A Woman’s Eye

Born in Manacor, Majorca, Spam, MARIA ANTONIA OLIVER also maintains a home in Barcelona. A leading Catalan writer, she has written more than six novels and is also a noted translator of American and English classics into her native language. Her mystery novel A Study in Lilac was very well received in Europe and North America.

Her translator, Kathleen McNerney, is a professor of Spanish and Catalan at the University of West Virginia in Morgantown.

I

“Is Mr. Guiu here?” he asked.

“I’m Ms. Guiu,” I said.

We looked each other over, eyebrows arched by surprise. He sure hadn’t expected to find a female detective. For my part, I certainly never expected to find a man like him in my greasy office. What a man-tall, well dressed, well built, the kind that turns your head on the street, the kind you want a hug from when you have them nearby.

“May I help you?”

He took a chair from in front of Quim’s desk and sat down in front of mine. His gestures were secure and indifferent, as if he hadn’t done anything in his whole life except move chairs from one place to another in my office. He had gray eyes, and his fingernails were manicure-clean and polished,

“Look, I… it’s kind of sensitive, you know? I mean…”

“Does it have to do with fucking around, by any chance?” I cut in quickly. It was a system that on more than one occasion had spared me having to play the role of psychiatrist or confessor, and then lending a shoulder to cry on,

“What?”

“Your wife has a lover and you want us to catch them ‘in flagrante,’ right?”

“Good heavens, lady!”

“Then maybe your lover is messing around with someone else and…”

He smiled sadly. No, it wasn’t that, either. He even seemed offended.

“Then…” I was about to let out another guess, but I withheld it. If I kept on chasing wild geese like that, I could lose my client, and Guiu Investigation Agency couldn’t afford such a luxury.

“Look, it’s that my wife disappeared three days ago.”

So I wasn’t so far off base after all, shit! He didn’t need to put on such an act, for Christ’s sake!

“Just like that?” I asked. “Has she called you, or did she leave a letter or anything?”

“No, nothing at all”.

“Did you have a fight? I mean, do you have any idea why she might have wanted to disappear?”

“No, not at all.”

“Are you very wealthy?”

“I’ll pay whatever you charge.”

“No, I didn’t mean that. I wasn’t worried about my fees, I was thinking of the possibility of a kidnapping,”

He turned pale and looked scared, I thought he was going to fall off his chair.

“Why don’t you tell me about it in more detail?” I said immediately,

“Okay, maybe, but…”

“But what?”

“Before giving you more details I want to know whether you’re going to take on the job…”

“But our policy is not to accept any job until we know the details… Have you called the police?”

“No, her family doesn’t want that.”

“Why not? What about what you want? Have they looked for her themselves?”

He gestured for me to stop. He was smiling, but barely.

“Look, her family, especially her father, doesn’t want anyone to know about it, because they’re high-class people, know what I mean? Me, I’d do anything to find her… just to know she’s okay. You understand, right? If she doesn’t want to come back, what can I do? We can’t force people to do things they don’t want to do, after all…”

“So both you and her family believe that she ran away from home…”

“No, no, we don’t have any idea, not at all.”

He didn’t say anything for a while. I waited. I was prepared to be patient. After all, that morning’s work was pretty mechanical, and for me it was a lot more fun to contemplate those eyes, that mouth half hidden by a moustache cultivated with a studied nonchalance. Much more fun than typing up reports on people who had purchased televisions or refrigerators and then tried to pay for them in installments.

“We started to call the hospitals,” he finally said. “But then we figured there were professionals out there who could do it better, more discreetly, than we could-you know what I mean, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“So, will you take it on?”

“You said before that we wouldn’t have to argue about money, or something like that, right?”

He smiled. It was sort of a suppressed smile, as if he didn’t want to seem too satisfied. He brushed his hand across his forehead and installed himself more comfortably in the chair,

“You can send me the bill, Miss Guiu. To discuss money at the moment seems like an insult to my wife,”

“But you might be able to find another agency that would do it cheaper,”

“Perhaps, but I feel confident with you. I was surprised to find a woman doing this kind of work, but for the job I want you to do, I think it’s better to have a woman than a man.”

“Why?”

“Well, because it’ll be easier for you to get inside the mentality of another woman, and that way you’ll do better at tracking her down.”

“Okay. Now let’s start at the beginning,” I said.

I reached for a notebook and turned on the tape recorder.

“Listen, Miss Guiu, why don’t we go to a quieter place to discuss this?”

It seemed to me that it would be hard to find a quieter place, A more pleasant place, that would be easy.

II

When I got into the car, I was assaulted by an overly enthusiastic dog that jumped on me from the backseat and made itself comfortable on my lap,

“You’re the first person she’s paid any attention to since Monica’s not around. She hasn’t eaten a bite for two days, poor thing.”

I was moved as I watched Victor and the dog leaving. When the two had left the bar, I began to go over the notes.

Monica Pradell, thirty-two years old, married for eight years to Victor Cabanes, only child of Mateu Pradell and Angela Comessa.

Mr. Pradell, head of a construction company. High social standing.

