by Claudia Pi
“Your daddy works very hard,” she says. “He leaves very early, you know, and comes home very late.” But she doesn’t say what he works at. “Your daddy works very hard,” she repeats and leaves the room.
Romina already knows what Mariana will say: “Daddy’s a lawyer.” So she doesn’t even bother asking her. Everyone in Cascade Heights believes that he is a lawyer, but she knows that he isn’t. Mariana must also know – she’s his wife. But Mariana tells lies. You can’t lie in an essay. At least, you can’t use other people’s lies – you invent your own. Her father styles himself “Doctor”. But he is no more a doctor than he is her father. If someone goes to him with a legal query, he tosses out one or two generalities, then he explains that he does not specialize in that particular area but that he will find out the answer. And he does find it out. So no one is any the wiser. His cards say: Doctor Ernesto J. Andrade. To think that he scarcely even finished secondary school! That much she does know, because once her grandmother, Ernesto’s mother, let it slip. “He’s doing so well, he looks so refined, and to think that he couldn’t finish high school.”
Romina knows that he has an office in the centre of town – she’s been there once. There’s a bronze plaque on the door. And a secretary and two lawyers who work for him, although she isn’t sure that they’re really lawyers either. The plaque reads “Andrade and Associates”, which is also what the secretary says when she answers the telephone. Ernesto’s phones are always ringing: his mobile, his home telephone and the line he reserves for “private business”. One day Romina answers the private line and someone on the other end says, “Tell that bastard Andrade to watch his arse, because when we get inside the barrier we’re going to kick it.” She doesn’t tell him – it would mean owning up to having answered the phone which is off-limits. But she doesn’t think Ernesto’s arse is at any real risk. However hard they try, they won’t be able to get past the barrier. Nobody can, thinks Romina. For a time she didn’t answer that phone. Then she got over it, or there were no more calls. She can’t remember which.
Romina confronts the blank page. Juani suggests she lie. She’s not sure. She draws little pink arses. On some of them, she draws a little flower emerging from the crack, on others little hearts adorn the buttocks. Juani is very amused. He asks if he can keep the drawing. Romina gives it to him. “Would you like me to lie for you?” Juani asks her. Romina says she would. To spare Romina from trouble at school, he tells the lie that everyone would like to hear. In English, he writes: “My father is a prestigious lawyer, specializing in criminal, civil and commercial law. His offices have taken on some very high-profile cases.”
And so it goes on. One, two, three more paragraphs. It doesn’t matter much what he says, who he names, what titles he uses, or which words. The whole thing is a fabrication. Except for those little arses which Romina gave him and which he has tucked away in his pocket.
33
The problem of the “cimarron” dogs came to light at the beginning of 2001. The first notice appeared in March of that year, in the local bulletin that is handed out on weekends at the entry gate. The notice came from the office of the Environment Committee. “Given the undesirable presence of packs of stray dogs in our neighbourhood, we would ask the residents of Cascade Heights to be extra diligent in the disposal of their rubbish and to use lidded containers to prevent animal foraging.”
