Lunch with the Generals

by Derek Hansen

  Don guided their fortunes with skill. He collected monies owing with sensitivity, so as not to alienate their clients, but he wouldn’t allow their terms of business to be abused. He was strong but fair. He handled the banks and creditors with aplomb. He knew the game well and played it to perfection, being truthful with those who responded best to truth, and elusive wherever he sensed weakness or poor accounting practice. And so they survived until, four months down the track, they began to make a profit. Unfortunately, the banks chose this moment to further increase overdraft rates and the profit evaporated.

  ‘Not to worry,’ said Don. ‘The good news is that at least we have the money to pay the banks.’

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Fate intervened, with the stockmarket crash of October ’87. The high flying entrepreneurs and corporate raiders now found their shares marked down to a fraction of their previous value and their assets along with them. Panic set in.

  To Eduardo and Phil, the crash was little more than a subject of wonder and lunchtime distraction. They had no shares other than their holding in Hot Ink Press, and the crash had no bearing on those that they could see. Rumours abounded about which multinational agencies would fall and which would merge, but that didn’t affect Eduardo or Phil either. They were too busy on their treadmill keeping Don, the bank and their creditors happy.

  They were caught by surprise when Burton Simmons began laying off people and increased their prices. They rushed to tell Don but he seemed only mildly interested.

  But Eduardo and Phil, hardened in their role as frontline foot soldiers, now saw the opportunity to win back the initiative. Business began to pour back through their doors. Rumours began to fly that Burton Simmons were in trouble. Staff that had left Hot Ink Press for Burton Simmons returned to the fold and confirmed that all was not well within that company. They spoke of savage cost cutting, of company cars sacrificed to reduce overheads, of executives stripped of their mobile phones and of grim-faced management suddenly vacating their offices.

  Eduardo and Phil were savage in their retribution. They had worked hard when they were going broke but they worked harder now. They reported each success to Don but his delight always fell well below the level they had expected. It began to worry them, but before they could take any action Don called a meeting.

  ‘I think you guys should back off on your attacks on Burton Simmons’ business,’ he said.

  ‘For God’s sake why?’ Phil exploded. ‘Those bastards put us through the wringer. We’re just returning the compliment.’

  ‘Yes, why?’ Eduardo asked quietly. He could not imagine why Don should make such a request. His first thought was that his friend and partner was in some kind of trouble.

  ‘I want you to back off Burton Simmons for one very good reason,’ Don said coolly. ‘By this time next week we’ll own them.’

  ‘What!’ Eduardo and Phil’s voices exploded as one. Don began to laugh, high pitched and squeaky. Tears rolled down his cheeks. There had never been a moment as sweet as this in his life. It was revenge for all the times he’d been left on the outer while he struggled to understand the trade banter and jokes between Eduardo and Phil. He tried to focus on the stunned faces of his partners who looked as bemused as he normally did. That only made him laugh more. And the more he laughed, the more the tensions of the past twelve months washed away. He would happily have laughed forever.

  ‘What are you up to, you bastard?’ shrieked Phil, but Don’s laughter was infectious, and in it, both Phil and Eduardo could hear the dark clouds roll away.

  ‘Tell us!’ Phil grabbed hold of Don, and twisted his arm painfully behind his back.

  ‘Okay, okay. Let me go. Okay. Let me get my breath back. With the bank’s blessing, I’ve put in a bid for Burton Simmons which has been accepted, subject of course to your approval. We’re picking them up for peanuts, not much more than asset value.’

  ‘How long has this been going on,’ asked Eduardo.

  ‘Since October.’

  ‘Since October and you never thought to mention this to your partners?’ There was a chill in Eduardo’s voice.

  ‘I thought about it plenty of times but it all began as a long shot. You would have laughed and told me not to waste my time. But then it became increasingly clear to me that Austral Corp was in trouble, and the improbable began to look decidedly possible. I thought then that I should tell you.’ Don began to laugh again. ‘But you two guys were so hell-bent on revenge, I figured that our best interests lay in allowing—no, encouraging—you to exact it. You ripped their business to pieces, far better than I could have ever orchestrated. What did you want me to do? Take away your incentive? Tell you we’re going to buy them, so you could slack off? No way. Our greatest weapon was your hunger for revenge. So I took a calculated risk. I withheld information from you. I used my judgement. You tell me, was I right?’

