We took the only taxi whose driver was brave enough to pick us up. At three in the morning, and with the signs of our recent combat clearly visible (Sandoval’s shirt was missing all of its buttons; I had a superficial but conspicuous cut on my chin), we can’t have looked like a very trustworthy duo.
The whole way, I kept my eyes fixed on the meter. I knew exactly how much money I had left, and it wasn’t a lot. The first taxi had cost me a bundle, though it was nothing compared to the small fortune I’d laid out for the damage Sandoval had done to that wretched little bar. I didn’t want to arrive at his house and have to ask Alejandra for money.
Poor girl. She was waiting in the hallway, protected by a mantilla she’d thrown over her nightclothes and her dressing gown. Before we went in, I paid the cab fare. Alejandra told me to ask the driver to wait so that he could take me home. She didn’t know I was flat broke, and naturally, I didn’t tell her; I imagine I muttered some excuse. Between the two of us, we got Pablo inside and to bed. After that chore had been accomplished, Alejandra offered me a cup of coffee. I was about to refuse, but she looked so helpless, so sad, that I decided to stay awhile.
She wept silently when I gave her the news about Nacho. Pablo hadn’t told her anything. “He never tells me anything,” she declared, raising her voice. I felt uncomfortable. The whole situation was very complicated. I loved Sandoval like a brother, but his addiction aroused more impatience than compassion in me, especially when I saw the anguish in her green eyes.
Green eyes? An alarm went off inside my head. I bounded to my feet with a start and asked her to see me to the door. She wondered where I expected to find a taxi at that hour of the morning. It was past four, she said. I told her I preferred to walk. She replied that I was crazy if I intended to walk all the way to Caballito in the middle of the night, with all the things that were happening lately. I said there wouldn’t be any problem. Whatever the situation, all I had to do was to show my Judiciary credentials, and that was that. It was the truth—I’d never had the slightest difficulty in that respect. Of course, I’d been prudent enough not to flash any such ID in a wrecked bar, with my court colleague sipping whiskey on the floor beside me.
She walked me to the door, told me good-bye, and thanked me. Often, in the twenty-five years that have passed since then, I’ve wondered about my feelings toward Alejandra. I’ve never had a problem acknowledging that I admired her, I appreciated her, I pitied her. But was I in love with her? Back then, I couldn’t answer that question, and I continue to think that it isn’t pertinent. I’ve never been able to desire my friends’ wives; I’d find that unforgivable. Believe me, I don’t consider myself a moralist. But I could never have looked at her as anything other than my friend Pablo Sandoval’s wife. If at some point I did fall in love with another man’s wife, I was careful not to strike up a friendship with the husband. But I promised myself not to speak of that woman here, so let’s come to a full stop.
I walked across half the city on that cold July night. A few cars and a military patrol in a light truck passed me along the way, but nobody bothered me. When I reached my apartment building, it was past six. As always after a sleepless night, my weariness caused me to conflate recent memories with those from the day before, so that images of the fight in the bar, of Pablo’s cousin’s disappearance, and of the previous morning’s breakfast seemed to be part of the same single recollection. At that hour, all I wanted was a warm bath and a two-hour nap that would distance me from everything that had happened. So when I stepped out of the elevator on the fourth floor, I had no idea what was waiting for me.
My apartment door was open, and a beam of light was projected out into the dark corridor. Had burglars robbed me? I walked to the door and crossed the threshold without thinking that the intruder might still be inside, and in fact no one was there. But I reflected on that later, because as soon as I reached the doorway, I was terrified to discover that the apartment was in absolute chaos. Chairs and armchairs were overturned, the bookcases tipped over, the books ripped apart and scattered everywhere. In the bedroom, the mattress had been slashed to pieces and foam rubber littered the floor. The kitchen, too, was a mess. Stunned as I was, I didn’t notice right away that my television set and my stereo system were nowhere to be found. So this was the work of thieves, right? In that case, the violence they’d acted with didn’t make sense. Eventually, I went into the bathroom, sure of finding it a shambles like the rest of the place. But there was something else, something apart from the shredded shower curtain and the contents of the medicine chest strewn over the bathroom tiles and the bidet faucets turned on full in an attempt to flood the place. There was also a message, written on the mirror in soap: “Chaparro son of a bitch lucky this time. Next time you’re meat.”
The writing was large and neat, the work of someone who was in no hurry and felt totally in charge of the situation. Something was scribbled at the end of the message, but hard as I tried to decipher it, it remained illegible. I figured it was the signature of the prick who wrote it. What kind of man could act with such impunity, could lord it over others in such a way? Was there someone who had an unresolved issue with me? As I asked myself these questions, I was buffeted by a cold wave of fear.
I went out. With brilliant foresight, I tried to lock the apartment door. Only then did I notice, key in hand, that the lock had been kicked in.