The Neighborhood Page 3

  When she awoke it was day. She felt Chabela’s body close to hers; her head was resting not on the pillow but on her friend’s shoulder, and her right hand rested on the smooth, flat belly close to hers.

  “Good morning, sleepyhead,” she heard herself say, and felt her lips brush Chabela’s forehead. “Were you dreaming about angels? You were smiling the whole time you slept.”

  Marisa pressed against Chabela, waking her, kissing her on the neck, caressing her belly and legs with her free hand. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt so happy in my whole life, I swear,” she murmured. It was true, that’s how she felt. Her friend turned, embracing her, too, and spoke with her mouth pressed against hers, as if she wanted to inlay her words within her body:

  “The same for me, love. All this time I’ve been dreaming that we would sleep together and wake up like this, the way we are now. And I masturbated every night, thinking of you.”

  They kissed with open mouths, their tongues entangled, swallowing each other’s saliva, rubbing their legs together, but they were both too exhausted to make love again. They started to talk, embracing, Marisa’s head resting on Chabela’s shoulder, one of Chabela’s hands entangling her fingers, as if she were playing, in her friend’s pubic hair.

  “It’s true, there is music,” said Marisa, listening. “I heard it but thought I was dreaming. Where’s it coming from?”

  “The girl must have turned it on when she came to clean the apartment,” Chabela said into her ear. “Bertola, a very nice Salvadoran, you’ll meet her. She’s impeccable, she pays the bills, keeps the refrigerator full, and is absolutely trustworthy. Are you hungry? Do you want me to fix you some breakfast?”

  “No, not yet, this is delicious, don’t get up yet,” said Marisa, holding Chabela by the hips. “I like to feel your body. You don’t know how happy I am, sweetheart.”

  “I’m going to tell you a secret, Marisita,” and Marisa felt that her friend, as she whispered in her ear, was slowly nibbling at her earlobe. “It’s the first time in my life I’ve made love to a woman.”

  Marisa lifted her head from Chabela’s shoulder to look into her eyes. Chabela was very serious and somewhat embarrassed. She had deep, dark eyes, and very pronounced features, a smooth, unblemished complexion, a mouth with full lips.

  “Me, too, Chabela,” she murmured. “The first time. Even though you won’t believe it.”

  “Really?” her friend replied, her expression incredulous.

  “I swear.” Marisa let her head rest on Chabela’s neck again. “And that’s not all. Shall I tell you something? I had prejudices, when I heard that a woman liked other women, that she was gay, I felt some disgust. How stupid I was.”

  “I didn’t feel disgust so much as curiosity,” said Chabela. “But it’s true, you don’t know yourself until things happen to you. Because the other night, when I woke up and felt your hand on my leg and your body pressing against my back, I was more excited than I had ever been before. Tingling between my legs, my heart jumping out of my mouth, I got all wet. I don’t know how I had the courage to take your hand and…”

  “… put it here,” murmured Marisa, looking for her, opening her legs, gently rubbing the lips of her sex. “Can I tell you I love you? Do you mind?”

  “I love you, too.” Chabela tenderly moved her hand away and kissed it. “But don’t make me come again or I’ll never get out of this bed. Shall I open the curtains? You’ll see how nice the ocean looks.”

  Marisa watched her spring from the bed naked—she confirmed once again that her friend had a young, taut body with no fat at all, a narrow waist, firm breasts—and she watched her open the curtains by pressing a button on the wall. Now a brilliant light poured in that lit the entire room. It was elegant, without excess or affectation, like her house in Lima, like the way Chabela and Luciano dressed and spoke.

  “Isn’t the view pretty?” Chabela hurried back to the bed and covered herself with the sheet.

  “Yes, but you’re even prettier, darling,” said Marisa, embracing her. “Thank you for the happiest night of my life.”

  “You made me excited again, you bandit,” said Chabela, searching for her mouth, touching her. “And now you’ll pay for it.”

