Little Indiscretions Read online

  Now it’s your turn to play the witch, Adela, she said, gazing at herself in the mirror. She certainly looked the part. Fifty-two years of narrowing her eyes in that charming way. More than half a century of smiling broadly to display her faultless teeth. The sun of a thousand beaches, too. A moderate amount of whiskey. Many sleepless or almost sleepless nights (not to mention countless personal setbacks, which she had borne with serenity, aided by Camus’ philosophy of indifference). All this amply accounted for the dreadful Hecate-like apparition in her bathroom mirror. Slowly, Adela’s hand moved over that scene of devastation, her face, then down to her neck and chest. She decided to put on one of her bathrobes, the finest, smoothest one. She didn’t intend to get properly dressed but only to conceal her true appearance as best she could, so that when she went running out into the corridor or down the stairs to see what Karel Pligh was shouting about, she would look like a mature but, my word, still very good-looking woman, caught unawares, charmingly déshabillée. She brushed her hair a little, not too much, then came forward and peered at herself in the mirror with her blue, shortsighted eyes, absently stroking her cheek with three fingers and her neck with another, as if she were looking for something . . . but there was a good deal of deft and subtle repair work to be done if she was to achieve the desired effect, so on this occasion her touch did not revive the memory of that boy’s kisses, kisses that had, in the last two weeks, turned her whole world upside down.

  And yet every one of Carlos Garcia’s caresses was there, deeply imprinted on her skin, on her temples, on the unflattering creases near the corners of her mouth, which had resisted the expertise of her plastic surgeon. A cyclone leaves a trace of its passage even on the hardest rock, and a beach hit by a tornado will never resume its former shape. Something similar had happened to Adela’s face: since the unleashing of that passion, it was the same as before yet somehow very different.

  For heaven’s sake, Adelita—that old Nat King Cole song had taught her how to laugh at herself and her name, which was so much at odds with her personality—for heaven’s sake, my dear, anyone would think you’d never had a lover before. She laughed. The mirror on the wall kindly reflected what was still a quite lovely smile. Dear oh dear, Adela, she added, a veteran like you, with a service record—to use a military metaphor, and what could be more appropriate?—that would have impressed even good old Nat King Cole. A boy young enough to be your son comes along, and look at you: head over heels! There was no denying it: the encounter with Carlos had turned her world upside down. It had been overwhelming, absolutely devastating, she might have said, if she hadn’t been allergic to self-dramatization. Yet devastation had been wrought: every last trace of her former loves had been swept away. All gone. She looked at herself long and hard in the mirror, but nowhere on her seasoned, worldly skin could she find the tiniest memento of those other affairs, even the truly scandalous ones. Those secret affairs, including one that had done terrible damage, and after that, brief, passionate escapades and various bits of fun: all completely wiped from her memory. Looking at herself in the mirror, the only thing Adela could remember was an inexperienced hand trembling as it touched her body, as if it were venturing into unexplored territory. A hand that was slightly moist and that had the sweet smell of very young skin. That was all.

  Adela Teldi contemplated the little hollow at the base of her neck. No doubt one of his kisses had left a trace of love’s perfume in that fragile, wrinkled little cup: witch’s flesh, old skin, like all the skin on her body; but strangely, its texture had never seemed to bother him, not even that afternoon when they first met.

  The way it had all begun was truly odd. She had been planning a party for some friends at her country house, so on one of her visits to Madrid, she decided to visit a catering firm that had been recommended to her. But when she arrived at Mulberry & Mistletoe, she was annoyed to discover that the owner, a certain Mr. Chaffino, was out, so she had no choice but to deal with his assistant. Which turned out to be more than satisfactory. The assistant was a charming, conscientious young fellow. They started talking about broccoli flans, then they considered various wines to accompany the dishes, discussed the finer points of goat’s cheese on salad leaves, and what about some vol-au-vents with meat or fish maybe? Then they came back to the question of the wines . . . but soon Adela realized that with all that talk about food and drink, she was feeling ravenous and parched, so she asked the charming young fellow if there was “a place nearby where perhaps we could finalize the details of the dinner over a drink . . . I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name. What did you say it was?”

