When there are no guilty, by Lelia González (first pages)

Of Intense Effect

That afternoon, when the inclement summer at its climax discharged its ardent lust in the already overwhelming suffocation of vehicular traffic, in the hubbub of that rush hour, Justiniano Moreno drives from the very center of the capital city trying to reach an alternative route suggested by the radio traffic bulletin. He struggled to advance in hurried competition with the other drivers to be able to travel the few blocks that separate him from the entrance to the highway that, at a higher level, runs through the city bordering the mountain. With his hasty rhythm of the alto sax, Duke Ellington violently replaces the already tedious radio newscast once the path to the long-awaited flow has been cleared. Something pleasant must compensate for the absence of the car's air conditioning, suddenly craving not to work, precisely in the hottest season of the year.

Justiniano Moreno wondered once more if the unusual heat was not stimulated by the need, manifested in certain rigidities, to meet his wife as soon as possible. It often happened to him —he admitted— that the memory of sensations shared with his partner triggered a rise in body temperature. The imminence of pleasure justified, without the possibility of a doubt, traveling the city from pole to pole at that hour. This was no time to dwell on the inevitable differences in personality or criteria. Kity was the other half of him in love affairs. The perfect complement. To the extent that, as at that moment, just remembering it, her muscles twitch and his skin bristles, suddenly covered by the flash of such an indescribable sensation full of gratifying urgency. He impulsively reacted. His love of jazz would fill the meantime by imposing it by turning up the volume of the music.

In Kity, he could additionally pour her other vital outlet. After love, she brings the virtue of listening sympathetically to the adventures or perhaps improbable misadventures that he has had to overcome in the difficult intricacies of his performance as a trial lawyer, especially if he aspired to remain faithful to the principles that his late father Professor Emeritus of the Faculty will foist on him, along with the name of the Father of Roman Law. Thus anointed and now being able to count as thousands of years that they have tried to preserve those statements, Dr. Moreno tries to survive in the rarefied environment of the time, with a profession in which, paradoxically, it was quite a feat to remain faithful to the precepts of " Honeste vivere, alterum non laedere y suum cuique tribuere”, (live honestly, not harm others and give everyone what belongs to them) facing the almost impossible mission of avoiding the so-called “matraca”, a bribe that it would not always be possible to avoid to be successful in court. Even being absolutely right, with everything going for him. Not always the client, no matter how innocent he was, he can have the financial resources to satisfy the voracious appetite of judges, secretaries and bailiffs. Kity encourages him to encourage him to persist in not allowing himself to be extorted, maintaining that it is essential to break this vicious circle. "We must avoid promoting it, because the more it is accepted, the more it is done" —she insisted.

"But unfortunately, the less you do, the fewer lawsuits you win," Justiniano expressed to himself aloud, at the moment of remotely opening the electric gate of the parking lot of his residence.

Kity fresh out of the shower, perfumed and wrapped in a large bath towel, was struggling to finish preparing the food "he's about to arrive and I haven't gotten dressed yet" she thought.

The door opens suddenly. Justiniano goes straight to meet him. The deep kisses performing perfectly to exacerbate the desire of both.

"The fried plantains are burning too!" she managed to say when he, with a precise movement and without looking, turned off the stove.

They fell in love right there. The ecstasy gave no respite to try to move from the place of the clash of bodies. Somewhat later and without being able to pinpoint the moment, they looked amused at the telltale dampness of the sofa.

They dined. Deliciously too. The after-meal propitiating the confidences of the daily difficulties in the work of both. The humorous touch usually came from the unexpected anecdotes collected and gleaned from Kity's work in Real Estate. What he had to say was hardly for laughs.

"If I tell you, darling, what happened to me today." Like something out of a movie —Kiti began the anecdote of her visualizing the sequence in the violet of Perfect Amour.