Mr. Cabanes, architect, partner of Mr. Pradell in several development projects. Architecture office together with A.M. and J.F.R.

Monica and Victor live in the pavilion located on Mr. and Mrs. Pradell’s land. No kids. Ideal couple.

Both Monica and Ms. Comessa, housewives.

Monica fond of enamel work. Serene character, sure of herself, not a show-off, a real homebody, reserved, not many friends, a few girl friends from high school. Classical dressing style, with some extravagant details-scarves, jewelry, flowers. Very high heels, always. Very good-looking legs, almost sculptured. Loves the sea. Good health. Not a spendthrift, except for the beauty parlor. Lots of changes in hairstyle and color.

She didn’t have any reason to run away: she was happy. She wasn’t scatterbrained; reject the possibility of a prank of some kind. A lover or affair was out of the question. So was suicide. How about kidnapping, then? So far, no signs.

Afraid that something has happened to her, but she always carried a card in her purse; in case of accident notify…

Datebook on her desk, but no significant notations. Normal appointments at the beauty parlor and with some girl friends.

Not a member of any club or association.

Last time seen: Thursday, February 17. Beige suit with lilac silk blouse and a beige felt hat with a ribbon and fabric flowers. There don’t seem to be any jewels missing, but they aren’t exactly sure how many she had. No large withdrawal from her personal account. She usually carried a couple of hundred dollars with her, plus credit cards. She was supposed to go to the beauty parlor, but she didn’t show up, Very curly hair, the color of mahogany.

The photograph Victor brought me didn’t give any details away. It was of a group, a blurry snapshot, and that silhouette in a bathing suit surrounded by other silhouettes could have been me myself.

III

“Mr. Cabanes, please.”

They put me through the sieve: the telephone operator, the head secretary, an overseer who insisted on knowing why and about what I wanted to talk to Victor. Finally the voice of his personal secretary said, as soon as I told her my name, that Mr. Cabanes was in a meeting but he had ordered that he should be notified right away if I called,

“Tell me, Miss Guiu… have you found something?”

“No, not yet. Listen, Mr. Cabanes, I’d like to talk to you, to find out more details.”

“All right, right now, if you wish…”

“By the way, remember I need another photograph. I’d like to have another look at the datebook, too, and if possible, I’d like to see her clothes, her jewelry, the atmosphere, in a word. To get a better idea, you know?”

There was a pause. Finally:

“Very well, come over for dinner. To the pavilion, I mean, around nine, is that okay?”

“I warn you I’m a vegetarian…”

“Listen, Miss Guiu, it doesn’t matter to me what you are or aren’t. The only thing I’m interested in is the job I gave you to do. Nothing more.”

Pedantic shit-head!

“All right then: your wife isn’t in any clinic, hospital, or hotel in the city. Nor is she at the morgue. That’s all I know at the moment. I’m not the Holy Ghost, you know.”

“It’s all right, don’t get mad. Tonight, come in through the door on Modolell Street. That way you won’t have to go through my in-laws’ yard.

I was ringing the doorbell of the pavilion at nine on the dot. It was a cozy house, and very luxurious, of course. It was a rich people’s nest, with all the comforts, both necessary and superfluous, and those are the most comfortable ones. Spacious. Pleasant. And Mr. Victor Cabanes-Jesus, I could have smothered him with kisses. But I kept my grip: a job was a job. Before dinner I scrutinized the belongings of the missing person. The quantity was indescribable: dresses, jackets, skirts, blouses, coats… lots of everything. Incredibly high heels, for sure.

“I couldn’t tell you whether anything is missing or not,” Victor told me. “But at least the suitcases are where they belong.”

Then, the jewelry. Some real, some not. I mean costume jewelry. But good stuff, and lots of it.

“The only things missing are the enamel pendant and ring she made herself. She was very proud of them and never took them off.”

We dined by candlelight and started on the photos.

“Monica doesn’t like to have her picture taken. I couldn’t find many at all… a few from my in-laws, some I had, and a couple from her desk.”

The champagne was leaving the bottle little by little, and the warm atmosphere in the room almost made me forget why we were looking at the pictures. Let it be said in passing, they were all really bad. No works of art, that’s for sure.

“Where was this taken?” I asked.

“The Aegean Sea. Didn’t I tell you Monica was crazy about the sea? That must have been from our honeymoon.”

“You’re wearing the same sweater you’re wearing now.”

“Oh, yeah, it’s true!”

He laughed. It was a romantic story: Monica had given him that sweater when they were on their honeymoon. And now, a few months ago, on their anniversary, she had given him another one just like it that she’d come across by chance in a shop. Victor’s eyes watered a little as he told me the story, and I couldn’t help feeling a touch of jealousy. It was hard to have to recognize, but that’s what it was: jealousy.

“Is this the pendant you mentioned before?”

The photo we were looking at presented me with a woman with distinct features. She wasn’t pretty, but she had character: eyes whose smallness was well disguised by skillful makeup, a nose difficult to hide, and a rather formless mouth. An enamel pendant with matching ring, long fingers with exaggerated nails. It was the only photo that was of any use to me at all.

