The Buenos Aires Quintet (48 page)

Carvalho thinks what he will say. First he drains his glass of wine. The Captain is quick to fill it again, and maliciously encourages him to respond.

‘We’re waiting for your answer. A foreigner’s judgement can be very interesting. What do you think of this Argentina of ours?’

Carvalho looks as foreign as can be.

One last time, Lucho Reyero surveys the dinner guests below him, all waiting in silence for Carvalho to give his answer. Lucho has made a decision. He moves the chair underneath the improvised rope hanging from the light fitting. He climbs on to the chair. Ties the trouser leg round his neck. Pulls on it to make sure it is securely fastened to the chandelier. He closes his eyes and kicks the chair away.

Carvalho looks round the table at all of them. Finally he decides to speak: ‘I don’t think it exists.’

‘Argentina doesn’t exist?’ Sinaí asks, taken aback.

‘What’s this man saying?’ Ferlinghetti number one wants to know.

‘Where are we then? In Paraguay?’ Cari smirks.

‘Let him have his say,’ Sara objects.

‘This gentleman, from Spain no less, is only repeating what Borges once said: Buenos Aires is terribly ugly; to which Pepe María Peña found the brilliant reply: the problem is, Borges is blind.’

Sinaí laughs again at his own wit.

‘What did you mean when you said Argentina doesn’t exist?’ Sara insists.

‘Well, I’d say that Spain doesn’t exist either, or Europe, though San Marino probably does. Complex realities don’t allow for metaphysical abstractions.’

‘Ah, I’m beginning to understand,’ Gorospe says with relief. ‘Let him go on, vintner.’

Sinaí accepts, and leans back in his chair to listen to Carvalho’s explanation.

‘There are a lot of possible as well as real Spains,’ Carvalho goes on, ‘just as there are a lot of possible and real Argentinas. Who can describe such complex phenomena?’

‘But you can choose a characteristic. Something that has struck you more than anything else,’ the Captain urges him.

Carvalho thinks about this. In the end, he gives a deep sigh and looks first at the Captain, then at Sinaí.

‘The gaps.’

‘The what?’ Sinaí asks.

‘The gaps left by thirty thousand human beings, the gaps left by the so-called “disappeared”.’

The silence that follows is as thick as a béchamel sauce tinted with squid’s ink. With sarcastic curiosity, Sara surveys all their faces. Even the Fieldmann couple have stopped eating, though their mouths are still full.

‘Let’s leave it there,’ Gorospe begs. ‘But thank you for the simplifying sincerity of a foreigner.’

‘Simplifying?’ Sara queries.

‘The same old clichés! Tango, Maradona, the disappeared!’ Ferlinghetti number two roars.

In the ensuing weary silence, Ostiz’ voice rings out with particular clarity. ‘Thirty thousand disappeared, you say, and you say you notice their absence, the gaps they leave. But I say too few people disappeared, I think there are still too many of that riff-raff that need exterminating.’

By now he appears to be speaking directly to the Captain, and his final words are for his ears only. ‘All those who didn’t disappear for ever come back to life, Doreste. They haven’t really disappeared. The next time we’ll have to learn the lesson from the unburied dead.’

‘The radicals, those damned
Radishes
are the ones to blame, with their need for catharsis. The Radicals are shit.’ Sinaí is on his high horse again: ‘Of course, the Perónists are worse still. But the disappeared were AIDS. They were like our moral AIDS problem. You, Señor Carvalho, are unaware of what it was like here when Perón died and the subversives felt they could do exactly as they pleased. Not even the Perónist mafia could control them, as we saw when the General Labour Confederation withdrew its support from that excuse for a president Isabelita Perón, and the acting head of state Italo Luder declared a state of emergency and authorized the Armed Forces to wipe out the armed left-wing subversives. It was us the subversives were coming after. It was a life for a life. Here in Argentina, just like in Chile, in Uruguay and over there in Berlin, we won the battle against communism for the West. What are thirty thousand disappeared? How many of us would they have killed if they had won? The Process of National Reorganization, the military Process, was not only inevitable, it was a godsend. The military leaders themselves were another matter. Videla was the only one big enough for the job that needed to be done.’

‘With enough balls,’ Dolly thunders.

‘But we should at least thank Señor Carvalho for being so sincere with us,’ Sara timidly suggests.

