The She-Devil in the Mirror by Horacio Castellanos Moya Page A

in love with me. But to marry him
and live with him? No, thank you, my dear, God forbid. And definitely not
someone to leave your husband for, who you already have a child with, like Olga
María with Marito. He’s a nobody. This photography thing is fine as a hobby, but
nobody respectable can make a living off it. I can just imagine papa if I told
him I was going to marry a poor photographer; he’d think I’d gone crazy. He’d
disown me. No, he’s good for a fling, nothing more. Well, my dear, when we
finished—lying in the hammock, my pussy red and swollen from so much in and
out—I asked him if he’d done it like that with Olga María, if he’d lasted that
long with her. Because the man can last with his thing standing at attention for
an eternity, it’s really something, and you get to do whatever you feel like. He
told me that with her it had also been special, even the first time, but Olga
María was more reserved, more restrained, with me he felt more free. That’s what
he told me, anyway. Also that he liked my body better than Olga María’s, because
I’m more curvaceous, fuller, compared to her. I don’t know. He told me he thinks
my body is voluptuous and Olga María’s is more delicate. He prefers
voluptuousness. That’s another charming thing about José Carlos: he explains
things so well. I love the way he talks, the words he chooses, you can clearly
understand what he wants to say. The weirdest thing is that we’d made a pact to
not talk about Olga María, and there we were, naked and in each other’s arms in
the hammock, sweaty, exhausted, and thinking about her. At a certain point, I
got sad. I felt like crying because life is shit, how could it be that Olga
María had disappeared from one moment to the next. I mentioned that to José
Carlos, then I got tears in my eyes. He was so tender to me, and he got sad,
too, then he started comforting me, telling me there’s no way to fight fate,
Olga María wouldn’t have wanted us to be sad. Then I started sobbing, because
there’s no good reason for so much injustice. José Carlos started caressing me,
stroking my head, whispering sweet nothings in my ear, until I calmed down and
we started kissing again. That man can turn me on in the blink of an eye, my
dear. A moment later, we were at it again, hard and fast, there in the hammock,
but more intensely, as if remembering Olga María had injected us with renewed
passion, something delicious, something I’ve never felt before. I swear: it was
spectacular. Like I was possessed. Then I started to come in this incredible
way, while I was still crying. That’s where we were, right at the climax, when
the caretakers opened the door. It was horrible, my dear, because I couldn’t
disengage, I couldn’t stop: my feet were on the ground, and I was on top of that
man in the hammock, at the peak of my frenzy, knowing the caretakers were about
to walk in. I can’t even talk about it, it was such a horrible experience. And I
only just managed to shout, “Don’t come in!” That was when José Carlos realized
what was happening. We dashed into the bedroom where I’d left my clothes. So
embarrassing. The worst part was that we couldn’t finish like we should have.
Let’s order another half bottle, my dear. I’m already tipsy. Look, here comes
Rodolfo, that doll. I’m going to tell him about Olga María. Ro-dol-fo!!

5. THIRTY DAYS
    I ’M SO GLAD WE SAT HERE in the back, my dear, in the last row, so we
can chat, even if only in a whisper, quietly. There’s been so much going on.
Anyway, I don’t want to look at that priest up close. Papa’s right: all priests
are twisted and corrupt, but this one has turned out to be a real scoundrel. Did
you hear what he did to poor Yuca? It’s all anybody’s talking about. Yuca’s
become the laughingstock of the