By this time, almost everyone in Cascade Heights knew about dogs. And then some. But we knew about pure-breeds. Not strays. We had a lot to learn. Some people did not even know exactly what “cimarron” meant. “It sounds like something out of Martín Fierro,”6 said Lala in the Tuesday painting class. Even now there is confusion over whether this was in fact the correct choice of word: these were dogs without owners, raised in the wild, who came into our compound looking for food. Feral dogs. Not like our dogs, our Golden Retrievers, Short-haired Labradors, Beagles, Border Collies, Chow Chows, Schnauzers, Bichon Frisés, Basset Hounds, Weimaraners. For those were the breeds most often to be seen out for a walk in Cascade Heights, wearing collars and identity discs engraved with a name and telephone number, lest they stray. There was the odd Dalmatian, bought at the insistence of a child who had seen the Disney film. But very few. It’s well known that Dalmatians are eternal puppies, breaking everything in their path. That Beagles howl at night, as though they were barking at the moon in the English countryside and that you have to cut their vocal chords if you don’t want problems with the neighbours (apparently it doesn’t hurt at all – a little snip, and no more barking). Chow Chows will fill your house with hairs. Bichon Frisés need their teeth cleaned every so often or their breath can kill you. Schnauzers have a nasty temperament. As for the Weimaraner: lovely blue eyes, but it’s not easy to live with something that size. There are other breeds – but not at Cascade Heights. There are the dogs that we had as children and forgot about, the dogs that went out of fashion. In this area, it’s unlikely that you would see Poodles, Bulldogs, Boxers. Nor Collies, like the one in Lassie, nor police dogs. Especially not sausage dogs, Chihuahuas or Pekinese. Alberti’s wife used to have a Chihuahua that she took everywhere inside her Fendi bag. It probably wasn’t a genuine Fendi, but one of those perfect imitations that Mariana Andrade gets from a catalogue. She took it to teas, Burako tournaments, tennis matches. One day she even went with it to mass. But she took umbrage if you called it a Chihuahua. “He’s a Miniature Pinscher,” she would correct you, as the dog peeped out of her unzipped bag. “Look at his eyes – can’t you see that he’s much prettier than a Chihuahua?”
We knew about all these breeds of dog, and how to look after them. A balanced, nutritious diet, guaranteeing faeces that were firm, small, round and much easier to pick up with a spade than any other sort. A health record with vaccinations all up to date. Sprays to control ticks and fleas. A leather bone for them to chew. A bath at the veterinary clinic every two weeks. Nails cut regularly to stop them clawing doors and upholstery. A trainer, at least at the beginning, to teach them to understand basic commands in English. Sit and Stop. “He won’t sit because you’re pronouncing it wrong, Granny,” Rita Mansilla’s granddaughter told her one day. “It’s not ‘siiiiit’, it’s ‘sit’, do you understand? Sit – nice and short – sit.” And Dorita was amazed to observe “how well children learn English in those private schools”. A walk two or three times a day keeps them fit and tired-out. Professional dog-walkers are a much rarer sight in Cascade Heights than they are in the public squares of Buenos Aires. Here, we walk our own dogs, or get our maids to walk them. But usually the owners go out themselves. Just as, years ago, people used to put on their best clothes to walk around the square on Sundays, to see and be seen, so on afternoons in Cascade Heights, the neighbours come out to walk their dogs in fitness gear, with air-cushioned running shoes or designer trainers.
Years ago, when almost nobody lived permanently at Cascade Heights, people who had dogs and brought them at the weekends behaved as if they had brought them to the country: they let them off the lead. The dogs ran free and nobody complained about it. These were families who were used to dogs. People who, for better or worse, had spent time on their own country holdings, or those of friends, who knew what to do if approached by an animal. And there were fewer of us then.
The massive affluence of the 1990s brought about a rule change: now you had to take other people into account. Because the “other people” were not the same as they had been. Now the maxim was: if my dog annoys a neighbour, I must take responsibility. And the moral: because if I don’t, my neighbour may report me and I’ll be fined. Today, if a dog is seen wandering without an owner in The Cascade, anyone who feels menaced or offended, or merely irritated, lodges a complaint and Security sends someone to catch the animal and take it to the pound. If he can, that is: no security guard has been trained to catch dogs and nearly all the dogs know instinctively how to shake off their pursuers. But if he manages it, if that man on a bicycle creeping up on an animal armed with
nothing more than a rope attached to a pole (with which he means to lasso it) catches it, then the dog is taken to the neighbourhood pound. There it stays until such a time as the owner comes to collect it. Close to the Club’s riding centre, the pound contains enormous cages where the animals are given the same food they would receive at home. Before he can take his dog away, the owner must pay an eighty-peso fine, plus fifty additional pesos per day to cover kennelling and food. That’s a strong incentive not to let your dog escape.
