Buenos Aires Noir

by Ernesto Mallo

  A face in the crowd.

  Orange Is a Pretty Color

  by Verónica Abdala

  Chacarita

  Translated by John Washington

  She’d read it somewhere. And it was true: a person can handle whatever life deals them. She herself, Marina, could become a cold and vengeful woman, even while appearing quite the opposite. Like that time when her brother Germán lied to her about the death of her rabbit. He’d told her that it had fallen into the pool. Later, Marina learned that it wasn’t true. A neighbor had seen her brother and his friend throw it in, but the neighbor hadn’t been able to save the animal because she didn’t know how to swim.

  A few days after burying the rabbit, Marina hid a dead pigeon in Germán’s backpack. She’d found it in the yard, picked it up using a plastic bag as a glove, and then slipped it into his backpack. Germán found it the next morning, before going to school. Marina had never seen him scream or sob with as much fear. She didn’t care. She heard his first scream from the kitchen and then ran and locked herself in the bathroom. From inside she could hear her mother consoling her brother, and her father say that he’d take care of the bird. She smiled, maybe because she was nervous. The fracas only lasted a few minutes, and then they were hurried off to school, Germán with his eyes swollen from tears and, next to him, in the backseat, unmoved, Marina.

  On that Saturday in May, she didn’t think of that childhood memory until the moment she’d locked herself in the bathroom to do her nails and put on her makeup, while Guillermo was shuddering on the floor of the living room. She heard him crying, but unlike her brother, Guillermo hadn’t screamed first.

  That Saturday she had woken up at around nine. On weekends she usually liked to sleep in. Workdays, she had to wake up at seven and walk up Forest Avenue all the way to the sweater shop. On Forest there were rows of shops that sold, all year round, nothing but sweaters, sweatshirts, and jackets. She was in charge of retail at a store called Nevado. She made minimum wage, but didn’t complain. It was enough to live a simple life with Guillermo, and even to splurge once in a while: a good dinner, a pretty dress, a weekend at Mar del Plata. They’d been together for eight years and she felt good with him, though at times she would think that the only men she could truly share her life with were Ramón, her hairdresser, and Roberto the doorman, who took care of the apartments and dealt with all the tenants in the Olleros building. Guillermo had become more and more apathetic over the years, sometimes seeming totally disinterested in her life or anything she told him. She was always the one to start conversations: about a news clip on TV, some neighborhood gossip, or a magazine article she’d read. Recently, everything she shared with him seemed to bore him. It’s a mystery as to why, at a certain point in a relationship, a couple loses enthusiasm for each other, the magic a lost and distant memory. Guillermo, these days, seemed like he wasn’t even there, but she kept on taking care of him, even more than before, especially once his health had started to deteriorate.

  After the heart attack he suffered—two years ago, when he was forty-four—Marina made sure to buy vegetables and fresh fruit in the market next to the train station, and she made sure that their home was in shipshape condition, so that by the time he came home from work (he was a bank teller) he’d find the cat brushed and fed, everything clean, and food on the table—the menu always fat-free and low sodium.

  He didn’t seem to value what she did for him, or perhaps he just didn’t even realize it, but she kept up her work. She didn’t want anything at all to disturb him, though the most dangerous factor with his health was his smoking. He didn’t take the suggestion to quit easily: he said that he couldn’t give up his cigarettes like he couldn’t give up who he was. He remained the same impulsive and irascible man as always, the jokester at work, the guy who could always make the ladies laugh.

  Marina never would have imagined that that Saturday would be different than any other Saturday. The only thing out of the ordinary was that Gulliermo had gone to Tornú to get an electrocardiogram after feeling palpitations and shortness of breath in the middle of the night. She had been expecting a typical weekend, but then the fit of coughing came—at three in the morning. She bolted upright when she heard him start hacking. He was sitting on the edge of the bed with his hands on his chest and his eyes wide open, forcing the air to enter and exit his lungs, like he was trying to inflate an old burlap sack. She brought him a glass of water, and a few minutes later his color came back.

