The Buenos Aires Quintet (34 page)

By now the boxers are upon him. All he can do is lash out and try to kick them, as they circle round him and land knowingly aimed punches. There is a gulf between Don Vito flailing despairingly and the four men advancing and retreating as they hit him with deadly force and accuracy. So accurately that he eventually topples to the floor, his face a swollen mess. One of the boxers lifts his head by the bloody roots of his hair, and the others continue their beating. Don Vito,
ecce homo,
is already unconscious.

Vladimiro considers the information that a shamefaced Borges Jr. has just given him.

‘So Raúl Tourón has come back from the dead and is breaking his old friends’ balls.’

He starts to laugh. Borges stares at him with his sad hound’s eyes.

‘I’ve betrayed those people’s trust.’

Pascuali’s voice rings out from somewhere behind him.

‘Don’t start getting a conscience now. Didn’t you betray the trust of all the people you and your mother have conned over the years?’

‘There couldn’t be conmen if there weren’t people willing to be conned.’

‘And I suppose there wouldn’t be murderers without people willing to be murdered. Don’t talk nonsense.’

‘Those fanatics are still pursuing me. I’m frightened, I need you to protect me.’

Pascuali is even more scathing than usual.

‘Sects. That’s all I needed, literary sects.’

He waits for the duty policeman to finish the report, flicks his head at his men in a way that Borges does not understand, then heads off down the corridors that lead to the room used by the director-general whenever he comes to the police station. After a few words of muttered greeting, the inspector drops the file in front of his superior’s short-sighted gaze.

‘Can’t you tell me what’s in it? In a few words?’

‘Sects. Literary sects.’

‘Literary sects? What am I supposed to do with that?’

Pascuali still says nothing, so the director-general is forced to read the file. Afterwards, he peers at Pascuali over his glasses, as if trying to see him without any distortion. Then he stands up. He thrusts his fists on to the desk, and leans forward until his face is close to the inspector’s. The director-general loves to thrust his face only centimetres from Pascuali’s nostrils and shout at him.

‘Sects? Have you any idea who the members of El Aleph club are? The crème de la crème of our business leaders. Their chairman is Ostiz. Does that mean anything to you? And there are top university people, as well as people who have a lot of money and a lot of power. What do you want? A search warrant? What else? Would you like me to question Güelmes, who’s just been made a minister, about his business dealings with a Japanese group? What else? Would you like me to declare the constitution unconstitutional? To issue an arrest warrant for the president of the republic? Do you want me to be kicked out of my job? And all because of a two-bit swindler and a lunatic you’re on the trail of? What does that son of a bitch want anyway? What does he want? To drive me mad? Like you do?’

Pascuali waits for the storm to subside without moving his face away or closing his eyes. Finally the director-general grows weary. He goes back to his desk. Takes an executive blood pressure gauge out of a drawer, and tests himself.

‘Fourteen over eleven! Fourteen over eleven! It’s never been that bad before!’

His words meet only the empty air: the door has already shut behind Pascuali’s back. The director-general takes out his mobile phone and dials a number he has looked up in his personal organizer.

‘Güelmes? Pascuali is pressing harder and harder. We have to do something. We must meet. Yes, fourteen over eleven – what about you?’

The doctor bursts rather than emerges through the door they are staring at so anxiously. Carvalho leaps up to intercept him, followed by Alma. The doctor whispers directions, which they follow until they reach the screen behind which lies a mummified Don Vito. He can hardly even move his swollen lips. Horrified by the brutality of the spectacle, Alma and Carvalho have come to a halt, but Don Vito beckons them forward. They cannot make out what he is trying to say, so Carvalho leans forward to pick up the murmured fragments. Then he nods and turns back towards Alma.

‘He says we live in a world full of fanatics. He also says that in films the heroine always gives the injured hero a kiss when she visits him in hospital.’

Alma smiles at this, but when she leans over Don Vito she sees the only place she can kiss him is on the mouth.

‘But I can only kiss him on the mouth.’

‘I think that’s what he wants.’

