Chapter 14
Mar del Plata, Buenos Aires Province
ARGENTINA ENCOMPASSES some of the greatest natural features in the world, such as the Iguaçu Falls and the Patagonian Andes, but most porteños regard these attractions as quaint and vaguely alien. Every year they take their summer holidays in the same place; usually on one of the resorts on the Atlantic coast like Mar del Plata. It is a sight not unfamiliar to Californians; a strip of endless beach backed by acres of car parks with the hot sun beating down on windscreens and scalding chrome.
To the south are the more exclusive resorts, the private beaches where the wealthy built their bungalows and villas in the early twentieth century. The red-tiled roofs are shaded by palms and jacarandas; their owners sip cocktails on the widow walks while they stare at the steel blue of the Atlantic.
Jacopo Altman had purchased his piece of paradise a decade before, had watched its value soar by a million pesos a week during the years of Isabelita. It was less than thirty years since his grandfather had arrived in Argentina from the Ukraine. It was fortunate timing; when the Nazis invaded their Ukrainian village in 1941 they had razed the synagogue and murdered any Jew they found there. Every single one of his relatives had died in that holocaust.
Altman did not look Jewish; his long silver hair and moustache would have suited an ageing Italian gigolo better than the scion of a small bank.
He crossed his long legs and leaned back in the wicker chair beside his son, sipping his Bodega Lopez 1971. He watched the breakers rolling in from the Atlantic between the pines. Life was sweet.
The sun dropped down the sky and the day reached that still, silver moment when the afternoon lulls and evening approaches. The air turned cool. They listened to the crickets in the trees.
“A friend of mine was smoked yesterday.” Reuben's voice was soft, barely audible. “Smoked' was a recent, slang expression. “Gone up in smoke' - disappeared. “I went to university with him. They beat him up outside his home in San Isidro, in front of his whole family. Then they threw him in a car and drove away with him. His wife has heard nothing since. Later the same men came back and looted the house. They took everything, even the washing machine.”
Jacopo grunted. What was there to say?
“He was a lawyer. He had tried to help this woman take out a writ of habeas corpus after her brother was disappeared. That was his crime.”
“The world has gone mad.”
“Not the world. Just us. Just Argentina.”
The smell of basil and tomatoes came from the kitchen, mingling with the salt smell of the sea. Their cook was preparing pasta with fresh mussels. He heard one of the twins crying downstairs, Gabriella's voice gentling her. Simone, he thought. Eva would sleep through an earthquake. There was just the five of them at the villa this weekend. Reuben's younger brother, Arturo, had stayed behind in Buenos Aires with his pregnant wife. Their mother had died five years ago.
“We have to stop,” Reuben said.
Jacopo didn't answer.
“It's too dangerous,” Reuben insisted.
“It is too dangerous to stop, as well. If we abandon them now, they will betray us.”
Why did I let him talk me into this? Reuben wondered. And what had persuaded Jacopo to get involved in the first place? Guilt perhaps. He had run away from the fascists in 1937 and survived while the rest had died. Now he had marked out his ground.
“They're just terrorists.”
“They called Menachim Begin a terrorist. The British had a price on his head. Did you know that? This was the man who founded the state of Israel. Things have to change here, as well.”
“I agree, but we don't ...” He heard someone enter the room behind him and they both fell silent. Gabriella came out onto the balcony holding the twins. Jacopo smiled and reached out for them. Reuben poured his wife a glass of wine and the conversation turned immediately to the children.
***
How much do you know? Jacopo wondered, glancing up at Gabriella while he held Simone and Eva in his arms. You may be the mother of my grand-daughters but I don't trust you, I don't trust you at all.
The light faded and they went inside. They talked late into the evening, silhouetted by soft yellow lamps. It was a night Reuben would remember for a long time, the clink of crystal glasses, the smell of seafood, the distant thunder of surf along the beach. It was the last of the good times.
Chapter 15
ONE SUNDAY they drove out to Avellanada, to visit her brother. Reuben drove along dreary streets where prostitutes patrolled the sidewalks picking up cruising motorists and truck drivers. They passed a shanty town, one of the many villas miserias that dotted the city.
“Stop the car,” Gabriella said.
Reuben pulled over to the side of the road. “What are we doing?”
Gabriella pointed to the sprawl of tin and cardboard, at the brown, half-naked children playing football with an old rag in the dirt. They could smell the stench even from here. “My parents were born there,” she said.
“I know, you've told me.”
“I've told you, but you don't understand.”
“What does that mean?”
“Your father despises me.”
“Nonsense.” She was right, of course.
“Oh, he has great compassion for the poor in general. He just doesn't like them individually.”
“Don't tell me about my father! You don't know him. You know nothing about him!'
“I know more than you think,” she said and he looked at her and wondered. There were only a certain amount of secrets you could keep from your own wife. How much had she guessed, and how much had she overheard?
“I don't want to go back there,” she said.
“How could that happen?”
“I don't know, I just don't want to ever go back.”
