There is an aisle, four rows of blue leather seats illuminated by that grainy white light you get in airplanes. I hear the curtain being drawn behind me: the air hostess shuts off communication between business class and economy and returns to us, stops next to the pilot, who is standing next to me, bites her top lip, and crosses her arms over her chest. I can feel two pairs of eyes boring into me while I perform cardiopulmonary resuscitation, applying myself to the man’s thorax and then to his mouth. I have laid him out on the reclining seat, which is almost horizontal, his legs are apart, as if dislocated, a lock of white hair flops across his forehead. The steward is preparing the defibrillator, even though I know it’s pointless.
Fifteen minutes ago, when it all began, the people in economy had just been served their supper. It’s dark outside, the rain is beating furiously against the fuselage, the noise both intense and distant.
This is not just any aircraft, not just any journey. Behind me are Montevideo and my work, my house in Carrasco, the other house in Punta del Este, my three cars, my companies, my laboratories. And María Camelia, my wife, who still thinks I’m on a business trip. Or has she realized? It doesn’t matter now.
Ahead of me, at my destination, waits Laila, my wife’s sister, with her contrived beauty of flowing hair and garish makeup: a woman who could have stepped out of an afternoon soap opera. A little more than fifteen minutes ago, the hostess came round and I helped myself to a glass of champagne and a canapé that would be the prequel to my supper. When everything began, fifteen minutes ago, nobody was chattering or trying to sneak into business class to snoop.
The curtain opens again, revealing a woman: she is tall, her small eyes are struggling to adjust to the semi-darkness, she looks at us, she looks at the man who is lying on the airplane seat.
“Please return to your seat, ma’am.”
The air hostess’s tone is gentle, unruffled, even though this is the fourth person to appear. The pilot turns his head, furrows his brow, repeats the air hostess’s order but in a tone that is more severe, more caustic. The woman remains immobile for a moment, she hesitates.
“Can I do anything to help?”
“Thank you, ma’am. This passenger is a doctor.”
“Is the man’s condition serious?”
“Please return to your seat.”
The woman seems to be on the verge of saying something but then she obeys. From economy class come bursts of conversation, the sound of a second round of drinks that the pilot has given the instruction to serve, the rattle of trolleys, bottles being uncorked, liquid being poured, ice clinking in plastic glasses. An atmosphere of euphoria, curiosity, confusion.
Things that María Camelia would never feel: euphoria, curiosity, confusion.
I continue with the reanimation routine. We hadn’t exchanged more than a couple of glances when we sat in the same row, across the aisle from each other; he took out a book and I was leafing through a magazine, occupying the tiny portion of my brain that wasn’t thinking about Laila. The hostess had served us each a glass of champagne, and neither of us had taken a second one. I overheard him ordering roast chicken and vegetables, without salt. High blood pressure, I thought to myself. At some point, I looked to my right and took in his solid appearance, the tailored jacket that failed to conceal a stomach in the process of becoming spherical. That was all: not a single word, just a few distracted glances, the half-smile of two men sitting in the same row, presumably occupied with their own affairs, presumably wealthy.
I was surprised by the sudden movement as the man rapidly doubled over, contracting in on himself, both hands clutching at his chest, and I heard his stifled groan, looked at him and saw his face contort in a rictus of pain. I recognized the symptoms of myocardial infarction, and I immediately got up, reclined the seat as far back as it would go, unbuttoned his shirt, looked around. And called for help. The hostess came, and she called the steward, who called the pilot, who—familiar with difficult situations—immediately ordered a second round of drinks to be served in economy class. It’s curious the way alcohol has the power to keep apparently well-nourished people in their seats.
Next comes the resuscitation, the faltering dialogue between pilot and doctor.
“Is the defibrillator ready?” I ask the steward.
I know there’s no point, but medicine is a show that must go on, until the end. I apply the electrodes, deliver one shock, then another. Nothing. Another series of shocks.
“I think he’s dead,” I say.
The pilot takes a deep breath, looks me in the eye, shakes his head.
“Nobody dies on board.”
“What do you mean?”
“Not until the plane lands and the death has been medically certified.”
“If you say so.”
I put the electrodes to one side.
“Thank you for your help,” he says, before turning to the air hostess and the steward. “Let’s move him to the back row.”
