Believing the Lie - Elizabeth George [212]
“Heading back?” Barbara asked him.
“Heading home,” he replied. “Engracia, my thanks.”
“De nada,” she murmured.
At one of the tables inside the wine bar, Barbara handed over the documents, beginning with the article that accompanied the photograph of the mayor and his family. She said, “I got a Spanish/English dictionary, but it wasn’t much help. I mean, it was… a bit. But looking up every word…”
“Of course.” Engracia read for a moment, holding the article in one hand while she played with a gold hoop earring with the other. After a moment, she said, “This is connected to an election.”
“For mayor?”
“Si. The man— Esteban— he runs for mayor of the town and this article introduces him to people. It’s an article without import… how do you call this?”
“A puff piece?”
She smiled. She had very nice teeth and very smooth skin. She wore lipstick but it was barely noticeable, so perfectly had it been chosen. “Yes. A puff piece,” she replied. “It says in the town there is such a large family of the mayor that if his family members all vote, he will win the election. But that, I believe, is a joke because it also says the town’s population is seventy-five thousand people.” Engracia read a bit further and said, “There is information about his wife, Dominga, and about her family. Both families have lived in Santa Maria de la Cruz, de los Angeles, y de los Santos for many years, many generations.”
“What about the boys?”
“The boys… Ah. Carlos is a seminarian. Miguel wishes to be a dentist. Angel”— she pronounced it Ahnhail— “plans to study architecture and the other two boys are too young to know, although Santiago says he wants to be an actor and Diego…” She read further and chuckled. “It says he wishes to be an astronaut in the unlikely event that Argentina develops a space programme. That is a little joke, I think. The reporter was humouring him.”
There wasn’t a lot of grist in all that, Barbara reckoned. She brought out the next pieces, both of them about Raul Montenegro. She handed them over with, “What about these?” And she asked Engracia if she wanted a glass of wine or something since they were taking up space in the wine bar, which wasn’t going to turn out to be a popular move if they didn’t place an order.
Engracia said mineral water would be nice, and Barbara fetched it for her along with a glass of the house plonk for herself. When she returned with the drinks, she saw that Engracia was concentrating on the article whose accompanying photo had Alatea hanging on Montenegro’s arm. This, she said, was an article about a very important fund-raiser in Mexico City, having to do with the construction of a symphony music hall. The man was the biggest contributor to this project and consequently would have the honour of naming the music hall.
“And?” Barbara said, expecting the hall to be named for Alatea since she was looking so pleased as she hung on his arm.
“Magdalena Montenegro Centre for Music,” Engracia said. “Named for his mama. Latin men are close to their mothers, as a rule.”
“What about the woman with him in the picture?”
“It says only that she is his companion.”
“Not his wife? Lover? Partner?”
“Only his companion, I’m afraid.”
“Could be a euphemism for lover or partner?”
Engracia studied the photo a moment. “This is difficult to say. But I do not think so.”
“So she could have been merely his evening’s companion? Even an escort he hired for the night?”
“It is possible,” Engracia said. “She could even be someone who stepped into the picture with him at the moment, I suppose.”
“Damn, damn, damn,” Barbara muttered. And when Engracia looked remorseful, as if she’d somehow failed, Barbara said, “Oh, sorry. Not you. Just life.”
“I see this is important to you. Can I help in some other way?” Engracia asked.
Barbara thought about this. There was something else. She calculated the time difference and said, “Let me make a phone call,” and she took out her mobile. “They don’t speak English at the other end, so if you c’n talk to whoever answers …”
She explained to Engracia that they were