17 Stone Angels (26 page)

“In five seconds the guard has choked the dog away, but a stain of red has sprouted along Waterbury's torn sleeve. ‘What's happening with you,
loco
?' Santamarina berates him. ‘What's your problem?'

“The blood drips onto Waterbury's jacket and his eyes are tearing up. Santamarina looks at him with distaste and gives him his own handkerchief.
He seems to remember that Waterbury is a guest. ‘Be more careful,
che
,' he says in a tone not quite apologetic. ‘We get all kinds here, you know. There are many interests who would like to harm Señor Pelegrini.' He brushes off the writer's shoulders, claps him on the back. ‘Go ahead, boss. Keep the handkerchief.'

“The other guard walks him silently to the side entrance. The glass doors are gleaming behind a floral grille of exquisite wrought iron. The doorknob is a swirl of brass. Inside, the rich maroon carpet of the foyer leads to a quarter-acre of gleaming black and white squares. At four-thirty in the afternoon, with the sky overcast and the curtains half-drawn, the dimness is dispersed by glowing chandeliers and art nouveau floor lamps shaped like lilies. A butler in a white evening jacket looks at Waterbury's bloodied handkerchief. ‘Señor Waterbury. What happened? Is there something I can get you. A towel perhaps?'

“Waterbury catches the spectacle of his soaking hair and ruined suit in the mirror, seeing himself from the outside, as an impostor and a failure. He wrestles against the urge to turn around and leave. ‘A towel and a comb, thank you. I'll wait here.'

“In a few minutes he is more composed and the bleeding has stopped. The butler takes him across the expanse of chess-like marble past the grand entryway, with its oversized double doors leading out and its helix of marble stairs ascending into the inner reaches of the house. Above him a fresco depicts a sky bordered by pink clouds, on which Phoebus guides the chariot of the sun. The furniture dates from the Twenties and Thirties, is impeccably upholstered in rich floral brocades and gleaming striped silks as if waiting patiently for the entrance of Carlos Gardel and his orchestra in black tuxedos. From the wall smiles an insouciant young peasant man lounging in a Dutch afternoon of several hundred years ago. They pass through this large room into a smaller room that appears to be for smoking, with leather chairs and pictures of racehorses and hunting dogs. At the far door, the butler knocks and then opens it, announcing, ‘Señor Waterbury is here, Don Carlo.'

“Over the butler's shoulder Waterbury can see a formal dining room, with gilded molding and a magnificent chandelier on which every prism glitters. The butler steps aside and Waterbury sees a man and woman seated at a long gleaming table. The man is wearing a blue sweatshirt which goes well with his head of thick silver hair, while the woman, in a white silk
blouse with a gold brooch, imposes a slight formality on the scene. It seems to Waterbury almost as if she's dressed for his arrival. Waterbury places her in her late forties, with tightly drawn hair dyed to a timeless chestnut. Her pleasing features seem slightly nervous—or perhaps eager. This will be Teresa Castex de Pelegrini.

“The man rises and smiles at him, shaking his hand. His sharp blue eyes make immediate and deep contact with Waterbury, who is awed by the magnate. ‘I'm Carlo Pelegrini,' he says warmly, ‘it's a pleasure. And I present you my wife, Teresa Castex.' The friendly expression changes to one of concern. ‘Your hand is bleeding! What happened?'

“The writer remembers Don Carlo's hatred of journalists and decides not to complain. ‘The dog was a bit nervous. It's nothing.'

“‘No, amigo, it's not nothing! How can it be nothing?' He turns to the butler, who is waiting at the door. ‘Nestor! Tell Abel to wait after his shift is over. I want to know why my guest is arriving with blood on his hand.'

“‘It's already stopped, Señor Pelegrini. Don't worry.'

“He raises his hand. ‘This can't pass here! We will need a doctor to look at it. And your jacket . . . Afterwards we'll arrange it. Nestor, bring the Señor another handkerchief. And what else? A coffee? A drink? Perhaps a sandwich?' He dispatches Nestor to fetch coffee and sandwiches, signaling him also to wheel in a cart covered with liquor bottles. Waterbury notes that Don Carlo's accent is slightly drier than the traditional Porteño voice, giving him a masterly patrician air despite his informal attire. ‘So, you've come to Buenos Aires doing some journalism?'

