“How are . . . with everything I gave you, and at the first opportunity . . .” She muttered something about “shitty black,” and added, “Don’t forget to hand in your uniform.”
I had no intention of doing so; I’d paid for it out of my salary. Things got worse when she saw me in church a few days later. The lawyer had shown me the one in the area, near home. I liked the place, its simplicity. Among so many huge buildings, the façade of Our Lady of Pilar was austere. I ran into the owner inside, where she was meeting with her charity group. More no-good people who came into the shop.
“You expect to leave him here?” she asked, appalled, when she saw me with the urn. She was surprised to learn that Rogelio was from the neighborhood. The old biddies looked me up and down. They couldn’t imagine the ashes of a half-breed in their church. “It’s a complicated procedure. Come back another day so Rosa can explain it to you; there’s nobody here today.”
I left with their eyes glued to my back. It looked like I was carrying a bomb.
* * *
Counselor Alterio was even more offended than I was when I told him what had happened. He must have been one of Rogelio’s lovers. He spoke of him with admiration, nostalgia, affection. “Who does she think she is!”
I asked him to calm down; I’d find a better place.
“They’re not worthy of him,” he said.
At this point, we were meeting at the pizzeria daily to discuss Rogelio’s affairs. He’d focused the shops on the rich people he hung around with. He delivered drugs to people’s homes with a fleet of taxis. He would set up bars and fill them with refined whores, models, and cabaret stars. The girls from the defunct clubs now saw clients in apartments in the area. Alterio showed me how to get into Internet pages where they broadcast live.
I played dumb: “People pay for this?”
The attorney looked at me as if he knew my browser history. “There’s an audience for everything.”
But to pay for it, with so much free porn? Alterio told me some things weren’t consumed so freely, and asked if I was open to seeing something harsher.
“I’m open to everything,” I replied.
The attorney opened another browser and showed me a screen. There was a kid hanging from his wrists. He was either asleep or unconscious. Very skinny. Alterio pointed to the number of visits. “He’s been like that since we grabbed him. Twenty-five days ago.” In spite of his thinness, I had no problem recognizing the boy who killed my brother.
* * *
He was a spiteful boyfriend, according to Alterio. Rogelio had several romances, boys of every color, and this one had betrayed him. The attorney wanted to see him suffer. Apparently, according to the page, so did lots of people. Every so often, some hooded men would come into the room to beat or torture him.
“Isn’t it better to hand him over to the police?”
Alterio gave me a look I didn’t dare challenge.
“Let’s go back to the paperwork.” I still had to gain his trust. There were many properties, under bogus names and shell corporations. The girls lived in some of them. It wasn’t clear what my role was in all of this.
“You’ll find your niche,” he assured me.
I accompanied him to some of the private apartments. The nearest one was in Charcas, in front of the police station. A nice block, with a school, some stupid yoga place, and a writers museum. Alterio kept the police captain happy. The girls were friendly. They were going to school and could be mistaken for any of the young women from the area. They were classy. None of the usual whores. I felt unkempt next to them. Alterio suggested I stop wearing the uniform outside work and buy some clothes. I was tempted by the idea of going back to the shop as a customer after resigning. Buying the most expensive dresses so the owner would die of rage. But the uniform gave me security. On the other hand, I could afford other luxuries. For example: having a cleaner. To find a good maid is a valuable thing. They were always talking about them at the shop, and the problems they caused. It was difficult to find a girl who understood orders, carried them out, and didn’t steal. Who spoke more Spanish than Guaraní. The shop owner used to say, no matter how rich one was, she’d always depend on a half-breed to help her. Especially in sickness and old age.
I asked Marcelo to help me find a good maid. The ones I’d seen in the building were pretty. I’d run into them when they were doing errands, almost all wearing the classic uniform: black with a white collar. The military man’s maid was big and strong. She seemed proud to be going into that house. Conceited. She’d never responded when I said hello.
“I just happen to have someone I can recommend,” Marcelo said. I asked him to get in touch with her as soon as possible.
