Shorty prepared her frugal breakfast every morning—café con leche and brown corn bread—but today, she didn’t know why, she had the impulse to have it in a coffee shop in Five Corners located at the bus stop. After thirty or forty-five minutes of shaking and crowding, the bus carried her each morning down the very long Grau Avenue, the Zanjón, and Panamerican Avenue to Surquillo, in the vicinity of Exposed. They did not have corn bread in the coffee shop, so she ordered some kind of biscuit along with her café con leche and they brought her sweet bread. She was sorry she had gone there: the coffee shop was dirty and the walls were stained and the waiter who served her, a cripple with rheumy eyes, had black, very long nails.
But the good weather improved her spirits. In spite of its being the middle of winter, there was a luminescence this morning in Lima that seemed to announce the sun. “The sky is celebrating our success too,” she said to herself. Because the issue of Exposed with the photographs of Engineer Enrique Cárdenas had been a rousing success, announcing on the first page, in a large headline in red and black letters above the spectacular image: “Naked Magnate Having a Snack!” Three successive reprints in a single day! The night before, a euphoric Rolando Garro had been negotiating a fourth with the printer even though it was barely a thousand more copies.
What would happen now? she had asked her boss when the letter from Engineer Enrique Cárdenas’s lawyers had reached the magazine’s editorial office, denying, of course, that he was the man in those photos and accusing them of libel and slander. Apparently they had filed for an order of relief, asking for the sequestration of the issue, including the first copies.
“What’s going to happen?” Rolando Garro asked himself, shrugging. And he answered his own question, giving one of his sarcastic little laughs: “Nothing, Shorty. Does anything ever happen when a scandal breaks in Lima? I wish something would, I wish a judge would close down Exposed. We’d put out a new weekly called Gotcha maybe, and sell as many copies as we did this week.”
Shorty thought her boss’s calm was faked. Because this time the subject of the scandal wasn’t a model, a dancer, an actor, or one of those poor show-business types like that idiot Juan Peineta with his animosity toward Rolando Garro, who couldn’t do him or the magazine much harm no matter how they tried and who, like the ex-Joker, dedicated their lives to that useless plan. Engineer Enrique Cárdenas, an important entrepreneur, rich, powerful, wouldn’t just sit still after an issue in which he appeared naked among whorish tits and asses. He’d take his revenge, and if he persisted, he certainly could have the weekly closed down. Well, we’d soon see, she didn’t much like the idea of losing her job overnight. Rolando Garro seemed so sure of himself that probably, just as in the other exposés they’d done, there would be no consequences this time, either. Just think of how poor Ceferino Argüello’s photographs had ended up; instead of making them all-powerful, as Rolando believed, they would be just another scandal in Exposed.
She paid for her meager breakfast and took the bus; it wasn’t too crowded, she even was able to find a seat. It took three quarters of an hour to reach the stop on the Panamericana, in Surquillo, a few blocks from Calle Dante. She was walking to her office when Ceferino Argüello, the weekly’s photographer, approached her. As always, his skeletal body was crammed into blue jeans and a dirty polo shirt, wrinkled and open at the neck. He looked more frightened than usual.
“What is it, Ceferino? Why that face, who died this time?”
“Can we get something to drink, Julieta?” The photographer, very upset, paid no attention to her question. “My treat.”
“I have an appointment with the boss,” she said. “And I’m running late.”
“Señor Garro isn’t in yet,” he insisted, pleading with her. “Just for a moment, Julieta. I’m begging you, please, as a colleague and an old friend. Don’t turn me down.”
She agreed and they went to the little café near Exposed, Peruvian Delight, where the reporters on the magazine had coffee, and on the days they put the issue to bed, would eat a sandwich with an Inca Kola for lunch. They ordered two sodas.
“What is it, Ceferino?” Shorty asked. “Go on, tell me your troubles. I imagine they don’t have anything to do with love.”
Ceferino Argüello didn’t want to joke; he was very serious, and there was a great deal of fear in his dark eyes.
“I’m shitting, I’m so scared, Julieta.” He spoke very quietly so that no one would hear him, and it was absurd, nobody could hear him because at that moment, they were the only customers in Peruvian Delight. “This is getting too big, don’t you think? Last night all the channels opened their news reports with photos of the magazine. This morning, radio and television stations pounded away at the same subject.”
“What do you expect, you idiot, you’re finally becoming famous like the rest of us, thanks to this issue.” She mocked the photographer. “We haven’t had this much success with an exposé for a long time. Now, for sure, at the end of the month we’ll all get our full salary.”
“This isn’t a joke,” Ceferino remonstrated with her. He paused, looked around, and continued in a voice so low it was almost a whisper. “That Cárdenas is very important, and if he decides to take his revenge he can fuck up our lives. Don’t forget that you signed that article too, Shorty.”