She learned later from her co-workers that what happened was more frequent than she had imagined. She entered the apartment along with the potential client. She dismissed her surprise when she heard a little rhythmic noise, since she had the owner's guarantee that the property was uninhabited. It was a beautiful vacation apartment facing the sea, privilegedly located just thirty-five minutes from the capital and previously known to her when the keys were delivered to her. For this reason, she imagined that perhaps there was a drop of water being thrown in the shower of the bathroom incorporated into the room, from where her ear indicated that it came from. She perhaps the last time she forgot to turn off the water stopcock, although she recognized herself to be very careful in these details and it was not just fame. “But it happens. Often happens. If even the best hunter escapes the hare. The unexpected commonplace that drew her mind made him uncomfortable. Her lack of creativity predicted that this was not her best day, which she preferred to attribute not to the horoscope but to the biorhythm. She sounded more scientific to him.

Followed by her client, she slowly opened the door of the room with the intention of trapping the sound drop inside the interior bathroom and that at that moment increased in intensity and speed. Before closing again, he looked just long enough: the nudity of the entangled bodies betrayed the peak moment in which their intimate galaxy with a stratospheric floor made them oblivious to anything that happened outside of them, making it impossible for them to perceive either the presence of Kity and her companion. Faced with the question mark that she had turned on the potential buyer's face, she responded by shrugging her shoulders and pointing out her apartment, saying:

—I invite you first of all, Dr. Caraballo, to have a coffee downstairs in the cafeteria in front of the swimming pool. This is how you get to know the incredible recreational areas of this wonderful building.

Justiniano laughed loudly in chorus with those of his wife, who still hadn't finished exclaiming: “Incredible!... Incredible! Of course I told the owner who called me later to explain, all embarrassed, that he was not aware that his son had taken a copy of the keys to the apartment”.

"Well, darling," she reminded him. Now it's your turn. I'm dying to know the details of the solemn mess that my friends, the owners of the newspaper El Contemporáneo, are facing, with such a sales document that suddenly appeared and Ricky's humor baptized “chimbo”. Despite my intrigue and the trust I have with them, I haven't wanted to phone them yet until you tell me exactly what happened.

Justiniano, suddenly serious and thoughtful, made a meticulous collection of memory in the not very long pause of silence to inform his wife, with luxury of details as she liked, of everything that happened at the headquarters of the printed media El Contemporáneo .

He began by describing the impression that woman made on him, around the fifth decade according to what they informed him, with an arrogant demeanor and empty gaze, characteristic of someone who does not allow her true feelings and emotions to shine through.

The perplexity came from the incoherence of the details. After the death of the father and owner of the newspaper, the woman, the daughter of a first marriage, barely ten days before had communicated by telephone with Estrella, one of the legitimate heirs and a good friend of Kity, to inform her that she had been managing the matter of his birth certificate, the only collection that was needed to jointly present the declaration of succession to the authorities. It had cost her a lot of effort to overcome the usual bureaucratic inconveniences in this nation to obtain such a simple document, was the argument put forward. She asked, please, with a cloying kindness, to wait a little longer, "about two weeks." Valid and reliable argument to grant the extension, endorsed by the diminutive manipulator. How then to fit this with what is happening now? She, herself, had presented herself to the company in the company of two lawyers known not exactly for their good reputation, to take possession of the facilities of El Contemporáneo, the company that had always been owned by Kity's childhood friends, with the presumption of assert a sales document in which the deceased had allegedly sold many years ago to this presumed successor, without anyone being aware of it and for a currently ridiculous price, that is, the same as when it was founded, almost all of the shares of the Compañía Anónima Diario El Contemporáneo.

The essential question, once the surprise had passed, was: why, if she had had that document for so long, did she not even mention it before? What point would there be in her waiting four months to come forward with this? She could have said it even from the very day of her funeral where she disrespectfully spoke of inheritance before the still unburied corpse. She said at the funeral home, and making sure that everyone could hear her, to have the proposal that, since the father did not make a will, the correct thing would be to have all the heirs agree amicably to present a single declaration of succession, since this would speed things up especially in Buenaventura, a country where all this was so complicated. The matter, so indelicate and inopportunely aired, greatly annoyed a close friend of the deceased who angrily approached her, demanding respect and leaving it for a better opportunity.