The other people in business class, an elderly couple, don’t ask any questions, don’t look, seem to possess a greater degree of self-control than the passengers on the far side of the curtain. The body is carried to a seat next to where the flight staff sit, without problems or complaints or questions. I think to myself that rigor mortis will set in before we land, but by then a doctor will be in charge and it won’t be my problem. The air hostess returns, takes a small briefcase from beneath the seat, and disappears. I take the menu. I think I’ll have the lamb. And some more champagne, I guess. I stretch out on the well-cushioned leather seat, exhausted by my efforts. Although Laila makes me feel young, I know I’m not.
I look across the aisle, at the seat that until a few minutes ago was occupied, and I think I see something, two objects half-hidden by an abandoned book. I stand up to go to the bathroom and discreetly pick them up: a wallet and a cell phone. I put them in my pocket. I look around like a thief, as if I were guilty of something. The air hostess and the steward have laid some blankets over the deceased, who won’t die until we reach an airport and someone can officially pronounce him dead.
When I return to my seat, I open the wallet and see a bundle of notes, some cards, the edge of a photo. I don’t know why, but I take out the photo. I look at it. I close my eyes, blink, look at it again. I can’t believe it. Shock, fear, horror. In that order. The piece of paper slips from between my fingers.
It is a photo of me.
I must have made a mistake. I pick up the photo; there’s no doubt it’s me. I put it in my jacket pocket and, I don’t know quite why, I take the phone too.
“Excuse me,” I say to the air hostess.
“What is it, sir?”
“I think this wallet belongs to the gentleman at the back.”
I notice how she takes it with the tips of her fingers, as if it were a jellyfish or a scorpion.
“Thank you. I’ll give it to the pilot.”
The cell phone is heavy in my pocket but the photo—my photo—is much heavier. I know I should act naturally, I can look at it as often as I want. After all, it’s me. Why would anyone care that I’m looking at a photo of myself? I take it out. I don’t remember when it was taken, but it looks like it was at my house. An evening with friends? Maybe there was a group of us and the rest were edited out. The background is a blurry green, and I think I recognize the foliage of one of the trees in my garden. There’s no sign that I’m aware the photo is being taken, I’m not posing, not smiling, my facial muscles are relaxed, I’m looking at something, not at the photographer. Someone took it without my realizing.
I put it in my inside pocket, next to my own phone and the one I’ve just stolen, letting go of it with relief, feeling something that is starting to resemble disgust.
Sundays are an empty day, wherever you are in the world. Particularly if you haven’t slept, if you’re waiting for a call, if the call doesn’t come. The hotel I’ve just checked into is up in one of the high districts of La Paz, it’s quite cold, and I have to wrap up before I go out. I go for a walk through its steep, narrow, winding streets, and the farther down the hill I go, the milder the air becomes. I come to a square, I sit down to get my breath back. Something that is impossible in La Paz: to get one’s breath back. At least on the first day. I’ll think about my altitude sickness later, what to do about the hypoxia, but just now my mind is almost completely occupied by the fact that Laila hasn’t called. And by the photo, obviously. I buy myself a drink that is neither as cold as I would like nor as warm as I expected, I sit on a bench and take great gulps. Why isn’t Laila answering the phone, why isn’t she answering my calls like we’d agreed, like we’d promised, like we’d sworn? Her Uruguayan phone puts me straight through to voicemail as if it was off or the battery had run out, and I don’t have any way of knowing whether she left for La Paz, whether she reached La Paz, if everything is still going ahead like we planned. Laila is pretty, in that way that vulgar women are pretty, with a touch of violence, and this notion of violence excites me, disturbs me. Would you be capable of killing me, Laila, now that your life is secured, now that there is a nice juicy bank account full of money I deposited in your name? No, you’re too lazy to plot a murder. And María Camelia? Would she send someone to kill me? I think she knows about my relationship with her sister: sometimes I see fury in her eyes.
The two phones weigh heavily in my pocket. I take them out, put them to one side, on the wooden bench. Then I take out the photo and it gives me a feeling of disgust or fear, an obscure, primitive feeling provoked by the unknown, provoked by something we sense as a threat. Why do I turn on the dead man’s phone? What is the relationship between the unease I feel at seeing my own image on glossy paper and turning on a cell phone?
The lights and sounds indicate that it’s working, almost fully charged, and a notification informs me it’s connected to roaming. I wonder if the police will be looking for the device among the dead man’s baggage or if they’ll just assume he traveled without a phone. I also wonder if there’s a chance the police will track the device.
I tell myself he died of natural causes, there won’t be an investigation.
