The Killer's Tears Read Free

milk?” Paolo interrupted.
    He poured another glass of milk while Angel continued to fume, his fists clenched under the table. The drawer was not far. It wouldn't take much effort.
    “I'm willing to pay you,” the stranger went on. “Money is not a problem for me. I have more than I need. And I'm willing to work. If you agreed, I could rent out part of your land and build a shack. I don't want to take advantage of your hospitality. I would go to the far end of the path, where you would hardly see me.”
    Paolo had put the empty pitcher down on the table and was looking at Angel. He sensed that a tragedy was about to happen if he did not intervene. He liked the stranger. Hedid not want him to die. He also did not feel like helping Angel dig a new hole. The drought of these last weeks had made the soil more compact and denser than granite. It was difficult enough to dig the furrows in the garden. When he saw that Angel was opening the drawer, he cried out:
    “Oh, Papa! That would be so nice, Papa! Say yes, Papa!”
    Angel froze.
Papa
. Had the child really said “Papa”?
    “Your son is a nice kid,” the stranger said. “I'm sure he's been well brought up.”
    Angel remained stunned, his hand suspended above the drawer.
    “Come on, Papa,” implored Paolo. “Please, Papa.”

CHAPTER THREE
    WHEN HE WAS thirty years old, Luis Secunda had left Valparaiso to travel around the world. In his family, it was unheard of to remain in the place where you were born. Of Spanish origin, generations of Secundas had scattered throughout the seven continents. Luis's mother got stranded in Valparaiso after many years of senseless journeys. There, she finished the education of her four children—all mirac-ulously fathered by the same man—before leaving for Africa to follow a new lover.
    Luis's father, a rich wine merchant, lavishly provided his children with money, thinking that this kind of fertilizer would ensure their blossoming. He sent checks the wayothers send postcards. Each time he came back to Valparaiso from his travels, he inspected his four offspring with the same care he brought to his vines. Satisfied that they were growing in size, and unable to measure anything else, he would leave again, his conscience at peace.
    Luis's two older sisters married young, one a German, the other a Frenchman, and both had left Chile. His younger brother had dreams that took him to Hollywood, where he hoped to become an actor. When his father had last visited Valparaiso, Luis was the only one still living in the family house.
    “You're still here?” Mr. Secunda had said, surprised.
    “I guess I'm the kind that puts down roots,” Luis answered.
    “Well, put down roots where you want, but not here. I'm selling the house.”
    These last years, the wine business had not been partic-ularly good. Expenses needed to be cut, and belt-tightening often meant that one had to sell.
    “Here is your share,” Luis's father told him. “This is the last time I'll give you money. And this is my last visit to Valparaiso. From now on, you'll have to fend for yourself.”
    It was then that Luis left the city of his birth, imagining that he would travel around the world. After all, it was the most natural thing for a Secunda to do, even if it was the most unlikely thing for Luis.
    When he said goodbye to his friends and girlfriends, he made the solemn promise to write to them from the farthestand most exotic cities. He saw the excitement in their eyes:
Luis Secunda is going around the world! He is a fantastic man!
they must have been thinking.
    “And then?” Paolo asked when Luis told him his story.
    “Then, nothing. I took a train going south. I slept in hotels. I walked the streets. …”
    “Did you like it?”
    “No.”
    “So, you didn't even leave Chile?”
    “I arrived here.”
    “And the letters?”
    “Promises are not always kept, you know.”
    Paolo nodded with seriousness. He grasped only half of what Luis meant, since no one had