He drove away. She was right, he supposed, he didn't really know. He was a tourist in her heart, he had never really lived there. She was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen but underneath there was an ugliness that he had realised now he had never completely understood.
***
There were three of them, and they all carried automatic pistols. They rushed into the editorial offices of La Prensa just before three o'clock in the afternoon, shouting and holding their guns two-handed in front of their faces, military style. Everyone in the office froze, paralysed by the sight of the weapons. Julio felt his own bowels turn to water. He couldn't move.
They wanted Jorge Albrecht.
Jorge was a balding, shambling bear of a man followed everywhere he went by a wreath of tobacco smoke. His jacket and trousers were flecked with grey from the ash that fell from the cigarettes that dangled from his lip as he battered away on an ancient Remington. He had been with La Prensa for twenty years and he had a reputation of being fearless. Not today.
He ran out of his office headed for the door but two of the men cut off his retreat. One of them slammed the butt of his pistol on the back of his head, the other grabbed him and dragged him towards the door.
“Jorge Albrecht is under arrest for crimes against the state!' a third man shouted as they backed away towards the elevators.
There were perhaps two dozen people in the office when it happened. No one moved. No one did anything to help.
What could we have done? Julio asked himself later. He could not believe how the sight of guns had paralysed him. When it was over he rushed into the men's washrooms and vomited.
Chapter 16
A GLASS DOOR reinforced with ornate wrought iron guarded the front door. Beside the door was a brass grill with a bank of buttons, a number engraved under each one. Julio pressed one of the buttons, heard Gabriella's voice crackle over the intercom.
“Gabriella, it's me, Julio. I've come to see Reuben.”
There was a buzz as the gate unlocked. He pushed back the heavy door and went inside. A spiral staircase led to the upper floors around an ornate lift cage. Julio did not trust his
himself on the stairs, the way he was feeling. He hauled back the elevator's shuttered metal doors and rode the lift to the top floor.
Gabriella opened the door.
Motherhood had changed her. She was fuller now, not plump, but not the sylph of a girl he had first seen in Reconquista. She was not wearing make-up and the hem of her skirt was longer. There were curd stains on the left shoulder of her blouse. She had a safety pin in her mouth and a baby over her shoulder. Even so he experienced a rush of pain, as he always did when he met her. And he had once told himself he would forget her in a fortnight!
“Reuben's not home yet.”
“I have to see him. It's urgent.”
“He should be back soon.”
He had been to the apartment before, but it still made him jealous. A long, thickly carpeted hallway led past a master bedroom, a nursery and a study and then opened onto a huge living room. The shutters had been thrown back and a pale afternoon sun flooded in. There were two heavy mahogany and leather sofas with a matching mahogany and iron coffee table. There was a carved Spanish sideboard with crystal decanters of port and whisky and an expensive Swedish sound system. Much more than I could ever have given her, he thought.
There were infant's toys scattered around the floor, among the pot plants. Gabriella laid the baby alongside her twin in a play pen in the nursery. When she came back into the room, her face was hard. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Just coffee.” He followed her into the kitchen, put his hands casually in his pockets, took them out again. Hard to relax around her. That, and he could still see Jorge's face when those men came for him. “You look wonderful.”
“Thank you.”
“I mean it.”
“Am I supposed to be flattered?”
He watched her grind the coffee. One of the babies started to cry. She brushed past him without a word and disappeared into the nursery.
Julio wandered out of the kitchen leaned on the balcony rail. You have a fine view over Recoleta, Reuben. You have it all. Pity the twins are not boys, of course, but you'll have other chances. And you have Gabriella. Most of all, you have Gabriella.
He went back inside, looked around the living room. Ther were shelves of books; Shakespeare, Giraldes, Dickens, Mailer, Mallea, Capote, Frost, Lugones. His attention was drawn to the framed photographs on the walls; there was one of Reuben with Gabriella and the twins at the baby-naming, another of the University Rugby fifteen that had won the university cup three years before. Julio saw a younger version of himself grinning from the front row.
Gabriella came back into the room, holding one of the twins. Julio thought about that time in Carmen's apartment, tried to remember what she looked like when the towel fell away. He wondered if she still thought about that, too. He thought about it all the time. He still suspected that she had wanted it to happen, otherwise why would she have left the bathroom door open?
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?”
“You're Reuben's friend. So I'll be polite to you. But don't ever think you can lay a hand on me again.”
He heard the sound of a key in the door. Reuben walked in.
***
He looked tired. A hard day counting money, Julio thought. His long, fair hair hung over the collar of his tan raincoat and his shoulders were hunched. He carried a black leather briefcase in one hand, a copy of La Prensa in the other. He saw Julio first, then Gabriella. He gave her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek.
“Julio. What are you doing here?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“What about?”
Julio nodded towards the study. “Can we?”
Reuben hesitated, looked at Gabriella. She busied herself with the baby. He shrugged, took a decanter and two glasses from the sideboard and led the way into his study.
