PORING OVER THE MAP, Richard remembered the lake in the Catskills he used to visit with Horacio. His friend had a log cabin there, where in the summer he vacationed with his family, and where he and Richard went in winter to fish in a hole on the icy lake. They would always avoid the busiest areas, because for them angling was a meditative sport, a special opportunity to enjoy silence and solitude, and to strengthen a friendship that went back almost forty years. That part of the lake was difficult to get to and did not attract the winter hordes. He and Horacio would drive across the frozen surface in an off-road vehicle, dragging a small trailer containing all they needed for the day: a saw and other tools to cut the ice, rods and hooks, batteries, a lamp, a kerosene stove, gasoline, and provisions. They made holes and with infinite patience fished for some rather small trout that when grilled were little more than skin and bones.
Richard missed Horacio and looked after his affairs in his absence. His friend had gone back to Argentina when his father died, thinking he would return after a few weeks, but two years had passed and he was still caught up in his family’s businesses and only came to the United States a couple of times a year. Richard had the keys to his empty lakeside cabin and used his vehicle, a Subaru Legacy with a roof rack for skis and bicycles, which Horacio refused to sell. It was at Horacio’s insistence that Richard had applied to be a faculty member at the Center for Latin American and Caribbean Studies at New York University. He had been an assistant professor for three years, and associate professor another three, before getting tenure, with all the security this implied. And when Horacio quit his position as chairman, Richard replaced him. He also bought his friend’s house in Brooklyn at a bargain price. As Richard used to say, the only way to repay Horacio for everything he had done would be to donate his lungs to him for a transplant while still alive. Like his father and his siblings, Horacio was a chain-smoker and had a constant cough.
“The woods surrounding that part of the lake are fairly dense. No one goes there in winter and I doubt they do in summer either,” Richard explained to Lucia.
“How are we going to organize this? We’d have to rent a car to get back,” said Lucia.
“That would leave a trail. We can’t draw attention to ourselves. We can take the Subaru to return in. Normally we could go and come back in one day, but with this weather it will take us two.”
“What about the cats?”
“I’ll leave them food and water. They’re used to being left alone for a few days.”
“Something unexpected might happen.”
“Like for example us being sent to jail, or getting murdered by Frank Leroy?” Richard asked with a wry smile. “If that happens, my neighbor will come and look after the cats.”
“We have to take Marcelo,” Lucia said.
“No way!”
“What do you want me to do with him?”
“We can leave him with my neighbor.”
“Dogs aren’t like cats, Richard. They get anxious over separations. He has to come with us.”
Richard flung his hands in the air. He found it hard to understand how anyone could be so dependent on animals in general and in particular on such a grotesque Chihuahua. The cats were independent; he could go away for weeks secure in the knowledge they would not miss him.
Lucia followed him to one of the unoccupied rooms on the first floor, where he kept his tools and a carpentry bench. This was the last thing she would have imagined; she’d assumed that like all the other men in her life, he was unable even to hammer a nail in the wall, but it was clear that Richard enjoyed manual work. The tools were mounted on pegboards on the wall, each with its own spot clearly outlined in chalk so that it would be obvious where to replace it. Everything was arranged as neatly as in the pantry, where each object had its exact position. The only evident chaos in the house was limited to the papers and books that had taken over the living room and kitchen, although possibly this chaos was only superficial and they were in fact classified according to a secret system that only Richard understood. He must be a Virgo, she decided.
RICHARD GOT OUT THE SHOVEL and cleared away the snow in front of the basement door so that Lucia could rescue what was left of her Chilean cazuela, the food for Marcelo, and her toiletries. Back in Richard’s kitchen they shared the tasty soup and prepared another pot of coffee. Distracted by all the commotion, Richard ate two platefuls, even though there were chunks of beef floating among the potatoes, green beans, and pumpkin. He had succeeded in controlling the upsets of his digestive system thanks to a strictly disciplined life. He avoided gluten, was lactose intolerant, and did not drink alcohol for a much more serious reason than his ulcer problem. His ideal would be to eat only plants, but he needed protein, and so each week he added to his diet certain types of seafood that had no mercury in them, six organic eggs, and four ounces of hard cheese. He followed a biweekly plan with two fixed menus each month. This meant he bought only what was strictly necessary and cooked it in the preestablished order so that nothing was wasted. On Sundays he improvised with whatever fresh produce he could find at the market; this was one of the few flights of fancy he allowed himself. He did not eat meat from mammals out of a moral decision not to eat animals he would be unable to kill, or fowl because of his horror of industrial farming and because he would not have been able to wring a chicken’s neck either. However, he enjoyed cooking, and occasionally, if a dish turned out especially well, he fantasized about sharing it with someone, for example, Lucia Maraz, who was far more interesting than any of his previous basement tenants. He had been thinking about her increasingly often and was now pleased to have her in his house, even if it was thanks to the extraordinary pretext offered by Evelyn Ortega. In fact, he was far more pleased than the circumstances warranted; something strange was happening to him, he had to be careful.
Fortified by the cazuela, they went out into the street again. Richard studied the broken lock on the trunk for several minutes while Lucia protected him from the falling snow under a black umbrella. “I can’t fix it, I’m going to secure the lid with a piece of wire,” he concluded. Beneath the disposable latex gloves he had insisted on wearing so as to leave no fingerprints, his hands were blue and his fingers stiff, and yet he worked with a surgeon’s precision. Twenty-five minutes later he had painted the bulb in the smashed indicator red, and had fastened the lid so skillfully that the wire was invisible. Teeth chattering, the two of them went back into the house, where the still-hot coffee awaited them.
“The wire will last the whole trip and won’t cause you any problems,” Richard announced to Lucia.
“Cause me any problems? No, Richard, you’re going to drive the Lexus. I’m a poor driver, and even worse if I’m nervous. The police could pull me over.”
“Then Evelyn can drive. I’ll go ahead in the Subaru.”
“Evelyn doesn’t have any documents.”
“Not even a license?”
“I’ve already asked her. She has a license in someone else’s name. A fake one, of course. We can’t run any more risks than we have to. You’ll drive the Lexus, Richard.”
“Why me?”
“Because you’re a white male. No cop is going to ask for your documents, even if a human foot is sticking out of the trunk. But a pair of Latinas driving in the snow is suspicious right away.”
“If the Leroys reported the disappearance of the car we’re in trouble.”
“Why would they do that?”
“To claim insurance.”
“What do you mean, Richard? One of them is a murderer, so the last thing they would do is to report something like that.”
“What about the other one?”