was still remembering something or talking to himself, but doing so out loud and before a witness. The fact that I had referred to Desvern’s death as a murder had clearly touched a nerve.
I was startled. It had never occurred to me that he might have another corpse lurking in his past, whatever the circumstances of that first killing. He seemed to me an ordinary, straightforward crook, not really capable of violent crimes. I had seen the killing of Deverne as an exception, as something he felt obliged to do, and, when all was said and done, he hadn’t been the one to wield the weapon, he, too, had delegated, although to a lesser extent than Díaz-Varela.
‘I didn’t say anything about that,’ I responded rapidly. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. I was just asking a question. But I’d almost prefer not to know, not if there was another death involved. Let’s drop the subject. The lesson is: never ask questions.’ – I glanced at my watch. I suddenly felt very uncomfortable to be sitting where Desvern used to sit, talking to his indirect executioner. – ‘Anyway, I have to go, it’s getting late.’
He ignored my last words, still pondering. I had sown doubt in his mind, I just hoped he didn’t go to Díaz-Varela now and ask him about Luisa, demand an explanation, and that Díaz-Varela did not then summon me again, I don’t know, to give me a telling-off or something. Or perhaps Ruibérriz was reliving what had happened in Mexico all those years ago, which clearly still weighed on him.
‘It was all Elvis Presley’s fault, you know,’ he said after a few seconds, in a quite different tone of voice, as if he had suddenly alighted upon a new way to impress me and not leave entirely empty-handed, so to speak.
I giggled slightly, I couldn’t help it.
‘You mean the Elvis Presley?’
‘Yes, I worked for him for about ten days, when he was shooting a film in Mexico.’
This time I laughed out loud, despite the sombre nature of the conversation.
‘Oh, yeah,’ I said, still laughing. – ‘And I suppose you know which island he’s living on. That’s what his fans believe, isn’t it? Who is he currently hiding out with: Marilyn Monroe or Michael Jackson?’
He looked annoyed and shot me a cutting glance. He really was annoyed because he said to me:
‘Don’t be such a dickhead, woman. Don’t you believe me? I did work for him, and he got me into deep trouble.’
He sounded far more serious than he had at any other point in the conversation. Genuinely miffed and angry. But that couldn’t possibly be true, it sounded like pure bluster, or else a delusion; but he had taken my scepticism very much to heart. I swiftly backpedalled.
‘Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. But you must admit it does sound a touch unbelievable.’ – And I added, in order to change the subject without completely abandoning it, without beating a retreat that would lead him to believe that I thought him either a complete fraud or a nutter: ‘How old are you, then, if you worked with the King no less? He died years ago, didn’t he? It must be nearly fifty years.’ I was still struggling not to laugh, but fortunately, managed to contain myself.
I noticed at once that he was recovering some of his old flirtatiousness. But he began by ticking me off.
‘Don’t exaggerate. It will thirty-four years ago next 16th of August, I think. That’s all.’ – He knew the exact date, he must be a real fan. – ‘All right then, so how old do you think I am?’
I wanted to be kind, to make amends. But I couldn’t go too far, I mustn’t flatter him too much.
‘Oh, I don’t know, about fifty-five?’
He smiled smugly, as if he had already forgotten the offence I had caused him. He smiled so broadly that his top lip once again shot upwards, revealing his healthy, white, rectangular teeth, and his gums.
‘Add another ten, at least,’ he replied, pleased. ‘What do you think?’
So he really was very well preserved. There was a childish quality about him, which was what made him so likeable. He was doubtless another victim of Díaz-Varela, whom I was now growing accustomed to calling not by his first name, Javier, that name I had so often spoken and whispered in his ear, but by his surname. That’s pretty childish too, but it helps to distance us from those we have