“Did she always keep them so long?” I asked.

“What?”

“Her fingernails.”

“Oh, yes, and picked up the habit of drumming her nails on the pendant, making a little noise like when you clink glasses together, and I’ll tell you the truth, it made me nervous.”

“Do you have the negative of this picture?”

“What do you want it for?”

“So I can make a copy for my partner… don’t worry, man, he’s going to help me find her.”

“Surely you don’t intend to go around showing pictures of my wife all over the place?”

“And I’m going to need the addresses of the people your wife sees the most.”

“But are you planning to go see those people and ask them about Monica?”

He was really scared.

“Oh, yes, and the datebook. Perhaps you didn’t find any thing unusual, but I’m more experienced, and…” I said in a very professional tone of voice.

“I’m sure I told you, Miss Guiu, that we wanted the utmost discretion in this matter.”

The man was capable of snapping up like an oyster. How exasperating! What did he expect me to do? How could I find a missing person who hadn’t left a trace if not by trying to pick up a few traces?

I said all that in shouts. Offended. And the oyster opened up a little.

“Now how come you’re sore, Miss Guiu?”

“I’m not sore. Well, could I see your wife’s makeup? To judge by the picture, she must have been an expert at playing cutaneous dress-up.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing, just she was real good at making herself up,”

“Oh, well, yeah, of course.”

He showed me to the bathroom.

But I had more lipstick myself than Monica had. Perhaps the only thing she took with her was her makeup. Among the few that were left, there was a gorgeous lipstick, of an incredible color, with a case that looked like gold. I fell in love with it.

“May I take this lipstick with me?” I asked.

“Sure… but what good can it do you?”

“A question of detail, Mr. Cabanes.”

IV

“Yes, we’re good friends, but I hadn’t seen her for about a month. As far as I know, she was only seeing Patricia.”

“Who’s Patricia?”

“To be perfectly frank, miss, I think she’s a little on the murky side.”

“Where does she live?”

“Somewhere in the Eixample area, I think, but I’m not sure. But I think I do have her telephone number… that is, if she hasn’t moved… you never know, with her type,”

As I was leaving, Mrs. Culell held the door open and said, taking on a secretive tone:

“You may find out, miss, whether Monica and Victor are really the ideal couple they seem to be.”

What a hypocrite! And here I thought that people with bucks weren’t so gossipy, or at least that they had enough dignity to hide it.

I called from the first booth I could find. No answer.

I had another appointment that morning, with another of Monica’s friends. It might be useful to compare the information the Culell woman had given me and figure out how-much of it was bad blood; not that that would do me much good, but I was curious about it. However, the very thought of going through yet another session of good manners and hypocrisy had me in hysterics.

I pulled myself together and rang the doorbell. This lady had a maid.

“Victor must be beside himself,” Mrs. Torres said with a glass of whiskey in her hand.

For me, the maid brought in some orange juice, the kind you make with real oranges.

“When was the last time you saw Mrs. Monica Pradell?”

“It must have been-wait a minute.” She looked at her calendar. “Yes, two weeks ago. We ate together at the Pradells’, in the big house.”

“Do you know someone by the name of Patricia?”

She knew her, all right.

“I’ve never been able to understand it at all, such a close friendship. Wait, now that I think about it, I saw Monica with that girl, let’s see, about a week ago, yeah, I saw them from a distance. I always tell Monica, ‘I don’t know how you can be such bosom buddies with that… blockhead.’”

“Do they get along? The couple, I mean.”

“Victor and Monica? Oh, yeah, they make such a nice couple, both so good-looking. And so crazy about each other.”

“What do you think could have happened to Mrs. Pradell? I mean, do you know or suspect whether she had some motive for disappearing just like that?”

“I’ve no idea. It’s all so strange… poor Victor. I recall that they had an argument that night we had dinner, well, a friendly argument, anyway, nothing tragic, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, miss; I’m just telling you so you’ll see how much they loved each other, well…”

“What was the argument about?”

That was the first I’d heard about the development. I pretended I wasn’t too interested. I didn’t want to jump the gun before I was pretty sure about it. When I left Mrs. Torres’s place, I called Quim right away.

“I’m asking you as a professional favor, man.”

“But I’ve never done anything like that, Lònia!” he whimpered.

“Tell them you’re there on my behalf. They’re not going to hassle you. And do it now, okay? I need to know by noon today.”

“Why don’t you go yourself, sweetie pie?”

“Because I have other things to do, sweetie pie yourself! Oh, come on, man. You owe me more than erne favor, you know that.” And I hung up.

I dialed again. Patricia still wasn’t answering. I dialed again: my friend at the telephone company gave me the address.

When I got to the office I found a note from Quim on my desk: “Kid, I can see you really know how to get along with people. When I gave your name to those guys at the Property Registry, and at the College of Lawyers, too, they treated me like a king. How do you do it, honey? You’ll have to clue me in, I include, under separate cover, the results of my research. I’m at your disposal for whatever might be necessary, Mrs. Paloni, you know that. I’m having dinner at that rabbit restaurant of yours and I’ll have them put it on your bill. I deserve it, don’t you think? Oh, yeah: your beloved client called-wants you to call.”