  They got up in the middle of the morning and prepared breakfast in their robes, barefoot, talking. Marisa phoned the office and Enrique said he was fine, but she thought he sounded strange and somewhat melancholy. Chabela couldn’t speak to Luciano but she did talk to his mother—she stayed in the house whenever Chabela traveled—and she said that the two girls had left for school on time and would call her as soon as they got back.

  “Don’t worry about Quique, Marisa,” her friend reassured her. “I’m certain that nothing in particular is wrong with him, just what’s happening to every Peruvian because of the damn terrorists. Sometimes Luciano has those depressions too, just like Quique. For example, last week he said that if things kept on this way, it would make more sense to leave Peru. He could go to work in New York, in the office where he trained after graduating from Columbia. But I’m not really convinced. I feel sorry for my mother, who’s almost seventy. And I don’t know if I’d like my girls to be brought up like two little gringas.”

  They had a good breakfast, with fruit juice, yogurt, boiled eggs, English muffins, and coffee, and decided to skip lunch and go to a nice restaurant in Miami Beach that night for dinner.

  When Marisa asked Chabela what repairs she had to do in the apartment, Chabela burst into laughter:

  “None. It was an excuse I invented to take you to Miami.”

  Marisa took her hand and kissed it. They put on their bathing suits, and armed with towels, creams, sunglasses, and straw hats, they went to the beach to sunbathe. There weren’t many people, and though it was very hot, a cool breeze helped to mitigate that.

  “What would happen if Luciano found out about this?” Marisa asked her friend.

  “He would die,” Chabela responded. “My husband is the most conservative, puritanical man in the world. Imagine, to this day he insists on turning off the light when we make love. And what would Quique say?”

  “I have no idea,” she said. “But I don’t believe he’d be all that shocked. As serious as he seems, he has all kinds of dirty ideas in his head. Shall I tell you a secret? Sometimes he tells me that the fantasy that makes him most excited would be to watch me make love with a woman and then do it with him.”

  “Ah, caramba, perhaps we could please him,” Chabela said with a laugh. “Who would have thought it, with the meek little face that husband of yours always puts on.”

  Then they confessed to each other that they both had been very lucky with their husbands, that they loved them and were happy with them. What they were doing now had to be kept absolutely secret so it wouldn’t harm their marriages in any way; instead, it would add spice and keep them lively.

  In the afternoon they would go shopping, perhaps see a movie, and have dinner with French champagne in the best restaurant in Miami Beach or Key Biscayne. It would be a truly unforgettable weekend.

  4

  The Entrepreneur and the Lawyer

  The Luciano Casasbellas Law Offices were also in San Isidro, a few blocks from Enrique’s office, and, in the past, Enrique would go there on foot, but now, because of the fear of kidnappings by the MRTA and attacks by the Shining Path, he always went by car. The driver left him at the entrance to the offices, which occupied the entire building, and Quique told him to wait. He went directly to the fifth floor, where Luciano’s office was located. The secretary said he was expected and could go right in.

  Luciano stood to receive him, took him by the arm, and led him to the comfortable easy chairs arranged in front of a bookcase filled with symmetrical leather-bound books behind glass panels. The Persian rug, the portraits and pictures on the office walls were, like Luciano himself, elegant, sober, conservative, vaguely British. There were photos of Chabela and his two daughters in a glass case, and of Luciano himself as a yo
ung man in cap and gown on the day of his graduation from Lima’s Universidad Católica, and another, more ostentatious one of the ceremony when he received his doctorate at Columbia University. Quique recalled that at the Colegio de la Inmaculada, his friend had been awarded the coveted Prize for Excellence every year.

  “It’s been weeks since we’ve seen each other, Quique,” said the lawyer, giving his knee an affectionate tap. He had his eyeglasses in his hand and was in shirtsleeves—an impeccably ironed striped shirt—and, as always, he wore a tie and suspenders; his shoes gleamed as if recently polished. He was slim and tall, with light, somewhat slanted eyes, and he had gray hair beginning to recede from his forehead, an omen of premature baldness. “How’s the beautiful Marisa?”

