The Buenos Aires Quintet (12 page)

‘Good work, Pascuali.’

Pascuali turns round and salutes him, taken aback but showing respect. He sees a thin man of around fifty, with a gaunt face and a cold, self-satisfied smile.

‘At your command, Captain.’

‘I didn’t want to miss this brilliant operation. And I’d like to question your prisoner personally’

Carvalho examines first the fat man and then the Captain.

‘I’ve seen your face in a photograph.’

‘The Captain...’ Pascuali tries to explain, but Carvalho doesn’t need any introduction.

‘Captain Ranger, war hero: of the Falklands War, that is.’

Carvalho steps between Raúl and the Captain.

‘I’ve just phoned the Spanish embassy. They’re sending an official to see if he can be of any assistance to you, and to my cousin, of course.’

The Captain isn’t convinced.

‘You’ve just told them? How did you know that “thing” was your cousin?’

‘What’s the difference between just having told them and being just about to?’

The Captain relaxes, smiles, then turns on his heel and pushes his way through the policemen. As he passes Alma, he nods his head slightly, and says in a voice so low only she can hear him: ‘Now you won’t need to hang out your blue blouse, Alma.’

Alma watches fearfully as the Captain leaves the clinic, followed by the two motorcyclists and the fat man. Two ambulancemen carry Font y Rius away on a stretcher, supervised by Güelmes, who all of a sudden has regained all his authority and political dignity. Pascuali is very nervous; Alma is distraught. Carvalho speaks on the telephone. Freed from his straitjacket, Raúl stares at everyone; his face shows conflicting emotions until he sees Alma, when he looks dumbstruck. Alma turns away from him. Carvalho gently puts the phone down. Pascuali is taken aback at Raúl’s reaction.

‘What’s the matter with him?’

Güelmes responds quickly.

‘It’s the emotion. It’s the first time he’s seen his sister-in-law. And she looks so like his wife.’

Carvalho takes the initiative. He takes Alma by her arm and forces her to look at Raúl.

‘Alma, look, this is Raúl. Raúl, this is Alma.’

Raúl peers at Güelmes, at Alma, at Pascuali and finally at Carvalho. Eventually he smiles and with great difficulty asks: ‘How are things, Alma?’

He goes up to her, and their two faces tilt to exchange a kiss on the cheek. But as Raúl touches her, it’s as if a whole hidden past seeps from their skin. Their eyes fill with pain as they hug each other tightly, so tightly their bodies seem to fuse into one, moulding flesh and bones together as if never to part. They moan: ‘Eva María, Eva María.’

Pascuali does not want to be moved by the scene.

‘Nobody leaves here until I’ve heard what I want to know.’

Güelmes seems to be on top form.

‘Just ask, and we’ll tell you.’

‘Who shot Font y Rius?’

‘It was an accident. Everyone was nervous because the alarm went off.’

Pascuali is not satisfied.

‘Why did the alarm go off? And what has the Captain got to do with you all?’

Güelmes is talking a blue streak.

‘We appointed him chairman of The Spirit of New Argentina. We need to strengthen links between the political, civilian and military sectors of our society if we are to avoid any more tragic misunderstandings. We need heroes to back our successful businesses. It’s very simple really. Don’t look for complications in your life, Pascuali, or in your service record. The New Argentina is based on discoveries that our friend Tourón here made, together with Roberto – may he rest in peace. I’m sure Raúl will want to join our wonderful team and benefit from the fruits of his labour.’

At that, Güelmes turns and addresses Raúl: ‘Welcome on board, Raúl. The Captain’s in charge once more. It’s time for national and personal reconciliation. Your brother-in-law, me, you, all of us partners. One big happy family’

Raúl looks as if he’s smiling, but as he goes up to Güelmes a blob of spittle flies through the air almost in slow motion and lands on the deputy minister’s shirt front. Vladimiro and another policeman take Raúl out and put him in the police van. Carvalho and Pascuali walk out level with each other. Carvalho is tired; Pascuali is still stunned. They have to walk past the Captain, the fat man, the motorcyclists. Carvalho questions Pascuali: ‘Who is the Captain?’

‘A big shot.’

‘In what? Since when?’

Pascuali shrugs. ‘In what, I’ve no idea. But he’s always been in charge. Always will be. Apparently all the secret shit of power never disappears.’

