by Lewis Shiner
«The price for that is very high, no?» I said, not without bitterness.
«Yes, for some it’s very high. It’s not something you can put into words. People find out for themselves or they don’t.»
«Well, that’s all I want now. I don’t care about the ganchos and the back sacadas.»
«You would have to learn the back sacada from Saverio in any case,» Don Güicho said. That was the porteño style, too, to always be ready with a joke. I hoped to regain that someday.
«I just want to learn to move with the music.»
«Bueno,» Don Güicho said. «Now we begin the advanced class.»
The advanced class turned out to be much like the beginner’s class, with a finer grain. We started with the walk again, then the doble tiempo, the quick-quick-slow of the ocho cortado and change of direction, this time in terms of how it fit with each style and era of the music. At the end of the hour I saw, with a slow, sinking feeling, that I was still only a short way down the path.
Brisa had to hurry away, as usual. «Come to the milonga Sunday, Beto,» she said. «I want to dance with you some more.»
«She’s very sweet,» I said to Don Güicho when she was gone.
«Yes, very sweet. And very young. Walk with me?»
It was 9:15, the night chilled by the rain that had yet to fall. I couldn’t stop myself from asking the question, though I knew the answer would tear me apart. «Have you seen Elena?»
«Yes.» He showed no inclination to elaborate.
«Tell me.»
«I think she is maybe involved with a teacher named Miguel Autrillo.»
«I know him. You introduced me once.»
«Claro. She’s been performing with him. I’m sorry, Beto. I know this doesn’t help you. At least he’s a good dancer and a good man.»
«No, no, if she’s going to be with someone else, I would want him to be a good man.»
«Does she know you’re back in Buenos Aires?»
«I don’t think so.»
«Are you going to tell her?»
«We’re not…in touch. We haven’t been since the hospital.»
We walked on in silence for a while and then I said, «You know Mateo, don’t you? From the old days. And you’re in contact with him now.»
«Did he tell you that?»
«It was a guess. He told me it was a tango teacher from back then who first recognized Elena. When I was in the US, going over everything again and again, I knew it was you.»
«I’m not a man of action. I couldn’t kill anyone. But I support their cause. I did what I could to help then, and I help now.»
«You knew Elena’s mother.»
«Yes.»
«Was she very beautiful?»
«She looked just like Elena. Only with a straighter nose.»
«I want you to ask Mateo to call me.»
«Why?»
«I don’t want to tell you.»
He stopped and faced me. «They nearly got you killed once. Wasn’t that enough? You want to finish the job?»
«It wasn’t Mateo who killed me.»
«Beto, you’re not dead!»
«Am I not?»
«I watched you dance real tango tonight with a beautiful woman who enjoyed every second of it. If that’s dead, kill me now.»
«Please, Don Güicho. I ask you as a friend.»
He held me a bit longer with his stare, then finally turned away. «I’ll think about it.»
We came to the Pasco Subte stop and he hugged me tightly and kissed my cheek. «You’re not so old, not so bad looking. The scar helps a little, I think, gives you some mystery. You’ve got a good job and you can dance. This city is wide open to you. Don’t do anything stupid. Promise me.»
«If I do anything,» I said, «I will try not to make it stupid.»
*
Mateo called the next night.
It was Friday and I was exhausted. I didn’t have the reserves of strength I used to. I’d fallen asleep on the couch reading Tienda de los Milagros for the second time. I’d been so deeply asleep that I’d forgotten how to answer the phone. I stared at it for a full three seconds before I remembered to press the Talk button.
«Hola,» I said.
«The usual place, the café. Half an hour. Okay?»
«Okay,» I said.
I got to Arte y Café first and walked slowly up and down San Juan. I expected him to come from the east, from the other side of the airport highway, and was surprised to look up and see him next to me. I stopped and embraced him and he said, «Let’s walk.»
We turned away from the lights of San Juan, working our way south and east, away from the river. The first thing I said to him was, «I betrayed you. To Cesarino.»
