Senor Nice (31 page)

I couldn’t let him get away with this. ‘Hold on. Like I said, I’m an Elvis fan and know a bit about him. All right, his mother was called Gladys, and Gladys is a Welsh name. But his father’s name was Vernon Elvis Presley, so Elvis’s name came from his father, not his mother. And anyway saints don’t usually have children.’

‘Some did, though they kept it quiet, like. St Elvis definitely did. He was a bit of a lad by all accounts. According to my dad, one reason Vernon attracted Gladys was because his middle name was the same as her ancestor’s. William Mansell married a Red Indian squaw called Morning Dove White. Dad said lots of Welsh and Red Indians married one another in those days.’

This at least made some sense. I made a mental note.

‘Is there nothing else here connected with St Elvis?’ I asked.

‘Only St Elvis’s Rock.’

‘What a fantastic name!’ I said. ‘Where’s that?’

‘On the beach. About an hour’s walk from here. I usually take the dog for a walk there every night, but he’s gone with the boss today. Today is the first day I haven’t been there for ages. Tell you what, if you give me a lift to the Harbour Inn in Solva, we could walk there in about ten minutes now the tide’s out.’

We got into the car. It stank of dope.

‘Nice smell. You are Howard Marks, aren’t you? My dad used to mention you a lot. Said he always wanted to meet you.’

‘Yes, I am. What’s your name?’

‘Can’t you guess?’

‘When did your dad die, Elvis?’

‘Five years ago. Went out in a sailing boat and disappeared. They found the boat but not him. I suppose he could be still alive, but I know he’s not.’

‘Where did he sail from?’

I knew the answer.

‘St Elvis’s Rock.’

Elvis and I drove to the Harbour Inn and walked past rows of disused limekilns towards the sea. Crossing over the brow of the low headland, Elvis pointed to a rocky outcrop close to the shore. On top was a wooden cross. We stared in silence. The wind picked up as heavy rain clouds frowned and wept and then billowed and bullied their way to land.

‘Let’s get going. It’s pissing down,’ said Elvis.

We walked back to the Harbour Inn. Gusty howls and sighs and hissing rain prevented conversation. We dripped into the bar, and I bought Elvis a pint.

‘You know where those winds came from?’ asked Elvis.

‘Tell me.’

‘They’re the south-westerlies. They come from Patagonia. If you went direct south-west from St Elvis’s Rock, the first thing you would come to after thousands of miles of empty ocean would be a Welsh fishing village, just like Solva. Dad would always tell me that. Strange, isn’t it? Well I’d better get
back home. I live just around the corner. Thanks for the drink, Mr Marks. It was good to meet you.’

I didn’t need any more messages, signs or coincidences. I drove back to Kenfig Hill and made my plans to visit Patagonia.

The distant and alluring land of Patagonia occupies most of the southern parts of Argentina and Chile. Flying to anywhere in Argentinian Patagonia from outside the country usually means changing planes at Buenos Aires. I had decided I would spend a few days in the capital, rather than just a few hours at the airport. I could sample some city life before venturing forth into the deserted plains of Patagonia while at the same time work out why I was going there, what I was hoping to discover and how to go about it.

We were coming in to land. Buenos Aires is an enormous regular grid hovering just above sea level. Grand North American metropolis-type avenues, accommodating as many as fourteen lanes of traffic and lined with sixteenth-century buildings, cross one another at perfect right angles. High-rise office and apartment blocks dwarf the insignificant hills. London Docklands-type regeneration developments blend into active ports, colonial plazas, booming light industry plants, and malls of cafés and bars. Ezeiza, the international airport, is efficient, and I soon took my place in the orderly queue at the accommodation desk. Friends had told me there was only one hotel to stay at when in Buenos Aires, the Alvear
Palace. It was full, of course, but the staff’s suggestion of the centrally placed Amerian Buenos Aires Park Hotel in Reconquista seemed acceptable.

