by Lewis Shiner
Then she said, «You know who Mateo should have on his jury? Your friend Bahadur.»
«Elena, you need to get more sleep. Te vuelves chiflada. You’re going out of your mind.»
«I’m totally serious. He seems to have that kind of integrity that Mateo was talking about.»
«Too much integrity to get involved with a kidnapping.»
«Really? Because it seems to me he doesn’t care about the law at all, only about what’s right.»
I stopped to kiss her. «Maybe you’re not chiflada. Maybe you’re just perceptive. I’m not going to invite him to join the kidnapping just yet, though.»
I was too tired and too edgy for sex. I lay awake most of the night, holding Elena while she slept, trying to see the future.
*
The next night was Thursday and our regular lesson with Don Güicho. Through an effort of will, I shut Mateo and Osvaldo out of my mind and lived entirely in the moment of Elena’s body against mine, the music, the struggle to keep my eje upright and strong.
After class Don Güicho said, «You had good intensity tonight. It was almost like you’re beginning to understand tango a little.»
«Thanks,» I said. «I think.»
Elena seemed to want a reprieve as much as I did. We went out for pasta and then home to dance and make love.
Friday she was scheduled to work until ten. All morning at the office I kept remembering what she’d said about Bahadur, until I finally went to his office and said, “Can I buy you dinner tonight?”
“What, I don’t rate dinner and a movie?”
“You don’t need to see any more movies and I need to talk. Actually what I need is a friend. Am I presuming too much?”
“No,” he said. “You don’t presume.”
We knocked off work at 7:30 and walked over to Corrientes. A couple of miles up the street was a vegetarian buffet, Los Sabios, that didn’t open until eight. Corrientes on a Friday night is like Broadway in New York, except that the theaters often have two performances a night to accommodate the crowds. Past the theaters came the bookstores and the iconic cafés like La Paz, the historic hangout for leftist writers. Traffic was bumper to bumper and the sidewalks were packed. It was therapeutic to be surrounded by normal people doing festive things. People who might be worried about paying off their credit cards or losing their jobs, who might be having relationship problems, who were most likely not involved in conspiracies to kidnap and murder.
As I thought that, walking easily with Bahadur in the bright lights and noise and chaos of the start of a weekend, everything seemed clear and simple. Spending the rest of my life in prison in a foreign country was not an option. There had to be an easy way out of the craziness and I was sure I would find it. It felt like waking up from a fever dream.
I started explaining it to Bahadur. I told him that Osvaldo had killed Elena’s mother and adopted her in secret, that her real father was a montonero who had returned with a wild scheme to put Osvaldo on trial.
We had to suspend the conversation while we got on the Subte. The rush hour trains were packed beyond anything I’d seen in the States, owing to a more lenient concept of personal space and a sporting willingness to always take on one more person. We squeezed our way out at Estación Carlos Gardel, directly below the Abasto Mall, and I thought of Elena, a minute’s detour away.
Instead of taking it, we climbed the long flight of stairs to Corrientes. I said, “When I’m with Elena or this montonero guy, the things they say sound almost reasonable.” I hadn’t used Mateo’s name and was careful not to say anything that might compromise him. “Then I get some distance and wonder what the hell I was thinking.”
We came up onto the sidewalk and I oriented myself by the one-way traffic, turning to face the oncoming headlights.
“I don’t know how crazy it is,” Bahadur said. “Maybe this guy Osvaldo needs to be killed.”
I was surprised enough to stop in the middle of the sidewalk and stare. The stranger behind me nearly ran into me. “Are you serious?”
“Perfectly.” He motioned me on. “Keep walking, I’m hungry. You come from a country with no history, no wisdom of its own. And so you expect government to do everything for you. You expect the police and the courts to deliver justice. Not here. In Latin America the regular guy in the street knows he must avoid dealing with the police at any cost. And God help anyone who ends up in court. In India it is the same. There we have had civilization for more than five thousand years. Buddhism started there. Hinduism, Sikhism started there. And of course Islam is huge there, we have the second largest Muslim population in the world. We don’t look to the government for justice. We all of us look to our own beliefs. If we have to, we carry out justice ourselves. Like with Indira Gandhi.”
