DURING THE TIME IT TOOK TO reach the headquarters of Hiperión, located in the Salamanca neighborhood, they remained distant from each other, each one submerged in the unfathomable depth of their thoughts. Gregory Evans was grateful that the director remained silent, because she had never enjoyed his sympathy; after all, Greg was the epitome of American right-wing politics, while Geovanna defended left-wing concepts and was known worldwide for being one of the greatest experts on Karl Marx and Engels. Furthermore, thinking coldly, he asked himself:
What the hell was she doing in that imported car, if they had only spoken a couple of times, outside of work...
But before he could answer his own question, the car went down the entrance ramp, towards the underground where the various parking spaces were lined up. Geovanna's was close to the elevators, perhaps to avoid being disturbed when she went up to the offices.
Minutes later, prolonging the itch of silence, they arrived at the director's spacious office. Greg was still wondering why she had chosen him and not one of her advisors—like Nicolas Colmenares, the company's lawyer—to accompany her back to the auction house.
"Please sit down, Mr. Evans," she ordered, with the rigor that characterized her, as she headed for the cabinet that held the drinks, with the aim of fulfilling her promise.
Greg tried to imagine what her reason for being there at the company could be, when everyone had been released from their professional obligations to go to the funeral. And the only thing, more or less coherent, that came to mind was that she wanted to flirt with him, an inconceivable attitude for a creature as cold as Miss Marion. Incapable of feeling affection for anyone, if there was no mirror in between. She, in reality, loved herself. Besides, it would be an inappropriate gesture, given the painful circumstances. After all, they were coming from a funeral.
— I'm going to tell you a secret, which I hope you'll know how to keep discreetly.
She handed him the glass of Spanish wine as she sat down at her desk.
— I'm not sure I'm the right person for what you're looking for.
Greg took a big sip, trying to make the interview as short as possible. He needed to get his personal life back on track, go back to New York and meet Alissa.
— Jorge liked you more than anyone else — the director told him — That's one of the reasons you're here.
— If you made me come here just to tell you that, you could have spared yourself.
Greg found her attitude strange. Geovanna was much more intelligent.
— There's something else, but first you have to promise not to tell anyone what I'm going to tell you.
Gregory Evans nodded, raising his glass slightly. He made her understand that she could trust him, speaking of trust.
— This morning, the police came to see me... — he confessed... Then he frowned. — The investigators asked me a series of questions regarding Jorge's conduct over the last few days. You already know that he had been behaving very differently than usual... Who were his friends? If he had been abroad lately... — he was a little out of breath — ... anyway, you know, a basic interrogation.
— Do you think he could be involved in something dirty, perhaps in the illicit sale of old books to foreign destinations?
— I don't think the police are looking into that line of investigation. His death seems more like it was related to some kind of tribal ceremony or satanic rite.
— You're joking, aren't you? — he asked, with marked skepticism. — It's worth remembering that we're talking about Viana, someone whose only demons were Lepisma Sacharina.
— You wouldn't say that if you knew the details of his death.
She said, disapproving of his irreverent attitude, looking at him with visible coldness. It was, in fact, a classic Geovanna attitude, especially when someone tried to make fun of important matters. She would certainly get along better with her brother, Stuart, a renowned Catholic theologian and one of the few likely to sit on the throne of Peter than he, a mere mortal who was left to solve the problems of New York citizens.
— I have to admit that the police report was truly shocking.
It was at that moment that he realized how little he knew about it. Both he and the rest of his Spanish companions were convinced that Jorge had been a victim of urban violence.
Apparently, they were wrong.