* * *
The shop owner’s daughter had resurfaced; she was a drug addict who was nothing but trouble. She’d call the shop mad as hell to ask for money. She’d threaten her mother saying she’d tell her story to the media. She’d be hospitalized, escape, flee for a while.
“What are you looking at?” the owner asked angrily as soon as she came in, on my last day at work. She was dragging the drug addict by the hand—the girl was pale, completely out of it, anorexic, dressed like a male hooker. The shop owner was almost carrying her in her arms.
They locked themselves in the office, though we could still hear the screams. The shop was empty and I stood glued to the entrance. Not a single customer rang the bell.
After a while the owner rushed out and locked the office door behind her. The girl was banging from inside.
“Make sure nobody goes in, and that she doesn’t get out of there. No matter how much she screams.” She pushed me aside to get through.
“Yes ma’am.”
She left mocking my last words: “Yes ma’am, yes ma’am . . . the only thing this chimpanzee can say . . .” The way that woman looked at me had affected me deeply ever since I’d gotten the job. She never doubted I was inferior in every sense. She was a rock. But the drug addict was breaking her spirit. The owner couldn’t hide the fact that she’d spent the day crying. The daughter, screaming, wished the worst possible things upon her mother. For a long time, I felt the same way.
* * *
I slept in my uniform and left it on the next morning. Alterio was waiting for me in the pickup truck. We drove around the shop a few times. He knew about those things. I felt like I’d never be free of the power she had over me. When I told the lawyer what I wanted to do, he asked if I didn’t think it was too much. He smiled; he was testing me.
“Rogelio wasn’t mistaken about you.” Alterio had been overtly resentful of the woman ever since the church episode. He was waiting for an excuse to get revenge.
The woman went through her usual routine. She arrived at the shop with her daughter. There was a new security guard at the entrance, a woman, frail, younger than me. Her uniform was different, and it looked like a costume on her. There’d be no difficulty robbing the place now. Let them find out what the shop was like without me.
Alterio had three kids ready. We waited for the owner to leave and the kids went in.
“Sure they won’t kill anybody?” I asked Alterio. The little old man said no, but he was laughing. It was impossible to know. Sometimes things get complicated. Two of the kids had to overpower my replacement and the owner’s assistant, while the third took care of the girl in the office. A clean job. No trouble. I was scared about the reaction the assisant might have. I remembered how hysterical she’d gotten when I refused to give her my uniform.
We waited some twenty minutes in the pickup truck until they appeared. One had his arm around the girl, like they were lovers. The others walked behind them. We took off as soon as they got in. They’d already given the girl some coke, and Alterio showed her a big baggie full of it. Her eyes popped out. One of the kids was wiping blood off his knuckles. I didn’t ask.
“Cooperate and you’ll win the happy box.”
* * *
The girl was at her best. She’d laugh and talk nonsense. But
she performed perfectly when she had to be serious. She told her mother she’d been kidnapped, she was all right, but she had two hours to deliver 100,000 pesos. She repeated our instructions between sobs. The amount was pocket change for the owner, and she could get it quickly. The last thing she wanted was a scandal for her baby. She wouldn’t report it.
The girl pounced on every baggie she was given. She was delighted. She’d look at Alterio, fascinated.
“Take whatever you want, pretty one,” he’d calm her, while promising her every other drug in the world.
We had a pretty good time talking shit about her mother. It was like a contest—who could come up with the worst insult. The girl said she was winning. I didn’t contradict her to avoid causing trouble. It was easy to blame everything on a ball-busting mother. Evidently the father didn’t care much, either. He had a girlfriend younger than his daughter.
“All right, baby, you’re not in therapy here,” I cut her off at some point.
She laughed and asked if we’d give her part of the money. Alterio offered her a job, if she wanted it. I could just see her stuck in a brothel somewhere in the middle of nowhere. He gave her another envelope. The girl kept snorting coke, and swallowed I don’t know how many pills, becoming more and more of a moron. When we saw her mother at Houssay Plaza, the girl was sound asleep.
