He’s thinking of all this when he sees her. She’s picking through the trash that’s being laid out before her by an old, obese, and clumsy-mannered woman. The beauty of the girl’s form is apparent even underneath her grime and rags. The old woman turns sharply to him.
“What’s going on? You like the girl?”
Pablo turns slowly toward the old woman, but doesn’t take his eyes off the girl. Only when he has completely turned do his eyes peel away from her and land on the old woman. If he ever wanted to paint or draw a witch, here was the perfect model. Big-nosed, with hairy warts on her forehead and cheeks, yellow, scrambled teeth, and narrow, watery eyes. Scola’s film, Ugly, Dirty amp; Bad, comes immediately to mind. What an inspiring, rejuvenating day, he thinks. The cosmos seems to be working in my favor. He smiles at the women.
“You want to make a few pesos?”
The witch flashes him a broken smile, but her eyes are not laughing, they’re calculating. “It’s always nice to have the possibility of earning some pesos through honorable work,” she replies.
Pablo smiles, and thinks honor must seldom be practiced in this woman’s life. Under her covetous gaze, he takes out a card from his wallet and hands it to her. “Come tomorrow morning and we can chat.”
The witch takes the card and pretends to read it. Pablo turns and continues down his path. He’s found his model.
* * *
The house still bears the remnants of a glorious past, when Barrio 11 was an up-and-coming scene, where textile businessmen wanted to both work and live. Then the house was turned into a sweatshop. Then a fire gutted it, the owner died, and, having no heirs, it was left abandoned. A small-time gang of squatters quickly moved in. Clumsy and inexperienced, they were arrested and swiftly jailed. The ministry decided to set up Maese there, buying time to figure out a long-term solution for the house.
The commissioner, Filipuzzi, who is there to give Maese the keys, now stands at the door, visibly moody. Beside him an awkward little man with hands like spiders smiles up at him. Maese extends a hand to Filipuzzi, but he’s left hanging. Filipuzzi’s face is dimpled with old smallpox scars. One of his eyes looks off to the side, toward Avellaneda Street, while the other bores into Maese with an angry shine. The man with the spider hands introduces himself.
“Pleased to meet you, I’m Subinspector Laperca, the commissioner’s assistant.”
With overt repulsion, Maese shakes the man’s tiny spider hand.
Laperca shows him a set of keys and nods toward the door. “Shall we?”
Filipuzzi lights a cigarette as Maese and Laperca walk inside. It’s stuffy, empty bottles strewn everywhere—the aftereffects of a party that looks to have been wild. Laperca hands him the keys and gazes outside. Maese follows his eyes. The commissioner is still standing out there smoking.
“What’s going on with your boss?”
“He’s in a bad mood.”
“Oh yeah?”
“You know . . . he’s had this house ever since they kicked out the Peruvians. And now the ministry has decided to give it to you.”
“I see.”
“Be careful, Filipuzzi is a dangerous guy, he’s capable of doing anything to get this house back.”
As if he had heard this, Filipuzzi whistles sharply and, with a nod of his head, orders Laperca to come out.
“Now you know. Be on the lookout. Bye.”
* * *
Maese had met Ascanio under strange circumstances, and due to Maese’s effeminate mannerisms, the young man had assumed Maese was gay, and offered him his services. Ascanio was a street kid who’d do anything to survive. The offer had flattered Maese, who liked to think of himself as attractive to this kid who was agile and slim, with the toned muscles of men whose basic formation had taken place in the open air of the streets. Maese had corrected him, and then adopted him as an assistant. Ascanio was strong and never said no to any job Maese offered. He was especially handy at moving the heavy sculptures around the studio. Every once in a while he had to rescue the boy from a police station for getting into a fight or for stealing—he always got out thanks to the bribes Maese dished to the officers. This also gave Maese power over the kid, and he believed this pacified the boy. He also hired another kid who they called Memo. Ascanio instantly gained the upper hand, and the two established a relationship in which Memo always obeyed Ascanio’s orders. In resentful submission, Memo resigned himself to doing any job that repulsed Ascanio. The cast was completed with Roberta, the old maid who’d been with Maese forever.
* * *
A week later, with the ministry’s advance, the studio is now in perfect order, and Maese awaits a visit from the minister. He had asked that Maese showcase his work, which Maese now has propped up, as if haphazardly, around the expansive living room, though of course he’s been meticulous about making sure that each piece is set under the most favorable light. In the center stands the fountain made of polyester resin on which he’d transcribed an homage to Degas: Woman in Her Bath, Sponging Her Legs. The piece always makes an impact. Maese makes sure to position himself far enough away from the statue so that it won’t seem too obvious that he’s trying to draw attention to it, but not far enough away so that the minister misses it. The doorbell rings and Maese clears his throat, signaling Ascanio to get it.