It was also a difficult task to assemble her subsequent and very frequent contacts, both by telephone and in person, not only with the family's lawyer but with the other members of the family, in what was interpreted as a gesture of goodwill. The friendly approach that everyone preferred: "If there are other legitimate heirs who can prove it, we will recognize them", was the unanimous criterion in this family.

Dr. Justiniano Moreno, no less shocked and incredulous, ordered his clients from the other side of the telephone wire:

—Oppose, boys!… Don't deliver. For nothing in the world let yourself be intimidated.

"They came with a police officer, Dr. Moreno," Ricardo informed him, making an effort not to let his voice reveal any hint of fright and confusion.

—Pure intimidation tactic, guys!… That uniformed man has no power to do that. I don't think I'm wrong in suspecting that to scare you they took the custody policeman assigned to the Government Office where that cheating lawyer works. I insist. Do not even think of handing over anything, any document that they ask for. If necessary, go to the private security personnel while I arrive in the shortest time possible... firmly oppose!

—Understood, doctor —Ricardo replied, already with the encouragement that comes from support— We'll be waiting for him and in the meantime we'll faithfully follow his instructions.

Minutes later, avoiding the heavy automobile traffic through alternate routes, Justiniano Moreno confronted the colleagues who assisted the presumed sole owner. He told them that on behalf of his clients he did not recognize that document. The suspicion of cheating increased even more after verifying that they did not even show the original document but rather a copy certified by a notary's office in another town where the negotiation supposedly took place at a time, moreover, suspiciously premeditated and precise, so that in the succession did not proceed collation. In other words, all property sold up to two years prior to death automatically becomes part of the inheritance to be distributed.

"To assert that," Justiniano said with subtle disdain, "you must present yourself here with a court and the judge himself must order it." oh! But yes. At least also bring the original document.

"For now, I demand that you leave." We wouldn't want to be forced to use more persuasive methods —said Ricardo, directing his gaze towards the company's private security guards, present and waiting for orders in his director's office.

Immediately after the frustrated Thomists left, an emergency meeting was held behind closed doors with the presence of all members of the affected family and the lawyer friend. Justiniano Moreno, although the appearances were eloquent to him of the falsity of such document of sale of shares of the company, he wanted to know the opinion of each one of the heirs of the deceased, as to a remote possibility that this had been carried out in effect. sale.

"Friends," he told them in a confidential tone, "we must begin by being very clear that our lawyer is like a personal doctor who needs and must know the truth, whatever it may be." Therefore, it is a priority for me to know if any of you believe in the possibility that this negotiation really exists in order to know what to expect. I want you to know that this sale can also be challenged, since it affects "the legitimate".

Dr. Justiniano Moreno explained that "the legitimate" in successions, both with a will and without it, means the fee that is owed in full ownership to each of the heirs, and that cannot be subject to any charge or condition.

Each of them presented his arguments with the certainty that the sale never took place. The allegations highlighted the recognized moral quality of the deceased father of the family, who would have been incapable of leaving out of the estate his children with whom he always lived, they always helped him in the company, therefore preparing, at his request, in the appropriate professions for continue his work. Impossible then to conceive that he had made a negotiation behind his back. In the alleged denial, he had enough trust and communication with them to have informed them and never mentioned any of that, continuing the administration as usual, on the contrary, largely discharged on them in recent times due to his health problems.

The arguments of Ricardo and Estrella, with a lifetime at their father's side, were weighty. In the first place, remember that this presumed daughter-buyer, on the date on which the negotiation was stated, lived abroad and, on the other hand, the fact that daily contact made them experts in knowing how to sign the father , assuring that that "little bow", as they described it, that they could see in the copy presented with all certainty was not his father's signature. Based on this, they set out to prepare a strategy to defend themselves against that assault, beginning, without wasting time, by formalizing the proper police report.

For greater agility, the required procedures were distributed, such as: immediately request a Certified Copy of the document at the Notary where the alleged sale took place, simultaneously hire the most renowned graphologist in the country to perform an expert on the signature, a matter of great importance taking taking into account the slowness with which the Legal Police complies with this requirement. By indications of Justiniano, Estrella was commissioned to collect all available documents, both public and private, corresponding to the date of the alleged sale where the signature of the deceased appeared, since they would be required for the graphotechnical examination and having them at hand would allow it to be carried out in less time. weather.

