The Buenos Aires Quintet (46 page)

Up in his office, Lucho Reyero takes a woman’s photo from the desk top. He stares at it, tears in his eyes. Then he starts to speak:

‘Of course I always knew there was a risk you’d leave me, but why with that dyke, that ghastly lesbian? What’s she got that I can’t give you? And to think she had the nerve to come here!’

He stands up and goes over to the interior window. He stares down at Sara and insults her. ‘Filth! Dyke! Disgusting lesbian!’

There is a knock at the door.

‘Who’s there?’

Magín’s voice reaches him from the far side of the door.

‘Don Lucho, there’s hardly anyone left in the kitchen. Something strange is going on.’

‘Get lost, Magín.’

With that, Don Lucho returns to his voyeuristic contemplation of the restaurant, where the guests are deep in conversation.

‘I’d like,’ Gorospe says, ‘those who have not had much to say so far – our young actress friend Cari, Carvalho and Doñate – to give their opinion of this Sinaí Riesling.’

‘It’s pure fruit,’ Cari exclaims.

Sinaí pulls a face, but keeps on smiling.

‘I’d say it isn’t exactly a Riesling, but is closer to a hock, which is similar to a white Burgundy but with more of a spring-like bouquet, as our young friend here has correctly observed,’ Carvalho says, pointing to Cari.

‘I agree with the attribution and am a great fan of hock, which I tried in Germany when I was military attaché there. The Germans call the bottle
Bocksbeutel,
because they say it is shaped like...’

‘Shaped like what?’ Carvalho asks slyly.

‘Yes, yes, like what exactly?’ Dora eggs him on.

‘Gorospe will tell you, he’s more forthright than I am,’ the Captain says evasively.

‘Like bulls’ balls,’ Gorospe says.

Everyone laughs. Ferlinghetti number two wants to lead the conversation back to the wine.

‘In fact, hocks are nothing like Riesling – Rieslings are drier, more perfumed, more subtle – and they have a bouquet which is a
mélange
of lime, acacia and orange blossom, with very occasionally a hint of cinnamon.’

‘What a poet!’ gushes Cari.

‘No, it’s just that he’s read the
Larousse des Vins
,’
Ferlinghetti number one corrects her.

At this point, a red-faced Drumond sweeps in, closely followed by Magín. His entrance is greeted with a round of silent applause. Drumond drops his chin like an actor, and launches into his speech, gathering confidence as the words flow in a fluent Spanish with a French lilt.

‘Tonight I am offering several
hommages
to French nouvelle cuisine. The first course I learnt from my master Gérard and his
minceur exquise,
or cooking to lose weight.’

Señora Fieldmann gives her husband a sharp jab in the ribs. Until now, both of them have devoted themselves to eating rather than talking.

‘Gérard, in Sainte-Eugénie! Do you remember we went there, to eat and lose weight?’

‘Eating to lose weight?’ Gorospe says suspiciously. ‘Back to the theology of food, the theology of guilt! But go on, Monsieur Drumond, go on.’

‘The scallops were a tribute to that great Swiss master of subtlety, the magician Girardet.’

‘A round of applause for Girardet!’ proposes Ferlinghetti number one.

A short but enthusiastic clapping of hands.

‘And the
Pantagruel potpourri
by Troisgros is a playfully symbolic dish in honour of the Argentines’ love of meat, because it has beef, veal, pig, lamb, chicken and oxtail in it, all of them cooked differently. It’s baroque but light, aimed at bringing out the flavour and the texture of each of them, cooked in walnut or peanut oil to give it that final touch!’ Drumond says triumphantly.

‘
Chapeau!
’
exclaims Dora.

‘And for dessert I have allowed myself to go from the exquisitely obvious choice of Troisgros’
tango oranges,
a tribute to Argentina’s worldwide fame, to Bocuse’s
Mont Blanc aux marrons glacés,
with in between Gérard’s
kiwi sorbet —
which you can use as a sort of
trou normand
before you start on the meat
potpourri,
and a crazy fantasy invented by Troisgros: an acacia blossom
soufflé
“
Liliana Mazure
”!’
Drumond declares, at the height of his oratorical powers.

‘Wonderful!’ all the guests exclaim.

‘Just one question,’ Carvalho says, interrupting them. ‘Why is the acacia blossom
soufflé
called “
Liliana Mazure
”?’

Drumond smiles coyly.