  “Fine, fine.” Enrique returned his smile, thinking: “He’s been my best friend since we were in short pants; will he still be my friend after this?” He felt uneasy and embarrassed and his voice sounded uncertain. “I’m the one who’s not fine, Luciano. That’s why I’m here.”

  He trembled as he spoke and Luciano, who had become very serious, noticed it. He observed him carefully.

  “Everything in this life has a solution, Quique, except death.” He encouraged him: “Go on, tell me all about it, as Luciana, my younger daughter, says.”

  “A few days ago I received an unexpected visit,” he stammered, feeling his hands become wet with perspiration. “One Rolando Garro.”

  “The reporter?” Luciano was surprised. “It couldn’t have been for anything good. That guy has an awful reputation.”

  Enrique recounted the visit in full detail. At times he fell silent, searching for the least compromising word, and Luciano waited, silent and patient, not hurrying him. Finally, Enrique took from his briefcase the portfolio with the two yellow bands. After handing it to Luciano, he took out his handkerchief and wiped his hands and his forehead. He was drenched in sweat and breathed with difficulty.

  “You have no idea how I hesitated about coming here, Luciano,” he excused himself, head lowered. “I’m embarrassed and disgusted with myself. But this is so personal, so delicate, that the truth is I didn’t know what to do. Who else can I trust? You’re like a brother to me.”

  His voice broke and he thought in astonishment that he was about to burst into tears. Luciano, leaning over the table, poured him some water from a glass pitcher.

  “Calm down, Quique,” he said affectionately, patting him on the shoulder. “Of course you did just the right thing coming to see me. No matter how terrible the matter is, we’ll find a solution. You’ll see.”

  “I hope you don’t despise me after this, Luciano,” Quique murmured. And, pointing at the portfolio, he said, “You’re in for a big surprise, I’m warning you. Go on, open it.”

  “A lawyer is like a confessor, old man,” said Luciano, putting on his glasses. “Don’t worry. My profession has prepared me for everything—good, bad, and worse.”

  Enrique watched him open the portfolio carefully, pulling off the yellow bands and then the paper around the photographs. He saw how Luciano’s face contracted a little in surprise and then, suddenly, turned pale. He didn’t take his eyes away from the images to look at Enrique or make any comments while he slowly reviewed the scandalous pieces of cardboard, one by one. Quique felt his heart pounding inside his chest. Time had stopped. He remembered, when they were boys and studied together for exams, that Luciano concentrated on the books as he was doing now, pouring himself body and soul into what he was seeing. Mute and methodical, he looked through the photos again, from back to front. Finally he raised his head, looking at him with troubled eyes, and asked in a neutral voice:

  “There’s no doubt this is you, Quique?”

  “It’s me, Luciano. I’m sorry, but yes, it’s me.”

  The lawyer was very serious; he nodded and seemed to be thinking. He took off his glasses and gave him another affectionate tap on the knee.

  “It’s blackmail, that’s very clear,” he finally declared, while, playing for time, he carefully rewrapped the photographs in tissue paper, placed them in the portfolio, and closed it with the yellow rubber bands. “They want money from you. But they wanted to soften you up first, scaring you with the threat of a huge scandal. Will you leave this with me? It’s better if I keep it here, in the safe. It’s not a good idea for this to fall into anyone’s hands, especially Marisa’s.”

  Enrique nodded. He took another sip of water. Suddenly he felt relieved, as if getting rid of those images, knowing they’d be kept in Luciano’s office safe, had lessened the potential threat they contained.

  “They were taken a couple of years ago,” he specified. “More or less, I don’t really remember the date, perhaps a little longer ago than that. In Chosica. Everything was organized by the Yugoslav, I think I spoke to you about him. Serbian or Croatian, something like that. His name was Kosut. Do you remember?”

  “A Yugoslav? Kosut?” Luciano shook his head. “No, I don’t. Did I meet him?”

  “I think I introduced him to you, I’m not really sure,” Quique added. “Serbian or Croatian, at least that’s what he said. He wanted to invest in mines, he had letters of recommendation from Chase Manhattan and from the Lombard Bank. It’s coming back to me now. Kosak, Kusak, Kosut, something like that. I must have his card somewhere. A strange, mysterious guy who suddenly disappeared. I never heard anything more about him. Are you sure you don’t remember?”