“On the other hand, your name doesn’t appear anywhere, Ceferino, so take it easy,” she said, making an effort to get up. “Pay, and let’s get out of here. And please, don’t be such a big sissy. You’re scared of everything.”
“Even though I’m not named in the article, I took those photos, Julieta,” he insisted; his anguished expression looked almost comic. “And I’m the only photographer listed on the masthead. I can get involved in a big mess. Señor Garro should have consulted me before doing what he did with my photographs.”
“It must be your fault, Ceferino, you brought it on yourself,” Shorty attacked him. But she took pity on the terror she saw in his eyes and smiled at him: “Nobody will know you took them. So cut the bullshit and don’t think about it anymore.”
“Swear you haven’t told anybody that I took them, Julieta. And that you never will.”
“I’ll swear anything you want, Ceferino. Forget about it. Nobody’s going to find out, nothing’s going to happen to you. Don’t worry.”
The photographer, his face constantly tormented, paid, and they left. Rolando Garro wasn’t at Exposed yet. While they waited for him, Shorty devoted herself to reviewing all the day’s papers. Caramba, what excitement! There were references to the scandal in every paper, without exception, from serious publications to the most insignificant dailies. Shorty laughed to herself: the engineer must be feeling like a puddle of spit right now. When she finished going through the papers it was eleven in the morning. Strange that Rolando Garro hadn’t showed up or called to give a reason for being late. She called his cell phone and it was turned off. Could he still be asleep? It was unusual, the boss never missed an appointment, even with his reporters, without giving a reason for being late. Shorty looked around; there was a strange silence in the editorial room; nobody was typing on a computer, nobody was talking. Estrellita Santibáñez looked at her desk as if hypnotized; old man Pepín Sotillos had the butt of his cigarette dangling from his lips as if he’d forgotten he was smoking. Lizbeth Carnero, distracted from her stars, bit her nails, not bothering to hide her uneasiness. Up at one of the Theatine windows, a turkey buzzard was sitting, seeming to observe them with his fierce stare as if they were strange beasts. Everyone was very serious, waiting, looking at her, not hiding their concern. Poor Ceferino Argüello looked as if he were about to mount a scaffold.
A short while later a messenger arrived from the Criminal Court of the Lima District with two announcements of judicial actions filed against the magazine for this week’s issue. One came from the Luciano Casasbellas Law Offices, representing Engineer Enrique Cárdenas, and the other from a religious association, Good Habits, denouncing them for “public obscenity and corruption of youth.” Julieta left the citations on Rolando Garro’s desk, which she confirmed was, as always, maniacally neat. She returned to her desk to look over her notebook. She made a list of subjects that could be investigated with a view to an article and began to take notes, navigating past the snares, on a case of trafficking boys and girls in Puno, near the Bolivian border. There were accusations that a gang of bandits was kidnapping children born in indigenous Bolivian communities and selling them to Peruvian gangsters at the border who, in turn, resold them to couples, generally foreigners who couldn’t have children and didn’t want to wait the many years that procedures for legal adoptions required in Peru. At about one o’clock she looked up from the computer because she saw that the entire editorial staff had congregated around her desk: the three reporters, the two fact-checkers, and, of course, the photographer for Exposed. Their expressions were grave. Ceferino, very pale, was gasping for breath.
“It’s past the time for giving out assignments, which was twelve o’clock,” said Pepín Sotillos, the oldest of the reporters on the weekly, showing her his watch. “And it’s after one.”
“It’s strange, yes, I agree,” said Shorty. “I had an appointment with him at eleven. Nobody’s talked to the boss this morning?”
No, nobody. Sotillos had called him several times on his cell, but it was turned off. Shorty saw her colleagues’ long, uneasy faces. It was really very strange, the boss might have many defects but lack of punctuality wasn’t one of them; he was obsessive about always arriving on time, even early. And especially for the meeting that planned the work for the week. Julieta decided to mobilize the entire editorial staff. She gave Sotillos the task of calling hospitals and clinics in case he’d had an accident; she told Estrellita Santibáñez and Lizbeth Carnero, the horoscope editor and the adviser in sexual and romantic matters, to check the police stations and find out whether Señor Rolando Garro had been the victim of an accident. And she would run over to the chief’s little house in Chorrillos; the address was in his engagement book.