I shook my head. “I remember that she was assassinated…”
“She was executed. She ordered an attack on our holiest site. It was the last in a long series of betrayals. We were promised our own homeland, Khalistan, and for the crime of reminding her of that, she sent her army to desecrate the Golden Temple. So two of her bodyguards, who were loyal Sikhs, executed her.”
“Elena was right,” I said.
“About what?”
“I’ll tell you later. I thought Sikhs believed in peace.”
“We are peaceable but not passive. Most of my uncles and cousins on my mother’s side are soldiers. Sikh soldiers are famous for their discipline and courage. The Guru Granth Sahib, which is our scripture and our teacher, tells us to live in peace with one another. It tells us to work honestly and share the fruits of our labors. And not everyone agrees, but I also believe it tells us not to eat meat or drink alcohol when it says, ‘Use only what is necessary.’ Above all, it teaches equality, toleration, and justice. Where there is injustice, we are required to take a stand.”
He reached into his turban and rooted around there, finally coming out with a small dagger in a sheath. The blade was the length of my index finger.
“This is symbolic,” he said, “but a very important symbol, yes? It is the kirpan, the strapped sword, that all Sikhs are required to carry. We are soldiers in the army of God. We are charged to actively prevent violence to those who cannot defend themselves and the kirpan is a reminder of that.”
As he put the knife away, I said, “Doesn’t that mean that if you knew about the kidnapping you would be required to stop it?”
“That depends. If the person being kidnapped is innocent and defenseless, yes. If the person being kidnapped is a violent criminal, maybe I would be required to help.”
After a block or so of silence, I had to ask, “How do you reconcile all that with those crime films you love so much? They’re nothing but violence.”
Bahadur laughed. “Crime films are always about justice. Not the justice of the government, the justice of the individual.”
“I’m going to ask you what I asked the montonero. How do you know the difference between justice and revenge?”
“What did he say?”
“He said it’s not easy to tell.”
“He is not Sikh. I would chant the names of God and that would free me from attachment to anger or ego or my own personal desires. When I was done, I would see clearly what I had to do.”
“I guess I envy you that.”
“You have no religious beliefs at all?”
“I don’t seem to have the ability to believe in a divine being. Especially when I look at the world around me. Infants with AIDS. Enron. War in Iraq. The dictatorship here. Torture. Where is God in all of that?”
Bahadur touched his chest. “Here. God is in the pain those things cause you.”
*
Los Sabios is short on atmosphere—fluorescent lights, linoleum floor, two rows of steam tables, signs everywhere warning of dire consequences if you take more than you can finish. The owners are Asian and they always have several traditional Chinese dishes like dumplings and fried tofu, but also pizza, casseroles, a row of raw vegetables, and one
slice of lemon meringue pie per person, the pie closely guarded at the register.
“So what was Elena right about?” Bahadur was on his third plateful while I still picked at my first. My appetite had been mostly theoretical for days.
“The montonero is short of jurors for Osvaldo,” I said. “Elena thought you’d be good. I told her she’d flipped her wig.”
“Wait, I know this one. Flipped her wig is like wigged out, yes?”
“More or less.”
“Yes, she was right. I will chant and meditate on this and get back to you.”
“Bahadur—”
“Don’t worry. I can’t flip my wig, I have a turban to hold it down.”
“This is not your fight. I’m not sure it’s anyone’s fight. You wouldn’t get involved in a battle you knew for sure you would lose, would you?”
“Yes,” Bahadur said. “But because you can only do that once, you want to make sure it’s truly the right battle.”
*
I was home before ten. I fell asleep in my clothes waiting for Elena and woke up when she crawled into bed next to me. I mumbled something like, «Did you want to go out?»
«Shhh,» she said. «Stay exactly where you are. I will help you get undressed.»