“Is she breathing?”
Alterio shrugged. In the midst of medical students, the old woman looked for the ambulance we’d told her to expect. She was supposed to open the back door and throw the bag of money inside. Then we’d free her daughter. She looked around, acted most obediently until the ambulance arrived. Just as she was about to throw the package in, two men came up behind her, shoved her inside, and closed the doors. The ambulance started moving. We kept our part of the deal and tossed the girl out next to a garbage pile. She was no longer of interest to us.
* * *
They dropped me off at home.
“Lieutenant,” Olivia greeted me when I arrived. She was gossiping with Gabriel and Marcelo. Actually, they were both listening to Marcelo, fascinated. The super was gesticulating, and between gestures he’d touch his balls. I don’t know what anecdote he was telling them, nor did I care. But I couldn’t ignore them as I went by.
“When are we doing dinner again?” asked Olivia. “The next one’s in his apartment.” She pointed to Gabriel.
“Lovely. Whenever you want.”
“How’s the maid?” Marcelo asked.
“She’s coming by tomorrow.” I expressed my thanks for everything and escaped to the elevator. People who do nothing think you have nothing to do either. I smelled something bad in the elevator. I was about to accuse Marcelo of not cleaning it, when I realized the stench was coming from my own uniform.
* * *
I didn’t feel comfortable with the replacement uniform. I only wore it when I had to wash the other one. I was embarrassed to welcome the maid, smelling of goat. The girl rang the bell punctually at nine and Marcelo let her up. She knocked on the door. She must have thought for sure I was retarded, because as soon as she came in I was speechless.
“My cousin told me you needed a maid,” she said. I nodded. She had on a dark-blue uniform. I pointed to a chair so she could sit down. She had long, curly hair down to her waist. Dark-skinned, with short, solid legs.
I finally stammered. “Can you wash? Iron? Cook?”
She said yes to everything. She had just come from working for a family in the area. She cleaned their apartment and their country house. She took care of the children. I could picture it: pastel-colored home, a frustrated marriage, the kids spoiled in their private school uniforms. She offered to give me references, but there was no need. I explained the place belonged to my brother and what had happened. She glanced over at his portrait and crossed herself. We agreed on her pay and work hours. She could start right away and I suggested she straighten out Rogelio’s clothes so I could donate them.
While she emptied the first closet I checked the computer. They were already talking on the news about an incident in Mrs. M—’s shop. They described the “brutal” beating that the assistant had taken. The daughter appeared almost dead. They blamed this on her captors, and not on the girl’s addictions. The perpetual protection of the wealthy. The husband said their main concern was finding his wife . . . We had done him a great favor.
Alterio had installed a program so that I could see pages not available on regular browsers. They were still showing Rogelio’s little boyfriend on one. He resisted heroically, skin and bones. I started looking at our girls’ rooms and searched the address they gave: TheRufinaExperience. The screen was still black.
* * *
The cleaning woman, Viviana, was a blessing. Embarrassed to let her see so many bottles of alcohol, I started to drink less. She didn’t wait for me to tell her what to do. She’d prepare her cleaning supplies and make her own list of chores. One morning she found the urn when she was putting away my work bag.
“What should I do with this, ma’am?” she asked.
I looked at her like a fool. I told her the truth—my indecision about the matter. How little I knew Rogelio. My suspicion of what he’d have wanted.
By now it made no difference to me whether I threw him away or kept him in the closet. But Viviana’s questions about him gave me an excuse to spend some time with her outside of work. I asked her to go with me on Saturday. Viviana didn’t know if she could. She had to take care of a child; she’d try. The next day she confirmed she’d come. She left my uniform clean and scented.
She arrived early on Saturday with her little boy Alberto. She apologized—there was nobody to watch him. The kid had her eyes. An intense gaze. He seemed well-mannered, quiet. But I didn’t know how to talk to a child.
“Say hello to the lady,” she ordered him.