They left the Conference Room, each ready from that very moment to fulfill his task. Justiniano was on his way with Ricardo to assist him in the police report and as a farewell he left them the encouragement of hope.

"I'm encouraged to have such a good team, guys," he told them. With a good strategy and such an excellent human factor, battles are won.

Something had fallen from a great height, Doña Penelope perceived it as a fairly heavy but inert lump. Her emotional impact was violent as she strained her eyes in the pre-dawn gloom and saw “enormous!” feet. She told herself.

-My God! She," she exclaimed too loudly to hear herself, "she is a person down there! And after a pause she reasoned... But he didn't cry out or groan as he fell.

Later, the punctuality of what happened was indelible in her diary:

She had been awake that night. It usually happens to me every time I have to travel very early the next day. Incorrigible whim of my biological clock by not trusting alarm clocks. I decided to fight insomnia by getting up to make myself an infusion of linden. Help sometimes. That was how, being wide awake, in front of the very hot cup whose liquid I slowly sipped as in a ritual, I heard the crash of breaking glass. I ran to the window and saw the glass scattered over much of the open parking lot that can be seen completely and perfectly from the low height of my apartment. I was satisfied with the consolation exercise of believing that the sharpness to look outside was the compensation for the noise and dust that we absorb and avoid those above us, who live on the first floor. I stood watching for a while with my cup in hand, sipping at intervals with the conviction that the glass must have fallen from a great height for it to have spread that way. I looked carefully at the luminous digits of the clock in front of me indicating 5:00 am Suddenly startled I tried to calm down assuming: some window would be poorly placed. Thank the Supreme Being that it happened at this hour. If it had been daylight he could have killed someone. If even children pedal their bicycles there. I am horrified just imagining it.

Standing by the window, they had spent at least ten minutes in these musings when, suddenly, I saw the cloudscape of a shadow and immediately that sharp blow. Quite a large bundle. Horror overwhelmed me when I verified it: it was a motionless person down there. It caught my attention that no voice was heard. Not a moan falling or passing like an exhalation before my eyes. Suddenly I started to tremble. So much that my teeth chattered without being able to contain myself. I instinctively clenched my jaw to emphasize the order to stay still. So in an instant, since I live alone, as I never became aware of being alone and not as always, I pride myself paraphrasing a poet friend "accompanied by myself." Not know what to do. The real thing was that confusion had invaded me… And if I call someone… But who? —I wondered— I don't want to get involved in this. Who knows what a big mess it could be. Better wait. As it turns out, there is nothing to do.

The minutes passed seeming very slow to me and no one came to the place where the body that I kept in my sights lay. I preferred to move away from the window. A dangerous sense of panic was building in me and I was afraid I would have a daze. I went to the kitchen and sat there slowly finishing my linden that I must have reheated. Since I was shivering even though I had a blanket thrown over me, the hot drink felt very good. My discomfort did not prevent curiosity, even more powerful, from driving me to the window to peek briefly from time to time and check that it was still there. I was already seriously considering getting dressed and going down to the Concierge now that it was getting light. My knowledge that the concierge started her work very early, more or less around that time, was intended to encourage me to go out.

By the time I heard voices, it was already fully dawn and when I peeked out, the body was clearly visible wearing a blue shirt and without pants or shoes. The frontal decubitus position did not allow me to see his face. Rauda I got up on a chair to see better at the precise moment that a very deep male voice shouted:

"My God... he's dead!"

Just a few moments before the wail of sirens could be heard. A good number of police patrol cars invaded the area. Diligent they crossed in all the accesses to the building and adjacent streets cordoning off the place. Two police cars arrived at the parking level, blocking the ramps. Preventing any access, except to the authorities, to where that man lay face down.