‘What would cookery be without mystery? I don’t mean to be rude,
mon ami,
but permit me to take that little secret with me to my grave.’

This speech is received with delirious enthusiasm by the gourmets, especially the women among them. Dora even climbs on to a chair to clap her hands above all the rest, and to take photos of the chef. Drumond leaves the restaurant beaming, with an exit he has studied for weeks.

‘What would cooking and life be without mystery?’ Sara says.

‘You yourself are a mystery,’ Ferlinghetti number one says.

‘My only mystery is that I’m a cripple and different.’

Ferlinghetti number two puts his lips close to Cari’s ear, nibbles it, and whispers: ‘Are you different like Sara? Different? Really different?’

Cari laughs a little inanely.

‘Food awakens the memory of food,’ Gorospe declares. ‘Dora and Sinaí, do you remember that unforgettable lunch we had at
Le Carré de Feuillant
?
It might not get the most Michelin stars, but it is always excellent, and that was where we ate that wonderful civet of game. In the autumn of 1990...’

‘Two,’ Sinaí finishes the sentence. ‘It was 1992. It’s true, that was a wonderful meal. The only thing that spoiled it for me was that on their wine list they had Catalan and Spanish wines, but none from Argentina.’

‘A Dutch colleague of mine gave me an extraordinary South African wine to try in Holland. A Jacobsdal Pinotage. It was so good I sent to Cape Town for more,’ Fieldmann says, still eating and casting his eyes greedily at what the others have left on their plates.

‘All he ever remembers are good wines and our arguments,’ his wife reproaches him. ‘I think he must write them both down in his diary.’

In the kitchen, Lupe is still slumped in a state of shock on her chair. Slowly what has happened appears to sink in. The young cook is keeping a watchful eye on her as he gets on with his tasks. Drumond only has eyes for the dinner. The cook goes hesitantly over to Lupe.

‘There was nothing else we could do!’

Lupe finally succeeds in emerging from her stupor, and stares at her lover with increasing fury.

‘Murderer! He was the father of my children!’

Drumond waves at them to stop arguing. Lupe struggles to her feet. Her eyes roll wildly as she searches for something on the kitchen table. She sees the knife her husband had wielded and before Drumond can intervene, plunges it into her lover’s stomach. He reacts as disbelievingly as a cook can after being stabbed and before falling stone dead to the floor. At this moment, Magín comes in from the restaurant. He stares at Drumond. Lupe sees nothing. Magín holds his head in his hands.

‘What about the dinner? What are we going to do about the dinner?’ he asks eventually.

Drumond stubbornly refuses to speak. From the restaurant can be heard the twitter of female voices, the deeper boom of the men fighting to impose their point of view.

‘It’s a cliché to say you can’t eat well in Germany’ Hermann is pontificating. ‘You only eat badly in today’s Germany because it has lost its traditions due to a poorly assimilated development and because it has been invaded by all kinds of barbarians.’

‘Do you mean the Yankees?’ Sinaí asks.

‘The Yankees, the Turks, the Poles and the
ossies
,’
Hermann specifies. ‘The people from the east don’t know how to eat, and they don’t have anything decent to eat anyway because of the state those communist hordes left them in. But I can remember my grandmother’s cooking...it was wholesome, full of taste, the food of peasants and farmers.’

‘Hell is other people,’ Dora muses. ‘I believe that. Nothing could be more true.’

‘Did you think that up?’ Ferlinghetti number one wants to know. ‘No, Sartre did.’

Magín reappears from the kitchen. He is carrying as many plates as he can in his hands, or balanced on his arms.

‘Good God, Magín,’ Dora says. ‘Why don’t we help you?’

At this, most of the women guests stand up and head for the kitchen. Magín is balancing far too many plates to be able to stop them, but he shouts: ‘No!’ so imperiously that they all halt in their tracks. Magín places the plates in front of each guest with all his remaining aplomb and dexterity, and then excuses himself.

‘Do forgive me for shouting, but a kitchen without mystery is not a kitchen. The food would not have the same flavour if you all knew the secrets of chef Drumond’s inner sanctum.’

‘That’s true. This postmodern idea that customers in a restaurant should be free to wander round the kitchens is like putting a condom on your palate,’ Gorospe says.

Cari laughs out loud.

‘Palate condoms? Leandro! What are we to think of you?’ Sara cries.

‘Think what you like. The truth is the truth.’

