No Place for Heroes by Laura Restrepo Page A

I’ll pay for dearly later, and she swallowed those toads, responding only with, “You don’t say.”
    So Videla speaks perfect French? You don’t say. And he is a good horseman, so right and so human? You don’t say. You don’t say, that phrase so common in Bogotá, used by the speaker when it is he who doesn’t want to say something. But before long, Aurelia couldn’t take it anymore. She made up something about having to attend a conference at the university, and grabbed her letter, shoes, money, and inheritance documents, expressed her gratitude, and got up from the table. But the hosts, ever courteous and warm, asked her to stay for dessert, homemade île flottante , following the recipe in L’Art Culinaire step by step, she shouldn’t miss out on that. They relented when she insisted that she had to go right away, and told her that there would be a car waiting for her.
    “Oh, thank you, thank you, but no. I’ll take a taxi. You’re very sweet, but you don’t have to do that, I’ll take a taxi.”
    “What do you mean, you’re taking a taxi this late? Let the driver take you, that’s what he’s here for. His name is Humberto and he is quite a character. And tell us, what isthis conference about? Very intriguing. Where do you say it is, at what school?”
    “The one in Buenos Aires.”
    “A conference this late on a Saturday night? It’s ten o’clock, what kind of conference starts this late?”
    “Well, it’s technically a debate,” she stammered, her shortened breath making her flush. “But you’re right. What a disaster. It’s already too late. I’ve missed it.”
    “Then what’s the hurry? Eat your île flottante in peace and then have some coffee, which is Colombian, of course, one hundred percent Colombian. Because these people may have their beef, but coffee, coffee is our specialty. And if you want, you’ll join us for a little cognac afterward. I promise, Humberto will drive you to your house afterward; and wait until you go inside, so we can all sleep soundly, so your mother can’t say that we have not taken care of her little girl.”
    Lorenza finally made it out of that house in the Mercedes owned by the husband and wife, Humberto driving. She had to mislead him so that he wouldn’t find out where she lived on Deán Funes. Let’s head toward Recoleta, Humberto. It was the first thing that came into her head, but she regretted it immediately. Shit, why had she said that? Recoleta is like the cemetery. Or I should say, Recoleta was the name of the most traditional cemetery in Buenos Aires, but also of the neighborhood that surrounded it. Humberto put her at ease when he said, So the señorita lives in Recoleta. Congratulations, it’s a very beautiful place. Very beautiful, yes, thank you, Humberto.
    They had been on the way for a while, who knew where, when Lorenza asked, playing the foreigner, Are we in Recoleta yet, Humberto? And since the chauffeur said yes, she replied straightaway, Here, here, Humberto, drop me off on this block, I live nearby, so don’t worry about me, Humberto. I can walk from here. It’s a beautiful night, maybe a brisk walk will refresh me. Right? The best thing after the meal to settle you down.
    But Humberto wasn’t buying it. She did not have to worry. He had received an order from his patrones , and he was the type who would fulfill his duty. There was nothing to do but summon Papaíto’s help, because even if it meant paying for it with his life, Humberto was going to drop her off at her door and wait until she went inside. How was she going to get into any of the houses, since none of them were hers?
    It wasn’t even her neighborhood. She had never set foot in it. How would she open the door, what key would she use. She was in a bind, when, oh miracle, a couple coming out of a building. This is it, she told herself, help Papaíto, heroes and buffoons. It’s over there, Humberto, that building in the corner. Thanks, Humberto, here, that’s