At the exact moment of concluding her entries in her diary without forgetting to set the date and time, Doña Penelope was instantly motionless as if struck down by the exhaustion of someone who has unloaded a heavy load. She thus she sitting she continued with the only activity of her mind. Her lucubration ran away quickly interrupted abruptly by the insistent bell of her door, startling her to the point of forcing her to jump from the high stool. The typical exclamation of a great scare was amplified as in a great sounding board filling the small space of her apartment. Conjuring the tremor in her knees that threatened to knock her off her feet, she cautiously approached. The magnifying effect of her Magic Eye presented him with a several times magnified image of Imelda, the building's janitor, clinging to her doorbell, in a state of shock. On the verge of shock. As soon as she opened, Imelda, far from entering, pulled her by her arm, to which Dona Penelope resisted, demanding that she calm down and trying to make her come in, realizing that Mrs. Imelda didn't even get her words out. With each attempt to speak he only managed to make her lips and tongue tremble without being able to articulate a word, he helped her to sit up by making her drink a glass of water, which had the miraculous effect of diluting the words packed in her mouth and suddenly scream:

"Get down Dona Penelope!" Come with me! Oh… oh, he's dead! Ella —she exclaimed stammering and rubbing her eyes at times.

"But who Imelda?"

“A watchman for this Building.

"Which of the female vigilantes…how was that?"

"I don't know anything, Mrs. Penelope... I don't know anything," Imelda repeated, very upset. She was found in the parking lot by the supervisor.

—Calm down Imelda, Dona Penelope was trying to calm her down, I don't think we should go there. You are too nervous and so am I, unless they ask me to be the President of the Condominium Board, I wouldn't solve anything there either.

Suddenly her caretaker was crying convulsively, Doña Penelope knew that crying would help her unload her shock and left her alone for a few moments. She instinctively without being able to avoid it she leaned out again. All the same. At that moment, the police chief informed the others that the Forensic Doctor had already left the medical office and was on his way to the scene. When Dona Penelope returned to the kitchen, the janitor had calmed down and totally consumed her lime.

He dismissed her by recommending that she go to her room and lie down for a while. Her work and all work activity that day in the building were suspended.

"And what is supposed to be the difficulty between you and The Pianist?" They should understand each other very well being both artists —said Hermenegilda addressing her friend, a brand new student of Fine Arts of hers who was about to finish her degree that year.

"We have a radical difference," answered the aforementioned bluntly, "he wants to have children and I, hot on his heels at forty, am convinced that I am already too old for that." Despite the fact that, previously, when I met him in Spain, I showed him my Passport, proving to him since I didn't believe it, that I am older than him. He keeps insisting that he doesn't care at all.

Greca was not her real name. Her unusual nickname came from childhood due to her artistic hobbies. She even called herself Greca, that's how she signed her artwork and anything else except legal matters. She claimed that if they called her by her real name, it seemed to her as if he wasn't with her. This second baptism back there in her distant childhood was triggered by the incident between her and her older brother who, proud of her innate ability to draw portraits and caricatures, continually made fun of her sister. she, more skillful with the palette. She had fun painting murals all over the house until he annoyed her and the fight started. That morning the grandfather, with his short and hurried step, approached ready to end the new dispute.

“Okay, Leonardo Da Vinci… okay. I will not paint anything in your surroundings. Could it be that what you have is envy? she yelled at him.

—¡Estos muchachitos lo que andan buscando es una buena zurra! —amenazó el abuelo sacándose de la cintura la correa.

—Abuelo. Es que ella ya no deja pared en la casa que no empatuque con su pinturreteo. Será que se cree El Greco.

—¡Ajá! ¿Ese es todo el lío? Déjala quieta muchacho. ¿Por qué no puede haber también una Greca? Bueno pues, ella es la Greca de esta casa. Se acabó… ¿entendido? —recalcó.

Así quedó establecido el sobrenombre con el que artísticamente ahora la conocían, sus familiares también la identificaban con ese nombre y era como sus amigas la llamaban más de treinta años después.

—Qué simpático Greca —decía Hermenegilda riendo con ganas— ¿Qué te parece Violeta? Esta es la única mujer que yo conozco que no oculta en público su edad.

—Coincidencialmente —intervino Violeta con su eterno aire de intelectual—, justo anoche leí una frase de Oscar Wilde que le viene como anillo al dedo: “Toda mujer que revela su edad, revela demasiado de sí misma”.