«Of course you did. Do you think anyone blames you for that? I would have done the same. I’m glad you’re alive.»
«You too,» I said. «Everyone got away?»
«Claro. The place we have now is not as nice, not as interesting. A few of the young people quit after Cesarino took you. That’s to be expected. The rest of us are all right. Is that why you wanted to see me? To apologize?»
«No,» I said. «I need a gun.»
He looked like he might burst out laughing. «A gun? What for?»
«I’m going to kill my boss.»
Now he was laughing. «That’s very socialist of you.»
«She’s the one who betrayed me to Cesarino.» I laid it out for him: the CIA connection, the payments to Cesarino, the spreadsheet, the confirmation from Osvaldo.
«Then we should put her on trial. If she’s guilty, we’ll take care of her for you.»
«Then I’m still helpless, still a victim. I’ll still have the nightmares and breakdowns. The pain will never stop.»
«You remember that discussion we had? What you’re talking about isn’t justice. It’s revenge.»
«I’ve changed my mind. I don’t care anymore. You said yourself it’s hard to tell the difference. You have even fewer people than before. Does your so-called trial have any greater moral authority than the fact that I’m willing to give my life to do this?»
«If I agree to help you, would you know how to use it? Have you ever fired a pistol?»
«My father had a .38. We used to go into the country and shoot tin cans.»
«A can is not a human being.»
«I know that.»
«I’m not sure this is a good idea. I have to think about it.»
After a minute, Mateo said, «I may be leaving soon.»
«For where?»
«Cuba, maybe. I don’t know. I can’t stand the cold weather anymore and I feel useless here. Tired of running and hiding like a dog.»
«Have you talked to Elena about it?»
He shook his head. «We never talk. I had this vision that I would find her and we would be a family. Stupid, I know, but it’s what I hoped for. Every time I see her, I see her mother. When she sees me, she sees a stranger. It’s another reason to go.»
«I’m sorry,» I said.
«I’m supposed to be a fucking revolutionary. I’m supposed to be bringing the future and all I’m doing is living in the past.»
We had come to the lights and noise of Avenida 9 de Julio and San Juan. He hugged me tightly. «I’ll call you,» he said, and ran down the steps of the Subte.
*
Saturday morning he called again. «You know the place in the park where we met before? Be there at noon. Don’t speak to me, don’t give any sign that you know me. Just follow, keep your distance, and watch what I do. Carefully. Understand?»
«Claro,» I said.
I didn’t know which I’d been more afraid of, that he would agree or that he would refuse. Now everything was decided. There was a hard, painful comfort in that.
It matched the terrible pain in my right eye.
*
I had a book in my lap. I wasn’t even pretending to read. The park was cool and damp from showers overnight. Two young boys listlessly kicked a futbol back and forth. A dog
lay under a tree, curled tightly into himself.
At 12:25 Mateo walked past without looking in my direction. He had a white plastic grocery sack in his left hand.
My heart began to pound.
I gave him a head start, then I slowly got up and dusted off my pants. My hands shook. I put the book under my arm and followed.
We walked north, toward the river that was just out of sight. After a while Mateo stopped and took a plastic water bottle out of the bag. He glanced around as he took a drink, then casually dropped the bag into an open trash can.
I sat on a bench a few feet away and watched the can. The park was empty except for old people, dogs, and kids. Mateo kept walking until he was out of sight and once he was gone it occurred to me that I would never see him again.
I picked the bag out of the trash and walked away.
The bag was heavy. I peeked inside and saw a small bundle wrapped in newspaper.
In my bedroom, I unwrapped it carefully. It was an off-brand revolver, chrome finish, black plastic handle, .38 caliber, with five bullets in the cylinder and an empty chamber under the hammer.
I held it with both hands. The feeling of power was overwhelming. I raised it and pointed it at the mirror.
“Bang,” I said. “You’re dead.”