‘Be careful, Pascuali. That sounds almost like anarchy’

By now they’ve reached the fat man who steps forward to protect the Captain. Carvalho puts a hand out to stroke his belly: ‘You ought to ease up on the lupins.’

The Captain calms his companion’s anger with an icy stare.

Font y Rius is taken away in an ambulance. Alma and Carvalho join Raúl in the police van. Güelmes is driven off in an official car. Pascuali watches while two policemen join the others in the back of the van, shuts the door from outside, then sits up with the driver. He gives the order to set off. In the back, Raúl and Alma are lost in thought, but with their hands entwined. Carvalho surveys them. The two policemen have their machine-guns on their laps. Raúl looks up, and gazes tenderly at Alma: ‘What about the baby?’

‘I did all I could, but there are no traces. The person who kept her must be a very powerful son of a bitch.’

‘She must be almost twenty by now’

‘She’s nineteen years, six months, and four days old...’

Alma starts to sob quietly, and then all of a sudden bursts out: ‘Why...why?’

Raúl caresses her as much as his handcuffs will allow. Carvalho is still staring at them, poker-faced. Raúl murmurs to Alma: ‘Thank you.’

‘What for?’

‘Thank you for living.’

Suddenly, Raúl starts to squeal like a rat and to shake all over. Everyone but Carvalho is dumbfounded. The policemen don’t know what to do; just in case, they raise their machine-guns. Alma thrusts herself between the guns and Raúl.

‘Why don’t you stick your pricks back in your trousers, where they belong, you halfwits? Can’t you see he’s ill?’

One of the policemen decides to consult Pascuali. They knock on the window, and the inspector’s face appears behind the grille.

‘What’s going on?’

‘The crazy guy’s having some sort of attack.’

‘Oh, shit!’

The van brakes. Carvalho and Raúl glance at each other. Raúl’s look is far more coherent than his squealing. The van comes to a halt, the door is opened and Pascuali leans in. He shouts angrily: ‘What’s going on in here?’

Raúl takes a sudden leap out of the van. He lands on top of Pascuali, who is pinioned beneath him. As he struggles to his feet and draws his gun from its holster, Raúl flings himself into the undergrowth separating the road from a line of trees as black as night. The two policemen raise their machine-guns. Carvalho pretends to lose his balance, falls on them, and for his pains receives a blow from the butt of a gun that knocks him half-conscious to the floor of the van. He opens his eyes when he realizes Alma is leaning over him. Carvalho sees her tearful face next to his, asking him something. He has no time to reply before he blacks out completely.

A policeman lets Carvalho out of the police station with an irritated, perfunctory gesture. The detective walks slowly down the front steps. As he takes a deep breath of the night air, he touches the bandage on his side covering the wound. He starts walking. A car draws level with him. Carvalho is suspicious, but it’s Güelmes, who leans out of the car window and offers him a ride. Inside the car, Carvalho flops back alongside the honourable deputy minister of development.

‘I had a hard time getting you out of there. It took all my influence and my common sense. After all, what did you do? You prevented our police getting into a real mess. Gunning down a foreign subject! And a Spaniard at that! The ambassador would have blown his top! Called in the United Nations! Amnesty International! Mother Teresa of Calcutta! Judge Garzón! Isn’t that the name of the Spanish judge who’s trying to lock up all our military junta? Whatever happened to our sovereignty? We’re the masters of our torturers, and we’ve decided to pardon them. What else is national sovereignty for, in these times of economic and political globalization?’

‘States are only the masters of their state torturers and murderers.’

‘You have to leave us something. Pascuali is a good officer, but he takes his professionalism too far. Argentina has to regain its democratic image. Any questions?’

Carvalho shrugs. ‘Do you have any answers?’

‘Inside here, yes. It’s your word against mine. This is the last explanation you’ll get from me. We kept the switch between Berta and Alma a secret. At first only Font y Rius knew about it. Then Pignatari and Norman. We couldn’t tell Raúl while he was being held, and afterwards Alma – that is, Berta – told us it would be better for him to get out and start a new life in Spain. Berta – that is, Alma – felt guilty about having dragged us into politics: she was our idol, our heroine, our pirate captain. Ah, the myths of youth! Anyone who isn’t an idealist at twenty... !’

‘I know that refrain. What about betrayal? What about your deals with the Captain?’

