Beatriz narrowed her eyes at the traffic on Avenida Fletcher O’Callaghan. I want to know where Alejandro is, she thought. I want to see that he’s not dead. That’s all I need. I couldn’t bring him happiness. How could I know that it would be so difficult?
René drove recklessly down the Avenida in his old Citroën. The avenue bristled with aggressive traffic. He searched for an opening in the stream of cars. The bandage around his head already looked grubby, though it was only a day old.
“Will your father be willing to help you?”
Beatriz rubbed her hands on her tight jeans. Lately, she dressed more aggressively. “I don’t know. Maybe in these circumstances. But as a fallen woman, I don’t carry much grace in his eyes.”
Yesterday, before the peña, she had driven to the EMI office in the city
