The Buenos Aires Quintet (39 page)

‘Let’s just say the plot is thickening,’ Carvalho says. ‘We’ve found Loaiza but can’t actually get our hands on him. Your friend has strange relations – and I don’t mean sexual ones. And also, it seems he was badly beaten up a few days ago.’

‘I had nothing to do with that.’

‘I believe you. But even more worrying than the beating he got is the fact he seems to have links to groups from the dirty war.’

This surprises Peretti. He exchanges a glance with Merletti that Carvalho catches.

‘Bruno always liked playing with fire,’ Peretti says, turning his attention back to the detective.

‘Did he have those kinds of links when you knew him?’ Carvalho asks.

Peretti thinks before replying.

‘Bruno liked provoking people. There was a lot of repression in the university, and there was a strong official line, but Bruno liked doing down the lefties. He always said that potentially they were just as murderous as the military thugs in power.’

‘Did you think that?’

‘I didn’t like terrorism, but I didn’t support the dictatorship either. I’ve always stayed out of politics. They asked me to do like Palito Ortega or Neumann and put myself down as a candidate for Menem or for the “Radishes”, the Radicals. Politics is an even more uncertain business than boxing. Between Perón and the military, I choose Jünger.’

‘Is that a kind of tank?’

‘No, a Prussian writer.’

‘Politics only becomes a sure thing when it turns into boxing. I’m afraid Loaiza’s dangerous liaisons will make their presence felt.’

‘I’m a personal friend of the president.’

‘I don’t doubt it. All I ask is that you don’t keep anything from me. In the crowd tonight I saw a figure who represents a whole era – the Captain, he’s known as. He had power in the cellars of the dictatorship, and still thinks he has now there’s democracy.’

‘You can trust me.’

Carvalho signals to Alma for them to leave, but she comes over to Peretti and holds out a pen and piece of paper.

‘Would you mind signing an autograph?’

Carvalho can’t believe what he is seeing or hearing.

‘Is it for you?’ asks Peretti.

‘No, it’s for a student of mine: could you dedicate it to Muriel, please. She was here, but she was too shy to come in.’

Peretti writes something and signs his name. He hands the autograph to Alma, who looks at him gratefully. There is a worried look on the boxer’s face as he watches her leave with Carvalho, then Robert rushes up to him.

‘What did he say about me?’

‘Why should he mention you?’

Merletti butts in.

‘Go and have your medical check-up, then I’ll explain.’

Carvalho and Alma leave the dressing-room and walk down the centre aisle of the hall. Muriel is waiting for them at the exit.

‘Where did you get to?’ asks Alma.

‘I don’t know what came over me.’

‘Here’s the autograph for you.’

Muriel takes it and stuffs it into her bag. She does not know what to say. Her eyes are red from crying.

‘I’ll tell you the truth. I saw my father in the audience.’

‘So what?’

‘You don’t understand. He’s very strange, very conservative. He’s always attacking university teachers. He says they corrupt innocent youth. I gave him an excuse about coming home late, but I didn’t tell him I was coming to the fight with you.’

Alma puts an arm round her waist, and pushes her towards the exit.

‘Parents. No one chooses their parents. You have to take them as you find them.’

Carvalho’s face is as sad as a funeral, the corner of his eyes mist over. Half-hidden behind a column, the Captain watches them leave, and then decides to head back to the dressing-room. He flattens himself against the wall just outside the door, from where he can make out what is going on inside, and hear the exchanges between Boom Boom and Merletti. The manager is trying to explain something to a furious Peretti.

‘I had to do it, Boom Boom. You’re an idealist. If it had been me, I wouldn’t have brought in outsiders – I would have sorted it out amongst us: that’s why I arranged to see the Spaniard in Fiorentino’s, and that’s where he met Robert and his “girl” friends. Robert’s always playing at mixing the three or four sexes. That’s why he was so worried about what the Spanish bloodhound might tell you, and dumped me in it.’

‘What else are you hiding from me?’

‘Nothing.’

‘It was you who had Loaiza beaten up.’

‘How could I, if I didn’t even know where he was?’

‘Don’t lie to me again, it was you!’