But no one comes to live thirty miles outside Buenos Aires in order to keep their dog shut up as though it were still in a city apartment, or attached to a chain, however long. In Cascade Heights it is against the regulations to enclose a property with anything other than plants, but plants are no match for canine exuberance, so some time ago invisible fencing started to catch on. This is a system similar to that used on the pampas to stop cattle escaping. A cable is buried all the way around the property. That cable transmits a signal, causing a battery inside the dog’s collar to give off a six-volt charge. The animal is trained for a time, with coloured flags – generally white or orange – which are staked along the perimeter. Every time the dog gets close to the flags wearing its shock collar, the system emits first a sound and then, if the dog keeps going in spite of the sound, it delivers a bolt of electricity to the neck. The flag has no specific function other than to create in the animal a conditioned reflex about how far it can stray. Later, even when the flags are removed on aesthetic grounds (because no one wants their land bordered by little flags), the animal has absorbed the lesson and it is very rare for it to try to get out, at the risk of getting another shock. It’s an ingenious system, a life-saver, and all for seven hundred dollars.
So we had also learned about invisible fencing. But we still had not learned about wild cimarron dogs. In one of the bulletins for May, the Environment Committee was even more explicit: their warning was once more entitled “Cimarron Dogs”, but this time in capital letters. “In spite of all efforts on the part of security personnel, the cimarron dogs are proving almost impossible to catch. They move in a pack and, when confronted with the presence of an agent, they escape at great speed. It has not yet been possible to establish how they are entering our communal property. Given that no evidence of digging or broken wire has been found along the perimeter fence, it is estimated that the dogs have been entering via the public access gate, under the barriers. Although they are looking only for food and have not yet attacked any resident, approaching them is not recommended. At present, the only solution to the problem is to keep rubbish adequately protected, because this is what attracts them. They come in to look for the food that they can no longer find in their natural habitat around The Heights. Therefore, all residents are requested NOT to leave rubbish bags containing household waste in an area accessible to these animals. We recommend the use of iron, lidded containers into which the bags can be placed. If the design of the container is such than an animal can claw at the rubbish and spill it or insert its snout to that end, we recommend it be lined with close-weave mesh in the same colour, as far as possible, as the container. Let us take care of our rubbish and banish the cimarrons. It is up to us.”
And we knuckled down to the task. If the cimarron dogs were coming in to look for the food they could not find outside, well, they would not find it in here either. Those who did not have an adequate rubbish container acquired one. Square ones, cylindrical ones. Some smaller and others larger. Built in to the same column that housed the gas meter. Hidden in the shrubbery. Green, black or grey. Nearly all of them in metallic weave, though some were wooden and others resembled funerary urns. People got tall ones, to keep animals at bay, or short ones, for ease of lifting heavy bags. The Llambías’s house had two: one in metal mesh for general rubbish and another in sheet metal for the rubbish that they did not want anyone to see. In the neighbourhood store, there was a variety of models and sizes available. At the end of June, a directive was issued about “Appropriate positioning of rubbish containers, and characteristics of the same”.
And now that we had bins with lids for our rubbish, we could all rest easy.
34
Gustavo got up at half-past nine, the same as every Saturday. At ten o’ clock he had a tennis game with El Tano. Glancing out of the window, he saw that Carla’s four-by-four had already gone. He looked in his wardrobe for his tennis clothes. There they were, washed, ironed and neatly folded on the corresponding shelf. Carla left them there every Saturday, so that he didn’t have to search around for them and get annoyed about being late for the game.
He got dressed. He laced his trainers tighter than usual. Why did she have to go so early if the agency opened at ten? He went down to have breakfast. Waiting for him on the table were his napkin, a clean cup, a thermos of coffee, the newspaper, the sugar bowl, the peach jam that he ate every morning and slices of toast in a rattan bread basket, wrapped in a white napkin. He unfolded the napkin: the toast was still warm. With one hand resting on the warm bread, he calculated that Carla must have left not more than ten minutes earlier. He was sorry not to have heard her getting up. He flicked through the newspaper without giving it his attention. He looked at his watch: a quarter to ten. He called her mobile. It was switched off.