“‘No. I'm not a journalist. I'm a novelist.'

“‘Of course! You are Robert Waterbury.'

“Waterbury smiles accommodatingly, unsure whether Pelegrini is mocking him, but the billionaire goes on. ‘The
Black Market!
' he says, waving his hand. ‘Genius! It's genius! That moment when the dead friend finally confronts him.' Don Carlo looks distantly into space and recites the key line in Spanish with the perfect blend of comprehension and sadness:
You are an expert on debt, but no one ever told you about memory, which is the same. They are both things that linger from the past, and they both arrive at a point where they can no longer be negotiated
. He shakes his head in admiration. ‘
Excelente
! I wanted to stand up and applaud! That mix of business and psychology and metaphysics . . . Genius! I read it two times!'

“Waterbury listens in complete astonishment. Any writer would feel gratified to have his work resuscitated in such vivid colors, but coming from one of the wealthiest and most mysterious men of an entire country, the effect is as exhilarating as an unexpected inhalation of chemical solvents. Amidst the spectacular strangeness of the moment, Robert Waterbury feels shame at abandoning his literary scruples for something base and mediocre. He has the brief sickening feeling that perhaps when he came to Buenos Aires he left the best part of himself behind.

“Don Carlo continues with his critique. ‘You hit the international banks perfectly: they're a pack of jackals! But
Indigo Down
,' he grimaces, ‘it was very . . . heavy. All that about justice and corruption . . . ' He grimaces again. ‘A bit swollen.'

“‘
Indigo Down
was different,' Waterbury protests. ‘I wanted to write a sacred text.'

“Don Carlo gives Waterbury one of those deep smiles. ‘With yourself as God, no?'

“Waterbury laughs. ‘Perhaps, Señor Pelegrini, but with the knowledge that, as with all gods, the majority of the people would not take me very seriously.'

“Now Teresa Castex speaks up, a bit stridently. ‘I preferred
Indigo Down
. You didn't run away from difficult themes.'

“There is something vaguely sardonic in Pelegrini's voice. ‘Of course, Teresa! Teresa is the one who discovered you. We were vacationing in Barcelona when she picked up your book, and something about it captured her—'

“‘It was the image of the lost wife,' Teresa says.

“‘For me it was those metaphysical themes,' Don Carlo continues. ‘Borges, too, swims in those matters of memory and existence, though yours is more sensual and his is more on the side of the ascetic.'

“Waterbury, who normally hates to be compared with anyone, takes the compliment to heart. ‘So you two are great readers?'

“‘I, a little. It's very difficult to find time. But Teresa, yes,' he waves lightly in the air, as if at a mosquito, “she goes around a lot in the arts.'

“‘People who can write a novel amaze me,' she says. ‘You have to imagine a whole world. It seems like something impossible.'

“‘No, Señora Castex. What is impossible is to stop imagining the world.'

“Don Carlo laughs as Nestor arrives with a warm washcloth and a towel, followed by a maid with a silver coffee service. At Don Carlo's request
Nestor removes Waterbury's torn and soaking jacket and returns with a fresh white polo shirt with a famous brand name on the label. Waterbury slips it on in the smoking room then returns to his coffee.

“They talk some more about literature, with Don Carlo guiding the conversation and his wife inserting the occasional opinion. She takes advantage of a brief silence to inquire, ‘And what are you doing in Buenos Aires, Robert? Are you writing a new work?'

“‘Yes. I'm doing the initial research.'

“‘And can you say what it is about?'

“Waterbury has good reason to be shy. Pelegrini was even then making the occasional appearance in the newspaper linked to matters of contraband and money-laundering, and Waterbury doesn't want to display any interest in such things. ‘This one is going to be a thriller type, set here in Buenos Aires. Something more commercial.'

“‘Of course, Robert. Even artists need to eat!'

