I’ll tell you, that faggot was really pissing me off. After I pressed her further, the old woman finally let us in. Proud of what she’d told us about her aunt, she showed us photos of Beatriz. There were several in the living room. Take note of this, because it’s crucial: there’s a hustler from Xochimilco who is, coincidentally, named Bety. Chema Molina and I exchanged crazy glances, we couldn’t believe it—last year I’d made him read ‘The Aleph.’ The old woman misinterpreted our glances and explained that her aunt had been the most beautiful woman in the city, that she’d had a dozen admirers who were loyal to her even after her death, including one in particular who always came by for tea on her birthday. That’s life—she died young, she didn’t even have time to get spoiled. I tell you, my friend, I thought I was imagining this. I’ve seen a lot of bizarre things in my time, but this was the topper. I couldn’t believe it.”
“I can’t believe it either. When did Borges come to Mexico? Did Alfonso Reyes talk to him about her? Did he have other Mexican friends? Did he write ‘The Aleph’ before he came to Mexico and met Reyes? Or did he meet Reyes when he was the ambassador to Argentina? You didn’t ask this woman if she had a basement off the dining room, did you? If not, you’re going to have to find out.”
“You’re going to have to find out yourself, my little friend, you’re the literature guy. I have to solve the murder. The prosecutor is squeezing my balls. He wants results, he wants that killer yesterday . He hates a civilized society. I’m not even going to tell him this story because he’ll send me straight to the last ring in the seventh circle of hell.”
“Couldn’t it be that the old woman has also read ‘The Aleph’ and knows it by heart and has set up the whole thing, pure fantasy, out of boredom, or because she’s demented, or for some other insane reason?”
“She didn’t make it up, there’s no fantasy here. Beatriz Viterbo is buried in the Dolores crypt, in a white marble tomb with sculpted flowers and all the decor you’d expect from that time. There’s a photo on the front in a bronze oval frame, same as the one in the living room. There are big angels on both sides and the gravestone gives the date of her death: February 28, 1929. The elderly niece, who’s the current owner of their house, is Estela Viterbo, and don’t even think about identity theft. This woman has a birth certificate, a voter registration card, receipts for her mortgage, and the water and phone bills, all in her name.”
“Fuck, what a story! Her name is Estela … and the guy goes by on the aunt’s birthdays … You have to find out more! This can’t all be coincidence.”
“I’m going to order another tequila to toast all the things you have to investigate. When we were looking at the photos, the old woman couldn’t stop talking about her aunt, and then a young woman came in, about twenty-four years old. She said hello, kissed the old woman on the cheek, and left. She was the exact opposite of the sketch: tall, thin, fragile, but darkskinned, dark-haired, black eyes, large mouth and fleshy lips, a round face, flat nose. No sooner had the door closed than the old woman explained that this was Beatriz, her housekeeper’s daughter. I should have done something, ran after her and brought her back, asked her about Mikel Ortiz—but I swear to you I could barely move, I was hypnotized, and so was Chema Molina.”
“Shit, shit, double shit! The housekeeper’s daughter—same as Violeta, a servant’s daughter. That’s Mikel’s friend Beatriz—he was trying to protect her. He was afraid the same thing that happened to him could happen to her. He told me how you messed with his head, how you stuck your gun in his mouth.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t touch a hair on his head, and that faggot can’t take much anyway—he’s already gone crying to you about it.
“I can’t believe it either. When did Borges come to Mexico? Did Alfonso Reyes talk to him about her? Did he have other Mexican friends? Did he write ‘The Aleph’ before he came to Mexico and met Reyes? Or did he meet Reyes when he was the ambassador to Argentina? You didn’t ask this woman if she had a basement off the dining room, did you? If not, you’re going to have to find out.”
“You’re going to have to find out yourself, my little friend, you’re the literature guy. I have to solve the murder. The prosecutor is squeezing my balls. He wants results, he wants that killer yesterday . He hates a civilized society. I’m not even going to tell him this story because he’ll send me straight to the last ring in the seventh circle of hell.”
“Couldn’t it be that the old woman has also read ‘The Aleph’ and knows it by heart and has set up the whole thing, pure fantasy, out of boredom, or because she’s demented, or for some other insane reason?”
“She didn’t make it up, there’s no fantasy here. Beatriz Viterbo is buried in the Dolores crypt, in a white marble tomb with sculpted flowers and all the decor you’d expect from that time. There’s a photo on the front in a bronze oval frame, same as the one in the living room. There are big angels on both sides and the gravestone gives the date of her death: February 28, 1929. The elderly niece, who’s the current owner of their house, is Estela Viterbo, and don’t even think about identity theft. This woman has a birth certificate, a voter registration card, receipts for her mortgage, and the water and phone bills, all in her name.”
“Fuck, what a story! Her name is Estela … and the guy goes by on the aunt’s birthdays … You have to find out more! This can’t all be coincidence.”
“I’m going to order another tequila to toast all the things you have to investigate. When we were looking at the photos, the old woman couldn’t stop talking about her aunt, and then a young woman came in, about twenty-four years old. She said hello, kissed the old woman on the cheek, and left. She was the exact opposite of the sketch: tall, thin, fragile, but darkskinned, dark-haired, black eyes, large mouth and fleshy lips, a round face, flat nose. No sooner had the door closed than the old woman explained that this was Beatriz, her housekeeper’s daughter. I should have done something, ran after her and brought her back, asked her about Mikel Ortiz—but I swear to you I could barely move, I was hypnotized, and so was Chema Molina.”
“Shit, shit, double shit! The housekeeper’s daughter—same as Violeta, a servant’s daughter. That’s Mikel’s friend Beatriz—he was trying to protect her. He was afraid the same thing that happened to him could happen to her. He told me how you messed with his head, how you stuck your gun in his mouth.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t touch a hair on his head, and that faggot can’t take much anyway—he’s already gone crying to you about it.
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