‘And the report?’
‘Someone handed it over to the military’
‘Roberto?’
‘I’m not sure. Nobody knew what was going on. I could swear it wasn’t me, but it could have been any one of us, trying to buy our freedom. The fact is that all of us who were in the Berta Modotti group saved our skins, apart from her. She was killed in the shootout. And there’s something else.’
Pascuali doesn’t ask him to go on, but he does anyway.
‘I helped the goons interpret the report.’
‘And the others didn’t?’
‘I couldn’t say. We’ve never talked about our experiences in the Navy Mechanics School, which is where we all ended up.’
‘Nobody’s perfect. Everyone has something to hide.’
‘Some more than others. I suddenly thought maybe Raúl believed it was Roberto who gave the military the report. I wanted to talk it over with him.’
‘You haven’t had time for that since 1977?’
The forensic scientist comes in, and Pascuali signals to Font y Rius to follow him. They walk down a corridor full of curious onlookers; both Font y Rius and Pascuali note with surprise that the director of The Spirit of New Argentina is among them. But whereas Font y Rius tries to avoid contact, Pascuali stares at him, racking his brain to try to recall where he’s seen that angular face and its disdainful look before. The two of them reach the police car. Pascuali uses the car phone.
‘Headquarters? I want you to put out a call for the arrest of Raúl Tourón as the prime suspect in the murder of Doctor Roberto Améndola Labriola. Dig out the most recent mugshots from the files.’
‘D’you think Raúl did it?’
Pascuali turns towards Font y Rius and growls: ‘If you’re sure you didn’t see the murderer, then yes, I do. For the moment, he did it. Strange, I thought I recognized the New Argentina director. He said his name was Dónate.’
Font y Rius doesn’t seem interested.
The blinding light hurts Alma’s eyes. She thinks she can see a dirty blue sky: a sky that’s immensely dirty, intensely blue. She hugs her body as if she were naked. But her clothes have been thrown on. Her blouse is unbuttoned, she has no stockings, her skirt is undone. She can feel the indents of the ropes she was tied up with on her arms. She gets up from the sofa, turns her head, can smell or taste chloroform. The chair she was tied to stands there alone. Everything else is where it should be: her books, her notes. She cries with a mixture of panic and joy. The door bell rings. She bites her fist to avoid shouting out. Then hears Carvalho’s voice.
‘Alma? It’s me. The Masked Galician.’
She laughs tearfully and runs to open. Carvalho has to hold her tight until she can recover the thread of what she wants to tell him: the words, her breathing all come out in a rush, her eyes are still rolling with fear. He sits next to her on the couch and hugs her again. He conveys sympathy, she her need for protection.
‘Are you going to tell me the truth once and for all?’
‘I don’t know what the truth is. There are so many different versions. I’ll tell you my own. I told you what happened the night of the raid. But it didn’t really happen exactly like that. When they burst in we were having dinner and doing political work. But most of all, I’m not Alma. I’m Berta.’
Carvalho cannot and will not hide his stupefaction.
‘Let me speak. I was Berta. Now I don’t want to be her any more. That night, I tried to fight back against the people raiding us.’
Deep down inside her, the film of those events reels out as she describes what happened. Her voice changes with each character: ‘Raúl shouted at me from the other room – “don’t be such a fool! They’ll kill us all! The baby!” Alma stood up to grab hold of her, and was cut down by a machine-gun burst. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Alma’s body, her husband Font y Rius and I were all lying on the floor in one room. My brother-in-law shouted, “Get the baby and escape through the bathroom”. I turned Alma’s body over. Her face was destroyed by the bullets. My brother-in-law was insisting: “Get out with the baby! I’ll tell them it was you they killed. Save the baby! Do it for her! I’m surrendering! Don’t shoot!” I crawled to the bedroom where my baby was. I picked her up: she was such a delicate thing, and smelled so sweet, but she was such a weight. I climbed out of the window and down a folding fire escape we’d put up for an emergency like this. I carried the baby down. She was so heavy! She weighed so much I was scared I’d drop her! The street was blocked off by more soldiers. There was a light on in the porter’s apartment. I went in there. He confronted me. He stared at me, then at the baby: at first he was angry, then sympathetic. He pushed me inside a big wardrobe, but not before he told me, “I haven’t seen a thing. If they find you, I haven’t seen a thing.” The rest is pretty much as I told you. Now I’m Alma, and glad to be her. It’s the only way I can fight off my sense of guilt. My baby Eva María is the only one who really disappeared. I hate Berta. I hate myself. I know I shouldn’t, but I do hate myself when I remember what I was like then.’
