Mapuche (50 page)

 

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The Torres family belonged to the oligarchy of landowners who had divided up the country among themselves two centuries earlier. Ignacio had grown up in the fertile valleys of the Uco, the pride of Argentina. He loved his region, which was magnificent, the wine that was made there, the power he had inherited, and the money that sustained it.

The province of Mendoza produced the best wine in the country for a domestic market that was at the time very strong. Wine was the popular drink par excellence, but Ignacio was a visionary. Argentina, which had prospered by supplying a devastated Europe after the war, exported its raw materials: wine would be the new El Dorado. As early as the 1970s, Ignacio Torres had understood the predominance of capital over labor. With the liberalization of markets, financial speculation soon became more profitable than local agropastoral or industrial production, especially if the profits were invested abroad. However, a fairly strong society had to be created before entering these markets.

Ignacio had taken advantage of the ups and down of the dictatorship to increase the scope of his holdings, tripling the extent of the family lands in order to build the wine estate of his dreams, which he called Solente.

The main vineyards in the region were concentrated around Luján; Solente was farther south, off the beaten path. Torres had brought in the best winemakers from Europe and America to improve the syrahs and cabernets that had, up to that point, been consumed only by common, unsophisticated drinkers, and to build the his winery's reputation. Afterward, he had counted on an intense advertising campaign and prospected on export markets and influential milieus, especially
Mondovino
, the specialized magazine that established the ratings, judiciously: the Argentine wine industry's sales exploded in the 1990s, in particular those of Solente, whose bottles now cost six times more than they used to. What did it matter if the majority of his compatriots no longer drank wine because they could not afford such luxuries? Exports more than compensated for the decline of the domestic market.

Solente. The geographical location of the winery was ideal, with its hundreds of acres of vines lining the Andean foothills, and although the family chapel was reminiscent of Pinochet-style architecture, the building that received the public and merchants was ultramodern. A vast exposition hall with sculptures and contemporary works of art, gardens with exotic plants; an air-conditioned gift shop selling bottles of wine and other merchandise with images of the vineyard; a restaurant and lounge with a terrace offering views of the fabulous mountain range and its snowy peaks: more than a wine estate, Solente had become a brand. And Ignacio Torres had amassed enough money to launch his eldest son on a political career.

He'd made it to the Casa Rosada: at seventy-three years of age, that represented the culmination of a lifetime's work. His son Francisco had the stature of a president, the capacity for work, the charisma, and for his part, he had solid support in financial and industrial circles. The mark he would put on the country would be irreversible: the Torres mark.

To be sure, Ignacio had a few problems, but he had no intention of changing his methods. As he did every year in this season, the master of the vineyard had come to supervise the harvest. The few clouds attacking the Andes dissipated over the extinct volcano Tupungato, the guardian of the valley of his childhood. Yes, he could be proud of his work. The bunches of grapes gorged with sun extended as far as the eye could see, to produce a wine that promised to be exceptionally good that year. Ignacio tasted a grape, spat out the skin, and judged for himself—perfect acidity. Protected by a broad-brimmed hat, the old man was ambling down the row deep in thought when a voice hailed him:

“Mr. Torres?”

Interrupted in his reflections, Ignacio showed a certain surprise. He had a brief moment of hesitation. Romero had dropped him off at the top of the north parcel so that he could inspect the vines before the harvest, and the quad had stopped down below. He couldn't see Romero and a man was coming up the dirt path: a big, brown-haired man dressed in black, who was walking with the slow and cadenced pace of a legionnaire.

“What do you want?” Torres called.

“I have to talk to you,” the man replied as he approached.

After sleeping poorly for ten hours in a hotel near the airfield, Rubén had rented a car and driven to Solente, stuffing himself with painkillers.

Still ten yards before reaching the boss.

“If you're a journalist, you must have been told at the reception desk that I receive visitors only by appointment,” Ignacio said, irritated. “You can see for yourself that I'm busy.”

“Yes,” Rubén said in a weary voice. “I called at noon. I was told that you were at the vineyards to supervise the harvest. I'm not a journalist.”