I forget about his phone for a moment and concentrate on my own, on its silence. I hate waiting while Laila doesn’t call, but I know that’s what she’s like, she enjoys punishing me. On the bench to the right, a woman is watching two girls play, she calls them by their names, shouts at them not to get their dresses dirty, dresses with lacy frills, quite unsuited to this dusty square. A man sits down on the bench, next to me. I feel him staring at me, and I put the phones away. I wonder if he’s been following me. Why would he be following me? I’m just a man who left his wife. I’m sure María Camelia suspected I’d leave her. I get up and start to walk, I can’t handle spending too much time in my own company, it puts me on edge. I know that if I carry on walking downhill I’ll reach the center, a broad avenue where I can find a café and have a cold drink or a coffee.
The sound of an unfamiliar ringtone makes me jump, tenses my nerves, takes away what little breath I have left, up here at 10,000 feet above sea level. Who could be calling the man who had my photo? I look at the screen, it’s a Montevideo number. Someone who already knows he’s dead and is trying to locate his phone? Unlikely. The pilot will have reported the death to the authorities, who will have called a magistrate, who will have had to make his way to the airport at El Alto, and, if they’re lucky, the relatives will have been informed of the death within three or four hours. I let it ring three more times, and it goes silent. I sigh, I feel calmer, but also slightly disappointed. Sometimes I wonder why I do the things I do, and I don’t always have an answer. I carry on walking, I want to reach the broad avenue with its cafés and its restaurants, I want to rest, although getting my breath back will be more difficult.
A notification tells me that I have—that he has?—a message. I sit down at a table at the first café I come to and look at the little yellow envelope icon. A girl in a black uniform appears, she’s holding a notebook.
“What can I get you?”
“A coffee, please.”
I tap the yellow envelope. I read the text.
Did you finish the job?
Uncertainty, unease, suspicion.
I watch the girl in black approach with my coffee. I wait for her to serve it. My fingers are trembling, I struggle to type.
I reply.
It’s done.
The minutes go by. Another message arrives.
She’s already paid me. I’ve got your share.
I reply.
Get rid of her.
I wait. The text arrives.
It will cost you.
I reply immediately.
Don’t worry. You’ve got my share.
A little time goes by, not too much.
Okay.
Sundays are an empty day, wherever you are.
I finish my coffee, go out into the sun, walk downhill, anywhere, toward the heat.
I wait for a call that doesn’t come. Then I head back to the hotel, night has fallen.
I’m hungry, I go down to the restaurant to have some supper. I put both phones on the table, wondering which will ring first.
The waiter brings me a cold beer.
There’s a familiar ringtone, I don’t need to check the number. I almost smile to myself.
“Hello.”
“Señor Edgardo.” It’s the voice of Amanda, our maid. “Something terrible has happened.”
She is panting, as if she’s been running.
“Has something happened to María Camelia, Amanda?”
“She’s at the morgue, sir.”
I observe an appropriate silence: the silence of a husband who is absorbing the shock of the news of his wife’s death.
“My wife is in the morgue? What the hell happened?”
I’m aware that I’m shouting, that people have stopped eating and are staring at me.
There’s a whine of static, the voice at the other end of the line becomes distorted, fades away then comes back. The only words I catch are murdered and dead. I stand up, pace back and forth trying to get a better signal, sense my fellow diners and the waiters staring at me.
“Amanda, I can’t hear you. Did you say my wife is dead?”
Suddenly, the maid’s voice returns, crystal clear.
“No, thank the Lord. Señora María Camelia is okay. She went to the morgue to identify her sister’s body. Laila’s been murdered, sir.” 
Mercedes Rosende was born in Montevideo, Uruguay, and lives in Spain. She is a writer and journalist with a master’s in law. Her novels include La muerte tendrá tus ojos, Crocodile Tears (El miserere de los cocodrilos), and Historias de mujeres feas. Her books have been translated into German, French, English, and Italian. Rosende’s literature is considered non-traditional noir, with a strong sense of humor.
Tim Gutteridge is a creative translator based in Edinburgh, Scotland. He translates literary fiction and nonfiction, plays, and texts for the Spanish audiovisual and publishing sectors. His translations include The Hand That Feeds You by Mercedes Rosende (Bitter Lemon), The Mountain That Eats Men by Ander Izagirre (Zed Books), and The Island by Juan Carlos Rubio (Cervantes Theatre, London).
Illustration: Tom Ralston