*
On Monday I took the gun to the office in my briefcase, a vintage brown leather satchel that I’d bought at the big indoor flea market near Plaza Dorrego. For days I’d been visualizing what I was going to do, imagining having the gun there as I walked through reception and back to my cube, then carefully putting it in my desk. I was amazed at how easy it was. How many other guns were there in this city block? In this building? In the Universal offices?
I put it in the bottom drawer of my file cabinet, all the way at the back. It was wrapped again in newspaper and inside the white plastic bag.
That evening the first serious cold front of the fall came through. The chill went deep into me as I walked home from the Subte. I wondered if I could take another winter.
I hadn’t been to a milonga since I’d been back, not even to Don Güicho’s on Sunday to dance with Brisa. As much as I wanted to dance, I couldn’t bear the thought that I might run into Elena. That Monday night, like most other nights, I left the apartment long enough to buy groceries, then I cooked a lonely dinner and went to bed, where I tossed and turned all night.
On Tuesday, as soon as I got to the office, I unwrapped the gun and slipped it into my briefcase. I left it there all day and waited to return it to the drawer until I’d shut my laptop down for the night.
It was there in my briefcase again on Wednesday morning at 11:25 when Bahadur called me from Isabel’s office and asked if I would join them.
There was a sound in my head, the sound of the wind vibrating a taut wire, a high thrumming. I was so far inside myself that I could barely feel my arms and legs. I nearly tripped on the carpet as I picked up my briefcase and walked toward Isabel’s office. I passed two people in the hall and didn’t return their nods or hellos.
Words from another time came into my head: all or nothing. The bitterness of the thought helped keep me going.
Todo o nada.
My head throbbed and my right eye burned with pain.
I looked at the golden crown on her office door and remembered how I’d once thought it funny. I knocked and went in.
Todo o nada.
Past Isabel, through the window on the far side of the office, I saw Avenida 9 de Julio swarming with black taxis. Bahadur faced her in a low chair, his back to me. His turban was orange.
I sat in the chair next to him. He finished his sentence. I hadn’t registered a word he’d said.
He turned to me and said, «La Reina needs an update on where we stand for a release in June.» He sounded like he was talking in the next room. I could barely hear him. I nodded and tried to smile.
«Beto, are you okay?» Isabel asked. She sounded genuinely concerned. I stared at her. I pictured her picking up the phone and saying, «I have two men I need you to kill.»
Todo o nada.
I looked at Bahadur and said in English, “I think you should get out of this office, now. Hurry.”
Isabel said, «Beto, speak up and slow down if you’re going to use English. You know I don’t follow it so well.»
I bent over and opened the top flap of my briefcase and reached inside. The gun was not where I thought. I began to sweat. I looked down and pushed a legal pad to one side and there it was. I put my hand on it.
At first I thought it was caught on something. It was heavy, was all. Tremendously, unbelievably heavy. I couldn’t lift it.
I imagined Isabel’s face as she saw the gun point at her. I pictured a black and white tile floor and a steel table. Sweat dripped off my forehead, running into my eyes.
«I think he’s sick,» Bahadur said. He got up and stood next to me and switched to English. “Rob, are you okay? Do you need help?”
My whole arm was shaking. In desperation I tried once more to pull the gun out of the briefcase. My hand came out empty. Tears of frustration and self-hatred mixed with the sweat and poured down my face.
«I’ll take care of him,» Bahadur said. He took me under the arms and lifted me to my feet.
«Do you need to go to the hospital?» Isabel said, reaching for the phone.
“No!” I said.
«Not yet,» Bahadur said. In English he said, “Rob, can you walk?”
“Briefcase,” I said.
He closed the briefcase and picked it up with one hand, as if it hardly weighed anything. He took me under the arm and guided me toward the door.
«Let me know how he is,» Isabel said. «If he’s okay, take him home in a taxi. I’ll cover it.»
