‘At the moment we haven’t got any clients, Don Vito. Here in Argentina you suffer from the same problem of moral relativity as we do in Spain, in the West, in the whole of the fertile North. Adultery, theft, even murder aren’t taboos any more, because everyone is a potential adulterer, thief or murderer. Then again, although our public police forces are experiencing a crisis of numbers and standards which has given rise to a huge increase in private security people, most of them work for big firms, even multinationals. That’s why classic private detectives like us struggle to survive.’
‘Public police forces are unfair competition. I’d privatize all policing. The whole lot.’
‘So you see it as a labour market problem?’
‘Elementary, my dear Carvalho. At times of crisis like this, even accountants are up against it. I’ve got a relative who’s an accountant – he’s had to take on extra work. He does the books for two or three firms now. It’s not only the working class that’s fallen on hard times, you know. The bourgeoisie ain’t what it used to be either.’
Then he begins to mutter:
The middle class is on its uppers
Mireya has gone, Margot is dead
And all their lordships’ suppers
Are no more than crusts of bread.
Tears at their farewell are falling
Tears that times are now so hard
The lovely Barra Florida’s closing
Nostalgia is our business card.
Don Vito does not notice Carvalho’s mild amazement at this outburst, and goes on: ‘If you like, we can look for your cousin in the meantime.’
‘I wouldn’t know where to start. A few weeks after I got here, I almost had him. My cousin left Argentina during the military dictatorship. He thought his wife was dead, and that his daughter had disappeared. The years went by, and suddenly he gets a bee in his bonnet to come back. But he chose the wrong moment. Twenty years had gone by. His wife’s alive, but...sorry, I mean his sister-in-law is alive. She’s the one you saw running out.’
‘So she really is a cousin. Carvalho, you’re a man of principle.’
‘Some of my cousin’s former guerrilla friends are still loyal, but others have taken over his scientific discoveries. They’ve had them patented thanks to a Captain, the same man who captured and tortured them twenty years ago, and who now is using more terror and money to control them. And his daughter still hasn’t been found.’
‘It sounds like an Argentine soap opera written by a Venezuelan scriptwriter,’ Don Vito mutters to himself, suddenly serious: ‘but I’m sure it’s true. As true as you or me here. Is anyone else after your cousin?’
‘The police. Or rather, a policeman called Pascuali. He’s a professional: in other words, he wants law and order to be upheld.’
Don Vito almost chokes on his mate. He’s saved by a knock at the door and the sudden appearance of a thin, hollow-eyed young man with a pallid face. He wastes no time in presenting himself: ‘I’m Javier Lizondo. If you are the detectives whose name is on the door, I need you. Someone’s killed my girlfriend.’
Vito and Carvalho exchange smiles of secret delight, but manage to keep a straight face for their first client.
‘You’ve come to the right place.’
The youngster is plainly nervous, and swallows hard. Don Vito encourages him to go on with a tilt of his chin. Carvalho is busy surveying him. Don Vito’s face reflects all the intricacies of the boy’s story.
‘My name is Javier Lizondo. Someone’s killed my girlfriend. Well...I’ve already told you all that. My girlfriend...my girlfriend...’
‘Your girlfriend?’ Don Vito encourages him.
‘Are you implying she wasn’t my girlfriend?’
‘Please. I was simply inviting you to go on, we’re both concerned and anxious to know more.’
‘My girlfriend worked in a topless bar. You know, one of those places where they dance...’
Don Vito gesticulates as if his own breasts were bobbing up and down, but never once allows his look of concern to slip.
‘She only did it to make ends meet. She was a nice girl. Well-educated. Yes, well-educated, that’s the thing. She was called Carmen, Carmen Lavalle.’
He shows them the photo of a pretty young girl smiling with the confidence of someone who knows they are going to live for ever.
‘You don’t have one of her topless, do you?’ Don Vito asks. ‘Strictly for identity purposes, of course.’
Carvalho steps in.
‘All we really need to know is where she worked, and why you don’t want to go to the police about her.’
Javier does not know what to say. He breaks down in tears. Don Vito seems ready to sob along with him.
‘I’m a fugitive. On the run. There’s an arrest warrant out for me, but I didn’t do it.’
‘Another hidden man,’ Carvalho says, to someone who isn’t in the room.
Sometimes we do things, or think about them, with someone in mind who doesn’t see us do them or think them at all. In Buenos Aires, Carvalho thinks and does things with Alma in mind. She or her shadowy outline in his mind is the one he directs his monologues at, is an invisible presence everywhere he goes, helps justify everything he does. But now here she is, the real live Alma, watching Carvalho perform his culinary arts with scarcely contained admiration.
‘Did you always cook in Spain?’
‘No. At the office it was Biscuter, my assistant, who did the cooking. He looks like a foetus – a cross between a Spielberg special effect, Doctor Watson and a cordon bleu chef.’
‘Why do you call him a foetus?’
‘He looks just like one. Like one of those babies who had a difficult birth and was torn out of their mother’s womb with a pair of forceps.’
‘You call him all the time. Do you like him a lot?’
‘I feel sorry for him.’
