Prez Valero, Rodolfo - [SS] A Man is Knocking at the Door
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A MAN IS KNOCKING AT THE DOOR
by RodolfoPrez Valero
* * * *
CubanRodolfo Prez Valero was one of the seven founding members
of the InternationalAssociation of Crime Writers in 1986. He has
won the CubanNational Prize forCrime Litera-ture three times and
the SemanaNegra Prize for Best Short Storyforthis tale and for
three others. He is currently a writer for Univision
NetworkNews.
Englishtranslation by the author.
* * * *
The drizzle is just a sticky dirty dustthat dulls the outlines
of things as the man hurries to the porch, goesstraight for the
door, and pushes the button. From inside, the muffled sound ofthe
bell strikes him like a long-gone memory that surges in a dream.
Silence. Aglance at his watch ... a hand to his cheek. The faint
shadow of his recentlyshaven beard gives a virile touch to his
young face.
Nobody opens. The manrings again and stays still to catch any
sound. He looks at the door, he looksat both sides of the street,
he looks at his watch. Hes uneasy now. He raiseshis hand to the
bell but a metallic click stops him. The man is aware that
thepeephole is open and hes being watched.
What do you want?
Its the crackedvoice of an old woman. The man takes the wallet
out of his pocket, opens it,and flashes it at the peephole.
Police. Would youmind opening up?
A pause. Somethingtense, uncomfortable, arises between the man
and the eye thats watching him.At last, the peephole is closed, the
latches are released, and the door isopened. A woman in that
indefinite transition from sixty to seventy years oldexamines him
from head to foot as her hands squeeze a little
whitehandkerchief.
Are you Maria?
Marina, shecorrects him.
Yes, Marina. Thatsit. Can I come in?
The woman nods. Theman steps in. She closes the door and with an
outstretched hand invites him toproceed to the next room. She
follows behind, offers him a rocking chair, andchooses a place for
herself on the sofa. He brings out a cold, studied smile.The woman
continues to press the handkerchief in her hands.
Youll excuse me forthe delay and for asking first, she begins,
but with that killer around I dontopen to any man I dont know....
Well, youre a cop... She stares at thetrendy clothes and the hair
thats a bit too long. But, I mean, you look tooyoung to be a
policeman.
I just graduated, heexplains, keeping the same smirk, which
suddenly flits away from his lips as hebends towards her. And we
have information that the perpetrator of thosecrimes may be coming
here. Theyve sent some cops to the area, and the captaindispatched
me to this house. His voice becomes grave when he adds: You
knowthat, up to now, the victims have always been old women ...
elderly, I shouldsay ... and generally, they live alone. Do you
live alone? The woman nods. Thatswhy the captain sent me here: to
protect you.
The woman fights toput forth an unworried smile: But how did you
get that informationthat theman is coming here?
He told us himself.The young man smiles with pride. Youre a
woman, older, you live alone ... andyou do have some fine
possessions, dont you?
Yes ... some jewelsI kept from when my husband was alive, and a
few presents my grandson has givenme. But how could that man know
such things?
Maybe he makes someinquires before choosing his victims. Its not
hard. People talk too much in aneighborhood. You just have to go to
the market and listen. Its amazing thethings you hear down there.
They talk about everything: themselves, theirrelatives,
neighbors.
The whisper of therain creates a strange intimacy between the
young man and the old woman. He,now sure of himself, studies her
openly. By the order of the house, the womanseems to be a clean
person, but her hair could be better cared for and so couldthe
apron that, over the dress, presses her sagging flesh. She evades
hiscross-examining look and fixes a loose curl before she asks him,
What do youknow about the murders?
The man glances atthe ceiling, shrugs, and then decides to give
away some unimportantinformation: the victims stay home alone
almost the whole day; they all have adegree of economic security;
the killer steals their jewels, money, and otherpossessions; until
now he hasnt broken in, perhaps he has come through awindow, but
its supposed that the victims themselves have opened their doorsto
him; he surely takes advantage of some subterfuge to make them let
him in.
The woman istrembling, but her curiosity proves to be greater
than her fears.
And when he gets in,what does he do?
The young man enjoysthe interest his words cause.
By the traces hesleft, we know that he hasnt been in a hurry to
kill, nor, after he kills, togo; he searches thoroughly, looking
for the really valuable things he can carryoff.
And why does he
He kills the oldwomen so as not to be identified. With a simple
kitchen knife, the victims ownknife.
