milieu?â
âWhat are you implying, Mr. Calderón?â Isabel replied coldly.
He lit a cigaretteâsomething about these people annoyed him, something that didnât have to do with the money, luxury, or the ostentation.
âDid MarÃa Victoria ever take a political position?â he asked.
âWhat do you mean?â
âAgainst your husband and his powerful friends, for instance.â
âThatâs outrageous!â Roldolfo said angrily. âMy sisterâs not a communist!â
Rubén smiled wrylyâfunny how some people can go to extremes to justify their point of view. Porky was beginning to irritate him.
âYour husband amassed his fortune during the National Reorganization Process, and then profited from the economic crisis,â he said, looking at Isabel. âMarÃa Victoria might have wondered about how that wealth was acquired.â
âWhy are you here, Mr. Calderón,â Rodolfo burst out. âTo dig up filth?â
âIs that how you see your sisterâs life?â
âNo,â Rodolfo replied furiously. âYour trade.â
âI get the impression that yours isnât too bad either, fatso,â he said to bug him. âRadio host, right? Stupidities and laughs galore. I hope you thanked your papa.â
Rodolfo grew pink, cramped in his white shirt. He was the comedian on the morning show of a radio station that in fact belonged to his father, and his job consisted of pissing people off on the telephone by pretending to be someone else, making âtrickâ calls that were usually rigged; it would have been hard to say who, if anyone, they amused.
All that could be heard was the sound of the pruning shears among the rosebushes and the rustling of the wind in the willow over their heads.
âI wonât spend another second in the presence of this individual,â Rodolfo hissed to his mother.
âGood idea,â Rubén said.
âThrow him out, Mama, or Iâm calling the security men.â
âYes.â
Petrified behind the screen of her dark glasses, Isabel Campallo did not move. Rodolfo hesitated a second: his mother was upset, this troublemaker provoked them, but a vague fear kept him from making the call himself, and anyway heâd left his cell phone at home.
âIâll call Papa,â he said curtly, turning on his heel.
Isabel drew the shawl around her skinny shoulders, pale in spite of the carotene and the vacation at the beach.
âYou know something, donât you . . . â Rubén said.
âNo. But my sonâs right,â Isabel resumed. âI donât know where youâre getting your information, but I beg you to leave my home. Now, immediately,â she ordered, recovering her dominant status.
Rubén crushed out his cigarette.
âIâm trying to find out if your daughter is still alive. Is that a problem for you?â
âYouâre making me crazy with worry, if you want to know the truth.â
âYou know something, something I donât know.â
The blue arrows of his irises pierced her.
âNo,â she said, feeling threatened. âI donât know anything and you are not welcome in our home. Leave,â she panted. âRight now!â
Isabel turned toward the porch and started to get up, but he grabbed her wrist.
âYouâre lying,â Rubén insisted. âWhy?â
âStop bothering me. I have nothing to say to you. Let me go.â
The air in the garden was charged with electricity. Rubén tightened his grip on her wrist, almost without noticing.
âYouâre hurting me!â
âYouâre lying.â
âNo!â
âThen tell me what youâre scared of.â
Isabel Campallo trembled when she met the eyes of the detective, who was staring at her maliciously. Heâd have liked to break her wrist. To grind her bones.
âYou,â she replied in a tremulous
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