Ninety-seven per cent of the thirteen million inhabitants of Buenos Aires, the
porteños
, are of European descent, two per cent of African, and a mere one per cent of Native American Indian. Accordingly, Buenos Aires seems more European than all the European capitals, which, for better or worse, now have immeasurably larger non-Caucasian populations. Despite the Spanish being the colonial masters of Argentina, inhabitants of Italian blood now easily outnumber them so Spanish, the official language, is spoken with an attractive Italian accent. Italian coffee bars and open-air restaurants sprawled along the pavements, French bakers churned out croissants and cakes, Spanish tapas bars provided their usual titbits, Irish pubs allowed smoking, while German delicatessens made every sausage imaginable. Culture vultures nested at café tables outside news-stands displaying copies of
OK
and
Le Monde
, as well as English translations of Machiavelli. Multispace venues offered courses on everything from tango to basic Portuguese. Multiscreens showed rare English indie films and forgotten 1960s French classics. Eclectism was the ideology. Both prostitution and public drunkenness had just been decriminalised. The streets were tumultuous, diverse and unpredictable, but appeared easy and attractive to explore.

I unpacked my belongings at the unpretentious and comfortable Amerian, switched on my laptop, took out my file of notes on Patagonia, and began to draw up a proper plan for my visit. I had to see for myself whether there still was a Welsh community in Patagonia’s Chubut Valley, not just a museum, theme park or other relic preserved for the tourist and travel industries. My failure to find any evidence of a Welsh colony in Brazil had made me sceptical about travel writers and the Internet. In addition, I had to find evidence,
if there was any, of the existence of my great-great-grandfather, Patrick McCarty.

Bruce Chatwin wrote in his
In Patagonia
, ‘The history of Buenos Aires is written in its telephone directory.’ This was probably true of the whole of Argentina, so a search through the Patagonia telephone directories might help. I could have done this any time on the Net from anywhere, but I felt that coming to the communities themselves would increase the possibility of coincidence, give me a better chance to stumble fortuitously across a distant cousin. I also had lists of the hangouts in Patagonia of Butch Cassidy, the Sundance Kid and other fugitives from the Wild West. Many were in the Chubut Valley where, according to my Auntie Katie, Patrick had studied Welsh, so I would start my McCarty search there. Finally, I had to check if any of Bernie Davies’s ancestors were in the first group of Welsh colonists to arrive in Patagonia and whether any of his relatives were still there. I was about to linger on the possibly spiritual and probably mad reasons for Patagonia providing the solution to the problems of Wales and wondering whether I would see any penguins when the telephone rang.

‘Hi, Howard. Welcome to Argentina. It’s Martin, owner of Pacha’s in Buenos Aires. Dave Beer from Leeds told me you were coming here for a few days, and one of my associates happened to be at the hotel when you checked in. How are you?’

‘Very well thanks, Martin. It’s nice of you to call.’

‘Not at all. I was hoping we could meet but unfortunately I’m in Uruguay for another week.’

‘That’s a pity. Perhaps I could see you on my way back from Patagonia.’

‘For sure. And if you want someone to take you out tonight and show you the secrets of this wonderful city, I’ll give you the number of my good friend Eduarda, who will sort you out with Pacha’s VIP facilities. Enjoy Patagonia.’

I took down the number but immediately resolved not to go to Pacha’s. I knew what would happen if I did: I would get spannered for three days, fall in love with an Argentinian stranger, rent a flat in Buenos Aires, miss the deadline for this book and run out of money. I had to be disciplined. On the other hand, it would be good to spend just a few hours with someone who knew the place.

A few hours later I was at La Boca, a café and former brothel, drinking maté, Argentinian speed, with Eduarda, a sexy, fiercely academic woman of about thirty-five. She was staring with disgust at my torn jeans, but her duty was to entertain.

‘Martin told me you were here for just a short time. Do you like the
maté
? Argentinians drink five times more maté than coffee, usually in the form of a sharing ritual with friends, family, and co-workers. Every Argentinian is addicted to maté, plastic surgery and psychotherapy. We can commit suicide by jumping off our egos. As well as drinking maté, you must also eat our meat, watch professionals dance the tango, visit gauchos in the pampas, go to the Delta, and see our city’s many historical sites, cemeteries and museums. Try to see a football match too. Tonight we will do just two of these before Pacha’s: walk down Caminito, the tango street, and eat some beautiful beef. By the way, have you noticed who else has visited this café? Look on the wall.’