‘Of course, clichés can offend, but...’ Dora starts to say, but is cut short by Sinaí.

‘Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want to kill or mistreat anyone at all. I’ve never so much as killed a fly.’

‘Others did it for you,’ Sara accuses him with her most charming smile.

‘And not for you?’

‘For me too.’

‘But I have the right of self-defence!’ shouts Sinaí. ‘We were their targets! They were coming to strip us of our land, our industries, our religion, our values, our sacred order. Isn’t it true, Captain?’

He realizes his mistake as soon as he has said this, and bites his lip. The Captain gives him a thunderous look. Sinaí addresses Carvalho.

‘As for you, Señor Carvalho, I should like to be friends with you, and tomorrow at your residence you will find a selection of my best wines. It will be an honour to me for you to taste them.’

Sara’s voice imposes itself on the conciliatory hush.

‘Congratulations, Señor Carvalho, for having escaped alive. But another time, don’t mention the rope in the hanged man’s house.’

This provokes fresh scandal. The Captain and Carvalho glare at each other.

‘Didn’t you hear a heavy blow?’ Señora Fieldmann is still alert to other developments.

Lucho is flat out on the floor of the office. His nose is bleeding. The failed hangman’s rope swings above his head. He is whimpering into the dripping blood. All of a sudden he realizes how ridiculous he must look, and sits up on the parquet floor in his underpants. He feels his nose, and then looks down and sees his body spattered with blood.

‘Blood!’ he exclaims, looking all around him uncomprehendingly.

Magín and Drumond are still shoulder to shoulder fighting their Great War.

‘What about the desserts?’

‘Ah yes, the desserts,’ Drumond muses. ‘Shall I help you serve them?’

‘It’s unheard of for a
grand chef
to serve at table,’ Magín reproaches him.

‘You’re right,’ Drumond says emphatically.

So Drumond helps Magín load himself up with plates of
tango oranges.
Magín looks like a pastrycook scarecrow: he is balancing the dishes on hands, arms and shoulders. He staggers to the door of the restaurant, where all the proprieties are beginning to go by the board.

‘If you accept my proposal, I’ll take you by plane to my
estancia
,’
Ferlinghetti number two is telling Cari.

‘What about my film shoot? It took me ages to learn my lines,’ the actress complains.

‘Who’s your producer?’

‘Ponti Asiaín,’ Cari says.

‘We’re great friends. He moors his yacht next to mine in San Isidro,’ Ferlinghetti replies, his voice deep and encouraging, his eyes like a snake.

Dora gets up and demands that Gorospe let her sit next to Carvalho. They change places, and she drapes herself affectionately over his arm.

‘I’ve come to convince you that Argentina isn’t as bloodthirsty as you might think.’

‘There’s no real need for you to convince me of something I already believe, but it’s a great pleasure anyway to have you sit next to me.’

‘Did you hear that?’ Dora asks the others. ‘He’s a gentleman! A Spanish gentleman!’

The physical contact between them is real. Carvalho’s knee presses against Dora’s thigh. Seen this close to, she is a truly beautiful woman, and her low neckline reveals an enticing skin. Dora cannot help notice Carvalho’s interest in her cleavage, and whispers to him: ‘He may be a gentleman, but he stares in quite a different fashion.’

‘That’s because I like what I see. And the closer, the better.’

‘Is that a proposition?’

‘I’d really, really like to talk wines with you.’

‘Me too,’ Dora says, drawing closer to Carvalho’s ear. ‘Don’t pay any attention to these people, they’re all reactionary bastards. They were all in the Triple A murder squads. López Rega had them all organized even before Perón died.’

Carvalho looks at her in surprise. She has drawn back her head a little, and smiles at him like someone who has been very daring.

‘Is Sara like that too?’

She smiles absently at him again, but then leans forward once more to whisper in his ear. ‘Sara is a lesbian bitch who stole the restaurant owner’s wife from him. You may be interested in her, but she isn’t interested in you.’

Drawing back again, her face is a picture of sweet innocence.

‘Are you a subversive then?’

‘Before I became a woman-object I wanted to be a social scientist. Science is neutral. It doesn’t belong to the Triple A.’

‘Science belongs to whoever controls it.’

‘Do you think that of women too?’