  After repeating his name, Carlos suggested the Embassy, which was nearby. When they got there, they ordered two tomato juices and a few chicken sandwiches and went on talking food: whether it would be better to have two sea bass on the buffet or a salmon and a sea bass; yes, yes, definitely a salmon with dill as well as the sea bass with tartar sauce . . . And so the conversation continued, accompanied by more sandwiches, smoked trout this time (the Embassy does a very fine smoked trout sandwich), and they talked on and on, still about catering, even after they had paid and left and were walking together toward the Plaza Colón, at which point they realized that they hadn’t even considered dessert.

  There was nothing for it; dessert would have to be discussed. And they can’t have quite sated their appetites at the Embassy, because soon they were heading for the Phoenix Hotel to have a last drink.

  IN THE BAR at the Phoenix, the tomato juices became Bloody Marys (not one but three, and strong) and Adela wasn’t looking at her watch anymore. What did it matter what time it was? To hell with meeting her husband at such and such a time. To hell with the party at her country house on the Costa del Sol and her thirty guests. To hell with everything, because by this stage Adela couldn’t even remember how she had ended up in a room at the Phoenix Hotel, where, as she sat on the bed taking off her stockings, she couldn’t help recalling a scene from The Graduate. When she had seen that film for the first time at the end of the sixties, Anne Bancroft had struck her as mature, to say the least, almost an old woman. And there she was thirty years later, in an unfamiliar hotel room, taking off her black Woolford stockings, first one leg . . . then the other, just like Anne Bancroft—“Coo-coo-cachoo, Mrs. Robinson, Jesus loves you more than you will know . . .”—and it was hard to know what the boy was thinking as he watched her, but he was certainly better looking than Dustin Hoffman, by a long shot, and younger too: Adela suspected her graduate was not even twenty-two years old; twenty-three at most.

  STANDING IN FRONT of her dresser, Adela applied the subtlest touch of eyeliner, putting some depth back into her gaze. Now all she needed was a layer of powder and the effect would be perfect, without it looking like she was wearing any makeup at all: that’s it, just about right. How much time had passed since she heard Karel Pligh’s shout? Five minutes perhaps, no more. In fast forward, memories tumble past in no time at all . . . but maybe it was longer, ten or even twelve minutes, for suddenly Mrs. Teldi heard another shout. Had it come from her husband’s room? Ernesto Teldi often cried out in his sleep. She knew what caused his nightmares. Although they never discussed his past, it held no secrets for Adela. Likewise, they never talked about that other incident, her own dark secret, something that had happened a few years after she and Ernesto had gotten married and moved from Madrid to Argentina. When was that again? In 1981, or maybe ’82? Adela had tried to forget, but the best she could do was to muddle the dates. Suddenly, stupidly, she started singing: “If Adelita went off with another man.” In the mirror, her eyes had a feverish look, which was quite unusual, since their mistress was not inclined to let them betray any sign of weakness. Self-control was the key, the self-control she had maintained for more than seventeen years, ever since the day her sister Soledad died.

  If Adelita went off . . . but Adelita never did. That was her punishment. As well as knowing that the price of an unblemished reputation is silence. Or death. But now
you’re getting all melodramatic, my dear, she thought, doing a final check of her arms and hands, applying the finishing touches to her artful look of early-morning informality. It’s sheer melodrama to suppose that all your problems, past and present, could be solved by a death. Highly unlikely, too; impossible, in fact, despite the strange tingling in your thumbs, you old witch. Time to get moving; you’d better go out and see what’s happened, can’t put it off much longer . . . but first, my God, I nearly forgot. I have to go in next door and tell Ernesto. What’s the bet he’s sleeping like a log.

  Carlos Garcia, the waiter

  From the servants’ quarters on the top floor, Carlos Garcia could hear Karel shouting in the kitchen. But he didn’t mistake the shout for a factory siren, as Serafin Tous had done. He didn’t ignore it, like young Chloe, or think it was part of his nightmare, like Ernesto Teldi. Like Adela on the next floor down, Carlos got out of bed when he heard the shouts, but rather than indulging in some leisurely morning grooming, he headed for the door, hesitating only for a moment to look at the deep hollow left in his pillow by the head that had rested next to his.

  He couldn’t remember when Adela Teldi had left his room; it must have been a good while ago, certainly before dawn, but . . . Come on, hurry up. It was urgent from the sound of it—you can worry about that later. Better get down there and see what’s going on.