***
Julio gulped at his whisky. He needed it to steady his nerves. “The newspaper was raided today,” he said. “These three guys smashed their way in. They had automatic pistols for God's sake. They took Jorge Albrecht.”
Reuben ran a tired hand across his face.
“Eight days ago the Montos put a bomb on the railway line between here and Mar del Plata. The line was closed for three days while it was repaired. The official story was that there was an electrical failure. Jorge found out the real reason and wrote the story. The editor wouldn't run it, so Jorge threatened to resign. Finally it was run, under Jorge's byline.” Julio took another swallow of his whisky. “And see what good it did him.”
“Do you know where he is he being held?”
Julio shook his head. “After it happened, the editor sent us out to visit every police station in Buenos Aires. Every journalist in the damned newspaper! Everywhere we went they claimed not to have heard of him. We even went to the Ministry of the Interior. They said they had no notification of his arrest on any charges.”
“So what do you plan to do?”
“The newspaper is going to file a writ of habeas corpus with the central law courts. But it won't do any good. Already this month there have been two hundred writs filed. They were all refused because the police or the military said they had no record of an arrest. It's a neat trick.”
The sun had dipped below the city skyline. Reuben turned on the lamps and sat down on the edge of the desk. “I never thought it would come to this.”
“These people are like Nazis. On Thursday all the journalists from the major newspapers were summoned to the Casa Rosada. We were given a piece of paper. You know what it said? “It is forbidden from this date to make any reference in newspaper articles to the appearance of bodies, or the victims of kidnappings or missing persons.” That's it. No signature, no department letterhead. They say it's not censorship, it's a security measure.” Julio took another gulp of his whisky. “That's why they took Jorge, of course. To show they were serious.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“He's your friend, Reuben. It's how I got the job. I thought you would know.”
Reuben just stared out of the window.
This wasn't the reaction he had anticipated. Julio felt an upwelling of panic. Jorge Albrecht wasn't the only reason he had come. “You have connections, Reuben. At least your father does. Your uncle was Larusse's finance minister, por Dios. You must be able to do something!' General Alejandro Larusse had been president in the early seventies. Julio knew that such men might fade from public view but not from power.
Reuben ran his fingers through his hair. “I'll do what I can.”
“This is civil war. You can't sit on the fence for ever.”
“I'm not fence-sitting.”
“No? You've had it easy all your life, but now when your own people are dying are you just going to sit up here in your fancy apartment and count your cash?” Julio regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. Fear and drinking on an empty stomach had all contributed to his idiot outburst. “Shit. I'm sorry.”
Reuben shrugged his shoulders. “It doesn't matter. You're probably right.” He picked up the decanter and splashed more whisky into Julio's glass. “But for a fence-sitter I know more about what's going on than you give me credit for. I already knew about Jorge. My father has been on the phone all afternoon. If we knew where he had been taken we might be able to do something. But there are goon squads running loose all over the city. Who was it? The army? The city police? If he was taken by Massera's men in the navy even Videla himself could not get him released.”
“You say you knew about this?”
“Not too bad for someone who spends his nights in his fancy apartment counting his cash?” He ruffled Julio's hair. “Come on, don't look at me like that. I've got a thick skin and it's not the worst thing anyone's ever said about me.” He went back to the window. Lights were blinking on across the city. “Believe me, we'll do all we can, Julio. But saving Jorge Albrecht may not be possible now. There are wars within wars.”
Julio finished his w
hisky. “I'm scared,” he said.
“We're all scared.”
“I'll be next.”
“Any of us might be next. These people are crazy. Nobody's safe.”
“You're all right. No one could accuse you of being a subversive.”
The yellow arc of the desk lamp threw strange shadows over Reuben's face. “Yes, I'm all right. And so will you be, if you don't do anything stupid.”
“It's too late for that.”
“What do you mean?”
“You remember at university, I never had any money? Well, I did some freelance work, a month or so back. I thought it would pay the bills and help me get a job with a big newspaper when I graduated.”
“You were going to save the world. Like all of us.”
“I had some reviews published in L”Opinión, a few articles in the left wing press.”
“They won't arrest you just for that.”
“Who knows what they'll do? You only have to say Karl Marx and you've got a death squad beating down the door.” Julio took a deep breath. “You remember Nuevo Hombre? It was one of the independent papers. The government accused it of being subversive and closed it down.”
“They published some of your stuff?”
Julio nodded. “Sure.”
“What sort of articles?”
“Political pieces. About corruption in the military. I mentioned Lopez Rega, Massera, even Videla.” Julio put his head in his hands. He had thought he was so clever. He had kept his paychecks for weeks before cashing them, modest as they were, so he could show his girlfriends and boast to his radical drinking friends. He doubted more than a half a dozen people in all Buenos Aires had read his pieces. But now, three years later, those forgotten articles had assumed a deadly significance.
“Merda,” Reuben murmured under his breath.”You idiot.”
Julio could not look at him. How could he have been so stupid? “What am I going to do?” He didn't give a shit about Videla or Massera or any of them any more. He just wanted to be left in peace. “You think they'll come after me?”
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