She went out and was going to take a cab but checked her wallet and thought that the little she had with her might not be enough to go and come back, and so she went to wait for the bus. It took almost an hour to reach the little house on José Olaya Avenue where the editor of Exposed lived. It was one of the old Chorrillan ranch houses of the previous century, a kind of cube made of cement and wood with a large grating that separated the door from the sidewalk. She rang the bell for some time but no one answered. Finally she decided to ask in the nearby houses if anyone had seen him. Her search was hopeless. The house to the left was empty; on the right, it took a very long time for anyone to come to the door. The woman who opened a peephole said she didn’t even know that her neighbor was named Rolando Garro. When Shorty returned to the magazine offices it was already 2:30. No one had learned anything. The only thing certain was that there was no record in hospitals, clinics, or police stations of the chief having suffered an accident.
They spent a long time in confusion, exchanging ideas, not knowing what to do. Finally they decided to go home and meet again at four to see whether by then there would be any news about the editor.
Shorty had taken just a few steps toward the bus stop when she felt somebody grab her arm. It was the photographer. Ceferino was so nervous he could barely speak:
“I always knew this was dangerous, that this exposé could give us a lot of problems,” he said, stumbling over his words. “What do you think happened, Julieta? Are they holding the boss prisoner? Have they done anything to him?”
“We don’t know yet that anything’s happened,” she responded, in a fury. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Maybe something urgent turned up suddenly, some plan of his, or a party, I don’t know. A little patience, Ceferino. We’ll see this afternoon. He’ll probably turn up and everything will be explained. Don’t get ahead of yourself, and above all, don’t do anything stupid. You’ll have time to be scared later. Now, let go of me, please. I’m tired and I want to go home. To think calmly and rest a little. It’s better to have a cool head for what may happen.”
The photographer let her go but still managed to murmur as she was walking away:
“This smells very bad to me, Julieta. His disappearance means something serious.”
“Shit-eating coward,” she thought without responding. An hour later, when she reached her house in Five Corners, instead of preparing something to eat she lay down in her bed. She was alarmed, too, though she would have hidden that from Ceferino and the reporters on the weekly. Rolando Garro never just disappeared like this without letting anybody know, least of all on the day when work assignments were made for the week, and materials for the next issue were discussed. Could his disappearance be connected to the exposé of Engineer Cárdenas? If this was a real disappearance, most likely he was safe. Now she felt very tired. It wasn’t the morning’s activity, however, but concern, misgivings, suspicions regarding what could have happened to the boss that had her stupefied with fatigue.
When she awoke and looked at the clock, it was four in the afternoon. She had slept close to an hour. The first time in her life she had taken a siesta. She washed her face and returned to the offices of Exposed. All her colleagues were there, with long faces. None of them had heard anything at all about Rolando Garro.
“We’ll go to the police and file a complaint,” Shorty decided. “Something’s happened to the chief, no doubt about it. Let’s have the police look for him, then.”
The entire editorial staff of Exposed moved to the Surquillo police station, which was very close to the offices of the magazine, right on Calle Dante. They asked to speak to the chief. He kept them standing in the little courtyard at the entrance, next to a large statue of the Virgin, for close to half an hour. Finally he had them come into his office. It was old man Sotillos who explained that they were upset because Señor Rolando Garro, their boss, had not been seen for the past twenty-four hours; there was no precedent for his disappearing like this, without saying a word, precisely on the day when he met with all the reporters to hand out assignments for the week. The mustached chief, a police colonel who put on airs, had them file a complaint, which all of them signed. He promised that he would begin the inquiry immediately and would let them know as soon as he had any information.
When they left the station, fearing that the mustached colonel wouldn’t do anything, they decided to go to the firm of the lawyer for Exposed. Both Sotillos and Shorty knew Dr. Julius Arispe, who received them immediately in his office on España Avenue though it was close to seven in the evening. He was an amiable man who shook hands with everybody. He would brush his nose from time to time, as if he were frightening away a fly. He listened carefully to what Shorty said and said yes, the matter was alarming, especially when it had to do with a prestigious journalist like Señor Garro; he would alert the minister of the interior, who, aside from everything else, was a personal friend of his.
When they left the law offices, night had fallen. What else could they do? At that hour, nothing. They agreed to meet the next day at ten o’clock at the Exposed offices. They said goodbye and Shorty heard Ceferino Argüello approaching to talk to her alone. She stopped him dead:
“Not now, Ceferino,” she said in a hard voice. “I know you’re scared to death. I know you think the boss’s disappearance has to do with your photos of the orgy in Chosica. I’m worried too, and frightened. But for now, there’s nothing more to say about the matter. Not a single word until we know what to do about Señor Garro. Understood, Ceferino? I’m very nervous, so don’t bother me anymore, please. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
She walked away from him and, remembering that she hadn’t eaten anything all day, when she reached Five Corners sat down in the same filthy coffee shop where she’d had breakfast that morning. But before ordering anything, she got up and continued walking to her house. Why order anything if she wasn’t hungry? She wouldn’t be able to swallow any food she put in her mouth. She walked very quickly along the Junín Alleyway because it was dark, and this was the time for buying and selling drugs, prostitution, and holdups in the neighborhood. As she walked past a grate, a dog came out to bark, and frightened her.
