his sleeves, reveals his black tattoos, letters that 25spell out names, skulls with glowing eyes, red bloodstains gushing across his skin.



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