Prominently displayed was a photograph of Bill Clinton, who had dropped in for coffee on a presidential tour. Even more prominent was a photograph of Maradona and some of his mates.

Along Caminito dozens of couples danced furiously to the tango while hundreds applauded, shouted and danced – less furiously – with one another. Sexual and musical excitement sent heartrates soaring. The tango, sometimes described as vertical lovemaking, was originally danced by men with men. European immigrants in Buenos Aires to seek their fortune
visited bordellos to ease their loneliness and, while waiting their turn for prostitutes, invented a dance. Not surprisingly, it was symbolic of the struggle to possess a woman. When the men started dancing with the prostitutes rather than with each other, the dance became less melancholic and more sexual, resulting in the disapproval of the
porteño
elite and the enthusiastic support of their rebel offspring. The dance became a craze in Paris and then a religion in Buenos Aires.

Dusk fell. Eduarda had a Mercedes waiting for her. We drove to La Cabana, more of a museum than a steakhouse, to sample the world’s best beef. Argentinians eats kilos of the tastiest and most tender beef every day and almost nothing else. Vegetables are hard to come by; there is no demand. While some British believe cow consumers are playing Russian roulette with insane steaks, Argentinians consider vegetarians to be seriously mentally defective because of their aversion to eating the world’s best and most succulent beef. Their revered ancestors brought over herds of cows to graze in the country’s massive green pastures; it would be sacrilege to refuse the reward. A fossil of the world’s largest carnivore was found in Argentina. There is something about the place that makes one want to eat meat. The beef at La Cabana was first class, as was the wine, another Argentinian success story. Eduarda told me she held postgraduate qualifications in geography and anthropology, gained while living in New York.

‘You must have found North and South America very different,’ I said rather lamely.

‘Yes, but there are many likenesses, too.’

‘Are there? Like what?’

‘Each is crossed from north to south by a great volcanic mountain chain nearer to the western than to the eastern coast. In each there is an independent mountain range on the eastern side. Each has two gigantic rivers. Each has on its western side a desert that contains an inland river basin with lakes. The shores of each are washed by the mightiest ocean currents.’

‘I hadn’t thought of all that, but these are just geographical likenesses, you must admit.’

‘The similarities are not merely physical, Howard. Both continents were inhabited by races unlike those of Europe. Both were easily conquered by Europeans because of the superiority of the invaders in arms and discipline, and the immunity they possessed to the diseases they brought with them. The countries of both revolted against European control.’

‘Are there any differences?’ I asked with mild sarcasm.

‘Of course. And these, I think, are far more interesting than the likenesses. In South America there was a large sedentary population of aborigines cultivating the soil and others who had worked in some sort of industry for many generations. The Spanish and Portuguese conquerors immediately turned them into serfs, and intermarriage occasionally occurred. In North America, however, the English and French met aborigines scattered over a vast region, who lived mainly by hunting animals and had formed no habits of regular industry. They were mostly fierce fighters and it was found impossible to make slaves of them or use them for any regular labour.’

‘So was there never any question of Native American slavery in the United States?’ I asked, feeling increasingly inhibited by Eduarda’s textbook torrent.

‘Absolutely not.’

‘What about intermarriage?’

‘Very rare. The settlers usually brought their women with them. Apparently the only example of a mixed race – half-white, half-Native American – was when the Welsh came to America in the twelfth century.’

‘Whom?’

‘The Welsh.’

‘I’m Welsh, Eduarda.’

‘I know from your features and accent. But I’m not Native American, I’m afraid. I am one hundred per cent Spanish. My
family is from Ibiza, where the first Pacha’s opened. It’s a coincidence, no?’

I thought probably not but said nothing.

‘So, shall we go to Pacha’s, Howard?’

Buenos Aires clubs use film, theatre, acrobatics, song and dance to take the punter on an erotic journey through pain and pleasure – a heaving carnival for the senses. Pacha’s, especially, attracts outrageous fashionistas, debauched hedonists and switched-on celebrities. Eduarda and I were escorted to join some of them in the heavily cordoned-off VIP area. The waiter brought two house specials. They tasted sweet and herbal.

‘These are fantastic drinks,’ said Eduarda. ‘A bit like ecstasy but completely legal.’