He was a few minutes late arriving at the court and El Tano scolded him. Why did she need to work weekends, too? Why did she need to work? He brought home enough to maintain their lifestyle – more than enough. He started a doubles match with El Tano, the same as every Saturday. But he missed too many balls. El Tano got irritated; after the first set he made a comment about finding another partner. They started a new set. Yes, he understood that an estate agency, especially one dealing with gated communities, works more at the weekend than during the week. He would be the first to understand that, having invented that story about Virginia’s lost mobile just to get her to see him on a weekday. It had been a matter of urgency to find a house into which they could move straight away, and urgency does not distinguish between working days and holidays. He had not wanted to keep seeing people who criticized him or pitied his inability to control himself. They put all kinds of ideas into Carla’s head, and that was no way to solve anything. He and she would find a solution together, without anyone else sticking their nose in. He had promised her. She had promised him. But was it wrong to want one’s wife to stay at home on Saturdays and Sundays? he asked himself as his opponent served a ball he failed to return. She must understand that. A telephone rang in the middle of a rally. It was Gustavo’s mobile. He ran to the bench to answer it. It wasn’t Carla, so he rang off immediately. He started to return to the court, then decided to go back and check his messages. El Tano began practising serves, venting his fury at the interruption. Gustavo lost the next set and the one after that. He alone lost them, even though it was a doubles match. El Tano could barely bring himself to speak. Gustavo didn’t stay on to have a Coke after the match. “I’m very worried – there are some problems at work.”
“Evidently,” said El Tano testily.
He went back to the house and straight to the kitchen. He poured himself some cold water: two glasses. He drank one after the other, almost without drawing a breath. He called Carla again. Her mobile was still switched off. He called Virginia’s office. “Carla’s gone out to show a house to a client.” Carla in a client’s car. A man’s. “Yes, I’ll tell her you called.”
He showered. The water, hotter than perhaps was advisable, hurt his back. He had lunch. Alone. Without getting dressed, his towel wrapped around his waist, his feet bare. He put the plates in the sink. He went upstairs to get dressed. He left another message: “Call me”. He opened the door of Carla’s dressing room, but he didn’t go in. He switched on the television. He turned it off. He went downstairs. He watered the plants. He cleaned out the swimming pool. Carla should be back by five o’clock at the latest. They had agreed that she would not work later than that. At half-past five he called her mobile again. It was s
till switched off. This time he left no message. He went up to the bedroom. He turned on the television again. He watched a film that had already started. He thought that he had seen it before. He had seen it before. He entered Carla’s dressing room. He ran his fingers through her clothes, hanger by hanger. He smelled them. He caressed them. He stopped at the brown silk skirt which she had worn on his last birthday. It was soft, it smelled of her and he buried his face in the fabric. With which other client would she be now? He breathed into the brown silk. He let it go. He played at guessing what she might have put on that morning. The high-heeled black shoes he had given her for their last anniversary were missing. Shoes that were far too fancy for getting in and out of cars showing houses. And the white cotton shirt, the one through which her bra showed. He ran through the hangers again. Surely she had not put on that shirt. Violently, he pushed the hangers aside. Another shirt slipped from its perch and fell onto the floor. He trod it underfoot, still searching for the white cotton shirt. He couldn’t find it. On the last shelf, beside the window, Carla’s mobile was charging up.
He went downstairs and made a coffee. Black, very strong. He filled it with sugar. The coffee went cold in its cup. She can’t have put on that shirt and those shoes to show houses and plots of land. He called the agency, then rang off. If Virginia knew and was covering for her, the last thing he needed was to be taken for an idiot. The telephone rang. He ran to answer it. He had been standing near it, but he ran anyway. It was El Tano. “Do you want to play tomorrow? Today’s game left me wanting more.”
“Well, OK.”
“Is something up?”
“No…”
“Sure?”
“Sure. I’ll see you tomorrow at ten.”