The detective stopped at the bottom of the row, dripping with cold sweat after his forced march over the hills. Ignacio Torres had a broad, flat body in accord with his cowboy get-up. His lively eyes soured.

“Who are you?”

“Rubén Calderón,” he said. “I work for the Grandmothers.”

It was impossible to discern the landowner's reaction behind his Ray-Bans.

“What do you want?” he asked curtly.

Rubén was dying of heat in the sun and he had no time to lose.

“The truth about the theft of land from the Verón family,” he said point-blank. “September '76, you remember? Colonel Ardiles brought you Gabriella, the sole heiress to these lands, a young woman accompanied by her husband. They had been extracted from the secret jails at the ESMA.”

Ignacio sensed the danger: he glanced toward the bottom of the parcel, saw the quad halfway up, but still not that dolt Romero.

Romero was resting between the vines, a bullet in his chest after a duel that hadn't lasted long.

“Nobody will come to save you, Torres,” Rubén said, reading his mind. “Certainly not one of your men disguised as
piqueteros
. You're the one who sent them to track down Montañez, aren't you? With whose help, Luque's?”

Torres quickly scanned the plantations: the winery was too far away for them to be seen.

“I have nothing to say to you,” he replied, with his customary authority. “You had better go back where you came from before I call security.”

He took a cell phone out of his checkered shirt. Rubén grabbed Torres's wrist and, using his right hand, twisted it until the phone fell to the ground. Torres swore at the brute, who was impassive despite the sweat running down his forehead, and held his wrist as if he might fall. Rubén took the Glock out of his jacket, the silencer still screwed onto the barrel, and pointed it at the old man's belly.

“What do you want,” Torres grumbled. “Money?”

Rubén shook his head slowly.

“Vulgar to the very end, huh? Tell me instead how much Gabriella Verón's land was worth at the time. Did you buy it for a song, or did she and her husband cede it to you in exchange for the lives of their children?”

The old boss's jaws remained inflexible.

“I have nothing to say to you,” he repeated. “Take it up with my lawyers.”

“Why didn't you have them fill out the sales contract while they were being tortured at the ESMA?” he asked in a sugary voice. “That would have been simpler, wouldn't it?”

“I'm a businessman, not a soldier. You've got the wrong person.”

“Let's say instead that you preferred to manage the affair with Ardiles, who brought you Samuel and Gabriella Verón to sign the sales contract before they were liquidated. Who else did you pay off, high-ranking military officers? Was the couple kidnapped for the purpose of stealing Gabriella's land or did you learn of their existence while they were at the ESMA? Huh? Who told you about them, Ardiles? In any case, the sales documents and the signature were extorted from them by force, from defenseless people, people who were tortured before their children were stolen,” the detective said heatedly.

Torres put on a face of false pity.

“You'll never be able to prove that,” he grumbled.

“We'll see about that at your trial.”

“There won't be any trial,” the landowner boldly assured him. “You don't know what you're getting into, Calderón.”

“I do, actually. You financed your son's political career by profiting from lands stolen from the
desaparecidos
. The ESMA form María Campallo got her hands on threatened to taint you, so you made an unholy alliance with your old accomplices to protect the property you acquired in such a criminal way. You're the one who had María Campallo kidnapped and killed, who gave the order for the dirty work to be done, relying on the networks of your old friends, first of all Ardiles. Luque and his elite cops were ordered to cover up the affair, at the price of sacrificing one of your main supporters, Eduardo Campallo, whose daughter you had killed. Your son's friend. It's terrific, that morality you're always talking about.”

“You're crazy.”

“Crazy enough to put a bullet in your belly and let you lie here dying for hours.” He cocked his pistol and changed his tone. “Tell me where Ardiles is hiding. Tell me right now or I swear I'll leave you here like a piece of shit in the sun.”

Torres got scared: Calderón was staring at him with the eyes of a rattlesnake, his finger curled around the trigger. He was going to shoot.

“In a monastery,” he said. “A monastery in the south . . . ”

“Where in the south?”

