Repentance by Eloísa Díaz

Author:Eloísa Díaz [Díaz, Eloísa]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Polis Books
Published: 2021-07-21T00:00:00+00:00

(2001)

Wednesday, December 19th; 15:45

The house was dark. The house was quiet. It had been built with Buenos Aires temperatures in mind. The narrow white hallway and stone floors meant to keep the humid heatwaves under control. Many a summer siesta they had slept with Sorolla lying directly on the marble in a pillow fort. This quiet was strange. Coming home for lunch normally meant Alzada was greeted by the smell of a delicious meal, the sound of Paula humming a song that was hard to recognize, and Sorolla watching the news in the background. Today, he could hear the refrigerator whirr. The inspector retraced his steps to the entrance to switch on the light. The red-and-white checkered oilcloth on the table lay bare. A cold shudder went down his back.

¿Dónde está Paula?

Alzada felt his knees weaken. He checked his phone. Nothing. He leant with both hands on the kitchen counter. Cool relief for his palms. Then he saw a note in Paula’s meticulous handwriting: ‘We’re going to therapy. We love you, P. & S.’ Today is – mierda – Wednesday. Every Wednesday Sorolla had a regular appointment with Dr Emmerich, a renowned therapist. One would think that at twenty-three Sorolla might perhaps be embarrassed by the fact, or at least wish to go alone. But at his express request Paula and Joaquín walked him there. Every single week. How could I have forgotten? It had turned into a family tradition, the one thing in their increasingly insane lives that never budged. First, an early lunch, which he had distractedly missed. Then a stroll to the doctor’s office. He would chat with Paula until Sorolla’s appointment was over and, on their way back, the three would stop for ice cream at Chungo. Joaquín, Joaquín . . . He had been so distracted by another family’s tragedy that he had neglected his own.

Alzada looked at his watch. 15.47. He could still make it. What was he going to eat, though? On the fridge he found a second note. As always, Paula was one step ahead of him. ‘These are for you.’ On the top shelf, what he assumed must be a mountain of milanesas. Sorolla’s favorite. He reached down to grab a beer only to notice another note on one of the Quilmes bottles. ‘Only one . . .’ No beer, then. He didn’t have time for it anyhow. If he drove out this minute, and infringed all existing traffic rules, he could catch up with them just as they arrived. But that meant he would have to skip lunch. Decisions, decisions, decisions. With two expert fingers, he snatched a breaded steak from underneath the complicated topography of the tin foil. Back to the car.

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