To Maese’s surprise, the minister has not come alone. An exuberant and vulgar blonde is standing next to him, overly made up and strident, with rigid, gelled hair. It is Gladys, the minister’s wife. Her mouth is large, and Maese can’t help but think it’s a result of talking too much: she doesn’t slow down, not even to breathe. As soon as she sees the fountain, she goes up to it, giving little shouts of excitement. Maese represses his impulse to stop her—he doesn’t want the woman to touch it, worrying she’ll stain it with her lotioned hands. Maese shows them his work and they talk amiably, the minister expressing satisfaction in having employed such an exalted artist. It’s as if he’s purchased Maese for his own personal use. The fact that he’s so pleased calms Maese.
The door swings open, and all three turn to look. In the doorway stand the witch and her daughter, and just behind the two, Ascanio. The minister and his wife seem stricken with revulsion as they eye the ragged pair and then turn back with an interrogating look at Maese. He feels a storm of anger rise up his esophagus, though he manages to contain himself.
“Ascanio, please show the women into the kitchen, I’ll be in shortly.”
The assistant obeys and hurries the women out of the room. The minister and his wife stare rudely at them until the door is completely shut. There’s an uncomfortable silence that, of course, Gladys interrupts.
“Ohhh, my love bug, I adore this fountain. Will you buy it for me?”
Maese cuts in before the minister can say a word: “Oh, Gladys, I’m so sorry but that would be impossible, this piece has already been sold to the US ambassador—he brought it over only so that I could package it for him to take to Houston.”
Gladys pouts, and the minister puts his hands on her shoulders.
“Don’t let it get to you, my little bug, I’m sure Pablo can offer you another one . . . Isn’t that true, Pablo?”
“At your service.”
“I know what you can do!” Gladys exclaims. “You can make something for our new flat . . . It’s so empty.”
“Good idea.”
“On Saturday we’re having a barbecue. Come on over and we’ll see what you come up with.”
“I’d love to.”
“Maese, this is totally separate, it’ll come straight from my pocket, so I hope you give us a good price.”
“That won’t be a problem, I’ll only charge you for the materials. Does that sound okay to you?”
“You see that, my love? Maese is a true artist.”
* * *
Maese happily observes Ascanio as the assistant readies the worktable. The boy has black curly hair and epitomizes the Greek ideal of masculinity. He moves around the studio with the s
ensuality of a cat, his eyes glowing like embers amongst ashes. He finishes setting up the pencils, one next to the other in a perfect row. He lays down the 300 gram Schoeller paper. He brushes the table to eliminate any last bit of dust and finally turns toward Maese. In front of the table he’s set a red daybed where the model will lie to be sketched.
“Call the girl.”
Ascanio goes out and Maese sits down at his worktable. A few moments later, Ascanio returns with the girl, Rita. The witch, her mother, follows them. Maese gives Ascanio a disdainful look, but the boy only offers a shrug as a form of apology. Rita is wearing a silk robe that Maese himself has bought her, and following his instructions, she’s wearing nothing underneath. With a gesture he asks her to stand next to the daybed. Rita obeys. The witch stands beside her and peers at Maese with inquisitive eyes.
The witch doesn’t move a finger. Something in her face is waiting, expectant. Maese understands that she’s selling her daughter. The good thing is that he’s willing to buy her. He puts his hand in his pocket, pulls out three bills, and holds them out to her. The witch’s eyes light up as she takes them and stuffs them in her bra.
“Why don’t you go shopping with Ascanio.”
When they’ve both gone, Maese walks to the door, closes it, turns the key twice, returns to his desk, takes up a sharpened number 2 pencil, straightens his glasses, and finally looks at Rita.
“Please take off the robe and lie down on the couch.”
What she does gives him shivers: she lets the robe slip off her as if she’s been practicing this her whole life. The fabric falls like liquid down to her feet, leaving her slim, sleek body perfectly bare, exposing her subtle curves, her small flushed breasts, her discreet, promising sex. Her mouth is slightly open, her breath is short—as if she is awaiting something imminent, large—and the look on her face devilishly combines both innocence and provocation. Maese watches her lean back onto the couch as if it were in slow motion, the way people experience the slowing of time in the midst of a catastrophe, when everything seems unreal. He begins drawing her, his inspired pencil flying across the page, sketching out the sensual, tender lines of the body on the other side of the room. He couldn’t have found a better, more inspiring model. Drawing her feels like he is possessing her, as if his pencil were his own sex running over her body; meanwhile, there is a stir in his pants. He draws her again and again, frantically, filling up page after page, hour after hour. The light starts to fade.
Maese finally stands, takes a lamp, and focuses it on Rita. He approaches to brush aside a few strands of hair that have fallen in front of her mouth. She looks deeply into his eyes. He can feel her breath, and it is like a chemical reaction, almost explosive. They kiss—each diving into the abyss of each other.
