The Buenos Aires Quintet (28 page)

Police on the trail of the WHITE LADY.’

‘
Well, poor old Pacho. But he had a good life, there’s no denying that. What have you or I got to do with his tragic end?’

‘Try to put the widow’s breasts out of your mind for a moment, and read the first few lines of the article at least. I’ve underlined them.’

‘A blow to the back of the head has ended the life of one of Argentine television’s best-known presenters. The police are searching for this outstanding professional’s last regular companion, known only by the initials M.F.M., said to be a blonde woman with a marble-white skin. The case has already been given a name: The Producer and the White Lady.’

‘
The no-good woman!’

‘This edition of
Clarín
is five days old, which means either we never read the papers, or we only read what we want to.’

‘They’re always full of corruption and sport. Look at this: Maradona calls all Argentine politicians shits and says he only trusts Fidel Castro.’

‘I was sent the newspaper by an old client of ours: Don Leonardo. He wants us to go and see him.’

The news has hit Don Leonardo hard. He’s sporting several days’ worth of stubble, there’s a glass in front of him that’s obviously been filled with
grappa
and emptied more than once, the ashtrays are overflowing with cigarette butts. His luxurious apartment looks uncared for. Don Vito and Carvalho wait for him to say something. He goes over to the TV set, and turns towards them: ‘Haven’t you seen the news bulletin?’

Carvalho and Don Vito shake their heads.

‘I’ve recorded it on video.’

The screen fills with images of a swarm of journalists and onlookers outside a courthouse. Pascuali is there with his men. A blonde, white-skinned woman, wearing a headscarf and dark glasses, is trying to force her way through the crowd. The TV presenter tries to get a declaration, then gives up and gives his own report.

‘There’s a dramatic new twist in the case of the White Lady. Marta Fanchelli Maluendas, the famous M.F.M., has come forward of her own accord, and from her statement it is clear she was in no way responsible for the death of the TV presenter Pacho Escámez.’

Then they see Marta speaking as close to the microphone as if she were kissing it.

‘How could I kill anyone with a karate chop? I spend my whole life on a diet, I haven’t got the strength to karate chop a fly.’

‘But you know who did it.’

‘Everything I know is in the hands of the magistrate and the police.’

She points to the policemen around her, and in particular to Pascuali.

‘Inspector Pascuali here has been very polite and very intelligent.’

The presenter grabs back the microphone.

‘That’s very true, Pm sure. So now from the initials M.F.M. – or Marta Fanchelli Maluendas, we have gone to those of L.C.L., another palindrome, and the new target of the police investigation.’

Don Leonardo stops the video. Stands staring at the screen for a few seconds. Then turns back to them again.

‘L.C.L. Leonardo Costa Livorno. Me.’

Don Vito is indignant.

‘Who does that whore think she is?’

Carvalho tries to shut him up, but there is no stopping Don Vito.

‘That no-good woman!’

Leonardo glares at him.

‘Appearances can be deceptive. Marta. Marta is an extraordinary woman. I need to pour my heart out, Don Vito, Pepe – I can call you Pepe, can’t I? Marta is an extraordinary woman. She gave all the love she had to my son; she tried to persuade him not to do the embezzling. She followed him to the Bahamas because she feared the worst, and she was proved right. He suffered a complete psychological collapse. She was – is – a woman full of love and life. She is in no way suicidal: it’s my son who is the potential suicide, as she herself explained to me very clearly. Now I love her, and she loves me. That swine Escámez was blackmailing her. He told her that if she left him, he would come and tell me everything; and on top of it all, he was always trying to find her lovers who would help her with her career.’

‘So you killed him?’

‘Why not? I told her that’s what I would tell the magistrate. It was me who killed him – in an outburst of rage at the ghastly proposals the old pimp was making to me.’

‘Are you a karate expert then?’

‘I know how to defend myself. I could have struck him with an iron fist.’

Don Vito shakes his head.

‘That would be premeditation.’

Carvalho is also against the idea.

‘Forget the iron fist.’

‘Tomorrow morning I’m going to hand myself over to the police, and I want you two to tell them the truth – that is, how at first I hated her for what she had done to my son. I want the magistrate to know the whole story – how love was born of hate, not death out of revenge. I’ll pay you whatever you ask.’

