Mapuche by Caryl Férey, Steven Randall Page B

milieu?”
    â€œWhat are you implying, Mr. Calderón?” Isabel replied coldly.
    He lit a cigarette—something about these people annoyed him, something that didn’t have to do with the money, luxury, or the ostentation.
    â€œDid María Victoria ever take a political position?” he asked.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œAgainst your husband and his powerful friends, for instance.”
    â€œThat’s outrageous!” Roldolfo said angrily. “My sister’s not a communist!”
    Rubén smiled wryly—funny how some people can go to extremes to justify their point of view. Porky was beginning to irritate him.
    â€œYour husband amassed his fortune during the National Reorganization Process, and then profited from the economic crisis,” he said, looking at Isabel. “María Victoria might have wondered about how that wealth was acquired.”
    â€œWhy are you here, Mr. Calderón,” Rodolfo burst out. “To dig up filth?”
    â€œIs that how you see your sister’s life?”
    â€œNo,” Rodolfo replied furiously. “Your trade.”
    â€œI get the impression that yours isn’t too bad either, fatso,” he said to bug him. “Radio host, right? Stupidities and laughs galore. I hope you thanked your papa.”
    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 “trick” 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.
    â€œI won’t spend another second in the presence of this individual,” Rodolfo hissed to his mother.
    â€œGood idea,” Rubén said.
    â€œThrow him out, Mama, or I’m calling the security men.”
    â€œYes.”
    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 he’d left his cell phone at home.
    â€œI’ll call Papa,” 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.
    â€œYou know something, don’t you . . . ” Rubén said.
    â€œNo. But my son’s right,” Isabel resumed. “I don’t know where you’re getting your information, but I beg you to leave my home. Now, immediately,” she ordered, recovering her dominant status.
    Rubén crushed out his cigarette.
    â€œI’m trying to find out if your daughter is still alive. Is that a problem for you?”
    â€œYou’re making me crazy with worry, if you want to know the truth.”
    â€œYou know something, something I don’t know.”
    The blue arrows of his irises pierced her.
    â€œNo,” she said, feeling threatened. “I don’t know anything and you are not welcome in our home. Leave,” she panted. “Right now!”
    Isabel turned toward the porch and started to get up, but he grabbed her wrist.
    â€œYou’re lying,” Rubén insisted. “Why?”
    â€œStop bothering me. I have nothing to say to you. Let me go.”
    The air in the garden was charged with electricity. Rubén tightened his grip on her wrist, almost without noticing.
    â€œYou’re hurting me!”
    â€œYou’re lying.”
    â€œNo!”
    â€œThen tell me what you’re scared of.”
    Isabel Campallo trembled when she met the eyes of the detective, who was staring at her maliciously. He’d have liked to break her wrist. To grind her bones.
    â€œYou,” she replied in a tremulous