Gorospe’s voice breaks in on their private conversation.

‘Sinaí, your wife is making indecent proposals to my Spanish friend here.’

Sinaí looks over at his wife with drunken but tender eyes, and recites another poem:

Flee, galactic hind, if you think you flee
because your flight leads back
to find me at the limits of your madness
your one and only possible stallion.

‘What did I tell you, Carvalho? Our vintner is a poet. I bet he wrote that himself.’

‘Yes, you can tell,’ Sara says sarcastically.

‘It’s among the most beautiful of all the poems he’s dedicated to me,’ Dora purrs, taking his hand across the table and staring into his eyes besottedly.

The telephone has burst in on them once, twice, and finally becomes unavoidable. As there are no waiters, it is Dolly who answers, and then shouts above the din at the table: ‘Pepe Carvalho! A call for Señor Pepe Carvalho!’

The detective goes over to the phone, observed closely all the way by the Captain. At the far end of the line, Don Vito’s voice gives him instructions.

‘Don’t say who you are talking to. Just say yes or no.’

‘Agreed.’

‘I have to inform you that in following the girl I arrived outside what appears to be the Captain’s real home, and not observing any security guards was about to effect an entry when I saw three other people approaching. Can you guess who one of them is?’

‘No.’

‘Your cousin Raúl. And with him there’s a very odd guy, white-haired, thin as a rake, who skips around like a ballet dancer.’

‘Yes, I know who he is.’

‘The other looks a lot less happy to be there. He’s tall and has thinning hair.’

‘I know who he is too. So it’s a musketeers’ reunion. And there aren’t three or four of them: there are five. With two others, they make up a quintet.’

‘Am I to let them go in first? Or do I get in ahead of them?’

‘Do you remember the maiden name of the lady of the house?’

‘I’ve got it written down. Pardieu. María Asunción Pardieu.’

‘Ring the bell or knock on the front door, ask for her by name, and explain to her everything we know and what we want.’

‘Don’t you prefer me to wait for you?’

‘We haven’t had the desserts here, and I don’t want to miss them. I’ll explain later.’

The kitchen door swings open. The sight of the head waiter literally covered in desserts leaves all the guests dumbfounded. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, the
maître
wobbles over to the table and like a circus performer slides each plate into perfect position in front of each astounded diner. He bows, and goes off to fetch all the remaining dishes. The guests stare at each other in amazement, then turn as one to survey the door to the kitchen. A few seconds later, the
maître
reappears, and performs the whole operation a second time with unerring accuracy.

‘To start with,
tango oranges,
’
Magín explains. ‘The
marrons
and the
soufflé d’acacia
are still cooking. These things must be done just right.’

He bows again and backs out of the restaurant.

‘Well... did you all see what I saw?’ Gorospe asks, unaware that he is stating the obvious.

In his office, Lucho Reyero picks up the clothing scattered all over the floor, and puts it on. He even dons his jacket and tie. When he is fully dressed in his crumpled clothes he looks like an aristocratic tramp. He studies himself in the mirror. He fixes his tiepin, and carefully places a white handkerchief in his top pocket. He is pleased with the effect. He goes over to his desk and takes out the pistol. He snaps it open. It is fully loaded.

Magín enters the kitchen. Drumond is examining the individual soufflés in the oven, which have all risen magnificently.

‘You won’t be able to serve these on your own.
Pas possible!
They’ll all collapse as you come back for more.
Tragique!
’

‘I’ll go and see if Lupe has calmed down.’

Drumond tries to stop him, but in vain. Magín opens the cold-storage door and halts in amazement. The two dead kitchen assistants are hanging from meat hooks. Lupe is lying on the floor, frozen solid. Magín feels for a pulse.

‘She’s dead!’ he exclaims in horror, unable to grasp all that’s been going on. He turns round. Drumond is a couple of feet away, waving a huge cleaver to stop him coming out of the storage room.

‘Don’t say anything. Don’t do anything.’

‘Let me out of here.’

‘Dinner isn’t over. I don’t want you to spoil it for me.’

Magín cannot think of a suitable reply to this, and cannot react quickly enough to prevent Drumond locking him in the room.

‘I’m really sorry, you were a true professional,’ the
grand chef
shouts from the far side of the door.

‘And the soufflés? Who is going to serve them?’