He must be crazy.
Maybe not. Rememberthat he doesnt kill just to kill, but to rob.
He may be sane, and have anentirely normal appearance.
Oh, so you dontknow what he looks like?
No, nobodys seen him.
The woman keepssilent, as if wondering about what shes heard.
Her hands, uneasy, dischargetheir tension on the handkerchief.
You now! You haventreally explained how you got to know hed come
around here.
The man smiles. Thenhe takes his cell phone out.
Excuse me for asecond.
Yes. She watcheshim. You are very young for a cop.
Dont you worry,says the man as he dials. Trust me.
The woman casts hereyes down to the handkerchief in her
hands.
Lieutenant, its me.Im at Marinas house, as you ordered me. The
man holds on a minute and turnsback to the woman: Your relatives
... Do they come every day?
No, my sons notcoming until tomorrow.
No, reports the manat the telephone. Shell be alone the whole
night. He stands quiet for a fewmore seconds and then says: Yes,
its okay. Ill stay here till its all over.He closes the cell phone.
Are there any other doors in the house? he asks thewoman.
Yes, the one in thekitchen to the yard.
Can we see it? Wemust close everything to prevent access.
The woman gets up.She manages to control the alteration in her
face and hands.
Come along, shesays and starts walking down the inner
corridor.
The man followsbehind. Hes watching the womans disordered hair.
On each side of the corridortheres a closed door, which the man
examines as they pass. They both get tothe kitchen and she points
to the open door.
Lets get it closed,he commands with decision. She holds back.
Its necessary, he insists.
I never close ituntil I go to sleep, the woman assures him. She
looks outside. Its rainingso hard! She hesitates a few seconds but
finally closes the door and fastensthe two latches. Then she
notices that the man is sweating.
He seems tounderstand what she is thinking.
Could you give me aglass of water? he asks. Its hot.
The woman takes aglass from the cupboard, opens the
refrigerator, fills it, and hands it to theman. As he drinks, his
eyes scan the kitchen, passing over other details and stoppingat a
point.
Those two knives arelike the ones he uses.
Its awful, saysthe woman, and shakes again.
Thank you for thewater. He hands back the glass and, cautiously,
he adds: Those rooms, are thewindows closed? Arent there attractive
things that could be seen from outsideand attract a robber?
Yes ... My son hasbrought some presents, but the windows ... I
closed them when the rain started.
The man becomes stilland brings out his cold smile once again.
She seems to doubt. I suppose youwant to check them? He nods. Well,
come on, there are two bedrooms, onesempty, the other is where I
sleep.
They go back alongthe corridor. She leads the way. She gets to
one door, opens it, and stepsaside to let him in.
Excuse me for askingyou this again, she persists, but you have
not explained why you are socertain the killer is going to come
here.
As he goes to thewindow and checks it, he explains that at the
last crime scene they discoveredtraces of pen strokes on the
telephone message pad. The police had managed todecipher what was
written on the missing page above. And they were able todetermine
that it wasnt the murdered womans handwriting nor even that of
oneof her relatives. There were some addresses...
...among them, thisnumber, this street, this block. And, as you
live alone...
The killer made amistake, comments the woman when the man comes
out of the room and they bothgo to the other door. The woman opens
it. This is my room, she says, andsteps aside.
The man takes twosteps across the threshold. From there he
glances at the closed window and hiseyes roll down to the bed,
where he takes in several necklaces and rings,apparently gold, and
money, a lot of money. He also notices that the doors ofthe
wardrobe are open, the drawers are pulled out, and everything is in
a mess,as if someone had just made an exhaustive search.
Whats that?! heasks and, advancing, he discovers, horrified, two
feet that stretch out underthe other side of the bed.
Thats Marina, saysthe woman behind him and stabs him once and
then again, while grabbing himstrongly by his hair and pulling his
head back. His painful cry is lost like acrazy whisper in the rain
hammering against the window. His legs dont hold himanymore and he
falls down. The woman removes the apron, cleans her hand, wipesthe
knife, and drops both weapon and apron on the still-shaking body.
Then,with the white handkerchief, she cleans the door handle and
goes straight tothe jewels and the money on the bed.
Outside, it rains.
Story and translation(c)2008 by Rodolfo Prez Valero
From EQMM March-April 2008 .txtA N.E.R.D's Release
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a N.E.R.D's Release.txtA N.E.R.D's Release
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