The bedroom was dark and I was half asleep. Her touch was soft and slow as a dream and it was a long time before I realized that she was naked too, and by then my nose was full of the sweet smell of her hair, which was falling all over me, and she was everywhere, enveloping me with her need. I knew that what drove it was fear and the nearness of death, if not hers, then Osvaldo’s. The touch of our bodies was the antidote to the whole wretched list of godless injustices I had given Bahadur, and I wanted nothing more in the world than to keep her out of Mateo’s plan.
*
She had to be at work at 9:30 the next morning. I slept in and forced myself to eat a little breakfast and then I left a message for Mateo. He called back a half hour later and agreed to meet me in Parque Lezama at 1 p.m., near the cats.
He arrived in the same clothes I’d last seen him in, and his hair was none too clean. He was freshly shaved, though, and looked fit and rested. I stood up to give him an abrazo and he said, «Let’s walk.»
We headed deeper into the park, where the noise of families surrounded us. «I only have one thing to say,» I told him. «If you’re her father, and you love her, how can you be so willing to endanger her life? You would risk her being shot by the police, or caught and sent to prison for the rest of her life. What kind of father would want that for his daughter?»
He was quiet so long I began to wonder if he’d heard me. Finally he said, «I’ve been a father for a month. The rest of my life, since I was in school, it’s been the struggle. The one thing I know how to do. The other…I don’t even get the chance to learn. I look at her, I can only see my Elena. I don’t know who this other person is. My brain is fucked. I can’t make sense of anything.»
He stopped and faced me. «That’s it? Nothing else?»
«Nothing else,» I said.
He hugged me again and said, «I will call you and tell you what I decide.»
*
That night we danced at La Ideal, danced beyond exhaustion, into a kind of ecstasy. The glamour and the music and the perfume, the glittering marble and the welcoming arms of all those partners drove everything else from our minds. We slept most of Sunday and danced again at Don Güicho’s milonga Sunday night. Monday night we went to a movie at a huge theater on Corrientes, Tuesday night we went shopping at the book and record stores on Calle Florida near el Obelisco, Wednesday night we went to El Beso, all in an unspoken conspiracy to avoid the phone call that we both knew was coming.
Thursday we had class with Don Güicho. Back at home, while I was fixing dinner, Elena’s cell phone rang.
I heard her fish it out of her purse. «It’s Mateo,» she said. «Should I answer?»
«If you want to.»
«¿Hola?» She brought the phone into the kitchen and listened with one arm around my waist. Then she looked at me. «He says I should tell this to you as he says it…He says he has considered what you said to him on Saturday.» She took her hand from my waist and used it to cover the phone. «This is a conversation I don’t know about, so I look forward to you explaining it to me.»
Uh oh, I thought. I felt her missing arm like an amputation.
Mateo was still talking. Elena said, «He says he has a compromise. He wants you to take me to dinner tomorrow night. Nine o’clock. Someplace small in the neighborhood, maybe around Plaza Dorrego.»
«Why? What is he planning?»
She repeated the question and then said, «He says better that we don’t know. That way we are not part of a conspiracy. Nothing will happen to us, he says, everything will happen somewhere else.»
«Maybe you could call him back in a few minutes.»
She relayed the message and turned off the phone. She took a step backward, all the kitchen would allow, and folded her arms on her chest, waiting for me.
I rinsed my hands and dried them on a dishtowel. «I called him on Saturday and met him in the park,» I said, not meeting her eyes. «I asked him not to involve you in this. I asked him, because he’s your father, not to risk your life.»
She didn’t raise her voice. «And you did this without discussing it with me first and without even telling me about it after.»
I felt a wave of guilt so powerful that it made me want to wriggle out from under it. «It was…» I started, and then I said, «The only reason I…»
Finally I put the towel down and faced her. «I screwed up. I’m sorry.»
«I don’t need you to be my father. I have at least one too many of them already. I don’t need you to protect me or decide what’s best for me. I need you to be my lover. For that I have to trust you completely.»