Quim’s research, as he called it, confirmed that Mr. Pradell was the owner of some land along the seashore. And that there was a project in the name of Victor Cabanes to develop it, already presented and approved, but held up “sine die.” So far, okay.

Then to Patricia’s place. But she’d already flown the coop. She’d left the apartment four days ago, without leaving a forwarding address.

“What if she gets mail?” I asked the doorlady.

“She said she was sure she wouldn’t get any.”

At the nearest telephone booth, Victor Cabanes’s secretary asked me if it would be convenient to come by the office.

“Right away,” I said.

Ten minutes after that “right away” they were showing me into Victor’s office. He was waiting for me, looking as though he needed to ask me to do him a favor.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“That’s what I’d like to know,” he answered with a sticky sweetness.

“Why did you want to see me, Mr. Cabanes?”

Naturally, he wanted to know how my investigations were going. What his wife’s friends had told me. If studying Monica’s datebook had turned anything up. Etc., etc.

“What do you know about Patricia?” I cut him off.

“Who’s Patricia?”

“A very good friend of your wife.”

“I remember she had a Mend who was a little on the flaky side… but what does that have to do with Monica?”

“It turns out you’re the only one who doesn’t know anything about the friendship your wife had with this woman. It also turns out that she left her apartment exactly four days ago: the very day after Monica Pradell’s disappearance. What do you think about that?”

He was taken aback. I took advantage:

“By the way, how’s the development going?”

“Development? What development?”

“Blue Sea. It’s a terrific project, Mr. Cabanes. Too bad it’s being held up, isn’t it? And I’m afraid that if your wife doesn’t turn up, Mr. Pradell won’t ever get around to closing the deal on it…”

“I’ve no idea what you’re getting at, Miss Guiu…”

“Do you love Monica Pradell, Mr. Cabanes?”

“Listen, what did those reptiles tell you? What are you thinking, Miss Guiu? What do you suspect?”

It took God’s help and then some to get him to confess. And once I had it, I realized that the confession wasn’t going to do me much good. No, he didn’t love Monica anymore. He was looking for her because, in fact, her father wasn’t about to let that land be developed if his heir didn’t go along with it.

“And you don’t know where she is, right?” I said with my very best sarcasm. “You don’t suppose she could have run off precisely so she wouldn’t be forced to say yes to something she didn’t want, do you?”

I was beating him to death, and behaving like a spoiled kid, too. Victor was thrown completely out of gear.

“No, I don’t think that,” he said. “Nor do I know where she is, Miss Guiu. And I must say I don’t care one bit for your attitude.”

“Well, it’s up to you. I’ll drop the case.”

“No, don’t do that.”

“Could this be revenge on your wife’s part?”

“Revenge? For what?”

“You told me you didn’t love her…”

“Monica doesn’t know that. Or if she knows, she doesn’t care. She doesn’t love me either.”

“Why do you live together, then?”

But that was going beyond the limits of conjugal intimacy, propriety, appearances, and all that.

He invited me to dinner at his place again, this time not on working time, he said. What a pity to have met him under such circumstances.

The soiree was delightful, and I went home with Monica’s dog. It seems the Pradells were heartbroken to see her so sad and thin, and Victor didn’t want to take her to the kennels, but he couldn’t take care of her, either. She paid so much attention to me, and maybe I’d like to keep her until Monica came back.

Sure, glad to.

When I left, he kissed me on the cheek.

“Tomorrow I’ll start investigating Patricia,” I told him. “I think we might just find something there.”

“Fine. Give me a call.”

V

“Hadn’t she ever mentioned that she was thinking of moving out of the apartment?”

“She wasn’t nice at all. If I didn’t say hello to her, she never said a word to me. Why would she mention anything to me?”

“Did she live alone?”

“Yes, but she had a lot of company… especially men. Well, I don’t want to bear false witness… sometimes women came over, too.”

“What did she live on?”

“I don’t know… I suppose the people who came to see her, don’t you think?”

“She didn’t have a job anywhere?”

“Not that I know. Listen, miss, has she done something?”

“Have you ever seen this woman?” I showed her Monica’s picture.

She looked it over from every angle. Up close. Far away. She examined the details.

“This face looks familiar to me, it looks kind of familiar, all right.”

“Could I have a look at the apartment?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t be able to do that, miss. You’d have to go to the agency that rents it out. I…”

“You have the key, don’t you?”

“Yes, but I can only show it to people with a card from the agency. Besides, there isn’t anything of hers there anymore.”

“How about if instead of a card from the agency, I give you one of mine?”

I showed her a ten-dollar bill.

“Well, okay, just because I think you’re okay. But don’t go telling them at the agency that I let you in.”

The elevator stank of trash, and it was slow.

“Did she live here for long?” I kept up the questioning.

“About two years, more or less.”

“Did she get any mail?”

“A little, not much. Maybe one or two letters the whole time she lived here.” She opened the apartment door. “Both from here, from banks… they weren’t personal letters. The fact is that people don’t get personal letters anymore, do they, miss? Just letters from the bank and junk mail.”

