Free The Secret in Their Eyes by Eduardo Sacheri Page A

that simple. However he looks at it, the whole thing’s an alibi for spending time with her. And Chaparro quails before the smallest possibility of exposing his feelings to the woman he loves.
    He knows the people who run the archive. Most of them entered the Judiciary after he did. If he presents himself at the reception counter and asks to see a case file, they’re highly unlikely to refuse him. And even if they do, he can always ask young García, the current clerk, to make a call from the court and smooth the way for him. So what sense does it make to ask Irene for help?
    Well, none at all, except that he’d get to spend five minutes alone with her, protected by an unimpeachable excuse. Without such a screen, he can’t. Even though he wants to, it’s impossible. He’s terrified by the thought that the fire in his guts might be visible from the outside, that he might garble his words or get the shakes or break out in a cold sweat.
    His embarrassment is ridiculous. They are, after all, both adults. Why not simply tell her the truth? Why not visit her in her office, without a pretext, and let her know how he feels? They’re grown-ups. A few hints should be enough, some courtly gesture that would serve to demonstrate his interest, and Irene could imagine the rest.
    Why can’t he do that? Because it’s simply out of the question. Because Chaparro has spent so many years keeping his feelings to himself he’d rather carry them to the grave than blurt out some awkward declaration, some sweetened, easily digestible version of what’s in his heart. He can’t just show up and remark, as naturally as can be, “Look, Irene, I wanted you to know thatI’ve been crazy about you for three decades, including some less intense periods during the many years when we didn’t work together.”
    Chaparro roams like an automaton from the kitchen to the dining room and back. He opens and closes the refrigerator fifty times. Even though sooner or later, in the course of almost every pass, he stops in front of his desk, he’s so wrapped up in his dilemma that he can’t see those scattered pages for what, despite his fatalistic predictions, they are: the embryo of his damned book.
    For the hundredth time, he looks at the telephone, as though the thing could help him decide to act. Suddenly, he takes two steps toward it, and his heartbeat accelerates. He regrets what he’s going to do before he’s dialed the third digit, but he forges ahead, because he’s resolved to fulfill his desire, and at the same time, he rues the decision. He feels, in short, the mixture of cynicism and hope that’s the hallmark of his life.
    He dials the direct line to her office. He’s not the least interested in letting any of his former coworkers learn about this call. After the third ring, someone picks up the phone.
    “Hello?” It’s Irene’s voice. Not for the first time, Chaparro’s surprised by this almost imperceptible sign of independence from convention in the woman he adores. At the beginning of their tenure in the vast Palace of Justice, all new employees copy their colleagues and usethe bureaucratic formula for answering the telephone: the words “Court” or “Clerk’s office,” spoken in a monotone, and followed, when one is in a friendly mood, by “Good day.” Not Irene.
    Ever since her first day of work in the Judiciary, Irene has chosen to initiate her telephone conversations with that warm, familiar “Hello?” as if she were waiting for a call from her grandma. Chaparro knows this, because he was her first boss. He’d just been promoted to deputy when Irene started working in the clerk’s office as an intern. He would later come to feel some regret for having decided, when they were first being introduced, not to speak to her in the familiar
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form. He’d been brought up to have the greatest respect for women, even very young ones, even those who might walk up to him, extend a hand, and greet him with a laconic