  Eduardo thought about it. He realised he was a touch jealous because the coup was not of his making. But wasn’t this precisely why he’d asked the fussy little man to be their partner? To manage the business, while he and Phil toiled at the coalface? If so, then logically this triumph was also his because it came about because of his foresight.

  ‘We were all right. You for pulling off this extraordinary coup. Phil and I for taking you on as our partner. I am a lucky man to have two such partners. Now, you bastards, when can I start our publishing business?’

  ‘Let’s talk about it over a beer.’

  ‘Beer, be buggered, Phil,’ said Don. ‘French champagne.’

  ‘Champagne! What is this?’ demanded Milos.

  ‘A surprise. I arranged it with Gancio earlier. It’s my shout to celebrate the conclusion of the first part of my story.’ Ramon smiled at his three companions. ‘Surely you don’t object?’

  ‘I most certainly do.’ Milos was up on the edge of his seat, almost standing as his anger built. ‘You have not concluded anything. You have yet to tell us about the boy Roberto. You promised.’

  ‘Yeah, you did, Ramon.’

  ‘So I did, Neil, and so I shall. I shall tell you about Roberto over the champagne. It’s still early and we have plenty of time. It is not the champagne you object to is it, Milos? If so, Gancio will be delighted …’

  ‘Thank you, champagne is fine. Why do you do this to me, Ramon? Why must you tease?’

  ‘It’s a failing in my character. But you see, Milos, I have kept the story of Roberto till last for a good reason. I began this section of my story with the boy Roberto. Now I conclude with him. It has a symmetry you must admit.’

  Lucio and Neil were laughing quietly, enjoying Milos’ discomfort. But it was time for Lucio to help Milos off the hook.

  ‘Ramon, I think you better tell your story now. There’s more pressure building up inside our friend here than in this Pol Roger. Tell us about Roberto. Put Milos out of his misery.’

  ‘And his wife,’ chipped in Neil mischievously.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Carlos was careless. Heady with his triumph, he forgot about the boy. He did not even look for him. He was long gone from the house when he remembered his oversight. He sent men back, but he knew they would find nothing. It was a pity. It would take some of the gloss from his achievement. Besides, the boy might have been useful when they interrogated Victor. Better still, he could have used the boy to ingratiate himself with people who might one day be useful to him. Or, at very least, collect a handsome gratuity. Among Argentina’s childless couples of wealth and importance there was a ready adoption market. Many children and babies were stolen from among the Generals’ victims to satisfy this need. Carlos cursed his missed opportunity.

  The following Thursday, copies of Argentina Libre appeared as usual in bars and cafeterias and public places. La Voz del Pueblo was again strident in its protest, as it named the Generals’ latest victims and the man who had betrayed them. The style had changed but the message was the same. La Voz del Pueblo is not one man, it proclaimed, but many men
. La Voz would not be silenced.

  Roberto did not see the soldiers drag his parents away. His eyes refused to accept any more horror. He shrunk back into the tube of carpet where the heavy layers could deaden the sounds he did not want to hear. He wept copiously, silently so that he wouldn’t be heard, or so softly no sound could escape. He cried until he could cry no more. He didn’t even hear the urgent, familiar voices calling his name.

  He was found by a neighbour who was aware of the game the boy played with Victor and thought to look inside the rolled carpet. Roberto screamed in fear, his eyes wide but unseeing. He had fouled himself. He needed to be picked up gently and carried to a quiet place. He needed to be cuddled and soothed and comforted by people with faces he knew and trusted. He needed someone to take the place of the mother and father he had just lost, and ease away the unbearable pain. But there was no time for such sympathies. The soldiers could return any minute to make good their colossal blunder.