By now, all the sorbets have been served. Dora closes her eyes and talks with them tight shut.

‘It’s true. They open a pinprick in the soul for all the other delights to come rushing in.’

‘Food for pansies,’ Gorospe grumbles. ‘Sorbets are nothing but food for pansies.’

‘What have you got against homosexuals, Leandro?’ Cari asks him.

Gorospe gets to his feet, waddles round the table, and kisses Cari on the hand.

‘Nothing.
Bebamus at que amemus...mea Lesbia...
’

Some of the guests smile at this, although Carvalho is amazed how famous Don Vito’s Latin sayings have become. Nobody dares say what he or she is thinking. Magín waits for them all to finish their sorbets. He is a bundle of nerves as he pours out the wine, not always in the right spot. When he disappears again into the kitchen, Señora Fieldmann bursts out:

‘What’s wrong with that fellow?’

‘We are not concerned with what’s wrong with him,’ the Captain declares. ‘Tonight is an exceptional night, and our only duty is to eat.’

‘To savour,’ Gorospe corrects him.

‘I can hardly wait for the
Pantagruel potpourri
,’
Sinaí says. ‘Whatever else we may say, meat is what Argentina is all about. I once saw the great Jorge Luis Borges put away a gigantic steak, even though I remember the poem he wrote in
Fervor de Buenos Aires
where he talks about his horror of butcher’s shops.’

‘Recite it for us, Sinaí!’ Gorospe roars.

‘It’s not the moment,’ Sinaí excuses himself.

But Dora and the others insist. Gorospe addresses Carvalho: ‘Not only does Sinaí recite like an actor, but he writes poems as well, doesn’t he, Cari? When we get to the Château Margaux, he’ll perform for us.’

Eventually Sinaí yields to the outcry, and starts to recite:

Viler than any brothel
The butcher
’
s shop seals the street like an insult.
Above the doorway
A blind cow
’
s head
Presides over the uproar
Of cheap meat and marble slabs
With an idol
’
s distant majesty.

‘Bravo!’ the other guests shout, applauding wildly. ‘Wonderful! Marvellous!’

Hermann engages Carvalho in conversation. ‘I admire people who are skilled at expressing themselves. I’m hopeless at it, despite being German, from the homeland of the best poetry in the world – Hölderlin, Heine, Benn, Hofmannsthal.’

‘And Brecht,’ Carvalho adds.

‘Brecht? Possibly. I don’t like him much. He wants to be subversive, and uses poetry or the theatre as a pretext. Isn’t that so, Cari?’

‘What’s that?’ the actress says absently.

‘As an actress, what do you think of Brecht?’

‘Brecht?’ Cari stammers, anxiously flicking through her mental archive of playwrights.

‘You don’t think much of him, do you?’

‘Aha!’ Cari says forcefully.

‘You see? What does a subversive message have to offer today’s generation?’

His question is for anyone to answer.

‘Oh please,’ Señora Fieldmann says, still chewing, ‘the
toilette
is for talking politics.’

‘Why in the
toilette,
Rebecca?’ asks the Captain. ‘Everywhere is a valid place to talk politics, and I’ll pick up Hermann’s gauntlet. And I’ll tell you, my friend, that even though today’s generation is not affected by any subversive message, subversion is not born or destroyed, it simply changes form. Nowadays the subversives are hiding in all the non-governmental organizations. Why do you look so surprised? Or are some of your children in NGOs too? If they are, keep a close watch on them. Evil exists in life and in history – if it didn’t, how could we tell what good was?’

‘That’s very true,’ Ferlinghetti number one agrees.

‘In life as well?’ Cari wants to know.

‘Yes, in life too,’ the Captain says.

‘Are you always able to distinguish between good and evil?’ Sara asks.

‘Always,’ he replies.

‘Congratulations.’

‘Thank you.’

‘But what room is there in your morality for mistakes?’ Carvalho asks.

‘If you catch them at the start, they can be corrected; otherwise, they have to be rooted out. Co-existence is so difficult, we have to guard against destroying ourselves due to a mistake.’

‘But just imagine that someone you know, someone you love, makes that mistake,’ Carvalho insists.

‘Are you talking about anyone in particular?’ the Captain enquires.

‘I don’t have the pleasure of knowing your world.’

‘I’ve created a world for myself. I don’t allow others to decide for me. I decide for myself.’

‘The stainless-steel man!’ Sara exclaims. ‘What about feelings?’