* * *
These are glorious days for Maese. It turns into a ritual: each afternoon Ascanio leads Rita to the studio, helps her undress, and sets her up on the couch. He then goes away, leaving them alone. When he finishes the commission for the minister and his wife, he decides he’ll sculpt something with the two youths—Rita and Ascanio, each so beautiful—together. By day he draws Rita and by night he draws her sex with his own. She has returned him his youth, his enthusiasm, his will to live and create. He’s started cooking again, giving himself to the sensuality of flavor, texture, aroma. The witch is happy, pulling in her daily bribe to leave Rita in Maese’s hands. Ascanio hovers about, with his mischievous, almost elfin glare, which Maese reads as a sign of complicity. He finishes sketch after sketch for the Eva Perón monument, each of them better, more powerful and harmonious than the last. He still, however, has an enormous task ahead of him—he’s decided to forge the sculpture with the classical method of wax smelting, following the instructions laid out by Benvenuto Cellini in Vita, the autobiography of the ingenious master.
The only worry Maese has these days is that someone had tried to break into his studio when nobody was there. He noticed that the back door’s handle had been broken. Luckily, he never uses the back door and a dresser had been placed in front of it, so whoever tried to force it open hadn’t been able to get in.
Still, to be safe, Maese takes his pistol from his house and stashes it in the studio because, as Blades says, it will unburden him of any ill. One other disturbing detail is Filipuzzi’s visit to see how things were moving along, to see if he needed anything. Just an excuse to spy on him. He couldn’t break his ugly gaze away from Rita. Filipuzzi unsettles Maese, especially after the warning by the spider-handed subinspector.
* * *
He is sorry when the day comes to go to the minister’s barbecue. He would have preferred to continue with his routine of art and sex, but he can’t snub his benefactor, and besides, he might be able to figure out a way to keep the money coming in and Rita in his studio. He considers bringing Rita along, but figures it would look bad. He decides to go with Ascanio, and have him drive. Maese hates driving.
“But Maestro,” Ascanio says, “it would be a mistake to leave the house unattended. Think of all the art you have here. Living in a city of thieves, we need to be on guard day and night. Let me stay back. I’ll take advantage of your absence to organize and clean up, as well as keep an eye on things.”
* * *
Appetizers, grilled meats, dessert, long conversations—it drags on and on. A swarm of harrumphing public officials with sharp suits and ordinary women make up the crew at the minister’s gathering. Everybody seems to stuff himself to the point of dyspepsia. Maese, however, feels a pit of anguish in his stomach that barely lets him get any food down at all. He wants to head back to his studio, to draw Rita. He realizes that the girl has become for him an almost desperate necessity. Each minute without her is an agony that only her presence can possibly relieve. Gladys walks toward him. She, like one of the fat pachyderms in a Botero painting, is the polar opposite of Rita, who is as ethereal and smooth as Botticelli’s Venus. Maese smiles at Gladys, who takes him by the arm.
“Come, professor. I’ll show you where I want to put the sculpture you’re going to make for me.” She smiles, and then adds, “Make for us, I mean.”
It’s a blank white wall facing the garden, which can only be seen from the pool area. An idea for a sculpture hits him immediately, though he doesn’t tell her right away. He walks around, looking at the wall from different angles, squinting his eyes. Intrigued, Gladys watches his movements. Maese acts as if he’s deeply meditating on the cosmic laws that will dictate what artwork should fill that space, but in reality he’s only thinking of Rita.
He approaches Gladys with an air of intrigue. “I think I know what we should do here—”
The minister calls to them from behind, interrupting the moment of intimacy: “Hey, what’s this? You’ve gotten a little too close . . .”
“Oh, come on, love bug. Don’t be stupid. The maestro was about to tell me what he’s going to make for us.”
“Great, then . . . illuminate us.”
Maese straightens up and takes on the air of somebody about to make a grand revelation. “I’ll make a fountain that will reflect the trees around the house and the pool. It will be a natural scene, a sort of conceptual congeries of the hunting trophies you have in your living room.”
The minister puffs up like a bullfrog.
“I told you, love bug. Pablo is a genius. A goddamn genius. Get started as soon as you can.”
“As soon as I finish the Eva monument, I’ll begin.”
The disappointment is visible on Gladys’s face. “But that will take a long time . . .”
“Start it now, Maese,” the minister says. “The monument can be done later, and testing Gladys’s patience is not a pretty sight.”
“As you wish.”
“Come on, let’s tell all the guests about the plan. They’re going to die of jealousy. And a few of them will probably try to contract you as well. Just remember that when you give me the bill.”
* * *
The announcement has the effect the
minister expected. Several of the other guests ask Maese for his card. A few others approach him to chat. He is talking to a very short couple—they seem Lilliputian, nearly dwarfs—when something that the woman says to him, or maybe one of her gestures, sets off a rush of memories in him. Poignant memories—of Rita and Ascanio, shared looks of understanding, Ascanio’s hand lingering for an extra moment on Rita’s back as he helps her take off her robe, their shared laughter emanating from the hallway, Ascanio’s insistence to stay behind at the studio. The mental images make him suspicious, then the suspicion turns into certainty. He feels an urgency to return to the studio. He says goodbye as quickly as he can, gets in his car, and drives like a demon all the way home, ignoring stoplights and speed limits.
Forty minutes later, the witch, watching from the window, sees Maese pull up and calls out the alarm loudly enough for Maese to hear: “Rita, Ascanio! The maestro is back!”
Buenos Aires Noir Page 11