‘What about your lost girlfriend? Do you like her a lot?’
‘I feel sorry for her.’
‘Aren’t you capable of affection? Do you only feel sorry for people? What about those poor creatures you fried and cooked in the saucepan, do you feel sorry for them?’
‘No, I love them. That’s why I eat them.’
They sit at the table, and Alma pushes around the pasta of the fideua with her fork.
‘They look like worms but they taste delicious.’
‘Just a simple pasta dish,’ Carvalho says with a sigh.
‘You cook and you eat, but you’re depressed.’
‘I cook and I eat because I’m depressed.’
‘About Raúl?’
‘It’s more complicated than that. It reminds me of a poem I read once, in the days when I used to read poems. A driver has a flat tyre and thinks to himself: I don’t like where I came from, and I don’t like where I’m going to. So why am I in such a hurry to get the tyre changed?’
‘That’s by Brecht, Bertolt Brecht.’
‘I knew it was by him. Once upon a time, I knew who Brecht was.’
‘You still do.’
‘No, not any more.’
‘You have to unravel the metaphor. What or who is that tyre?’
‘Raúl maybe. I don’t know where to start. Has he been in touch with you?’
‘Don’t you think I would have told you?’
Carvalho pushes away the plate and stands up, in a fury.
‘How should I know? I haven’t the faintest idea what you think of me. Aren’t I an intruder? Isn’t Raúl one as well? How do I know what your intentions – you and your comrades – are towards Raúl? Do you want me to find him, or not?’
Alma also stands up, furious.
‘He was my husband! He is the father of a daughter who was taken away by someone we still haven’t found! He’s running away from himself more than from any real danger.’
&nb
sp; ‘Aren’t the police a real danger? And what about that Captain and Raúl’s partners who stole his patent – aren’t they a danger to him?’
Alma slumps into a chair, sobbing gently. From behind the rainbow of tears in her green eyes, she blurts out: ‘I don’t know what’s a real danger from one that isn’t any more. Or real anxiety from the imaginary kind.’
By now Carvalho has calmed down, and would like to reach out and comfort her, but thinks better of it.
‘I want to find my child, but so many years have gone by I wouldn’t even know her. Do I really want to find her, or simply get my revenge on the bastard who stole her from me? As far as Raúl is concerned, I want you to find him and take him with you back to Spain. For good. He’s not part of my life anymore. He’s only part of my most terrible memories.’
‘Where do I start?’
Alma smiles, as if she suddenly has the perfect answer.
‘With a barbecue. In Argentina, everything starts and finishes with a barbecue. We’re having one for ex-guerrillas. Raúl must be close by – it’s the only place he can get any protection. Do you like asado?’
The fat man is driving. In the back seat are the Captain and his daughter, who is busy going over some notes, her lap full of books. The Captain looks down at her at first affectionately, then with a look of concern. The car pulls up outside the university. The girl gives her father a quick kiss. Gathers up her books, and gives the fat man a pinch on the back of his neck.
‘Ciao, uncle Cesco.’
The fat man smiles with satisfaction.
‘Why are you in such a hurry, Muriel? What have you got on today?’ the Captain wants to know, poking his head out of the car window.
‘My first class is with a pain of a teacher, a literature prof.’
‘What’s her name?’ the Captain asks.
‘Alma. Alma something-or-other,’ Muriel replies, turning back as she runs into the building.
The Captain tries to smile, but cannot hide his dismay. The fat man makes as if to get out of the car, but the Captain stops him. As they drive away from the faculty building, the Captain struggles to regain his composure. The fat man is indignant.
‘Did you hear that? It had to be her, didn’t it...? We should have got rid of them all, Captain. Have you any idea what might happen when Muriel gets to know that woman?’
‘Nothing,’ the Captain says curtly.
‘Nothing? What about the call of the blood?’
‘Blood is silent. You if anyone should know that – you’ve seen more than enough of it. At any rate it’s the father, Raúl, who’s the main problem. He still wants to ask questions, investigate. Berta or Alma, whichever it is, is one of the disappeared. Nobody knows it, but she is.’
‘I wouldn’t underestimate her.’
The Captain’s car pulls up outside the Ministry of Development. The Captain, still muscular and athletic despite his fifty years, gets out and runs easily up the stairs. His jawline is still firm, and he has thin, firm lips. He shows the guard an identity card and pushes past him without waiting for permission. The secretary shows no surprise at seeing him there, and makes no effort to stop him going straight into the minister’s office.
‘Is he alone?’ the Captain asks.
‘He will be.’
The Captain decides to wait. The secretary makes a call on the intercom. The minister’s door opens abruptly, and a hurriedly despatched and somewhat surprised visitor appears.
‘So you think it’s all perfectly clear?’
The minister’s voice can be heard from inside the office.
‘Perfectly’
‘Thank you so much, sir,’ the visitor replies, pleased with himself. ‘That took much less time than I imagined.’
Still rather bewildered, he steps out of the room and the Captain darts in through the door. He stands arms akimbo in front of the minister, waiting for him to say something. Güelmes looks him up and down before commenting:
‘I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to come here.’