  They bundled up the screaming boy, and ran with him from one house to another until they felt they were safe. They hid him at his best friend’s home, but he would not recognise them, and his screams threatened that family’s safety as well. So they hid him in a dark basement with his friend’s mother, and stuffed blankets around the doorway to block out his screams. In that pitch blackness, in arms that were strange to him, Roberto screamed out in terror, oblivious to the tender ministrations of the brave, heartbroken woman who sheltered him. Finally, merciful sleep took him into its shadow.

  They kept him in the basement for three days, until they felt it was safe for Rosa’s eldest sister, Bibiana Gimenes, to come and collect him. In all that time, he never spoke a word, and clung fiercely to the kind woman who nursed him.

  Bibiana’s heart opened to the tiny tragic figure, but the last thing the boy needed was more tears. Bibiana had some of the look of Roberto’s mother, and she was the favourite among his aunts. He let her take him from his mother of three days without protest.

  Bibiana wanted to take him straight into her family, and counter his nightmare with tidal waves of love. Her schoolteacher husband agreed that would be best for the boy, but he could not allow it. Certainly Victor’s family would come under surveillance, he argued, perhaps theirs would too. Her husband’s wise counsel prevailed.

  So for three months Roberto was kept on the move, shunted between family friends. He never knew where he’d be from one day to the next, where he would sleep or who would kiss him good night, or come to him when he cried out. He was not allowed to attend school, nor was he allowed to play with other children. Life on the run became the only life he knew.

  The first flood of pity and sympathy receded, and the boy became a burden on those who sheltered him. He never spoke and he never smiled. He had long ceased to cry except in the loneliness of his sleep. He had become a chronic bed wetter and, as patience ran out, his hosts began to berate him. Who could blame them? They took risks for this boy who never showed any gratitude nor returned any affection, who cocooned himself within walls of silence. They began to regard him as an idiot. Finally, Bibiana came to his rescue.

  ‘Enough!’ she cried to her husband. ‘You think the Generals care any more about this small boy who cannot speak? They probably care even less than those who shelter him. If we don’t do something now the boy really will go crazy.’

  She took Roberto home with her and that night he slept in her bed. Her husband Domingo, a good and kindly man, was not impressed but he was not prepared to argue. It was a small sacrifice to make, he reasoned, for a boy who had so big a need.

  ‘If that will help the boy,’ he said, ‘then that is what we must do.’

  For two months Roberto slept in their bed, and for two months Domingo put up with the disruptions of his bedwetting. Slowly Roberto began to relax. He felt safe in this house where nobody hurt him even when he wet the bed. He began to play with Bibiana’s three children, a boy his age and two daughters who were older. But still he steadfastly refused to speak, communicating by nodding or shaking his head, by pointing, and sometimes when he was playing a game he particularly liked, by giggling.

  At the end of two months, Bibiana made up a bed for him in the same room as her son Julio. She didn’t ask Roberto, she didn’t cajole him, she just did it. Roberto’s trust in Bibiana was so complete, he went along with the change.

  He stopped wetting his bed at night, and he stopped running for cover whenever anyone came to the door. He was slowly returning to normal, but still he would not speak.

  ‘Until he speaks, I cannot send him to school,’ Bibiana argued. ‘The other children will crucify him, and he’s been through enough.’ She turned to her husband.

  ‘You will have to teach him in the evenings. He may not answer, but he listens. When the time comes for him to go back to school, we cannot send a child the others will think is stupid.’

  So Roberto became Bibiana’s shadow and devoted helper. He went with her when she did her shopping, and he helped her with her cleaning and cooking. She loved him like her own children, and talked to him constantly, asking questions but never seemingly concerned that he didn’t reply.

  ‘He will reply when he is ready,’ she told Domingo. ‘We must be patient.’

  The breakthrough came in a way nobody could have foreseen. Bibiana needed food for dinner, so she and Roberto went shopping, just as they always did. He would stand quietly by while she haggled over her purchases, never taking his eyes off her. She would consult him on the meat she was buying, or the vegetables, or the fruit. He would smile at some suggestions, frown at others, and in this way communicate his choice.