‘Yes, what the shit, it was me! What are you going to do when they find him? Set him up in a restaurant, or give him more money to buy drugs with? Shit only understands shit, I say’

Peretti cannot stand any more, and punches Merletti half-seriously. Merletti slaps him in return, and in a few seconds they are really fighting, working off their anger but without seriously trying to hurt each other. Eventually Peretti collapses breathless on to the massage table, while Merletti turns his face to the wall as if trying to find somewhere to hide his body and his face. Robert, who has had nothing to do with the fight, walks out of the dressing-room without noticing the man listening outside, and carries on until he has left the Argentine Boxing Federation altogether. He shows little interest in the small crowd gathered round a big hefty man who is reciting poems to the jeers and laughter of people whose eyes and minds are still lit up by Peretti’s flashing punches.

Robert climbs into a sports car driven by the ash-blonde from the other evening at Fiorentino’s, who is now an effeminate male with dark fair hair. They kiss each other fleetingly, and pull off.

‘There’s always an incredible amount of tension on fight days. Everyone gets so aggressive.’

‘Who won? “Daddy”?’

He bursts out laughing.

‘Don’t laugh at Boom Boom. He’s a decent guy, very straight.’

‘Very rich, you mean. Did they spoil his pretty face?’

He takes one hand off the steering-wheel and strokes Robert’s face. ‘Have they disfigured my little Robert’s father’s face?’

Robert slaps him. Hysterical, the blond boy loses control of the car momentarily, and brakes as he clutches the wheel with both hands.

‘Are you crazy? You almost sent us off the road!’

‘Show Boom Boom some respect! He’s the one who feeds us, isn’t he?’

By now the blond has recovered his composure. He looks down scornfully at the car.

‘Well, he’s not very generous with the cars he buys you. You deserve a Porsche, not this tin bucket. You’re the Porsche generation.’

A car behind them is flashing its lights. The blond looks in the rear-view mirror. He does not like what he sees, and is even more upset when a siren starts to wail.

‘The cops! We must have stepped in a dog’s turd or something tonight.’

He brakes and pulls over to the pavement. The police car does the same. Glancing again in the mirror, he sees two plainclothes policemen coming towards them, one on either side of the car.

‘Oh, no!’

‘What’s wrong? What’s wrong?’ Robert asks nervously.

But Pascuali has already stuck his head in the driver’s side window.

‘That’s what I’d like to know: what’s wrong? Drunken driving? Coke?’

‘We’re not drunk, and there’s no coke,’ Robert replies.

‘You’re driving in a zigzag though, is that the latest style? Anyway, it’s a fortunate coincidence, because I wanted to talk to you.’

He points across at Robert. The ash-blond heaves a sigh of relief.

The human fauna in Fiorentino’s is much the same as before. Still with traces of the bout on his face, Peretti is having a drink with his manager. Whenever someone comes over to congratulate him, he returns the compliment with a superwelterweight champion’s smile.

‘Trust me. You shouldn’t have got anyone else involved in this.’

Merletti gets up and goes to the toilet. As he is washing his hands, he looks in the mirror and sees the Captain standing behind him.

‘Did you speak to him?’ asks the Captain.

‘Bit by bit. Let me do it my way’

‘There’s no reason I should.’

This leaves Merletti preoccupied. He dries his hands and leaves the toilet. By the time he arrives, Peretti is already at the night-club door, and they leave together. Merletti walks staring at the pavement, but lifts his head when he sees the Captain coming towards them. The Captain pays no heed to his warning look, and goes straight up to Peretti.

‘Peretti...I’m a great fan.’

Peretti shakes his hand and tries to move on, but the Captain stops him.

‘Not just a fan, but someone who can do you a big favour.’

Still smiling, Peretti tries to push past him. The Captain says only one word: ‘Loaiza.’

Peretti is pulled up short. Merletti closes his eyes, knowing there is nothing to be done.

Carvalho jabs on the apartment light. Alma follows him wearily or reluctantly. Carvalho closes the front door, then steps ahead of her to open the communicating door between office and living quarters.

‘You can come out.’

It is Raúl who appears from the bedroom. Alma whispers his name, as if talking to herself. Then she embraces him.

‘What are you today? Cat? Mouse?’

‘Mouse, as usual.’

Carvalho busies himself in the kitchen, while the other two sit in the office – chairs apart, hands joined.

‘Aren’t you tired of always having to escape?’

‘It’s almost become a bad habit. Sometimes I try to imagine myself in a normal life, living like a normal person, and it feels as though I am vicariously living someone else’s existence. It’s not me.’