He led me to my cubicle and sat me down. I was crying helplessly. He gave me a handful of tissues and said, “What’s in the briefcase, pal?”
I motioned for him to look. He opened the flap, poked around, and said, “Ah.” He pulled his hand out and closed the flap again.
I took a long, gulping drink of water and got myself more or less in control.
“Do you want to see a doctor?” Bahadur said. “Or do you want to go home?”
“My apartment,” I said. “Let’s take that cab.”
Bahadur nodded and picked up the briefcase.
*
We didn’t talk until we were in the apartment with the door locked. We sat at the dining room table and Bahadur laid the gun in front of him.
“Where did you get it?” he said.
I shook my head. “Next question.”
“The next question is obvious. What the hell were you doing?”
I went to the kitchen for a bottle of water and glasses. I came back and filled the glasses and said, “It was her. Isabel. She told Cesarino that I knew where Mateo was. She told him because he didn’t want to do what she’d asked him to do, which was kill both you and me.”
“Rob, do you understand how crazy that sounds? I don’t think your judgment right now—”
“Listen,” I said. “Just listen.”
I told him what I’d learned from Watkins and Osvaldo and what I’d put together for myself. The longer I talked, the farther Bahadur sat back in his chair, as if he wanted to distance himself from the words.
“Have you told all this to your montonero friend?”
“He offered to put her on trial for me.”
“You didn’t agree?”
“I guess I’m not that impressed with their moral authority. Or their competence. I thought I needed to do it myself. Apparently…” I shrugged, fought to keep from breaking down again. “Apparently I was wrong.”
“But you are done with this idea now, yes? It’s one thing for me to talk about violence. This is not you.”
“No,” I said. “It’s not me.”
I took a drink of water.
“There’s only one part of this I don’t understand,” I said. “I don’t know how Isabel knew about Elen
a and…and the montonero.”
Bahadur looked down at the table. “That was me.”
I felt a chill. “Tell me.”
“We were having a meeting, just the two of us. This was not that long before they kidnapped you. She was asking about you, wanted to know how you were settling in, if you had a sweetheart, that sort of thing. I said yes. She seemed very casual, just interested because she liked you. Was it a local girl? Did she dance tango like you? That kind of thing. I see now that she was fishing. Fishing, yes? She has a way of making you want to tell her things.”
“I know.”
“So I told her you were seeing this really interesting woman, that she was the daughter of a desaparecido, that she’d been adopted by one of the torturers. I didn’t think it was a secret or anything.”
“It wasn’t.”
“But because I told her that, she connected you with this man.”
I had to wait for an initial flash of rage and betrayal to pass. “Bahadur, you can’t blame yourself. It’s not your fault, it’s Isabel’s.” I said it because I had to, but when the words were out, I saw they were true.
“I have my share of it.” He looked up at me. “There is so much blame to go around. Enough for everyone.”
“Mostly,” I said, “for Isabel.”
“Is it Isabel’s fault? Or is it human nature? Greed is so strong in us. We are all so restless with it. Universal was greedy, so they made a deal with the dictatorship. I am greedy so I work for Universal despite the evil they do. These are the things we settle for. A bigger house, a sports car, the power to hurt other people. All because it’s so hard to get what we really need.”
“And what is that?”
“Love,” Bahadur said. “And justice.”
He dragged the pistol across the tabletop with one finger, looked at it, picked it up and hefted it. “This is a real piece of shit, I think. ‘Made in Italy.’ Not like a Colt or a Smith and Wesson.”
“Probably. Beggars and choosers.”
“Indeed,” Bahadur said. “Beggars and choosers.” He stuck the gun into the back of his jeans.
I was suddenly alert. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I will take care of this for you.”
“Take care of what? Of the gun, or…”
“First I will clean it carefully to remove all possible fingerprints. Then I will dispose of it.” He smiled at me and stood up to go. “Don’t worry, Rob. Everything’s going to be okay.”