«Okay.»
«I thought you understood that. I thought you understood why that’s so important to me.»
«I’m afraid,» I said. «Afraid for you, afraid for us.»
«Without trust, there is no us. There can’t be any more secrets. No more talking behind my back.»
«Okay. I should tell you that I talked to Bahadur last week. About Mateo. I never said his name, just that he was a montonero.»
«That’s different. That’s not interfering with my choices. Besides, I trust Bahadur.»
«You were right about him. He would make a good juror for Mateo.»
She nodded, not yet ready to let me off the hook. «What about tomorrow night?»
«I don’t want anything to do with it. I don’t trust Mateo. He’s violent and he thinks with his emotions and not with his common sense. Which is nice for some things, but dangerous when you’re committing crimes of this magnitude.»
«I don’t disagree with you. But I feel like I have to be a part of it. No, I am a part of it, I was born into it. What Mateo suggests sounds like a reasonable compromise. What harm can come from us eating dinner in a quiet restaurant? As long as I know that I have helped, that will be enough. And I can do it alone. You don’t have to be involved.»
«Yes I do. I am involved.» I needed to touch her, like needing a drug. I put one hand around her neck and buried my fingers in her hair. She tolerated my touch without responding.
«Beto, I’m not angry, but I’m still a little hurt, do you understand?»
«Yes,» I said. I took my hand away.
«I should do this alone.»
«I feel like you’re punishing me for betraying you.»
«I’m not punishing you. Beto, if anything happened to you, I couldn’t stand it.»
«I feel exactly the same way. But you won’t stay away from this trouble, so there’s nothing else I can do.»
We stood there, me telling myself that this was no more than a bump in the road, telling myself not to freak out. It was just that the stakes were so high. The issues came back to the thing that had made her run from me in the first place, the thing that I didn’t have the
history for.
Agonizing as the moment was, I didn’t want it to end. It was ending even as I thought about it. Time was pulling us forward.
«The place we ate that first afternoon,» I said. «When we walked in Plaza Dorrego.»
«When you bought me the necklace.»
«That sounds like what he’s looking for. I don’t remember the name. It’s on the corner of Estados Unidos and Defensa.»
«Should I call him?»
«Call him,» I said.
*
After the phone call, Elena sat on the couch, looking at her hands.
«Do you want to talk?»
«Gracias,» she said. Meaning no, like in tango.
I showered and went to bed. I read for an hour and turned out the light at midnight and lay on my back with my hands behind my head. As a matter of discipline I did not let myself look at the clock. Sometime later Elena got in next to me. She turned me onto my side, facing away from her, and held me tight. «I love you, Beto,» she said.
I fell asleep in her arms.
*
I never stopped thinking about it as Friday wore on, alternating between nerves and wishful thinking. Was there a way out? Maybe nothing would happen, maybe this was only some kind of test.
The thing that worried me most was Mateo’s insistence that we sit by the window, that Elena be visible from Calle Defensa. That didn’t fit with his assurance that everything would happen somewhere else.
Elena’s schedule at the shoe store changed every week. That Friday she was supposed to be off at six, and we were both home before seven. We showered and dressed, with the idea that we might go dancing after dinner. If in fact the dinner proved as uneventful as Mateo had promised.
We left the apartment at 8:30, both of us too nervous to sit still. We had our shoe bags, and an umbrella as a charm against possible rain.
On the street it was hot and still, the end of the first really warm day of the spring. We crossed over to Calle Estados Unidos and I saw a fresh graffito, black spray paint on the corrugated steel shutters enclosing a shop front: Apparición con vida/Julio López.
We walked around Plaza Dorrego, pretending to look through a box of used books. Everything was blue—the canvas backs of the chairs outside the cafés, the Quilmes beer logos in the windows, the turquoise in Elena’s necklace, the Boca Juniors futbol jersey on one of the crafters, the Argentine flag in the window of an antique store.