  “I already feel a little better, but in the morning I should go to the hospital, calm myself down,” he had said.

  She agreed that it was a good idea to get it checked out. Surely the doctors would say that everything was fine and they could go out to eat as planned. She wanted to think the weekend would turn out like this. If it were up to him, they would just stay in, watching episode after episode of whatever television series they were into. Usually, though, she would insist that they go out for a walk, or grab brunch, and Guillermo would, like always, finally give in.

  That Saturday morning, after Guillermo left, Marina stayed in bed, tossing and turning. The morning was chilly. She pulled the sheets and comforter over her head, stretched her legs out to one side and her torso to the other, feeling her spine stretch, and then she took a deep breath. She would spend the day relaxing, coddling Guillermo; it seemed like a good plan to her.

  When she got up she went straight to the kitchen. The apartment was still. She opened the package of ground coffee, poured it into the coffee maker, and then stood there, hands planted on the counter as the vapor started to rise out of the machine. She poured herself a tall cup, added a splash of cold milk, and walked over to the kitchen table.

  It was a small apartment: two bedrooms, a living room/kitchen decorated with two wooden bookshelves, a round table with three chairs, and a small sofa of brown chenille that Marina had decorated with some colorful pillows. On the table was the newspaper, which Guillermo had gone down for earlier. There was also a half-full cup of coffee with cream, toast and crumbs on a green plate, and a stick of partially melted butter that Guillermo had attacked without remorse. She also saw his cell phone. It was odd that he’d forgotten it since he was almost never away from the thing. They often talked about how much of his day he spent messaging his coworkers. In any event, she’d pour him a cup of coffee when he came home and then, if all was good with him, they’d go out to eat.

  Surely they’d go to Santa María de Corrientes. It was a restaurant only half a block from their apartment and they’d been there so many times she could picture it perfectly in her head: the walls decorated with photos, dolls, and other knickknacks. They liked the place, and would usually sit at a window seat in the corner, in front of the bus stop. Sometimes a bus would screech to a halt and she would cover her ears. On the longest wall, in the back of the restaurant, there were paintings, photographs, drawings, newspaper clippings, a pair of boxing gloves—dirty, and covered in dust, which Marina took note of every time she went to the bathroom—mirrors, and even bull horns. There were also little messages written on small chalkboards: We Don’t Serve Hot Water. No Credit Cards. No Credit, Only Cash. “Just eat and be quiet,” she would add, laughing, though Guillermo, absorbed in his own thoughts, would be looking the other way. Yes, just another Saturday.

  Standing above the kitchen table, she fixed her gaze on Guillermo’s phone, and then picked it up. The screen was scratched, and she could see her reflection in the dark glass: her eyes still swollen from sleep, little bags of darkness hanging under them; her hair a mess.

  She sipped her coffee and touched the screen of the phone, turning it on. She was expecting to have to enter a password or some code, but instead she saw a long chain of chat messages from WhatsApp, along with the names of the people he’d been talking to in the last day.

  She felt uncomfortable scanning the photos and names of Guillermo’s contacts, but she couldn’t help herself: there was Erlán, the teller one over from him at the bank
; his mother Chichita; his brother Nacho; his lifelong friend Damián. There was also a good-looking woman in her early thirties who Marina didn’t recognize—Silvana Fiorente was her name. There were others as well, names and photos of friends and coworkers she had either met or heard of: the account manager Sergio Lamelia, a few other cashiers, and even the head of public affairs, Mario Sufit.

  Marina looked away; it was time to forget about the phone. She’d never snooped on Guillermo before, or on anybody else. Then she noticed how messy the living room was, and decided to clean up as soon as she finished her coffee. Guillermo complained that she was so obsessive about things being neat, but she knew that if it were up to him they would be eating junk food surrounded by trash and dirty clothes—and so he should be thankful. Tidy up, comb and feed the cat—she needed to get to it. That couch loaded with last week’s newspapers, piles of clippings he’d cut out to save for who knows what, the beige coat he’d left hanging over the chair that she needed to iron again. And yet what stayed in her head was the photo of that girl; she couldn’t, she decided, not look at the chat conversation. Who was this Silvana Fiorente? If she was a fellow bank employee they’d be talking about work, and she could forget about it. She’d find some back-and-forth about numbers and customers and she could then focus on her chores. She told herself that it wasn’t bad to dispel her doubt; plus, Guillermo would never know.