The doorlady went on philosophizing and opening drawers. She took her job very seriously. Meantime, I was trying to get an idea of what Patricia’s life must have been like in that apartment, so impersonal now.

There was a dresser scarf on the side table, with a rumple in it. A clump of starch maybe? No, it was a piece of paper,

“Could you open the blinds, please?” I said to the woman.

She obligingly hurried to do so. I stuck my hand under the cloth and stuffed the paper into my pocket.

Nothing else of significance in the apartment. Once I was on the street, I took a look at the paper. It was an empty envelope with the address written by hand. So Patricia had received a letter, but it didn’t say from whom, or on what street.

I had to ask Quim for help again.

“Come on, with your detective ID card it’ll be easy. You do these”-I gave him a list-“and I’ll do the rest,”

“Know what I think, sweetie? I think I like the easier cases better.”

“Don’t give me that stuff, Quim. Commercial reports are a piece of shit, and the skirt-chasing cases get boring. Have they brought in the copies of the photo?”

“Your problem is that that jerk has you wrapped around his little finger. He even stuck you with his dog. Yes, they brought the copies.”

“The dog! Where’s the dog?”

“I locked her up in the bathroom. I don’t like having animals around in the office.”

“I can’t leave her home alone all day long, the poor thing is depressed… and you, you animal, you lock her up in the bathroom!”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you got into collecting dogs, crazy lady. Collecting lipsticks is more peaceful.”

“Don’t mess with me, Quim,” I warned him severely. I went to let the dog out.

“It was doing weird things today, that animal,” Quim was saying.

She’d taken a big leak in the bathroom. She came out with her tail between her legs. She took a leap when she recognized me, and when I picked her up, she licked my face.

“Okay, Quim, go ahead and start something. What weird things was she doing? The dog, I mean.”

“She was sniffing my shoes and she started to howl and pull away from me. She’s nuts.”

“She’s probably hungry, poor thing,” I said. Then I went on: “Okay, that’s it. I’ll call you at Ton’s bar at six o’clock to see if you’ve found anything. Go on, clear out, off with you. Hey, don’t forget the picture!”

“I think I’m going to quit this job. I’m not the right type to take orders from a woman.” He was still grumbling when he got in the elevator.

I fed the dog and then grabbed the other envelope of photos to take with me to visit my share of the travel agencies. Nothing, a total failure. Quim too. Not at six, not at eight.

“Maybe Patricia bought the ticket?” mused Quim.

“For sure. But I gave her name to the agencies, too, and nothing’s turned up at all.”

“You’re so smart, Miss Paloni!” Quim said.

“A lot more than you. And don’t call me Paloni!”

“Dirty rotten lie: I gave her name to the agencies too. But she must have bought the tickets under a false name.”

VI

It felt as if I’d just gone to bed when the telephone rang. “You’re still in bed?” It was Quim’s voice. “Isn’t that nice!

I play the early bird and you’re still snoring!”

“What’s up?”

“I have a lead. I’m at the Osborn Agency, on Muntaner Street, between…”

“I know where it is. I’m on my way,”

I got dressed in a flash. The dog had destroyed the sole of one of my shoes. Luckily they were already worn out. The crepe soles stuck to the floor. All I had time to do was yell at her, and I left her curled up in a corner, trembling.

Quim was waiting for me at the door of the travel agency,

“They recognized Monica. Come in.”

“How was she dressed, do you recall?” I asked the man on the other side of the counter.

“A tailored outfit, light color. Lilac blouse. Curly hair, sort of…” the man recited.

“Mahogany-colored?” I asked.

“Mahogany? Dark red, it was.”

“That’s right. You’re very observant.”

“No, not really. I noticed her because she was very… elegant… and especially because she made this constant noise.”

I looked at him, surprised.

“Yes,” Quim interrupted. “She was wearing that medal that’s in the picture. And she kept tapping it with her fingernails.”

“It sounded like glass,” clarified the employee with satisfaction.

“She bought two tickets to Paris, the day after her disappearance. And she left a Paris address!”

“Well, make out a ticket for me. To Paris. For today, if possible,” I said.

“Have you lost your senses altogether?” Quim yelled, appalled.

“Don’t fail to feed the dog, you hear? We can’t let her starve to death now that she’s getting her appetite back.”

“Okay, okay, go to Paris. And don’t come back, dammit!”

VII

It was an apartment building. An old house that with some resources and a certain number of new doors had been transformed from a home for well-off bourgeois into a semiluxurious, semisnobbish Tower of Babel.

Patricia opened the door. She was an exuberant woman. She had on a rather transparent tunic and her hair was wound up in a towel. Her glasses were covered with rhinestones.

“Where’s Monica?” I asked right away.

The smile froze on her face, and her extraordinarily fleshy lips, traced with a line darker than the color of her lipstick, filled up with little wrinkles. Her queenly pose tottered, and she didn’t try to pretend.

“Who are you?” she asked.

She let me in, but she wouldn’t tell me where Monica was. Nor what they were doing, the two of them. But I had that figured out, and the more Patricia did to hide it, the surer I was. Women’s intuition, as they say, but also because of professional experience. The apartment was quite dark, but perhaps that would encourage secret-sharing.