‘Memory sometimes doesn’t deserve us, sometimes we don’t deserve it.’
Alma throws herself into the haven of Carvalho’s arms and chest. But her relief is short-lived. The door bell rings again. This time it’s Carvalho who goes to open it. He finds himself faced by a sarcastic Pascuali and a worried but scowling Vladimiro.
On the way to the police station, it’s Vladimiro who gives the orders. Pascuali doesn’t deign to speak, even when they reach his lair: he walks up and down in front of Carvalho, Alma and Font y Rius, who are sitting on benches opposite each other. Alma and Font y Rius try to communicate silently with their eyes. Pascuali signals for the three of them to follow him. His office smells of metal furniture and ketchup. Pascuali stares each of them up and down slowly: three complete idiots, his look says. He frowns at the other cops to leave the room. When he’s on his own, he remains silent for a few moments, then growls: ‘A murder. A raid on an apartment, with the owner kidnapped in her own home! It’s like something from a sado-porno film. What are you hiding from me? What’s this all about?’ Pascuali bangs his fist on the desk. ‘I’ve had it up to here with your stories! First we’ve got a madman who’s trying to recover his past, his own discoveries. And he arrives at the worst moment, just when none of you needs him.’
He stands up, beside himself. Goes over to Carvalho.
‘And you, you snooping asshole, why don’t you get out of here, get back to Europe and stop making things even more difficult for us!’
Then it’s Alma’s turn.
‘And why don’t you go for a trip down to the Plaza de Mayo, like a nice little old widow, a history widow! Just don’t give me any more headaches! And when your brother-in-law does show up, make sure you hand him over to me, for his own sake, for all our sakes! Or do you want the hunting season to start again?’
For a few minutes, Pascuali says nothing more. Finally he shouts: ‘Get out of here!’ As Font y Rius passes by him, he hisses: ‘Psychiatrists!’
‘What’s the weather like in Barcelona, Biscuter? Are the Olympic Games over yet? Five years ago? I’ve lost all track of time. Has Charo phoned? No. I’m cooking. Well, it’s an Argentine dish that nobody in Buenos Aires makes any more. Its called carbonada argentina. It’s like a beef stew with maize, sweet potatoes, pumpkin and peaches. The city here? It’s fine. Still full of depressed Argies.’
He hangs up. Wearily picks up the letter he can never finish. ‘Charo. What would a normal solution be for me and you? Are there any normal solutions after fifty, or is there only the fear of growing old alone and losing one’s dignity?’
He makes as if to tear the letter up. Changes his mind and drops it again. Goes back to the kitchen. It takes him a while to realize that Alma is standing by the stove, carefully supervising the cooking.
‘Is everything all right?’
&nb
sp; ‘D’you call this cooking?’
‘What else would you call it?’
‘It’s cooking itself.’
Carvalho uncorks a bottle of wine.
‘Are you opening it already?’
‘It’s a fine Cabernet Sauvignon from Mendoza. Four years old. You have to let it breathe. But you’re from a good family, you ought to know that.’
Later, with the remains of their meal still on the plates, Alma holds the wine glass up to the light.
‘I’ve learnt something tonight. That you have to look at wine, to sniff it, taste it. My parents were rich, but they never taught me things like that. They probably didn’t know. There are rich people who don’t know how to enjoy it. My parents didn’t. They didn’t know how to be the parents of two revolutionary daughters either. But what are we doing, talking about wines? What can have happened to Eva María? Or to Raúl?’
‘If I’m not thrown out of the country, I’ll find him. Do you think he killed Roberto?’