—No comparto ese criterio —protestó la Greca— Los artistas revelamos siempre todo lo que somos y tenemos dentro. A la vista de todos allí donde no se conoce la existencia del pudor, nos desnudan nuestras obras de arte.

La madre de Hermenegilda las llamaba a la mesa recordándoles que se estaba enfriando el té que decidieron compartir esa tarde para escucharle contar a la Greca los pormenores de su última desdichada experiencia con el mecánico de su automóvil. Un caso más de lo que para le época popularmente se conocía como “atraco legítimo”. Se acabaron los eufemismos.

La Greca les explicó el mecanismo utilizado para estafarla por enésima vez, en un taller mecánico así como su desencanto por lo que ella percibía como falta de gobierno.

—Es inútil reclamar a las autoridades y menos a esos organismos burocráticos creados especialmente a tal fin. Te hacen perder un día completo y al final se hacen de la vista gorda.

Esta vez le tocó el turno a los frenos del vehículo. Apenas sintió que necesitaba aplicar el pedal casi a fondo para poder frenar, lo dejó sin demora en el taller precisamente especializado en frenos. La reparación resultó costosísima porque según le explicaron aquellos expertos, había que rehacer completo el sistema de frenado delantero y trasero. Adicionalmente se necesitaba reponer la Bomba de Frenos que también estaba dañada y era por cierto lo más oneroso. No tenía alternativa “los frenos no pueden dejarse para después” —pensó— y pagó el alto precio.

—¿Saliste del taller frenando perfectamente Greca?, preguntó Hermenegilda. Porque si soy yo, puedes estar segura de que no me llevo el carro. En la primera esquina me regreso.

—Frenaba estupendamente amiga. Pero es que la trampa está tan, pero tan bien hecha que sólo se manifiesta un poquito después —explicó.

Habían transcurrido tres semanas cuando la Greca, quien vivía en una zona alta estuvo a punto de sufrir un accidente grave y quién sabe si hasta fatal con su automóvil. No había manera de frenarlo bajando y por el contrario aumentaba cada vez más la velocidad. Con una inesperada destreza logró detener el vehículo utilizando el recurso del freno de mano y por girar bruscamente el volante a la derecha, en una decisión de fracciones de segundo, hacia una callejuela en subida de la cual nunca antes se había percatado. Inmediatamente algunos conductores que transitaban en el momento por el lugar y observaron sus desesperados esfuerzos por alertarlos al encender las luces intermitentes de emergencia, se detuvieron.

—¡Señora… señora! La felicito por su destreza en detener el carro —dijo un elegante caballero— No todas las mujeres son capaces de hacer eso… ¡Se ha podido usted matar!

Los inesperados y solidarios automovilistas le obsequiaron una bebida gaseosa para que pasara el susto del que ella intentaba también reponerse. No obstante ninguno hubiese sido capaz de percibir los latidos de su corazón casi palpables dentro de su boca.

El vehículo llegó colgado de una grúa a otro taller más cercano. La Greca esta vez tal y como le habían recomendado los conductores que la ayudaron, prefirió esperar allí en el sitio el diagnóstico y que fuese hecho en su presencia. Decidiría a posteriori cualquier reclamo a que hubiera lugar. Entretanto, inútilmente intentaba comunicarse por teléfono con su ex-esposo en busca de algún apoyo.

—Señora. Venga señora. —se oyó la voz del mecánico— Acérquese para que vea por usted misma. Este carro tiene dañada la Bomba de Freno.

—¡Imposible señor! acabo de hacérsela cambiar —remarcó ella con aire de suficiencia.

—Lamento decirle esto señora, pero de ser así la engañaron. Evito acusar a otro mecánico pero es que aquí no hay ninguna duda y me molesta además, porque por culpa de esos nos creen a todos iguales. Esta Bomba de frenos es la original del auto que viene de fábrica del mismo color del automóvil. Fíjese bien, es de un azul igual a toda la carrocería. TRUE? Bueno, la de repuesto viene invariablemente en negro. Si se la hubieran cambiado tendría que ser de color negro.