“Los Cipreses,” Torres said, his mouth dry. “In the lake region.”

Ruben gripped the handle of the gun, seized by nausea.

“Who's hiding him?”

“A former chaplain . . . von Wernisch.”

“Is his name also on the ESMA form?”

“Yes.”

A warm breeze was coming up over the hills.

“We're going to check that right now.”

Rubén crouched to pick up Torres's cell phone on the ground and held it out to him.

“Call the monastery's number and turn on the speaker,” he ordered. “You must have it in your contact list.”

Torres had lost his haughtiness. He took the phone.

“What do I say?”

“Ask for news of Ardiles. Just that. You try any funny business and you're dead.”

The old man nodded under his Stetson and obeyed, the Glock aimed at him.

A monk answered the phone. Torres introduced himself, asked about the health of his military friend, and received a mixed response: Mr. Ardiles had gone away with the cardinal on an urgent errand. They would be back before nightfall, that's all he knew.

Rubén signaled to Torres to hang up. He wasn't lying: they were there. Rubén hesitated. The lake region was more than 250 miles away, several hours' drive over a highway in poor condition. By the time Rubén got there, Ignacio Torres would have been able to warn Ardiles and his men. He turned toward the patriarch. He couldn't be left free to move around. He also couldn't be thrown in prison: Ledesma would lose his nerve. Ruben's eyes, already somber, grew even darker.

“You like land, huh, Torres? Well then, eat it!”

Ignacio paled behind his Ray-Bans.

“What?”

“Eat it!” Rubén ordered.

“But . . . ”

The Glock's barrel raked across Torres's face: Torres bit the dust, his hat rolling against the vines. Blood ran into his hands speckled with brown spots, dripping from his split lip.

“Eat it!” Rubén yelled, pushing him with his foot. “Eat that goddamned earth or I'll kill you!”

A deadly spark crossed the detective's retina. Ignacio, lying among the vines, picked up a clump of soil in a shaking hand. This guy was out of his mind.

“Eat it, I tell you!”

He carried the clump to his mouth and reluctantly put it on his tongue.

“More!”

Trembling, Torres obeyed and raised his head, his mouth already full, but Calderón was still aiming at his belly.

“More!” he hissed, the hammer cocked. “Go on!”

Torres chewed, with difficulty. Rubén was about to burn up under the heat of the sun. It would be hours before they started getting worried about the absence of the boss, who had gone to inspect the vines. Torres was feeling sorry for himself among the grapes, his chin covered with brown earth and blood, close to vomiting. Rubén lowered the silencer and fired two shots that pulverized Torres's kneecaps.

Ituzaingó 67: the Grandmothers were feverish as they opened the gate to Franco Díaz's garden.
They had received Jana's letter at the association's offices, a few laconic words, barely credible, without further explanations. It had been sent two days earlier from Futalaufquen, a small town in Chubut province. Elena and Susana hadn't hesitated long. Carlos had met them with the required equipment at the Buquebus of Puerto Madero, where they had taken the first boat to Colonia del Sacramento, on the other side of the estuary. The crossing, in their state of excitement, had seemed to last a century. Finally they arrived. Ituzaingó 67: a blazing sun was flooding the botanist's garden. Leaving the gate open, the trio went down the charming walk where bees were busily at work. The immaculate flowers of the
palos barrochos
, the hollyhocks along the wall, the violets running along the flowerbeds, azaleas, orchids—Díaz had created a little paradise around his
posada
.

“I'd like a nice cold beer,” Carlos remarked as he put down his equipment in front of the
ceibo
.

“Dig first, then we'll see,” Susana kidded him.

“Besides, you already drank two on the way over!” Rubén's mother added.

Sheltered by a straw hat, the journalist grumbled about them being pains in the neck, then set about the task without complaining. The
ceibo
the letter mentioned dominated the back of the garden, next to Ossario's house—the blackened walls of his terrace and the collapsed roof could be seen over the hedge. Carlos dug around the base of the tree, taking great precautions. Elena was sweating heavily under the white scarf that protected her from the heat—that never happened to her.