“Do you realize I can turn you in for kidnapping, dear?”

“Why can’t they just leave her alone, poor kid?” she said.

“Don’t change the subject. Whether they leave her alone or not, that’s up to her family. They’re paying me to find her, and that’s what I’m going to do, no matter what.”

“So you’d ruin her life, now that she’s starting to fix it up?”

“With you, right?”

She wouldn’t go for it, though. She was just a childhood friend and she’d helped her escape, she said. Monica would have ended up in a nuthouse if it hadn’t been for her. Victor hadn’t told me that his wife was under the treatment of a psychiatrist, right? He hadn’t told me because he didn’t know.

So that was it! The three weekly Ps in her datebook. At first I’d been convinced they meant the beauty parlor, and so had Victor. Then later I thought it stood for Patricia, and it turned out it meant psychiatrist. Now it was clear as a bell: all that was left was for Patricia to be willing to confess, and then Monica herself. Piece of cake. I was just sorry about how Victor was going to feel.

“Why was she under psychiatric care?” I asked.

“You didn’t know about it, did you?”

“Of course I knew, naturally,” I lied. “Victor knew top. And I know why, but I want you to tell me. So don’t go making up any absurd stories.”

“She was done in by her monotonous life. Depressed.”

She didn’t even buy that one herself, of course. She was good at keeping things under the rug, that poor excuse for a Sappho.

“And you, of course, decided to rescue her, out of generosity, right? What did you get out of this deal? What did you gain by deceiving the poor gal? She’s got a pretty substantial bank account.”

“I didn’t do it for the money!”

Now we were getting somewhere. I spurred on:

“No? You did it out of the kindness of your heart, then? Come on, where’s Monica? If I don’t find her, it won’t be just a kidnapping, it’ll be murder.”

It took pain and perspiration, threats, lies, promises… She wouldn’t budge, this gal, but I finally managed to get her between a rock and a hard place, and she began to fall apart altogether.

Her dark voice, with a foreign accent I wasn’t able to identify, broke down. First she cried and cried, and then, sheltered by the darkness, she explained it all to me.

VIII

“Patricia made me swear I wouldn’t make out my report until you’re on your way to Australia,” I said.

“Will you stick to that?” Monica asked.

“If you’ll write a letter for me explaining the whole thing. It’s a matter of professional pride.”

We were in the bar of the Carse Hotel, near Westminster. Patricia had set up the appointment herself the previous day, but Monica still didn’t quite trust me.

“Why did you come to London?” I asked, just to say something.

“To get ready to go to Australia. Patricia must have told you that, didn’t she?”

“Just out of curiosity, personal not professional,” I said. “Why didn’t you take all the money out of your account? Because I assume your father will disinherit you.”

“So I wouldn’t leave any leads behind. But you can see that didn’t do me any good. It didn’t work, either, for us to stay apart until everything was ready. If my husband had hired a man instead of a woman, even if he’d found Patricia, she’d have gotten rid of him. But you put it all together, and now look.”

I’d established some kind of complicity with Monica in spite of myself. I didn’t like Patricia at all, but Monica was so pleasant, so peaceful, just the opposite of that gnawing tigress. But she did have, as Victor had told me, the habit of drumming her fingernails against that enamel pendant. It really was unnerving.

“Well, what’s the deal then, about the letter?” she said.

“You can write it right now, if you like,” I said.

“No, I want to really give it some thought. Tomorrow, same time, here, okay?”

“Absolutely.”

She got up, stretching her arm out to caress me. I pulled back instinctively.

“You’re still an uptight, repressed conservative, my friend,” she said softly, I watched her leave, balancing on a set of spike heels that made me dizzy. She must not have been too comfortable in them, because when she went to go up the two steps leading to the vestibule, she twisted an ankle and nearly ended up all over the floor, She turned around and smiled mischievously.

The next day, at the same time, Monica had had to go out, but she’d left the letter for me. Typewritten, shit! But I assumed that the signature would make it plenty valid.

That night I caught a plane for home. With the money I’d get for that job, I’d treat myself to a nice little week off.

IX

Victor was waiting for me at his pavilion. He was furious. He’d been calling me every day at the office, and Quim told him the truth at first, that is, that I was in Paris and then in London checking out some leads, and then lies, that is, that I was still in London. I’d given my word to the two women that I’d give them a little head start, ten days to be exact. Ten desperate days for Victor, I was sick to death of sticking around the house, and Quim was in a rage for having to deal with the details.

He ushered me in without saying a word, but he made up for that with the look on his face. His curiosity about what had happened overcame his anger at not being kept informed, After all, we had agreed to keep him abreast of all the details.

I gave him Monica’s letter.