‘Every door in Argentina is open to me.’
‘This isn’t the Argentina of 1977, or 1981, or 1985.’
‘No, as far as dates go, you’re right. But as far as the country goes, I’m not so sure. Dates come and go, but countries remain. What did you want to talk to me about? But first of all, let me congratulate you on your promotion to minister.’
Güelmes tries to recover his ministerial authority. He sits back in his powerful ministerial armchair, and invites the Captain to sit as well. The spring-heeled man is having none of it.
‘I’m still interested in a deal,’ Güelmes says. ‘As well as continuing with our business and making sure Font y Rius forgets everything that’s happened.’
‘What kind of deal?’ the Captain growls.
‘My deal is that I’ll help you find Raúl, but you are not to kill him. We have to get him out of Argentina alive.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘No. But Alma’s arranged a strange reunion. It’s a barbecue at the Baroja place – you know, the intellectuals behind left-wing Perónism. An asado for ex-guerrillas. Old friends. She was kind enough to invite me. I think she’s getting us all together so we can help find Raúl.’
‘I suppose the Spaniard’s going too.’
‘Of course. Remember he’s the one officially looking for Raúl: him and inspector Pascuali.’
‘That Pascuali needs to learn a thing or two. I can’t understand why he’s such a stickler for formal democracy. I get on better with terrorists. Well, you go and get what you can out of the barbecue. Keep a good lookout, and if you hear anything that could lead us to Raúl, tell me first because of all the unfinished business I have with him, and then if you must, go and see Pascuali. I want a report on all that’s said at the barbecue and everyone who’s mentioned.’
‘Do you want to know what we all eat as well?’
‘The menu’s always the same at barbecues. They’re better or worse cooked, that’s all.’
Then as he’s going out the door, without turning round, the Captain asks: ‘Do you know if Alma is still determined to find her daughter?’
‘She hasn’t mentioned it for years,’ Güelmes replies, in such a casual way it’s obvious he’s trying to convince the Captain it is true.
The students gradually quieten down. Alma puts her glasses on, glances down at her notes, then raises her head. The room is completely silent.
‘Although the main theme of these lectures is how language is applied to literature, today I’d like to talk to you about the way in which other languages can be codified and decodified. For example, the language of architecture, the architecture of a real city – this city of Buenos Aires, for example.’
She is interrupted by the classroom door opening. Muriel comes rushing in, red in the face from having to run. Clutching her books to her chest, she mutters an excuse, and searches for a seat near the door where she can hide. There isn’t one. Alma pauses in her lecture, and all eyes turn towards the latecomer.
‘There’s a good seat here in the front row. The last shall be first.’
Nearly everyone laughs as Muriel makes her way embarrassed to the front of the class. She sits down and looks at Alma uncomfortably.
‘I don’t insist students come to my classes. What I do ask is that they get here before me. If you’re not interested in my course...’
Suddenly Muriel blurts out, almost in tears: ‘But it’s my favourite!’
All the others laugh. Alma herself smiles, and then goes on: ‘That wasn’t rehearsed, I swear. But let’s get back to Buenos Aires. I’ve already told you how André Malraux called it the capital of an empire that had never existed, and that Le Corbusier wanted to make it the “Ville Verte” of his dreams. A friend of mine who was an architect – or rather, a friend who planned
to be an architect, but never made it, always says Le Corbusier is much more important for all that he planned than for what he actually built. He planned a truly revolutionary Moscow, but the Soviet bureaucracy frustrated his ideas. He planned a green Buenos Aires, but in the end all we let him build was a tiny house for Victoria Ocampo. He was about to change Barcelona when the Civil War broke out. I’d like you to think about all that and to write what you feel about this apparent paradox. You can compare Buenos Aires as the capital of an empire that never existed with Vienna, which not only is, but appears to be, the capital of an empire that no longer exists. How can we compare the concept of the ruin of an imagined world, like Buenos Aires, with the ruin of a real world, like Vienna for example? Then again, imperial Vienna gave birth to the most important cultural output of the twentieth century, together with the fabulous first decade of the Soviet revolution. Is there anything similar in this Buenos Aires of ours, with its hopeless dreams of grandeur? Our best writers apparently never seem to want or dare to step outside their strictly literary knowledge; they are outsiders. Borges is the supreme example of that. The Vienna of Freud or Klimt offered the world the anguish of the crisis of the bourgeois ego; after the Revolution, Moscow offered the redeeming hope that this crisis could be overcome. What has Buenos Aires offered the world? Borges? The literary representation of a lack of identity as shown in the works of Borges, Bioy Casares, Mallea, Sábato, Macedonio Fernández? I don’t want you to answer these questions directly. I want you to metabolize them, to make them your own. You could even write a tango about it if you like. Even though it’s hard for me to admit it, tango still is one way of describing reality’
One of the students shakes his head with disapproval, and his blond ponytail swings from side to side.
‘Don’t you agree, Alberto?’
‘Football is all we’ve given to the world.’
Alma throws her files and books on to the sofa. She takes off her shoes and starts massaging her feet as if they were aching.
The Buenos Aires Quintet Page 12