  “I’m sure I don’t,” Luciano declared. And he confronted him, speaking with severity: “He arranged the orgy? He took these pictures?”

  “I don’t know,” said Quique. “I don’t know who took them. I wasn’t aware of anything, as you can imagine. I never would have allowed it. But yes, I suppose he was the one. He was there, too. Kosak, Kusak, Kosut, one of those Central European names, something like that.”

  “He set a trap for you and you fell in like a little angel, not to mention an ass.” Luciano shrugged. “Two years ago, are you sure? And he shows up only now?”

  “I thought about that, too,” said Enrique. “After two or two and a half years at least. He spent several months in Lima, living in the Hotel Sheraton. I introduced him to some people. Then, one day he left me a note saying it was urgent that he go to New York and he’d be back in Lima soon. I never heard from him again. He had millions of dollars to invest, he said. I was helping him, I took him to the Mining Society, he gave a little talk. He spoke good Spanish, too. He didn’t seem like a gangster or anything. I mean, Luciano, I don’t know what to tell you. I was an imbecile, of course. Besides, even if you don’t believe me, it was the first and last time that I…”

  His voice broke and he didn’t know how to finish the sentence. His face burned, he blinked constantly, and he felt so ashamed that he wanted to run out and never see his best friend again.

  “Take it easy, Quique,” Luciano said with a smile. “In these kinds of cases, the most important thing is to keep a cool head. Do you want another glass of water?”

  “It took me so much by surprise,” said Enrique. “As soon as I saw that reporter, I was disgusted. There’s something repulsive about him, his fawning manner, his little rat’s eyes. This can only be blackmail. Of course that’s what I thought.”

  “He brought you the photographs to frighten you about a scandal,” Luciano agreed. “I see he’s succeeded. For the moment, I’ll tell you that the worst thing would be for you to start negotiating with people like that. They’ll get money from you over and over again, they’ll never give you all the negatives of those photographs. It’ll never end. The first thing that occurs to me is to give the reporter a good scare. But that dog must be only an intermediary, a tool. Yugoslav, did you say?”

  “Kosuk, Kosok, or Kosut,” Quique repeated. “I must have his card, copies of the recommendations he brought. He wanted to invest in mines, he was looking for Peruvian partners. He gave lunches and spent lavishly, as if he were very rich. Then, without warning, the note saying it was urgent that he leave
for New York. And he disappeared. Now he comes back to life with these photos. Two or two and a half years later. It doesn’t make any sense, does it?”

  Luciano had become thoughtful and Enrique stopped talking.

  “What are you thinking, Luciano?”

  “Was there anyone else besides him and the girls at that little party?” he asked. “I mean, anyone you knew.”

  “Just him and me,” Quique declared. “And the girls, of course.”

  “And the photographer,” Luciano corrected him. “Didn’t you realize you were being photographed?”

  “I never would have allowed it,” Quique protested again. “I wasn’t aware of anything. It was very well prepared. It didn’t occur to me it could be a trap. Can you imagine what would happen if those photos appeared in Exposed? I’m sure you’ve never even looked through that rag. A puddle of filth, of gossip, of despicable things. A scandal sheet of pestilential vulgarity.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen it occasionally, I must have,” said Luciano. “Look, here in the firm we have two magnificent criminal lawyers. Let me talk to them, maintaining absolute discretion, of course. I’ll present the matter to them and see what they think. I’ll do it this afternoon. And I’ll call you. In the meantime, try to stay calm. Don’t even think about saying anything to anybody. If necessary we’ll go all the way to Fujimori. Or to Dr. Montesinos himself. And, naturally, don’t see Garro again. Don’t even talk to him on the phone.”

  He stood and accompanied him to the door. There they exchanged conventional phrases about Marisa and Chabela, who, apparently, seemed very happy with their little weekend jaunt to Miami. They all had to get together and go out one of these days, Luciano repeated, as if nothing had changed between them. Of course, of course.