‘We’re all tired of this. I can’t get passionate about anything any more. Norman’s the same. And the masked Spaniard here can’t even stand himself. To top it all, I’m going to boxing matches.’

Raúl is about to say something, but thinks better of it. Carvalho balances the earpiece of the telephone between neck and shoulder while he tidies up the plates and cutlery on the kitchen table.

‘Biscuter? Spain? Barcelona?’

He hangs up in disgust, then dials again, shouting hysterically.

‘The day the Spanish telephone system bought the Argentine one, they should have declared the Third World War!’

His hysterical shouts bring Alma and Raúl running.

‘Come on, tell me what’s wrong,’ Alma suggests.

Carvalho flings the phone at her.

‘I can’t get Spain. This phone is only connected to Patagonia.’

‘Here, tell me the number.’

Carvalho tells her, but gets the code for Spain wrong.

‘Overseas. Thirty-three for Spain. Three for Barcelona.’

‘I think if you dial 33, you get France, not Spain.’

‘So you’re a telephone operator now, are you? How on earth do you know what the code for Spain is?’

Alma ignores him, and dials again, adding 34 for Spain. She waits.

‘Biscuter? I’m calling from Buenos Aires. This is Señor José Carvalho Tourón’s secretary. Don’t hang up. While he comes to the receiver, I’ll sing you a tango, like they do on all the best business lines.

I was so good to you, but you treated me bad
You bled me white, to the very last drop
In six months you gobbled up all that I had
My stall in the market, and everything in the shop.

Carvalho grabs the phone from her, and Alma spins away, dancing the tango all by herself. Raúl smiles bleakly.

‘Biscuter? No, a madwoman. A madwoman who’s going to have dinner with me.
Fegatini con funghi trifolati,
Carvalho says, while Alma mimics disgust. ‘It’s a dish I tried in a restaurant in Arezzo, the Bucco de San Francesco. First course,
risotto con carciofi.
I’m sick and tired of being here in this city full of Argentine men and women like the one you heard on the line. Have you found my uncle? No sign of him? What’s the weather like in Barcelona? It’s snowing? They don’t know what that means here. And Charo has called! It’s snowing and Charo has called. Fine. OK. I’ll call you.’

‘If we’re in the way...’ Alma says.

‘Of course you’re in the way, but what can I do about it? And besides, I’ve made enough food for an army.’

‘
Fegatini
!
After the punch to the liver that Boom Boom gave the Basque,’ Alma protests.

But she and Raúl wolf down the
fegatini.
It is Carvalho who hardly touches them.

‘I thought liver disgusted you.’

‘Cheer up, go and burn a book. I brought you one especially’

She picks up her bag and takes out a copy of
Artificial Respiration
by Ricardo Piglia. Before passing it to Carvalho, she reads out: ‘But it was not, he said, the laws of chance that I wanted to discuss with you here today. It fascinates all of us to think of the lives we might have lived, and all of us have our moments of Oedipal choice (in the Greek rather than the Viennese sense of the word), our crucial moments of decision. All of us are fascinated, he said, by thinking of this, and some people pay dearly for this fascination...’

With a resigned sigh, she hands the book to Carvalho. Carvalho performs his ritual, and when the flames have enveloped it completely, Alma switches off the light. The firelight flickers on the three of them, wrapped in their personal melancholies. Carvalho sits facing the fire, the other two have their backs to him. Alma comes over, and nestles her chin on his head, arms round his shoulders.

‘So that Charo of yours called?’

‘She hardly even asked after me.’

‘She’s a vixen, like all women. She can only think of you, and that’s why she doesn’t even mention you.’

She moves away from Carvalho. She looks at the forlorn Raúl, then back at Carvalho. Sighs a deep sigh.

‘Children, children. Boys, boys! What can I do to help?’

Alma, Raúl and Carvalho are stretched out on the bed fully clothed. All three stare up at the ceiling. Carvalho is smoking a cigar, and Alma tries from time to time to waft away the smoke with her hand.

‘It’s dangerous for Raúl to stay here...’ Carvalho says, breaking the silence.

‘I couldn’t care less any more.’

‘Why don’t you come back to Spain with me?’

But Raúl has already fallen asleep. Alma stares down at him anxiously.