Don Vito manages to convey the inevitability of the situation. Alma kisses him fully on the mouth, doing far more than her mere duty. The first or last kiss of a true love story. Wet. Deep. Don Vito’s eyes show he is in ecstasy, until they suddenly change to an expression of alarm as he jerks his head to try to tell them something. Carvalho and Alma stare at him, then at each other in surprise, and finally understand. They look round and there is Pascuali standing in the doorway. They follow him out into the corridor, and hear him muttering under his breath:

‘I’m sick and tired of you two. Sick and tired. Wherever you stick your noses you stir up shit!’

They come to the end of the corridor, and in the main hall of the hospital Pascuali grabs Carvalho by the arm.

‘I want to know’

Carvalho sighs to show how patient he has to be with the inspector.

‘What do you want to know? Vito Altofini has been savagely attacked by a group of fanatics, Borgesian fundamentalists.’

‘Don’t talk such crap! I want to know all the details of Raúl Tourón’s blackmail, including what the Japanese have to do with it.’

‘One of the people involved is the Captain.’ He thrusts his face into Pascuali’s and says again: ‘The Captain. Is he too much of a Captain for you, inspector?’

Pascuali does not respond, even with a gesture. Carvalho and Alma try to take advantage of his disarray to leave the building, but he runs after them, and this time seizes Carvalho by the shoulder, forcing him to turn and face him.

‘The Captain, you Spanish asshole, is a military man, a leftover from the military dictatorship. But sooner or later, we’ll be finished with them – all our society needs are policemen, not military goons. We’ll leave that to the Yankees.’

‘It’s a point of view’

‘It’s the plain truth. I am the future, the only possibility of order we have.’

‘There’s the private police as well.’

‘Such as you?’

‘No. I’m the last of the Mohicans. I mean the private police who are and always will be on the side of order. I am on the side of disorder. I am disorder.’

Plates and cutlery polished until they shine, and laid out in an order the washer-up faithfully respects. Raúl squeezes out the last few drops of dirty water from the sponge. He surveys the kitchen. Everything is shiny clean. He smiles with satisfaction. Through the window he can see other neon signs advertising restaurants along the Costanera Norte. He slumps on to a stool. Rubs his face in his hands. The swing door opens and the kitchen supervisor comes in. He inspects the washing-up, and nods his approval.

‘What an incredible day. We seem to have fed half Buenos Aires.’

‘And the other half brought their dirty plates along too.’

Raúl takes the envelope his boss hands him, squeezes the edges to see how many notes are inside. He puts it away and mutters a thank you that the other man does not even hear, because he has already left the kitchen. Raúl stands up, takes off his apron, and sticks his head under the cold water tap. Then he picks up a clean kitchen cloth to dry off his hair and face. When he emerges red-cheeked from rubbing his face dry, he realizes he is not alone. He recognizes the intruder, and nods to him. Out in the street, the other man invites him to get into a huge stretch Lincoln with tinted windows. The person waiting for him inside the car smells of fresh perfume and has pink, child-like skin. The limousine sets off, and Raúl’s host launches straight in: ‘Let’s get things straight from the start. I know who you are, and you should know who I am. I am Gálvez Jr., Richard Gálvez Aristarain. Do you remember? My father – Robinson, Man Friday. He was killed just a few weeks ago. My father promised to help you find your daughter. As I already told you, I found some references to the search among his papers. They’re interesting. Nothing definite, but interesting. In his notes, my father referred to a conversation in which you talk about a recent painful and surprising revelation. Something that opened your eyes. Was that here in Buenos Aires?’

‘No. In Spain.’

‘Was it that discovery which made you decide to come back to Argentina?’

‘Not exactly. I was already coming back when I found out.’

Gálvez Jr. is curious to hear more, but Raúl says nothing. He sighs.

‘Well, anyway. Cards on the table. From the outset, I suspected my father’s death was related to his attempts to blackmail a good number of my friends and colleagues in what you used to call the oligarchy. We don’t know what to call ourselves. Any suggestions gratefully received. One of the most dangerous people he tried to blackmail was Ostiz. Does the name mean anything to you?’

‘He was one of those who encouraged the military coup.’

‘Almost all the serious money in Argentina encouraged the coup, but as well as that, Ostiz is a very dangerous customer. He likes delving into sewers and getting his hands dirty. I’m certain he killed my father, and then he helped pay for the first stone laid to create a Robinson–Gálvez theme park. No one can remember if there ever was a second.’

