The Case of Lisandra P. by Hélène Grémillon Page B

home.”
    Vittorio opens his eyes.
    â€œHere’s what happened. Felipe came upon Lisandra. Maybe it was an accident? A botched attempt. No, Felipe is no amateur. Maybe he sent someone to do the dirty work for him? So he wouldn’t get his hands dirty. Maybe things went wrong with that someone. No, Felipe wouldn’t have involved anyone else in his crime, no accomplices; that would be taking the risk of being betrayed one day, and that’s not a risk Felipe would have taken—he knows only too well how impulsive betrayal can be. He used to say, ‘In every friend there sleeps half a traitor.’”
    Vittorio formulates his questions and his answers. Like during a session. But today, it’s not a patient’s life that is at stake, but his own. His life. His freedom. Vittorio knows this. But he’s never experienced it the way he does right now. All the difficulty of reasoning for himself. For the self that is in danger.
    â€œAnd what if Felipe had it all set up so I would be accused? In prison, accused of the murder of my wife, I could no longer harm him.
    â€œNo. There’s no proof that in prison I can no longer harm him. And besides, that’s too complicated; yet again, it would be simpler just to kill me.”
    Vittorio has only one lead to find his way out of here. He cannot let it go. He crushes it. Pounds it. Vittorio is losing all lucidity. He is eager to find another culprit. His reasoning is leading him astray. He is no longer driven by a thirst for truth but by the fear of remaining in prison. His thoughts are getting carried away.
    â€œAnd what if he spoke to his wife the way I advised him to? What if he told her he had confessed to me that the child was not theirs? Besides, how much did she know, exactly, about the child? Surely Felipe would not have told her anything. Surely she would have figured it out for herself a few weeks or a few months after thearrival of this
prodigal child
; she suspected the terrible truth. Because she must know, that alone would explain why she behaved the way she did toward Felipe, her permanent anger. She knows that her son is one of the five hundred children stolen under the junta, the five hundred children the state is looking for, to give them back to their biological families. So she asked him to eliminate me, out of a fear of losing her child. When you have learned to kill for ideology, you can kill for love. He is used to obeying orders. He goes home. He talks to his wife. Except that she asks him to kill both of us. Lisandra and me. I can hear her from here, using her female psychology, sharpened by the maternal paranoia of losing her child—so her thoughts were definitely criminal—to suggest that it wouldn’t be enough to get rid of only me. I was bound to have spoken to my wife, for sure; this story was far too interesting for a husband who wanted to entertain his wife over the course of a meal, a meal which as a rule was too silent, to relieve her of boredom, a terrible story about a child—no one could resist telling such a story, whether they were a shrink or not, whether there was doctor-patient privilege or not. It wouldn’t be enough to get rid of me; he would have to get rid of my wife as well. They couldn’t let anyone else find out. So, let’s just suppose. Felipe comes to our house, he rings the bell, he doesn’t give up; Lisandra eventually opens the door; Felipe makes all those gestures he is specialized in, until he pushes Lisandra out the window; he thinks he’ll find me in my study or somewhere in the house—I should have been there, as a rule Tuesday evening I am there, it’s Thursday evening that I go out—and he is getting ready to deal with me as well, according to who knows what sort of gruesome scenario: the famous lovers’ quarrel that has turned ugly, everyone seems to like that one, there’s no reason for them not to have thought of it as