  They would call into a bonbonería as a treat, because Roberto loved candy. It was the one thing he got genuinely excited about. He would examine all the jars, read the labels as best he could, study the wrappers, and deliberate in trembling excitement before he made his choice. Bibiana thought they were the only times Roberto seemed truly happy. She felt that when Roberto was ready to speak again, it would be in a bonbonería, and he would ask for a candy that he hadn’t found on display.

  But once more as they headed home, with Roberto concentrating on making a boiled sweet last far longer than the makers ever intended, he kept his silence. Bibiana couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed, but her patience was bottomless. She knew one day he would speak to her. It was only a matter of time, of faith, and the healing power of love.

  She took no notice of the dog walker coming towards them, his pack of thoroughbreds keeping an orderly formation on their leashes. Why should she? Tourists might find novelty in it but it was a sight Bibiana saw every day. She felt the tiny hand that held hers tighten its grip which caused her to glance once more at the approaching pack, but she saw nothing to concern her. The dogs seemed to strut with the arrogance of their rich owners, showing no interest in them whatsoever.

  But another pair of eyes were watching, and they looked upon the pampered thoroughbreds with loathing and hatred. The dog pack trotted onwards, oblivious to the Rottweiler guard dog on duty in the cab of the delivery van parked at kerbside. The dog walker guided his charges closer to the roadside to allow Bibiana and Roberto to pass. Perhaps he was going to exchange greetings with them, for he certainly wasn’t watching his dogs when the Rottweiler chose to strike.

  The Rottweiler threw itself against the half-opened window, snapping and cursing and threatening to rip the throats out of each of the dogs which had dared stray onto his territory. The pack reacted instantly, like a bomb burst, motivated entirely by self-preservation.

  Bibiana and Roberto were as badly frightened and surprised as the dogs. But they were slower to react. Before Bibiana realised what was happening, dogs crossed in front of her, behind her, and one even got jammed between her legs. She fell and was immediately engulfed by the panic-stricken canines. Their claws tore at her back and arms. She tried to get up, but she was caught in a cat’s cradle of leashes. She called out for Roberto, but her voice was lost amid the cacoph
ony of howling, yelping, snarling dogs, the screams of the dog handler and another voice, shrill with fear.

  ‘Get back! Get back!’ it cried. She could feel somebody hauling dogs off her and wresting with the leashes. She was aware of somebody crouching over her, protecting her. She could hear other voices as passers-by rushed to help. But there was only one voice that interested her, a voice she’d waited so long to hear.

  ‘Mama?’ it begged. ‘Mama?’

  It was all over, almost as quickly as it happened. Concerned hands helped her to her feet. Her arms and legs were scratched and bruised, and scrabbling claws had gouged her back. She ignored the pain and she dismissed the hapless dog handler and his effusive apologies. She thanked the people who had come to her rescue. She could not get rid of them fast enough. This was her moment of triumph and she did not want to lose it. She took Roberto’s small hands in hers and gazed down into the anxious face that stared up at her.

  ‘Mama,’ he asked, ‘are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, Roberto, I am. Thanks to you. You were very brave.’ She looked at him shyly and his face flushed crimson. ‘Roberto, I can’t begin to tell you how happy I am to hear your voice again. Now take me home.’

  ‘I lost all my sweets,’ he said.

  Life changed abruptly for Roberto. Having spoken, he could no longer retreat into his old silent ways. He was enrolled in school as Roberto Gimenes, eldest son of Domingo’s brother from the province of Tucuman, and he sat at a table next to his cousin Julio. Nobody queried why the boy was sent to Buenos Aires to stay with his uncle. There could be any number of reasons. Poverty, sickness, politics. It was better not to ask. By any measure, Roberto’s disguise was thin and would not bear close inspection. But Bibiana was right. The Generals had long since lost all interest in the boy.

  Roberto never became like other boys his age. He was quiet and moody, and preferred books and music to football and the rough and tumble of being a boy among boys. After school, he would race home to Bibiana and hang off her apron, helping her to prepare dinner, just like before. He’d beg to go shopping with her, so they could pass by a bonbonería and he could get his ration of sweets. This was fine for a seven year old boy, but he still behaved the same way when he was ten.