Dear Victor,

By the time you read this letter, I won’t be Monica anymore. Get used to the idea. Think of it as a death, because that’s the truth. I haven’t been your wife for a very long time, and I’ve had to make colossal efforts to keep you from noticing. It’s not just a question of love worn out, it’s a matter of total incompatibility, not just with you personally, but with you as a man, a male. I know it’s going to hurt you, but I’ve been Pat’s lover for a long time. My sexual relationship with you wasn’t a disaster because I was frigid, but because I’m a lesbian. I hope you won’t dismiss and scorn me-because I don’t consider my condition shameful-but if you do, and if I disgust you, it’s all the same to me, and I won’t even be surprised, knowing you as I do. I hope you won’t take all this as a big tragedy. Just try to understand, and try to make a new life, as I’ve done.

Love, Monica

P.S. Tell Daddy to let you go ahead with the development. My opposition was a silly childish stubbornness, totally illogical.

Victor looked at me, beside himself.

“Do you want to read my report?” I asked.

“What’s the point?”

“Well, it would clear up a few details,” I said, positive that what I was saying was absurd.

“It’s all as clear as a bell,” he mumbled.

A very long silence ensued. He stared at the letter, without seeing it. Finally, he exploded.

When the fireplace had consumed all the photographs, including the ones I’d made, he seemed to calm down a little.

“Listen, Lonia, I don’t think I’m up to giving this letter to my in-laws. Would you mind? You could give them the report, too.”

“Victor, read it yourself first, then decide whether you really want her parents to read it. There’s some stuff…”

He wasn’t listening to me. I left the report on the couch, went through the Pradells’ yard with Monica’s letter in my purse, and rang their doorbell.

X

“Hi, sweetie,” Quim greeted me.

He was munching on a tired-looking old sandwich and reading the paper, as usual. Every day. I let the dog out and looked over the mail. All business letters, of course. Bank statements, junk mail.

“A crazed guy showed up,” Quim said distractedly. “Seems his wife is fooling around. Shall I do it, or do you want to?”

I broke a toothpick and let him choose. Without even looking, he picked the shorter one.

“Guess I get to do it,” I said.

“Let me finish reading the paper and I’ll tell you all about it.”

I finished looking over the mail. There was an impersonal note from Victor, accompanied by a check that knocked me over.

“Hey, Quim, you’ll have to find the gal that’s cheating on her old man after all. I just struck it rich!”

Quim dropped his sandwich when he saw the figure.

“We’re partners, right, sweetie?” he said.

“Sure, but I’ll just help myself to a few bucks first so I can get a permanent. This very day. I’m off to the bank, and then to the beauty parlor.”

Quim’s mouth fell open, He didn’t know what to say. I don’t know whether he grumbled or not, since I was already gone.

At the beauty parlor, with all kinds of critters running around in my head, I realized that Victor didn’t want to have any more to do with me. My sorrow was somewhat assuaged by the roll of banknotes I had in my purse, though. A victim of the ups and downs, I leafed through one of those worn magazines, the kind that tell you all about how such and such a singer has the flu, or how Mr. Bullfighter gets terrible headaches.

Then I saw her: Mrs. Monica Pradell de Cabanes at a dinner in honor of who knows whom. And Victor two spaces away from her. Except that Monica wasn’t Monica. While they were taking my curlers out, with the permanent half done, my little brain was in sixth gear. By the time I walked out the door, my strategy was set: it was the beginning of a crazy week.

Beauty parlor, Patricia, psychiatrist. The three Ps. I called a dozen counselors before I found the one I was looking for. Naturally, they didn’t want to tell me anything, not on the phone and not in person. Professional secrecy. Adela would help me out.

“I absolutely must have a look at Monica Pradell’s file,” I said to her. “Among colleagues, professional secrecy shouldn’t be a barrier.”

I told her about the case, with all the gory details. She called me that afternoon. Monica wasn’t a lesbian or anything like it. And so on.

I took off for London. Just as I suspected, the Carse Hotel had no record of Monica Pradell’s visit. Then I went to Paris. I surreptitiously altered Patricia’s apartment and found more than I was counting on. They were so confident that they’d forgotten about me altogether and weren’t even being careful.

Home again. Now it was absolutely necessary for me to get into the pavilion, and into the Pradells’ main house, too, without the family realizing it. Or with some kind of believable excuse. The dog, of course.

I watched from the car, waiting until they would all be gone. The first day, Mrs. Pradell stayed home. The next day, she left an hour after her husband left, who had gone out an hour after their son-in-law.

“I’ve lost the dog, and I thought maybe she’d come back here,” I said to the maid.

“I haven’t seen her.”

“Wouldn’t you let me have a look around?” I begged. “Maybe she’s hiding somewhere in the house. I’m so upset!”

We searched every corner of the house. No sign of the dog. But I did find out that the Pradells had put an oil painting of Monica up in their attic. The maid even let me see a photo album where there were pictures of Monica and Patricia hugging. Next to that scandalous photo there was one of Monica by herself, wearing flat shoes with crepe soles.

What a perfect setup they’d created, those two! Real pros, capable of deceiving a pro like myself. Or am I such a pro after all? Maybe I’m just picking daisies.

Then we went to the pavilion, me and the maid. The dog wasn’t there either, of course, but it gave me a chance to lift a scarf without her noticing.

