Silver Bullets Read Free Page B

her window on the second floor she saw a young man on a bicycle come out andglide downhill. For a moment she saw him in her arms and she recognized herself in his kisses, but she wiped that away immediately. She did not like anyone in the neighborhood and even less a boy who thought he could win her heart and her charm with beer and wheedling flattery. Idiot, nothing means nothing.
    What a difference. Bruno’s kisses were soft, no drooling saliva, not always the same. She met him when the University of Sinaloa gave an honorary doctorate to Carlos Fuentes. They were both in line to get their books signed, and they talked about what they thought of them. She had four, and he had them all. After the writer signed and chatted with them both, they went to have a juice because he did not drink. That was when they kissed the first time and he said he was one of those who never marry. That was also their first night together.
    The bedroom was large. Off-white. Beside the window a black computer on a table laden with books and notebooks. Her bag was on the dressing table, next to three unopened cans of beer and surrounded by bottles of perfume and a bedraggled teddy bear. She went over, in the mirror she looked uncombed and determined. She opened the bag and reached for the pistol. A final message? She felt a tiny impulse when she saw the lipstick, but she controlled herself. What for? She put the photograph of her parents facedown. She turned on the television, Channel 22 was broadcasting a round table on contemporary art, lay down on the bed, and shot herself in the right temple.
    In the street the kid with the bike, who had returned, looked at Paola’s window without comprehending, made a move toward the house, then stopped, he let a few seconds go by, waved his arm, spun around, and went into his own home.
    Did you see The Good, the Bad and the Ugly ? That music crossed the young man’s mind.

Five
    Laura Frías came back from the ladies’ room lightly made up: red lips, pleasant face. Sadness had laid waste to her black eyes and the timbre of her voice. Thin. She was wearing light-blue pants and a white blouse. Mendieta liked that, a woman who thinks of her appearance is at least a dreamer. Chestnut hair to her collar and a certain mischievousness around her mouth. They ate, she a Caesar salad with extra dressing, he Black Forest on a baguette, orange juice, and coffee. She told him she lived alone, had studied psychology, and loved the simple life. In 1900 she would have been happy working as a nurse, wearing those uniforms that came down to your ankles, eating vegetables grown without fertilizers. No doubt you would have been Porfirio Díaz’s lover, and he wouldn’t have let you eat this for breakfast. I also wouldn’t be suffering about Bruno, she turned to look at the coffee grinder a few steps from the table, even if I don’t like the stuff I love that aroma. Were you really just friends? Yes, even if that seems strange to you, why do men always think there’s more? Don’t women? It depends. Where did he have his office? At Social Security, we told you, he was a legal adviser. Do you know if he went to work yesterday? He was always working,he was ground to a powder by the end of the week. Did he have an assistant? Mónica Alfaro, a lawyer. Mendieta called Angelita, his secretary, and asked her to find out what time Canizales had left the office the day before. Who do you think killed him?
    He was a friend, a true friend, his life was unlucky, but it shouldn’t have ended like that, two tears rolled down her cheeks, she looked again at the coffee grinder, he was kind, attentive, generous; several times I asked him to straighten up, I knew his wild ways would not lead to anything good, especially in his case since people in the USB looked up to him, his family, too; he only smiled, I think deep down he hated peace and quiet and preferred strong emotions, things that overwhelm you and keep you on edge; for about six