  Which is what he did.

  There was no one in the kitchen except Karel, and Nestor’s body stretched out on the floor. The room seemed perfectly tidy; there was nothing to indicate what might have happened. Without asking questions, Carlos knelt for a moment beside the body of his friend. He felt no pain or sorrow or even incredulity—it was just strange. There was something impersonal about the whole scene, as if that corpse had never been Nestor. The corpse of a friend is already a stranger, identical to any other corpse. Who had said that? It was all too true. But it wasn’t the moment to be probing his memory.

  Nevertheless, during those long minutes of confusion, before the others came bursting into kitchen, with only Karel there, impassive as a ventriloquist’s dummy awaiting manipulation now that he had accomplished his mission and raised the alarm, Carlos Garcia did have time to remember many scenes in which his dead friend had played a part. And he relived those scenes: things they had been through together, shared secrets, laughter, little mysteries, and the odd premonition, beginning with the time, two weeks back, when they had gone to see a certain fortune-teller. And yes, maybe that was where it all began: the chain of events that would lead to Nestor’s death.

  4

  I. A VISIT TO MADAME LONGSTAFFE’S HOUSE

  A PARROT OR perhaps a lorikeet with red and blue plumage, a green breast, and a very tatty tail looked at them with one eye. The other eye, also asquint, was looking up at the ceiling, contemplating a corner miraculously free of decorations or knickknacks of any sort.

  They shut the front door. Nobody had opened it for them, but a sign saying COME IN AND WAIT YOUR TURN IN THE LITTLE AQUAMARINE SITTING ROOM, THANK YOU directed them to the second door on the left. They went in, greeted the three people in the room, and sat down to wait with the patience required of those who frequent such establishments.

  After a little while, Carlos Garcia looked at Nestor as if to say: Do you think I could take a newspaper from this, um . . . magazine rack? And his friend’s mustache, which fitted in perfectly with the décor of the house, replied: Of course. Carlos was about to delve into that multicolored plaster imitation of a doctor’s bag and make his choice among the glossy magazines and newspapers when he noticed the head of a Roman tribune peeping out. He promptly withdrew his hand and decided to look around the room instead.

  He had heard about fortune-tellers’ houses: they were always weird. Some, no doubt, were decorated in the Chinese manner, with little colored lamps, and yins and yangs everywhere, even on the bathroom tiles. And Cuban faith healers, all the rage recently, probably had their places done up like Bacardi ads, with bongo drums and seashells everywhere, and statues of Babalú Ayé and Shangó and the Blessed Saint Barbara. But Madame Longstaffe, the famous clairvoyant, was Brazilian. She hailed from the peerless city of Bahia, and her house defied the imagination: the natural reaction to such surroundings was flight.

  “Let’s go.”

  “Cazzo Carlitos,” said Nestor (cazzo was his favorite word, and Carlos still hadn’t worked out if it had an affectionate overtone or was just an insult, since his boss used it in every imaginable situation). “Cazzo Carlitos, you’re the one who insisted on coming, and now that we’re here, we’re going to stay.”

  ASIDE FROM THE novelty magazine rack, the most disturbing decorative feature in the room was a stuffed white Maltese terrier perched on an alabaster column. But it didn’t seem to be bothering any of the other clients waiting their turn. There was an elegantly dressed woman occupying the sofa on the right (threadbare Aubusson tapestry with little Indian cushions), a Rastafarian cleaning his fingernails with a large knife, leaning against a Japanese screen, and a very nervous woman in sunglasses trying to look as unobtrusive as possible, who had chosen a seat in front of the window so you could see only her silhouette, like Fedora in the Billy Wilder film. None of them seemed the least bit surprised by the presence of a mummified dog on top of a column. Carlos observed that the animal had its ears pricked and its little pink tongue hanging out, as if it were smiling. On one side of the column, a bronze plaque provided an explanation: “Dear Fru-Fru, you will always be in my thoughts. Day and night I will remember the patter of your little paws following my weary footsteps.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” said Carlos, with the natural impulsiveness of a twenty-one-year-old but also, truth be told, a superstitious fear of what he might discover about himself and his future. Yet if he didn’t want to find out, why had he asked Nestor to come with him to the clairvoyant’s house? His friend was right.

