she lived with him, a younger guy, twenty-four, then she split with
this boyfriend and starting going out with another guy. Boyfriend A and
boyfriend B, he says. If you like, she says, and suddenly she feels calm, tired
and calm, as if a part of the imaginary struggle (whose rules remain opaque to
her) was already over and done.
I’m guessing, says the sock salesman, that this woman was
good-looking. Yes, she was a beautiful woman, and very young too. Well, not all
that young, he says. So you think a twenty-seven-year-old woman isn’t young?
Come on, let’s be objective: young, sure, but not
very
young, he says.
How old are you? Twenty-nine. I would have guessed twenty-five, she says. No,
twenty-nine. He doesn’t ask her age. Did she work or did she live off her
boyfriends? She was a secretary. This woman never lived off anyone. And she had
a nine-year-old son. And who killed her, boyfriend A or boyfriend B? he asks.
Who would you say? Boyfriend A, of course. She nods. Because he was jealous.
Yes, she says. But do you think it was just because he was jealous? No, she
says. Ah, so you see, we have the same theory, you and I, he says. She chooses
not to reply and moves away from the window. I should switch on a light, he
says. No, leave it, she says, pulling out a chair and sitting down. After a
while, he says: And it’s getting you down, this story about a murder that
happened a couple of months ago, I think it was. She looks at him and says
nothing. Maybe you identify with the victim? Are you married? No, she says, but
I’ve thought about her quite a bit. Are you married? No, me neither, he says,
but I’ve lived with a few women. Do you think men have a problem with women who
like sex? he asks. She looks away: beyond the windowpane night is enfolding the
buildings. What she feels is a kind of claustrophobia. She got killed because
she liked it, the journalist says without looking at him. She hears him say, Ah,
and the tone of that ah is somewhere between irony and agony. She used to get up
early, at a quarter past six every morning. She worked for a mining company in
Calama, she was a secretary, and the stories in the papers say that her love
life was a continual source of conflict. A continual source, he repeats, how
poetic. Men kept falling in love with her, although she wasn’t classically
beautiful, she says. Beauty’s relative, he says: There’s a kind of beauty for
everyone. Do you think? she asks, and looks at him again, steadily. Yes I do,
says the sock salesman, everyone: the ugly, the not-so-ugly, the average-looking
and the beautiful. But just because the not-so-ugly seem desirable to the ugly,
that doesn’t make them beautiful. So you get what I mean, he says. Yes, I get
what you mean, she says ironically, but I don’t agree; beauty’s the same for
everyone, like justice. Justice is the same for everyone? Don’t make me laugh,
he says. In theory, at least. It’s all different in theory, he sighs, but let’s
not argue; tell me more about your murdered secretary. Did you see the body? The
body? No, I didn’t see it. I didn’t cover the story, I just wrote an article
about the crime. So you didn’t go to the morgue in Calama? You didn’t see the
victim or talk with the killer? She looks at him and smiles mysteriously. The
killer, yeah, I talked with him, she says.
Well, that’s something, at least, he says. And? Nothing, she says, we
talked, he told me he was sorry for what he’d done, he said he was crazy about
the victim. Well put, he says. They met at the airport in Calama; he was a
security guard, and she worked there for a while, as a receptionist. Before
getting the job at the mine, says the sock salesman. In a mining company, she
says. Same thing, he says. Well, not exactly. And how did he kill her? he asks.
With a knife, she says. He stabbed her twenty-seven times. Don’t you think
that’s strange? He looks down at the toes of his shoes for a few seconds. Then
he looks at her again
this boyfriend and starting going out with another guy. Boyfriend A and
boyfriend B, he says. If you like, she says, and suddenly she feels calm, tired
and calm, as if a part of the imaginary struggle (whose rules remain opaque to
her) was already over and done.
I’m guessing, says the sock salesman, that this woman was
good-looking. Yes, she was a beautiful woman, and very young too. Well, not all
that young, he says. So you think a twenty-seven-year-old woman isn’t young?
Come on, let’s be objective: young, sure, but not
very
young, he says.
How old are you? Twenty-nine. I would have guessed twenty-five, she says. No,
twenty-nine. He doesn’t ask her age. Did she work or did she live off her
boyfriends? She was a secretary. This woman never lived off anyone. And she had
a nine-year-old son. And who killed her, boyfriend A or boyfriend B? he asks.
Who would you say? Boyfriend A, of course. She nods. Because he was jealous.
Yes, she says. But do you think it was just because he was jealous? No, she
says. Ah, so you see, we have the same theory, you and I, he says. She chooses
not to reply and moves away from the window. I should switch on a light, he
says. No, leave it, she says, pulling out a chair and sitting down. After a
while, he says: And it’s getting you down, this story about a murder that
happened a couple of months ago, I think it was. She looks at him and says
nothing. Maybe you identify with the victim? Are you married? No, she says, but
I’ve thought about her quite a bit. Are you married? No, me neither, he says,
but I’ve lived with a few women. Do you think men have a problem with women who
like sex? he asks. She looks away: beyond the windowpane night is enfolding the
buildings. What she feels is a kind of claustrophobia. She got killed because
she liked it, the journalist says without looking at him. She hears him say, Ah,
and the tone of that ah is somewhere between irony and agony. She used to get up
early, at a quarter past six every morning. She worked for a mining company in
Calama, she was a secretary, and the stories in the papers say that her love
life was a continual source of conflict. A continual source, he repeats, how
poetic. Men kept falling in love with her, although she wasn’t classically
beautiful, she says. Beauty’s relative, he says: There’s a kind of beauty for
everyone. Do you think? she asks, and looks at him again, steadily. Yes I do,
says the sock salesman, everyone: the ugly, the not-so-ugly, the average-looking
and the beautiful. But just because the not-so-ugly seem desirable to the ugly,
that doesn’t make them beautiful. So you get what I mean, he says. Yes, I get
what you mean, she says ironically, but I don’t agree; beauty’s the same for
everyone, like justice. Justice is the same for everyone? Don’t make me laugh,
he says. In theory, at least. It’s all different in theory, he sighs, but let’s
not argue; tell me more about your murdered secretary. Did you see the body? The
body? No, I didn’t see it. I didn’t cover the story, I just wrote an article
about the crime. So you didn’t go to the morgue in Calama? You didn’t see the
victim or talk with the killer? She looks at him and smiles mysteriously. The
killer, yeah, I talked with him, she says.
Well, that’s something, at least, he says. And? Nothing, she says, we
talked, he told me he was sorry for what he’d done, he said he was crazy about
the victim. Well put, he says. They met at the airport in Calama; he was a
security guard, and she worked there for a while, as a receptionist. Before
getting the job at the mine, says the sock salesman. In a mining company, she
says. Same thing, he says. Well, not exactly. And how did he kill her? he asks.
With a knife, she says. He stabbed her twenty-seven times. Don’t you think
that’s strange? He looks down at the toes of his shoes for a few seconds. Then
he looks at her again
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