“As in a work of theater the butler enters with a tray of little cakes, which they eat as they discuss the themes of literature and art. As Teresa Castex is telling of Rodin's stay in Buenos Aires, Don Carlo's cell phone distracts him and he excuses himself to the next room. The acrid conversation curls out like smoke beneath the door, and Waterbury hears the words ‘Grupo AmiBank,' slapped harshly alongside the phrase
hijos de puta
. When Don Carlo returns his mood has changed. His pleasantries seem like a crust floating on a pool of lava, and Waterbury knows that it's time to go.

“‘But look,' Don Carlo says, mustering one last show of warmth. ‘Your jacket is ruined. Why don't you go with Teresa and she can help you buy a new one. No, amigo . . . ' Waterbury feels Don Carlo's arm around his shoulder, can feel with equal intensity the force of his smile. ‘I insist.'

/ / /

Fabian looked down at his
steak, of which he had only taken a few bites in his rush to tell the story. “Look at this! I'm talking, and this poor Uruguayo is getting colder and colder.” Fortunato felt that he gave him a particularly smug grin. “We can't let him go to waste, no?” The young detective began ostentatiously to cut and eat the steak, conscious that his companions were watching him. “Skinny!' he called across the room to Lucho. “Another beer!”

Athena rose abruptly. “Don't start again until I get back,” she warned. Fortunato watched her recede towards the bathroom and then lit a cigarette. Fabian went on eating as if he were alone.

“Why, Fabian? Why didn't you tell me this before?”

The young man held up his hand until he finished chewing. “Until now I've been checking out the information. I needed to be sure. A matter like this, you don't want to throw it all to the four winds without being completely right. Besides, you said you didn't want me on this case.” He cut off another piece of steak and popped it into his mouth.

Fortunato kept his
cara de gil
, his idiot face, firmly in place, just as Fabian was wearing his. That Fabian was revealing all this, after Boguso's confession had effectively settled the matter, meant that he had heavy people behind him. Fortunato spoke as casually as he could. “But Fabian, with all due respect for your literary abilities, let's skip to the end of your story. Do you have evidence that it is someone other than Boguso?”

Fabian refused to tip his hand. “We will talk of Boguso when we reach that part of the script. My cousin in Los Angeles . . . ”

Fortunato cut him off, raising his voice slightly as he would speak to an officer of lower rank. “Stop swelling my balls about the cousin! What I want from you—”

“You want the truth! I know!” He shrugged, took another bite. “But do you really, Comiso? Truth is such a brute. Like King Kong, it doesn't notice who it crushes. Lies, on the other hand . . . ” He cocked a smile at him. “They're a little more humanitarian.”

Fortunato felt as if a cannonball had gone through his stomach. Fabian knew something, and the fear that had started at the Sheraton Hotel had been intensifying with every mention of Pelegrini's name. Along with the fear though, something equally cutting: Fabian could answer him in his own time, or not answer him at all, because in the space of two hours Fabian had gone from a subordinate to a superior, a member of the fashionable set, while Fortunato had become a lonely old widower living in a shabby little house in the suburbs, trailing off towards an undistinguished retirement. He, who'd risen cautiously through the ranks of the Buenos Aires police without ever arousing a shred of suspicion. Who'd earned public citations from the mayor, and private respect from the Chief and all the others who had benefited from his thirty years of orderly business. Now, to be dictated to by this low-level inspector!

The thought whipped through his mind of killing Fabian, and the silent image of Fabian crumbling to the floor transited his brain like the flapping of a bird's wings.

As if in answer Fabian wiped his mouth with a napkin, said quickly as he looked over Fortunato's shoulder, “Stay tranquil, Comi, and the storm will pass over your head.” Speaking across him, “Ah, here she is!”

Athena sat down and took a drink of water. “Okay. I'm ready for the next installment of your . . . ” she swirled her hands in the air, “whatever this is.”

“Very well, Doctora. But before I continue with the next part, do you know much about Carlo Pelegrini?”

“Only what I read in the newspapers.”

“Ah, the newspapers!” The inspector turned his face to the Comisario, seeking agreement on the old gripe. “There's no limit to the malice of those journalists, no? Pointing out that Pelegrini has a private postal system and a part ownership of the Customs warehouses, and claiming that he maintains a force of private security operatives estimated at nearly two thousand armed men. For this reason journalists such as Ricardo Berenski like to use the term ‘A State within the State,' as in that headline in
Pagina/12
last week.”