The Case of Lisandra P. Read Free Page B

of all, let’s get the night over with. Apparently it’s best to sleep on things. Oh, yes! I nearly forgot, what size are you?”
    â€œWhat size what?”
    â€œWhat size jacket do you wear?”
    â€œWhy are you asking me this?”
    â€œI’ll say it again: we ask the questions here, you’ll just have to get used to it. What size jacket are you?”
    â€œFifty-two.”
    â€œAs I thought. Well, good night, then. And maybe tomorrow morning you’ll remember something. With dreams you never know, since apparently you analyze them.”

“Morning, Mama. Did you sleep well?”
    Eva Maria didn’t answer. She was stunned. She muttered to herself.
    â€œIt can’t be. It must be a mistake.”
    Eva Maria couldn’t take her eyes off the newspaper. Just a few lines. Estéban walked over to the fridge.
    â€œIt was a really nice evening yesterday . . . you know, you should come one day . . . people dancing, they’re like sleeping volcanoes, except now they’re awake . . . just tell yourself that.”
    Eva Maria folded the paper. Abruptly. So, from one day to the next, a man could find himself in the paper. Eva Maria stood up. She went out into the hall. She put on her coat. Tied her scarf. Picked up her handbag. Estéban went up to her.
    â€œAre you all right, Mama?”
    â€œYes, yes . . .”
    â€œWhat time will you be home tonight?”
    â€œAt five o’clock.”
    â€œOkay, I’ll be here.”
    Estéban leaned over Eva Maria. He kissed her. Her mind was elsewhere. The door slammed. Estéban ran his fingers through his hair. He parted the curtain at the window. He watched EvaMaria running down the street, her bag in one hand, the newspaper in the other. She was holding it tight. The pages crumpled in her fist. The bus was about to leave. Eva Maria pounded on the window. The door opened; she climbed on board. The bus pulled away. Estéban let go of the curtain. He went to sit at the table. In Eva Maria’s place. His face went blank.
    Eva Maria got off the bus. Her bag in one hand, the newspaper in the other. She had relaxed her grip. Her hair was loose. The day was over. Eva Maria was walking quickly; she had to check something. She walked past a small café. El Pichuco. The waiter called out to her. Eva Maria waved to him without stopping. She had to check something. She walked up to a building. Went in. Climbed up five floors. Rang the bell on the right. Vittorio would open for her. No one answered. She rang again. No one. It couldn’t be. She pounded on the fake wooden panels. Stood there for a long while. Motionless. In front of the locked door, which didn’t open. Her hand tightened around the newspaper. She went back down the stairs. Crossed the square. Went into the small café. The waiter came over. He put a glass of wine down on the table for her. He was very agitated.
    â€œYou’re not the only one who found no one at home. Haven’t you heard? He killed her. She’s dead. Can you imagine, dead? But he won’t get away with it, I can tell you that—he’s in a real pickle. You can’t imagine the chaos all day long, cops everywhere . . . A shrink who’s a murderer, that will get people talking, I can tell you.”
    Eva Maria put her glass down. Abruptly.
    â€œNo, you can’t tell me; that’s just it! Shut up, Francisco, for once, just shut up, stop talking about things you know nothing about.”
    â€œBut I do know—”
    â€œNo, you don’t know anything.”
    Eva Maria stood up. She tossed a few coins on the table. Her tone was sharp.
    â€œJust because you’re dying to tell the entire planet you’ve been serving a murderer doesn’t mean that the man is a murderer.”
    Customers at neighboring tables turned around. Eva Maria left the café. She tossed the newspaper into the garbage