  “Eh, cazzo, it was your idea to come and find out about your imaginary lover, and if you think you can back down now, after pestering me for days about it at Mulberry and Mistletoe, you can forget it.”

  II. FROM MULBERRY & MISTLETOE TO MADAME LONGSTAFFE

  THERE IS SOMETHING about stoves and ovens that makes people confess their secrets. Take a young man, put him in front of a pan full of simmering syrup with orange blossom and pieces of pumpkin and other such flotsam in it. Next thing you know, he’ll be baring his soul to a friend or mentor, whoever happens to be present, like a young bard confessing himself to a druid. Not that there was anything bardlike about Carlos Garcia—slack first-year law student turned part-time waiter—and far from being the green homeland of the Celts, Mulberry & Mistletoe was a very exclusive catering business, owned by Nestor Chaffino. HOME AND BUSINESS CATERING, said the card. DINNER PARTIES, COCKTAIL PARTIES, AND OTHER SOCIAL OCCASIONS. WE SPECIALIZE IN DESSERTS. VISIT US FOR A FREE QUOTE. As for Nestor, well, maybe there was something druidlike about him: not so much his appearance (an Italo-Argentine cook with a pointy blond mustache is hardly the spitting image of Panoramix), but there was a certain wizardry to the way he stirred his pots and pans, and somehow it made people feel like opening their hearts to him.

  And that was why, in the course of a long winter afternoon, while helping to prepare large quantities of morello cherries soaked in cognac for one of Nestor’s famous desserts, Carlos had timidly begun to reveal his secret.

  It all started with a casual remark, one of his philosophical observations on a subject that would never even occur to most people, let alone a waiter rushed off his feet with not a moment to spare for idle speculation.

  And yet it had occurred to him.

  “No, honestly, it’s something I’ve noticed time and again, Nestor: when you’re working as a waiter, you reach a point when you realize that people have lost their heads,” he confessed as they were making syrup to keep themselves busy while waiting for customers. “Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that you start thinking they’re all crazy, though the
re’s that too,” he added, laughing. “No, there you are, busy serving the wine, and all you can see are the details, like they’re not whole people anymore, just bits of people.”

  “Pass me the cognac, will you, Carletto,” said Nestor, interrupting, “and stop eating the cherries.”

  Carlos, who didn’t drink, was discovering the magic effect of cherries soaked in cognac, which bring out secrets even more effectively than the stirring of pots.

  He went on to explain to his friend how, since he had started working at Mulberry & Mistletoe, he had discovered a whole new way of looking at the world: the way you see things when you’re carrying a tray full of glasses. “And from that vantage point,” he said, “it turns out people have no faces. No, seriously, it’s true: when you’re serving drinks, you don’t look into their eyes to see who asked for whiskey and who asked for grapefruit juice. There are other ways of telling. And when you’re out there taking orders and they’re milling around you and making a racket, you can only recognize people by very specific bodily features. Do you see what I’m getting at?” Nestor said he hadn’t the foggiest idea, and Carlos had to make a special effort to explain something that can only be understood fully by people who are constantly having to deal with large groups of strangers.

  “What I mean, if you’ll listen for a minute instead of looking at me like I’m a lunatic, what I mean is that however important these people you’re serving are, when you’re trying to remember who’s who, you don’t remember their faces or their names, not even if they’re film stars or government ministers. What you end up doing is telling them apart by some insignificant detail: a gold tooth, a telltale scar left by one too many visits to the plastic surgeon, whatever . . . sometimes it’s a piece of jewelry—an old cameo, for instance. It’s not as if you’re looking for these details, but something just catches your eye. And if you happen to see one of them in the street later on, you won’t recognize their face but you’ll find yourself thinking: Look, there goes the woman with the arthritic fingers and bloodred nails who only drinks vodka and lemon . . . And that fat man with a wart on his neck? He’s the one who asked me for matches to light his cigar—those moist lips were made for smoking big cigars. Do you see what I mean now, Nestor? For me, people come in pieces, eye-catching details that sum up their personalities. It’s one of the things you discover as a waiter, and then of course the habit carries over into your private life too. I guess that’s why I’ve started thinking about her again . . .”