“Maybe she’ll come home on her own,” I said, all discouraged. “Listen, I’d rather they didn’t know that I’ve lost the dog, you know what I mean?”

“Yes, of course,” the maid said. “I won’t say a word, and if she shows up, I’ll let you know.”

I started the car and two blocks away I let the dog out of the trunk, where she was having a nice nap.

I raced toward Blue Sea. They had already started the construction and it was a bees’ nest of machines and people. Shit, I’d have to wait until Sunday. On Sunday it was deserted. Sleeping machines, but they’d already torn up the earth. Displaced cliffs, holes, piles, and puddles all over the place. It was a crime to see such a gorgeous landscape so mistreated. A real rape.

I put the scarf to the dog’s nose. The animal barked, then she looked at me astonished, and it even seemed she remembered. She went crazy sniffing. She ran wild. I could hardly follow her. The coast went uphill, forming cliffs and little sandless beaches you could only get to by sea, at least for the moment. The dog was on top of a rock, quite a few feet below me: she was howling and trying to find a way to get down. I called her, but she didn’t hear me. Or she heard but didn’t pay any attention. In any case, she found a way to keep going down and I lost sight of her. I could still hear her whiny yelps.

I had to rescue her with a boat. She was soaked, exhausted, hoarse. We didn’t find what the two of us were looking for. But at least she’d found a piece of crepe-heeled shoe.

It all meshed.

XI

I didn’t ask for permission to go into Victor’s office. I opened the door softly and said with my very best smile:

“Hi!”

I saw again the same surprised look I saw the first day he came to my office. Then, the same charming smile.

“I just came to tell you that Monica really was going to a psychiatrist. I thought you might be interested.”

“I know that, it’s in your report.”

“I put it in my report because Patricia told me that But it was a story you and she made up. A lie that turns out to be true, how about that! Only one thing is different: the motive. She didn’t go to a psychiatrist because she was a lesbian, she went because you forced her to make love with you whether she wanted to or not. Naturally, she felt raped, So she didn’t want you to develop the place she loved most. It’s as if she wanted to save the land from being raped, since she wasn’t able to save herself from it.”

He was listening to me with a sarcastic smile, but I could see a spark of fear in his eyes.

“What’s all this about? Where did you dream up a story like that? What are you getting at?”

He spoke with a harsh voice, the voice of a secure man. Too harsh and too secure to be real,

I put Monica’s pendant on his desk.

“I saw Monica in London. She was wearing the pendant. But what do you know! I just happened to find it in Patricia’s apartment in Paris, By the way, Monica doesn’t look much like this picture, does she?”

He repressed himself perfectly when I showed him the magazine.

“Besides, you were in such a rush to burn those pictures you made me believe were of Monica, but in fact were of Patricia,”

“Now you’re really getting embroiled, honey. The profession’s gone to your head!”

“Were you aware that Monica’s dog whined and got scared whenever she came across crepe-soled shoes? My colleague’s, for example. And she completely chewed up one of mine, a real old one. Then the poor old hound helped me find the crepe sole that drove her crazy in the first place,”

I set the piece of shoe on his desk, Monica’s, that is, the real Monica, Victor paled.

“They’re the shoes Monica was wearing when this picture was taken, this picture I found in your in-laws’ album, I found this one, too, Monica and Patricia together. Monica was prettier than Pat, but I have to admit that Pat carried off the part of Monica real well, and even better when she played herself in that dark Paris apartment. Oh, yeah, I found this in Paris, too!”

A very curly, mahogany-colored wig.

He sank into his chair with sagging shoulders. He looked so vulnerable I felt sorry for him. But I had to be strong now, I couldn’t allow myself to be deceived again.

“It was an accident, Lònia… I was so enraged, and I-I loved her, I loved Monica, but sometimes she drove me wild. She was so harsh!”

“You’re a disgusting liar. You loved Patricia. That’s why Patricia agreed to pass for Monica. Or what?”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” He was recovering little by little. “Patricia did it for the money. She was real palsy with Monica, but only because of what she could get out of it. No, they weren’t lesbians, of course, but Monica did have a weird weakness for Pat, and after the accident, I schemed the whole thing and Pat agreed to take on the role…”

“So in fact, what you wanted was a report from a pro and a letter from Monica obtained by that pro so that Mr. Pradell would reject his daughter as a pervert, right? That way, you’d be the victim and get your in-laws’ sympathy, plus the permit to begin the development.”

“You’ve done a terrific job, Lònia. Seems like I should hire you foll time, so you’ll work just for me!”

The nerve! He took out his checkbook and raised his mocking eyes:

“What will your monthly salary be?” he smiled.

“I guess you’ll have to ask Mr. Pradell that. He’s just outside, waiting for me to open the door. I consider myself well paid with what I’ve learned. Now I know for sure that if I want to stay in this profession I’ll have to get thicker skin. And that I can’t trust male clients, no matter how good-looking and nice they are, when they tell me I’ll do a better job because I’m a woman.”

Mr. Pradell was waiting by the door, looking pretty grim.

I waited outdoors, with the dog in my arms. When Victor came out handcuffed, between two guys in raincoats, I still felt a touch of pity.