  She grabbed the phone again and opened to his chats. She clicked on the little image of the blond-haired chick—she was laughing in the photo, a strand of hair falling over her face—whom Guillermo had been chatting with the night before. The first thing Marina saw was a selfie: the woman was in the dark, showing off her cleavage and staring into the camera. Her hair (black in the photo) was down, her full lips painted, her nose perfect. Underneath the photo, in the right column, a small blue bubble: You’re going to kill me, Beautiful.

  The response was laughter.

  Marina almost jumped. She moved her finger along the screen.

  Another lethally boring day, he had written.

  Sorry, my love, the woman responded. Are you going to escape, or do I have to save you?

  He told her he was going to escape.

  She dropped the phone onto the table. She felt her jaw tense, grinding her teeth. She walked to the window, opened it, and breathed in the fresh air. She felt overwhelmed. The cat came and rubbed its back against her leg, but she didn’t even notice. She lifted her gaze and stared outside: it was an overcast Saturday. The sky, full of slate-gray clouds, looked ready to storm. From the sixth floor she could see the train station and the canopy of trees from the cemetery: big trees with long dark branches and leaves blowing, as if in slow motion, one way, and then the other.

  She remembered that one night after checking Guillermo’s pockets, she had stashed a packet of cigarettes in a drawer. She went to get the pack, lit a cigarette, and returned to the window.

  Five minutes later she heard the key turning in the front door.

  “Hi, Mari,” Guillermo said, half-smiling. He carried a white envelope in his hand, and didn’t have a pleasant look on his face.

  She stayed at the window, the cigarette still burning. She flicked the butt out and peered at Guillermo, not opening her mouth.

  “Did something happen?” he asked her.

  “Nothing,” she replied, turning to face the cemetery.

  “Why the long face?”

  She looked at him but didn’t speak.

  “I don’t have great news,” he said. He seemed worried, disheveled. “Dr. Lamotte is going to do an angiograph on Monday. There are some risks, but we need to do it. Until then: complete rest and no salt. Don’t forget about the no salt.”

  Guillermo took off his black jacket and tossed it, as usual, onto the sofa. “He also gave me some Isordil pills,” he said as he kicked off his shoes and left them next to the table, among the crumbs on the floor. “I need to slip one under my tongue if I start to feel bad.”

  She looked at his shoes, one on top of the other, and then turned back toward the window. She could hear the sounds of the street below. The salesmen hawking socks and cheap hats, the buses squealing to a stop at the corner, the calls and cries of children.

  “Are you all right, love?” he asked, trying to hug her. He was pale and baggy-eyed, his lips cracked.

  She didn’t answer. She walked over to the sofa and sat down on top of his black jacket, crunching his reading glasses inside the pocket. She crossed her legs and wiped the crumbs off the bottom of her feet.

  Guillermo seemed to be upset. He walked over to the sofa and grabbed his jacket by a sleeve, but Marina didn’t budge.

  “Excuse me.” He tried to yank it from underneath her.

  After another effort he was able to pull it out. Inside the pocket he found his glasses—a shattered lens and a broken frame. He laid his black jacket down next to his beige one.

  “You forgot your phone,” she said.

  He scuttled quickly into the kitchen, found a rag, and went to the kitchen table, which he wiped down, moving his cup and a plate. He seemed to be looking for words. Next he went for a broom to sweep up the crumbs on the floor.

  “I saw you were chatting with Fiorente. I guess you were trying to escape something.”

  Guillermo stopped cleaning and looked into her eyes. “It’s just a work thing.”

  She smiled.

  “What’s with that dumb grin?” he asked.

  She started to laugh.

  “I don’t want to fight now,” Guillermo said. His forehead was suddening shining with sweat.

  “All part of work, was it?” she guffawed.