The little boy gave me a kiss. I smiled like an idiot. I watched his mother as she walked to the kitchen. She was wearing jeans and a black sweater. Hair in a ponytail. Although I refused to let her work, she started making breakfast. Alterio had come over, along with the old people from the building my brother used to hang out with. Luckily, Olivia and the lawyer took care of entertaining the child.
“What’s this?” he asked about the still visible chalk outline of Rogelio’s body on the floor. Viviana told him to keep quiet. We hadn’t been able to clean that rug or the bloodstains. He stared at the portrait and the urn in front of it. Living where he did, he must have been familiar with death.
We had some tea while they told anecdotes about my brother. He had been a complete stranger to me. I tried making up a story about a trip even I didn’t believe. What I did remember wasn’t pretty. I mostly stayed silent, watching Viviana. She cleared the cups when we finished, and we got ready to leave. The little boy wanted to carry the heavy urn. I could just see him tripping right away and scattering the ashes. But I put it in the bag anyway and hung it from his shoulder.
When Viviana saw him carrying it, she scolded him. “What’re you doing with that? Give it back, it’s not a toy.”
“She gave it to me.”
I played dumb and denied it. Viviana apologized.
* * *
The kid just loved the neighborhood. He was holding his mother’s hand while with the other he touched the cemetery’s thick brick wall. He tried to let go when he saw the McDonald’s at the mall across the way.
“C’mon, Mommy,” he begged. “Can we?” Then he asked me. I was going to say yes.
“Don’t be rude,” his mother cut him off, and they kept on walking. Olivia and Gabriel were strolling slowly, arm in arm.
Alterio came up to me. “Are you all right?”
I was feeling great. He was the one affected.
“What about the owner?”
The lawyer looked at his watch. “Buried.”
“Won’t there be trouble? Where is she?”
He asked me not to worry, it wasn’t the time. He showed me a photo that had just ar
rived on his cell. You could see the woman’s hands scratching the lid overhead.
The kid asked who lived in the cemetery.
“The ones who stole all the dough from this country,” I replied without thinking. Some of the vaults and mausoleums were bigger than the house where I was born.
Viviana peered at me, serious. “It’s a cemetery, like the one in our neighborhood,” she said to her son. I wondered what about it she could compare the one in Avellaneda. I wanted to listen in on some of the guided tour groups, but Olivia said there was no need. She was familiar with the most famous graves: the dead national heroes, the Peronists, the radicals, the artists, the scientists. The gravedigger who saved up all his life to build the mausoleum where he rests today. The husband and wife with the statues depicting them back to back, the way they ignored each other in life. Alterio explained to the kid the significance of each one in Argentinian history. I was tempted to leave the ashes in front of Eva Perón’s grave. Rogelio hated it when our father would take him to the brothel. Later, he liked dark guys, but not if they didn’t have money. I thought about his death. A crime of passion, lustful, bloody. How many people had died at the hands of a youth who hustled them? Alterio elbowed me as we passed in front of the statue of a girl. Rufina Cambaceres. She looked like she was trying to open a door. The lawyer told us they mistook an attack of catalepsy for her death and buried her alive.
“This is art nouveau, little boy . . .” Olivia started to explain.
“Where’s Alberto?” Viviana asked. We saw him in the distance chasing some cats. The mother shouted to him. She began to run after him. The old people followed her. Olivia could barely move. When I was about to join them a cat jumped on top of me. I got scared, but it wasn’t trying to attack me. It rubbed against my leg. It was orange, hairy, fat. I tried to pet it. It moved away. It looked at me and hurried off faster. It moved gently among the graves.
“Come here, damnit,” I called out, but the more I called, the more it ran away from me. Somehow I became obsessed with it. I followed it until it stopped to sniff a statue. Luis Ángel Firpo (1894–1960). A slender bronze man, well built, in a bathrobe baring his chest. I sensed a commotion coming from one side. Little Alberto appeared, smiling, the old people behind him. He stayed next to me. Viviana shook him hard for disobeying. The old people were out of breath, but they calmed down and stared at the statue.
Buenos Aires Noir Page 16