‘What has Ostiz got to do with my disappeared daughter?’

‘That I don’t know, but in my father’s notes I came across the following scribble: Raúl’s daughter-Ostiz-Señora Pardieu.’

‘Why are you willing to help me?’

‘I am helping myself. I can’t take on Ostiz directly, but I want to make him pay for my father’s death. We knew who you were, and who Ostiz is, but we know nothing about Señora Pardieu. We’ve been looking into it, and she figures as a single mother who had a daughter in Buenos Aires in 1977. The name given to the daughter was Eugenia, but beyond that, we can’t find any trace of either mother or daughter. It’s a brick wall. With no chinks in it. So we have to go back to Ostiz. Why did my father make him part of the equation? Ostiz was one of the members of the oligarchy who arranged financial support for those who led the repression. That included the adoption of children of the disappeared, so it wouldn’t be too far-fetched to suppose he helped with the single mother Pardieu’s sinful labour. Who better than a single mother to disguise the presence of a military officer or policeman in the affair?’

‘Is there any military officer with the surname Pardieu?’

‘They wouldn’t be so careless.’

Carvalho opens the filing-cabinet drawers. One after another. All empty. He spins round, afraid he has fallen into a trap. He goes to the door and opens it a few centimetres: no one to be seen from where he stands. He slides back into the room. Checks the desks. Nothing interesting in the drawers. He surveys the walls, the furniture, as if he is making a visual inventory. Then pulls a bulky object from beneath his raincoat. It’s a petrol can. He sprinkles a trail across the room, like a signature that curls around the filing cabinets, over the desk and out with him to the staircase. He pours the rest of the can on the stairs. Stands back. Lights a lighter and uses it to set fire to a handful of rolled-up paper. Throws it at the trail of petrol. The fire catches, and snakes quickly up the stairs. Carvalho watches the flames take hold, then leaves the building with controlled haste. As he drives home he sees the flames in front of him, as if they were just beyond his windscreen. He imagines how different people will react. Pascuali. Pascuali’s superiors. You are a pyromaniac, he tells himself. You already were.

The director-general shouts into his telephone. He hangs up and collapses into his chair, on the verge of tearful self-pity. He opens a desk drawer and pulls out his blood pressure apparatus. He is terrified at the figures it offers him. He looks up, and his terror becomes indignation when he sees Pascuali standing there patiently in front of him.

‘Who burnt down the Aleph Club?’

‘Perhaps the firemen could tell you.’

‘The firemen? Balls to that! Here! Read this. Stop playing at being a policeman from some B-movie!’

He throws him a sheet of paper that floats in the air. Pascuali catches it. He reads it impassively, while the director-general says sarcastically: ‘It’s a list of the club members. Two ministers from this government, and God knows how many from every other government we’ve had! Right from the days of Sarmiento and Mitre! You want financiers? Take your pick. To start with, Ostiz himself, a boss of the bosses. He’s the chairman of these lunatics.’

He stands up to impress Pascuali with his size and rank.

‘I want that pyromaniac! I want order! I don’t want to have to lose my temper because you are allowing all this disorder!’

This time it is the director-general who leaves Pascuali with words on the tip of his tongue. He strides down corridors, fending off people wanting to ask him questions, and takes an elevator to the bottom level of the car park. He signals curtly to the two policemen who try to accompany him, and they desist. He opens a heavy iron door. Beyond it lies an art deco-style meeting-room that has suffered from damp and age, and in the middle of it, a smiling Güelmes, who greets him with a warm hug.

‘I wish I could be so cheerful. The Aleph Club has just gone up in flames, and the whole of Buenos Aires wants the head of whoever is responsible.’

‘That’s the Borges Jr. case. Unimportant stuff. You and I are going to continue a conversation from before, Morales, dear Morales. Let’s sit down. We’re going to sit down and relax a little.’

Morales is not sure that he can relax, but does so because a superior is telling him to.

‘Morales: in both the Raúl Tourón case and that of Borges Jr., which is connected to it, as well as in a series of other illegal activities, we find the Captain involved. Do you know who he really is, by the way? Do you know where he lives?’