‘You’re confusing betrayal with pragmatism. It was the Captain’s idea. While we were being interrogated, he realized he could do business with us. He was a dirty hero; now he wants to be a clean rich man. So he’s the much respected chairman of a foundation: The Spirit of New Argentina. Rats, cows, men and women. It’s a new humanism. Fattening mankind. The only possible kind of humanism. Besides, it wasn’t a crime to put Raúl’s discoveries to good use. Times have changed.’

Güelmes smiles and takes hold of Carvalho’s arm.

‘Let me tell you once more, and make sure you get the message. Anyone who doesn’t want to change the world at twenty is a son of a bitch, but anyone who at forty still wants to change it is a fool...’

Güelmes’ car deposits Carvalho on the outskirts of San Telmo, and the detective finds his way to the Plaza Dorrego and the tango bar Alma has said she’ll meet him in. Inside, it’s as though Gardel was just about to embark on his death flight, but Alma only lets him savour the images of bygone sentimentality for a few moments, before she leads him out along streets full of antique shops.

‘They’re all that’s left from the shipwreck of the richest bourgeoisie in Latin America. They began to sell everything off when Perónism started to bring the workers into the political picture, and finished the sale when the armed forces let loose inflation and hunger.’

Alma and Carvalho keep their distance as they walk along. Alma is playing at stepping up and down from the edge of the pavement whenever parked cars allow her to. Carvalho gazes up at the stars above San Telmo.

‘Back at home in Vallvidrera I sometimes amuse myself looking up at the constellations. If I can make them out that means I’m in a good mood, if I can’t see them, it means I’m drunk.’

‘What about the air pollution?’

‘There isn’t any in Vallvidrera.’

Alma’s game up and down the pavement saves her from having to speak seriously, but eventually she makes up her mind: ‘I owe you an explanation.’

‘You’ve paid all your debts, you’ve buried all your dead.’

‘You’re a real poet.’

‘There are worse.’

Alma takes him by the arm and points out the sign over a brightly-lit bar: Tango Amigo.

‘Norman’s tiny enchanted kingdom: Norman Silverstein. You’ve grown up enough. Time for you to enter.’

He’s hit by a clash of lights and smoke, a distant mass of bodies lining a bar or picked out against a low stage on which a spotlight draws a circle where the magic is soon to begin. Carvalho and Alma push their way through the audience. A waiter shows them to a pair of reserved seats close to the stage. Carvalho whispers in Alma’s ear: ‘What’s an old rocker like you doing in a place like this?’

Alma laughs out loud. Then the room goes completely dark. Calls for silence. The spotlight draws a sun on the stage, in the middle of it is the grotesquely made-up Norman Silverstein, with a grotesque smile on his face, a leering grimace. His voice is a grimace too, as he launches into a speech he cannot control.

‘Welcome to Buenos Aires! We know you’re here because for foreigners this is a cheap city, and Argentina is up for sale!’

He points to his audience.

‘You! And you!’

His pointing finger halts at Carvalho, and the spotlight follows him.

‘If anything isn’t for sale, that means it’s worthless!’

He unstraps the watch from his wrist.

‘My old grandfather sold this to me. He was a military man, and it always showed him the time for coups d’état, firing squads, for balls for tennis or for the electric prod. I’m not asking a hundred pesos for it, not a million, not even one.’

He falls to his knees, sobbing.

‘I’m just begging you to take it from me. We Argentines love people to take our watches, our sweethearts, our islands.’

Abruptly, his tone changes.

‘By the way, what’d you know about Buenos Aires?’

Norman has recovered all his sang-froid, and now questions his audience like a schoolmaster.

‘Come on. Show me what you know. What do you know about Buenos Aires? Shout “Yes!!!” if you know what I’m talking about.’

A drum roll.

‘Tango?’

The audience agrees reluctantly. ‘Yes!’

‘Maradona?’

‘Yes!!!!’

‘The disappeared?’

Some of the audience reply ‘Yes!’ as if this were another routine question; others realize just what they are being asked, and stay silent. Gradually a soft drum roll is heard again. It’s so gentle it almost seems as if the drums are trembling.

‘Unfortunately, honoured and respectable public, Maradona has got problems because he stuck his nose in where he shouldn’t have, Maradona now only believes in his family and Fidel Castro. He doesn’t even believe in Menem! He’s just like Zulema, Menem’s ex-wife!’

Loud laughter.

‘The disappeared. Have any of you ever seen a disappeared person? If you haven’t, how can anyone ever say there were disappeared people?’