Mapuche by Caryl Férey, Steven Randall Page A

annoying.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?”
    â€œIt’s about your sister,” Rubén replied from the foot of the stairs. “She isn’t at home and hasn’t answered her cell phone in three days. I thought that might interest you.”
    The younger brother, put in his place, frowned. There was a teak table in the shade of a great willow trembling in the wind, the echo of a gardener trimming the roses at the back of the garden; Rubén turned toward Isabel Campallo, bundled up in her shawl.
    â€œDo you prefer to remain standing?” he asked thoughtfully.
    â€œNo.”
    Walking mechanically, the woman moved toward the nearby patio furniture and, ignoring the look her son gave her, sat herself down on a chair as carefully as if she were a faded bouquet.
    â€œWhat do you know about my daughter?” she asked, peering through her tinted glasses.
    â€œNot much,” the detective replied, reassuringly. “Have you seen María Victoria recently?”
    â€œWell, no, not very recently. My husband and I were on vacation at Mar del Plata,” the ex-star of high-society balls said: “I was there all month, my husband for two weeks, and María Victoria isn’t a great fan of the telephone. You say that she hasn’t been in contact with anyone?” she said, sounding worried.
    A gold crucifix hung in the cleavage between her old breasts.
    â€œLet’s say that she can’t be reached. When did you talk to her for the last time?”
    â€œLet’s see . . . I left her a message about ten days ago, but you know how kids are, they call back when they have time. All I know is that she was hoping to use the vacation to work on her photography. That was what she usually does at this time of year.”
    A sigh half emptied her. Rodolfo had joined them under the willow.
    â€œWho are you working for?” he asked.
    â€œThat doesn’t matter,” Rubén answered, concentrating on the mother of the family. “Do you have any explanation for your daughter’s silence?”
    Isabel shook her lacquered hair and drew her shawl around her against the gusts that were singing in the trees.
    â€œNo,” she said, disconcerted. “No . . . ”
    â€œNo trip, rendezvous, or particular event?”
    â€œNo.” Her memory was skating on a river with horses caught in the ice. “Why? What’s going on?”
    â€œMaría Victoria is expecting a child,” Rubén announced.
    For the first time, the mother and her son wore the same expression on their faces.
    â€œShe’s in her third month,” he went on. “Obviously you didn’t know.”
    Isabel pulled herself together on the garden chair.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhere did you get this information?” Rodolfo interjected.
    â€œWhy do you think your daughter didn’t say anything to you about it?” Rubén continued.
    â€œI don’t know,” Isabel stammered. She was shaken. “We’re a very Catholic family, María Victoria knows that having a child outside the bonds of marriage would make us terribly sad, but . . . I just don’t understand.”
    â€œAny idea who the father might be?”
    â€œHeavens no!”
    â€œMaría Victoria hadn’t introduced you to anyone? Never?”
    â€œNo . . . Unfortunately, getting married isn’t one of her priorities.”
    â€œThe prospect of having a baby could have turned her life upside down,” Rubén suggested. “It might explain her silence or her flight.”
    Rodolfo was pacing up and down underneath the willow, exasperated.
    â€œYou don’t answer the questions you’re asked,” he said, changing the subject. “Who are you working for?”
    Rubén ignored him. “It appears that María Victoria went through some difficult times during her adolescence and afterward,” he said. “Did she rebel against her social