Alma dismisses the possibility with a wave of her hand.
‘That’s impossible. Raúl was born to be killed, not to kill.’
Carvalho is looking at her with surprising tenderness.
‘What are you staring at?’
Carvalho doesn’t answer. Alma looks across at the bedroom next door. When she speaks it’s calmly and gently.
‘Are you used to women thanking you for dinner by going to bed with you?’
Carvalho takes another sip of wine and answers unconcernedly: ‘If you suggest it, I won’t say no. But if I’d known you wanted to go to bed with me, I’d have chosen a different menu. You don’t go with carbonada argentina.’
‘So what do I go with?’
‘Stuffed veal à la Wanda, perhaps.’
‘And is that edible?’
‘Very’
‘What about Charo? Is Charo edible?’
‘What do you know about Charo?’
Alma gestures in the opposite direction to the bedroom, towards Carvalho’s unfinished letter.
‘I couldn’t resist the temptation. I read it. I adore letters. I love epistolary literature.’
‘Let’s just say she was my sentimental companion.’
‘Is she a private detective too?’
‘No; she’s a whore.’
Alma stares at him, not knowing whether to be shocked or angry. She’s surprised at her own reaction, and offended on Charo’s behalf.
‘It’s nothing but the truth. I’ve got a wayward soul. My girlfriend is a call girl. My technical assistant, waiter, cook and secretary is a car thief called Biscuter. My spiritual and gastronomic adviser is a neighbour called Fuster. He’s also my manager. He manages what little I have to manage. I adore impossible families. I detest possible ones.’
‘So did you detest your father and mother?’
‘I detest possible families who are alive. I love dead ones.’
Alma drinks thoughtfully. Carvalho picks up the letter and crumples it. He hesitates over what to do with it. Eventually he goes over to the hearth, but quickly stuffs the letter in his pocket. Then he sets about lighting the fire. Alma watches him in a detached way until she sees him pick up a book and begin to tear it up.
‘But... what? Are you off your head?’
She struggles to try to stop him, but it’s too late. The book has already caught fire, and the flames spread to the rest of the kindling and logs.
‘Are you crazy? Or just a Fascist? They’re the only ones who burn books.’
Carvalho sinks into the sofa and lights a cigar.
‘It’s an old habit of mine. For forty years I read book after book, now I burn them because they taught me nothing about how to live.’
‘Now you sound like Julio Iglesias.’
She contemplates Carvalho and the fire, still upset.
‘I hope it wasn’t an important book, anyway’
‘I think it was by Ernesto Sóbato. I’ve no idea what it was about. I think it was called something like: Tango, the Song of Buenos Aires.’
Alma reacts violently: ‘But that’s a wonderful book!’
‘Too bad. The other day I burned Adán Buenosayres.’
‘You’re telling me you had the nerve to burn Marechal’s novel?’
‘I don’t care who it was by.’
‘But that book’s our Ulysses!’
Alma is seriously indignant.
‘You’re a Fascist queer. A cook!’
‘Culture doesn’t teach you how to live. It’s nothing more than a mask for fear and ignorance. For death. Take a cow on the pampas...’
‘Does it have to be from the pampas?’
‘From wherever you like. Say you kill it, and eat it raw. Everyone would point at you: look at that barbarian, that savage. If on the other hand you catch the cow, kill it, slice it up skilfully, roast it, and then put sauce on it: that’s culture. A disguise for cannibalism. Cannibalism’s subterfuges.’
‘You mean if we ate each other raw we would be being sincere?’
‘No. We have to delude ourselves. But the fact is, yes, we do eat each other raw. So from time to time I burn a book, even one I like.’ He recites: ‘Which of us does not fear losing what he does not love?’
‘Quevedo?’
‘Quevedo modified by me.’
He holds a piece of paper out to Alma.
‘A message from Raúl. I found it under the door.’
Alma snatches the paper from him, and reads what it says out loud: ‘Cousin, I’ve turned to Güelmes. I’m tired of running, and I’ve almost reached Eva María, just like Peter Pan reached the stars.’