Carvalho and Don Vito exchange glances, and it is Altofini who gives their verdict:

‘We don’t charge for giving statements.’

The next day, Carvalho, Alma and Altofini switch their TV on to watch the news. The usual crowd of curious onlookers, journalists, Pascuali and two policemen who are leading Don Leonardo out in a pair of handcuffs. They pause while the presenter announces: ‘Leonardo Costa Livorno, the self-confessed killer of Pacho Escámez, who this morning told the police the story of his love for the White Lady. Pacho Escámez tried to stand in their way, leading the woman in question into corruption and the white slave trade, as her lawyer put it.’

Then there is a clip of the lawyer: ‘It was a passionate response to the evil procuring of a lascivious old man. An act of love. In the past, Don Leonardo had hated Marta Fanchelli for her relationship with his son, until the moment that is when he began to appreciate her great qualities.’

Carvalho switches off. Don Vito starts to mutter the words to the tango ‘Cambalache’:

Twentieth century, full of problems, loud and new
If you don
’
t cry you don t get the milk
If you don
’
t steal, then the fool is you.
Go on! Get on with it!
We all end up in the same stew.
Don
’
t give it a second thought, fill your plate
No one gives a damn if you
’
re honest or you
’
re great
If you break your back day and night
If you murder, cure, or don
’
t know wrong from right.

Alma sips her
mate
and comments:

‘He’ll be locked away for years.’

‘They’ve already found lots of extenuating circumstances. He won’t be inside for many years. It’s only in tangos that crimes of passion lead to prison for life.’

Waiters in uniform and carrying silver platters. Carvalho watches them go by from a chair that seems to want to eat him. Gálvez Jr. is more used to such extravagant comfort, and has managed to drape his frame in such a way as to avoid the sucking mouth of the giant upholstered sea-slug. The two other men, Ostiz and Maetzu, are seated quite naturally and comfortably, and watch with amusement Carvalho’s efforts to squirm and prod himself into a proper upright position. Ostiz, who is gaunt-faced and bald as a billiard-ball, has begun lecturing Gálvez.

‘I’m sure you agree, Richard, that your father’s body should not stand in the way of our relations, which should of necessity be excellent.’

Maetzu, a man with a sad drunk’s eyes and half a kilo of platinum rings, underlines the message: ‘Unfortunately, there’s no way to bring him back to life, but anyway, by dint of hard work and intelligence, you managed to preserve the best part of your inheritance.’

Then Ostiz chimes in again, as if on cue: ‘Richard, you must agree that your father – that poetic man, poetic and poignant – yes, that’s the word, poignant – in his last incarnation as Robinson Crusoe, had something to teach us which we should not forget – the lesson of universal solidarity.’

Maetzu closes his sad, alcoholic eyes and adds: ‘He was one of us, and we need to emphasize that we too think of others, that not everything comes down to creating wealth – which is also for others of course, but mainly for ourselves. We wealthy people of Argentina have got a bad reputation, and it’s the fault of those Perónists. The days when Menem was first in power, and we demonstrated side-by-side with the trade unionists, are long gone. Why, even our wives were Perónist then.’

‘Carder’s “Must”, perfume and underarm sweat. I read about it in
Nuevo Porteño
.’

Carvalho’s comment amuses Ostiz and annoys Maetzu. Gálvez nods for Carvalho to go in for the kill.

‘My client and I would just like to add however that there remains the small matter of someone ordering the death of Señor Gálvez and his chauffeur.’

Ostiz and Maetzu look at each other and by mutual agreement call a waiter. One comes over, carrying a huge leather case, like those used for carrying architect’s drawings. Inside there is a big sketch, and the two financiers have to get up and hold it open with all four hands, as if they were folding a sheet. It shows the river, between Buenos Aires and the sea.

It is Ostiz who explains the project.

‘Our idea is to build an artificial island in honour of your father. It will be called the “Robinson Joaquín Gálvez” Island: we already have raised the initial capital, and it’s quite possible we may be able to get Barbara Bush involved. We see this as almost entirely charitable enterprise, although we don’t know if she agrees. You have a guaranteed fifteen per cent, Richard. Oh and by the way, Robinson Island, theme park, will give part of its profits to research into new diseases. We won’t mention AIDS directly, so that nobody will associate that with your father.’