In her house, she turned on the television and kept changing channels to see whether they said anything about her boss on the news. Not a word. After she turned off the TV, she continued to sit in the living room, lit by a single bulb that shed a greasy light among the piles of newspapers and magazines that crowded the room. What could have happened to him? A silvery cobweb hung from the ceiling, over her head. A kidnapping? Difficult. Rolando Garro didn’t have a cent, what money could they get out of him? Blackmail by the terrorists? Unlikely. Exposed didn’t get involved in politics, though it sometimes did publish personal exposés of politicians. Could it be true that the editor did these by order of the Doctor, the head of Fujimori’s Intelligence Service? That rumor had been making the rounds for a long time, but Shorty had never dared to ask Rolando Garro about something so delicate. If the Shining Path or the MRTA wanted a journalist, they would have taken the editor of El Comercio, or a television channel, or the RPP conglomerate, not the owner of a publication as small as Exposed.
She was sitting there, in the shadows, without the energy to go to bed, when a minute or an hour later—she had no idea how much time had passed—she heard someone knocking at her front door. She started in her chair with fright and her hands were wet with perspiration. They knocked again, this time in a peremptory way.
“Who is it?” she asked, not opening the door.
“Police,” said a man’s voice. “We’re looking for Señorita Julieta Leguizamón. Is that you?”
“Why are you looking for her?” she asked. Her heart had begun to beat very rapidly.
“We’re from the Ministry of the Interior, señorita,” the same voice replied. “Open up, please, and I’ll explain everything. You have nothing to fear.”
She opened the door, very frightened, and saw a man in uniform with another man in civilian clothes. In the distance, behind the small houses in the lane, on the street, there was a police car with all its lights on.
“Captain Félix Madueño, at your service,” said the official, raising his hand to his kepi. “Are you the journalist Julieta Leguizamón?”
“Yes, that’s me,” she concurred, trying to control her voice. “What can I do for you?”
“You have to accompany us to make an identification,” the captain said. “We’re sorry to bother you at this hour, señorita, but it’s very urgent.”
“An identification?” she asked.
“A group of you filed a complaint this afternoon regarding the disappearance of Señor Rolando Garro, the editor of Exposed, in the Surquillo police station. Isn’t that so?”
“Yes, yes, our boss,” said Shorty. “Do you have news about him?”
“Perhaps,” the captain intimated. “That’s why we need to make this identification. It won’t take very long. Don’t worry: we’ll bring you back home.”
Only when she was sitting in the back seat of the car, which pulled away toward Grau Avenue, did Shorty have the courage to ask something that she suspected:
“Where are we going, Captain?”
“To the morgue, señorita.”
She didn’t say anything else. She felt she didn’t have enough air, she opened her mouth and tried to fill her lungs with the cool breeze coming in through the partially opened small window. They drove along dark streets and finally she recognized Grau Avenue near the Dos de Mayo Hospital. She felt dizzy, as if she were suffocating, and was afraid she might faint at any moment. At times she closed her eyes, and as she did when she had insomnia, she counted numbers. She barely noticed that the car had stopped; she was vaguely aware that Captain Félix Madueño was helping her out and, holding her arm, led her down some damp, dismal passageways with walls that smelled of cresol and medicines, an odor that nauseated her and obliged her to control her retching. At last they entered a brightly lit room where there were many people, all men, some in white lab coats and face masks. Her legs trembled and she knew that if Captain Madueño let her go, she’d fall to the floor.
“Here, this way,” someone said, and she felt herself carried, pushed, held up by men who scrutinized her with a mixture of insolence, compassion, and mockery.
“Do you recognize him? Is this Rolando Garro?” another voice asked, one that Shorty hadn’t heard so far.
It was a kind of table or board on two sawhorses, lit by a very white reflector light; the silhouette of the man under her eyes was stained all over with blood and dried mud.
“We know this is difficult for you, because, as you’ll see, they bashed in his face with stones, or kicked it in. Can you recognize him? Is he who we think he is? Is this the journalist Rolando Garro?”
She was totally paralyzed, she couldn’t move or say a word, she couldn’t even nod, her eyes fixed on that muddied, bloody, pestilential silhouette.
“Of course she’s recognized him, of course it’s him,” she heard Captain Félix Madueño say. “But Doctor, it would be a good idea for you to give her a tranquilizer or something. Don’t you see what’s happened to her? Any minute now she’ll faint on us.”