things than this.”
“Well, if you say so.”The policeman seemed more shocked than Juan as he leaned over Charo’s body and lifted the blanket, turning his head away.
Juan crouched down and tried to examine the body as a forensic pathologist would, noticing out of the corner of his eye that the young policeman had decided to avoid a second viewing of the corpse. The woman, aged about thirty-five, about five foot seven inches tall, weighing about sixty-five kilos, with dark hair and eyes, Caucasian, had indeed died as a result of a severed femoral artery.The right leg had been cut clean through. And that was all. Part of her left leg, to just above the knee, remained attached to the rest of her body. Her right thigh. Her left thigh. Her legs the color of caramel. Shards of shattered bone, bloody pulped flesh, shreds of skin. Her thighs. Her knees that were no longer there. Juan instinctively tried to loosen his shirt collar, but could find nothing to loosen—the top two buttons of his shirt were already undone, but still he felt he couldn’t breathe. Her head and torso were in good condition—she had simply bled to death and her deep crimson lipstick stood out obscenely against her pale, white face, tinged with mauve. Juan Olmedo opened his own mouth, gasping for air, as he stared into the dead woman’s eyes. Her black eyeliner had run, creating dark shadows under her eyes and some of her mascara had come off her lashes, sprinkling her cheeks with tiny black specks. Charo had carefully re-applied her lipstick, ignoring the rest of her make-up, before leaving Madrid, as she had always done the minute she was dressed when she left her brother-in-law’s house to return to her own. Juan recognized the color: it was very different from the pale pink, almost beige, lipstick she wore at family meals. He understood its meaning, and for the last time felt Charo’s legs, legs that were no longer there, around his neck.Then, without moving his shoulders or leaning towards the corpse, so that no one behind him would notice what he was doing, he put out his hand and quickly undid two of the buttons on her maroon blouse, revealing the edge of a lace bra of the same color. Juan couldn’t bear to look at it. He closed his eyes and bent his head forward, resting his forehead for a moment on the lifeless chest, the unbearably cold skin.
“Hey!” A second later he heard a gruff voice—not that of the young policeman who had left him alone with her—and footsteps approaching. “What d’you think you’re doing? Who are you?You can’t touch the bodies.The judge hasn’t arrived yet.”
“I’m sorry,” said Juan in a loud voice, hurriedly doing up the buttons of her blouse.“I didn’t realize.”
He stood up quickly and didn’t stop to see the furious expression of the older policeman, who was still berating him as he covered Charo’s body with the blanket again. He had already decided what he was going to do next. Nicanor had left Damián by the car for a moment and seemed to be heading in Juan’s direction, perhaps because he had seen everything, or perhaps because he had seen nothing and wanted to find out what had happened, but this didn’t seem reason enough for Juan to change his plans. He walked up to the ambulance team, talked to one of the paramedics, identifying himself, and requested a sedative for his brother. He then returned to the car. Nicanor was back with Damián, who was staring blankly into space, his arms hanging loose at his sides. He looked pitiful and useless, like a dirty, shriveled balloon.
“Here.” He handed Nicanor a foil packet containing two pills. “They’re sedatives. If he shows signs of needing them again, give him one of them, but only one. It’ll do him good.Take him home and stay with him. I’ll get there as soon as I can. I’ve got to stop off at the hospital to check they’re OK and pick up a few things. I was on duty when—”
“All
“Well, if you say so.”The policeman seemed more shocked than Juan as he leaned over Charo’s body and lifted the blanket, turning his head away.
Juan crouched down and tried to examine the body as a forensic pathologist would, noticing out of the corner of his eye that the young policeman had decided to avoid a second viewing of the corpse. The woman, aged about thirty-five, about five foot seven inches tall, weighing about sixty-five kilos, with dark hair and eyes, Caucasian, had indeed died as a result of a severed femoral artery.The right leg had been cut clean through. And that was all. Part of her left leg, to just above the knee, remained attached to the rest of her body. Her right thigh. Her left thigh. Her legs the color of caramel. Shards of shattered bone, bloody pulped flesh, shreds of skin. Her thighs. Her knees that were no longer there. Juan instinctively tried to loosen his shirt collar, but could find nothing to loosen—the top two buttons of his shirt were already undone, but still he felt he couldn’t breathe. Her head and torso were in good condition—she had simply bled to death and her deep crimson lipstick stood out obscenely against her pale, white face, tinged with mauve. Juan Olmedo opened his own mouth, gasping for air, as he stared into the dead woman’s eyes. Her black eyeliner had run, creating dark shadows under her eyes and some of her mascara had come off her lashes, sprinkling her cheeks with tiny black specks. Charo had carefully re-applied her lipstick, ignoring the rest of her make-up, before leaving Madrid, as she had always done the minute she was dressed when she left her brother-in-law’s house to return to her own. Juan recognized the color: it was very different from the pale pink, almost beige, lipstick she wore at family meals. He understood its meaning, and for the last time felt Charo’s legs, legs that were no longer there, around his neck.Then, without moving his shoulders or leaning towards the corpse, so that no one behind him would notice what he was doing, he put out his hand and quickly undid two of the buttons on her maroon blouse, revealing the edge of a lace bra of the same color. Juan couldn’t bear to look at it. He closed his eyes and bent his head forward, resting his forehead for a moment on the lifeless chest, the unbearably cold skin.
“Hey!” A second later he heard a gruff voice—not that of the young policeman who had left him alone with her—and footsteps approaching. “What d’you think you’re doing? Who are you?You can’t touch the bodies.The judge hasn’t arrived yet.”
“I’m sorry,” said Juan in a loud voice, hurriedly doing up the buttons of her blouse.“I didn’t realize.”
He stood up quickly and didn’t stop to see the furious expression of the older policeman, who was still berating him as he covered Charo’s body with the blanket again. He had already decided what he was going to do next. Nicanor had left Damián by the car for a moment and seemed to be heading in Juan’s direction, perhaps because he had seen everything, or perhaps because he had seen nothing and wanted to find out what had happened, but this didn’t seem reason enough for Juan to change his plans. He walked up to the ambulance team, talked to one of the paramedics, identifying himself, and requested a sedative for his brother. He then returned to the car. Nicanor was back with Damián, who was staring blankly into space, his arms hanging loose at his sides. He looked pitiful and useless, like a dirty, shriveled balloon.
“Here.” He handed Nicanor a foil packet containing two pills. “They’re sedatives. If he shows signs of needing them again, give him one of them, but only one. It’ll do him good.Take him home and stay with him. I’ll get there as soon as I can. I’ve got to stop off at the hospital to check they’re OK and pick up a few things. I was on duty when—”
“All
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