Once again, Carvalho supplies the voice like a ventriloquist on behalf of Gálvez.

‘Why an artificial island? Aren’t there any real ones left?’

‘Yes, but they’re so expensive! Anything in the Tigre is impossible nowadays; and besides, in Buenos Aires they’re still fascinated with Le Corbusier’s nonsense about constructing an artificial island.’

Gálvez Jr. nods, beginning to warm to the idea. Yes, of course a natural island would be impossible.

Maetzu starts to dream. ‘I can just see it! In my mind’s eye! The “Joaquín Gálvez” Robinson Crusoe Island.’

Carvalho is still hoping that Richard wants to get back to the question of his father’s death, and makes a final attempt to try to raise it.

‘What if we returned from Never-Never Island? Do you have a reply to the question...’

‘Leave it for now, Carvalho,’ Richard Gálvez orders him, as only a captain of industry can give orders, and Carvalho reflects that Robinson Gálvez was Richard’s father, not his. So he sits back and listens to the smooth flow of conversation between Gálvez Jr. and the men who had ordered his father’s death, how they agree with each other, how they speak the same language, how they decide to drink and eat together in the near future. Occasionally, Richard tries to work out what Carvalho must be thinking, and to bring him into the conversation.

‘The real gourmet is Señor Carvalho here.’

‘Is that true?’

‘I hate gourmets, but I suppose to a certain extent, I am one, yes.’

‘How interesting.’

Ostiz was the one expressing interest.

‘I own vineyards and make a few wines. Some friends of mine and I have set up a Gourmet Club. We dine privately at Chez Reyero, and all we talk about is what we are eating, have eaten and are going to eat. Would you be our guest, Señor Carvalho? And you too, of course, Richard.’

‘I can’t tell a potato from an aubergine.’

‘Would you allow us to invite you, Carvalho?’

‘Would I allow myself to be invited by this bunch of bastards?’ Carvalho wonders. ‘Say something,’ he says to himself.

‘Yes.’

The brilliantly bedecked yacht sails down the river. The mist is as murky as the waters below, but the glow of the guests and the strings of lights give their gentle progress its splendour. The boat is full of the highest class of criminals – at least one archbishop, several supposed politicians, the press, TV cameras. Gálvez provides the offscreen commentary in Carvalho’s ear on who all the most important guests are. Suddenly, Maetzu’s voice rings out from the foredeck: ‘Island in sight!’

The yacht drops anchor. A beaming Ostiz spreads his arms towards the waters of the river.

‘There’s the island!’

Carvalho cannot see it anywhere. But all the guests hang over the port side of the ship, and finally he spots a small concrete mixer on a barge. The load seems to be ready, and so Ostiz leans to ask the city mayor to finish the task, and the archbishop to give his blessing. The mayor helps the workmen tip the first load of concrete of what is to become the island into the river. The archbishop gives his blessing. Gálvez Jr. whispers admiringly into Carvalho’s ear: ‘They’re putting twenty million dollars into it.’

He says no more, as it is time for the speeches and a soft but interminable national anthem. Gálvez takes Carvalho by the arm.

‘Papa would be pleased; Robinson less so. Don’t feel let down, Carvalho. The truth isn’t always necessary. One has to wait for the right moment. Either it’ll come, or I’ll provoke it, but I swear to you his death won’t go unpunished. How about having dinner with me? Let’s go to Puerto Madero. They tell me the choice is better there than in La Recoleta. Now that Gato Dumas has gone, La Recoleta has become ordinary again. Wouldn’t you like to? You don’t seem very enthusiastic.’

‘Drink to remember, eat to forget. How do you deal with those priorities?’

Gálvez thinks about this for a moment, then replies.

‘Wasn’t it the other way round? The important thing is to remember or to forget when we need to.’

Now they are installed at a table in an Italian restaurant that likes to consider itself the equal of the best Italian restaurants in the world – those in New York – and Carvalho is trying to follow the abundant, melancholy thoughts of Gálvez Jr. when a gloved hand comes to rest on his shoulder. Looking up, he sees it is Marta, the White Lady, with her pink smile and flowing golden hair.