  “Stop it, love.”

  “I don’t want to stop it.” Marina dried her eyes, which were now tearing up from laughter. “So you’re fucking around with that bitch.”

  “Calm down, please.” Guillermo’s face was getting redder and redder. His shirt was damp, plastered to his chest; he unbuttoned his collar. “I’m feeling funny.” His face was wet now, his hands trembling. He tried to unbutton his shirt, but his fingers were fumbling. “Get me the Isordil,” he said. “I’m really not feeling so hot.”

  She felt around in the black jacket, found and took out the pills, and then took two quick steps. When she was next to the window again, she looked out at the sky; it was darker than before. She leaned, held her arm out—the pill sleeve in her fist—and then she opened her fingers and let it fall. It followed the same arc as her cigarette butt. She glanced down at the sidewalk on Olleros Street.

  “What are you doing, you psycho?”

  Smiling, she turned toward Guillermo.

  “Don’t be stupid, forget about that girl.”

  “Sure thing,” she responded. “Actually, I’ve already forgotten.”

  Guillermo closed his eyes hard, squeezed his lips together, and brought his hands up to his chest. “Call someone. Call an ambulance.”

  Marina walked into the bathroom, came back out with a bottle of orange nail polish, sat down on the sofa, raised up a leg, and got herself comfortable to paint her toes.

  “I feel really bad. Fuck. Get me my phone.”

  “Ask Fiorente. I’m busy.” She raised the nail polish brush into the air.

  “Don’t do this to me, Marina. I can’t move.” Guillermo fell to his knees next to the sofa. He opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water, and then started to cough, just like he had the night before.

  “Bless you, love,” Marina said.

  Like she always did, she painted the toes on her right foot first. The big toenail took more time than any of the others, and she made sure to get the polish right up to the edge of her cuticle. Before she finished, she carefully tidied the edges.

  The cat came up to inspect Guillermo, who had lain himself out on the floor. His eyes were reddening and he was breathing forcefully, in and out of his mouth. Marina jumped up, grabbed the landline, and then pulled the cord out. She went back to the sofa, took a deep breath, and s
hifted her attention to her left foot: it would take her another two or three minutes to finish the job.

  “Orange is a pretty color,” she said, as if she had just made an important discovery.

  Guillermo started shaking slowly on the floor—as if his body were extremely heavy. That was when she got up and locked herself in the bathroom, just like she would when she was a girl.

  She turned on the hairdryer. Drying her nails completely took about ten minutes. Then she did her makeup to cover over how plain she was looking: a little blush on her cheeks, mascara on her eyelashes, and lipstick on her lips—something simple. She looked at herself in the mirror and impulsively decided that blond wasn’t right for her anymore. She would set up an appointment with Ramón and dye her hair. She could do a deep chestnut, or even a black, like Silvana Fiorente. She left the bathroom and went into the bedroom where she put on a gray linen dress and black boots. Next she went to the kitchen to get the grocery cart. The cat came up to her stealthily, and then meowed, rubbing her back against Marina’s leg, almost causing her to trip. She pushed it out of the way and went into the living room, toward the door. She had to step around Guillermo, who was still laid out next to the sofa.

  “I’m going to head out to get some veggies to make you a soup. Or maybe not, maybe I’ll get something delicious for myself. I’ve had a tough morning.”

  His gaze was locked on the far side of the room, his mouth half open. He wasn’t moving.

  In the lobby, Roberto the doorman was reading the paper behind his desk.

  “How are you, Roberto?” Marina said. “I’m going shopping.”

  “To the market? I heard there are some new stalls.”

  “Just like every Saturday. I’m going to buy some good cheese and some mandarin liqueur. Guillermo’s got a craving for it.”

  “He knows what’s best.”

  Marina walked out into the street, turned, saw Roberto wave at her, and then hurried along the two blocks between her building and the market, which was in an old metal-roofed building next to the train station. She stopped outside to buy a pair of socks from a street vendor; she considered getting a pair of black panties too, but decided on beige instead, which was what she wore under her jeans in the winter.