She comes to a halt, and looks up at Carvalho with fear in her eyes. Carvalho puts a hand behind her head and turns her face towards him. Their lips draw close, but at that very moment Pascuali and four cops start battering on the door, and the two of them draw apart again.
‘Pascuali, who else?’
Three of the men throw themselves on Carvalho and pin him down. Pascuali stands over Alma.
‘The game’s up. I don’t want any more corpses. I have to find your brother-in-law before I don’t know who; but I do know that if I don’t get to him first, he’s not going to like it. I recognized the chairman of The Spirit of New Argentina, and I don’t like playing games with ghosts.’
Carvalho has managed to struggle free from the other men: he elbows one in the liver, and aims a kick at another one which misses by a mile. Pascuali points his revolver at him, but calms his men down with a gesture.
‘That’s enough. You’ve shown off for the lady, so now be quiet, because you haven’t the first idea what’s going on.’
‘I know how to find Raúl.’
Alma and Pascuali stare at him incredulously.
‘He’s being hidden either by Güelmes or by Font y Rius. A ministry, a psychiatric clinic – they’re both safe hiding places.’
Pascuali has his doubts, but not about Carvalho: ‘In Argentina, ministries aren’t safe.’
Carvalho adds: ‘Nor are ministers.’
He hands Pascuali the piece of paper with Raúl’s message.
The two men are strolling along by the river. The moon paints Raúl’s face like a clown as he looks up at the night sky and recites:
To have looked up
at the ancient stars
from this bank of shadows
to have looked up
at those scattered lights
my ignorance never learnt to name
nor to arrange in constellations...
He turns to his companion. Güelmes speaks in a slow voice, as if he was conjuring up a dream, and the dream was providing him with words.
‘The ancient stars. You used to be a star, Raúl, remember how brilliant you were, how we all admired you. I was an economics student
in those days, more of a militant than a student in fact; it was only afterwards during my exile in the United States I made my name as an economist. A pragmatist. Do you remember the analyses I did following Mandel or Gunder Frank, about the inevitability of the fall of capitalism? I’m sure it will fall one day, but neither you nor I are going to live to see it. So now I’m a pragmatic economist. A social liberal. Social on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, liberal on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. On Sundays, I have a day off. I’ve grown up: you never did. What are you looking for? The memory of a feeling? Or are you after your share of the profits from your animal feed discoveries? Roberto and I agreed we’d market them when I returned from exile and found a good position, and you had disappeared. Roberto claimed the scientific rights to the formula; I was the partner who had the capital and state backing.’
He comes to a halt. Raúl doesn’t seem to have understood a thing.
‘Roberto is dead. He got too nervous when you came back, he wanted to explain everything. Your brother-in-law Font y Rius is mixed up in it as well.’
‘What about Alma?’
Güelmes smiles and mutters: ‘Alma!’ as if it were the strangest of names. He pulls out a pistol, and points it at Raúl, whose surprise quickly gives way to laughter. Then he starts to squeal like a rat – even his features take on the aspect of a threatened rat, a rat twitching its long, white-haired nose. Güelmes thinks he has turned into a gigantic rat.
‘Are you crazy?’
He aims at Raúl. But his eyes reveal the solution he has found. ‘You really are crazy. And do you know where we put crazy people?’
Raúl tries to grunt like a less desperate rat, and carries on mimicking as he climbs into the car Güelmes has waved him towards with the gun. Once he’s inside the car and has accepted the new situation, the sounds suddenly cease, as if they had a life of their own. Güelmes is on his right; on his left, there’s a man he doesn’t know, and another sitting beside the driver. The car pulls up outside Font y Rius’ clinic. The psychiatrist is waiting for them behind the barred windows, momentarily blinded by the car’s headlights. He throws down the cigarette in his hand and comes out to meet them. Headed by Güelmes, the new arrivals push past him into the clinic, and he has to turn and follow their unresponsive backs. Güelmes is frogmarching Raúl along. Font y Rius wants them to put his chaotic thoughts in order.
The Buenos Aires Quintet Page 9
