Then the Engineer flashed a disquieting smile towards me, ‘That’s why we’ll open the competition for the archives post to everyone . . . including Ezequiel, who’ll be interning with us for the next six months. I think that’s the fairest thing to do. Any questions?’
I did have two questions: One, ‘How dare you bring that snot-nose into this office?’; and, two, ‘Could you please pass me your spindle, Mr Engineer Smaevich, so I can pierce him through the cornea of his left eye?’ But I held my tongue. I could let no one suspect the pain I felt inside.
As the Engineer dismissed us, a few kiss-asses greeted Ezequiel with welcoming handshakes. They were hedging their bets, in case this new boy came to power.
I watched him as he worked the room. He had the slight overbite of a squirrel, and a freshly-washed face far too eager to please. He moved towards me, smiling, his arm extended. But I manœuvred that slut of a receptionist in between us, and I made my getaway.
***
A few days later, I was on my way back to my desk, after having dropped off a sheaf of papers to one of the typists. Just then, the Engineer motioned to me through his half-open door. I nodded respectfully, and I walked in, eager to mention my latest success with formatting the new Procurement forms.
I was just imagining how best to compliment him on his choice of tie, when I saw Ezequiel out of the corner of my eye. He was sitting on the leather-bound sofa reserved for visiting diplomats. How could I have ever been so foolish! I had walked straight into a trap.
The Engineer began, ‘Look here, do you remember the annex written by the Zimbabwean delegate to the Final Report back in ’83?’
Of course, I remembered it. I remembered every line from every annex attached to the Task Force’s report that year, because I’d transcribed the notes myself. Who could forget Mantekee Rawoonee’s brilliant condemnation of Chilean imperialism? It was so scathing that, some say, it contributed to the withdrawal of the Zimbabwean cultural attaché from Santiago barely four years later.
I simply replied, ‘Yes, Mr Engineer.’
‘Well, it seems young Ezequiel here has found an error in it.’ He said it in a voice that struck me hard in the face, like the first note of the Kaddish.
Anxiety rose in my heart and a tightness spread across my chest, just like when you cross 9 de Julio, with one more concrete island to go, and the orange blinking man suddenly turns solid!
‘Well, not really an error’, Ezequiel interjected, standing up. ‘It’s more of . . .’ he stammered with schoolboy charm, ‘an-an inconsistency.’ He paused, and the Engineer nodded for him to go on. ‘You see, since I’m new here, and I’m trying to learn the ropes, I thought I’d start off by reading up on the last Task Force’s Final Report . . .’
The Engineer interrupted, ‘There’s no need to sugar-coat it, young man. If things are wrong, we’ve got to sort them out. Whoever falls, falls. The problem is here,’ he said, looking down at a folder, ‘and I quote, ummm, “. . . As such, I feel it is important to emphasize the Institute’s role as a counterpart to the Chileans.” “Counterpart”, that’s what you wrote, isn’t it?’
I knew perfectly well what I’d written. ‘Yes, Mr Engineer,’ I said.
‘Well,’ interjected Ezequiel, ‘that doesn’t seem to make any sense given the context, does it? I mean, His Distinguished Representative from Harare had just spent a good thirty pages lambasting the Chileans. And he ends by emphasising that we should be their “counterpart”?’
‘I don’t see where you’re going with this,’ I said blankly.
‘Well, by looking at the context,’ the boy continued meekly, ‘it makes much more sense had he said “counterweight”, not “counterpart”. “Counterweight” is much more in line with the thrust of his speech, if you see what I mean.’
‘You see,’ added the Engineer, ‘the boy’s got a theory that we should take a look at the annexes, as a whole, to see if there is a consistent, core message. Then we should write up an executive summary based upon that core. It’s called “interpretive context” or something like that. It seems they’re teaching it now at the Universidad Católica de Argentina in Santa Cruz . . . What have you got to say about this?’
What could I say? Heresy? Calumny? ‘I . . .’ I began. The Engineer’s eyes twinkled dangerously. I didn’t know what else to say but the obvious. ‘That’s what the notes said, Mr Engineer: “counterpart”, not “counterweight”. You can check my notes, if you want.’
‘The boy already did,’ the Engineer said. (They’d let him fondle my notes?) ‘And you’re right, the notes did say “counterpart”, but I’m intrigued where Ezequiel’s going with this.’
Then Mr Engineer Smaevich screwed up his face and said the damnedest thing: ‘Come to think of it, something always struck me as odd about that sentence, but with so many things on my desk, I can’t follow up on every detail. That’s why I rely on my staff,’ he said, staring me in the eyes with a look that chilled my heart, ‘to make sure these important details don’t slip by. That’ll be all.’
We both turned to go, but the Engineer Smaevich said, ‘No . . . not you, Ezequiel. Stay with me a moment. I want to discuss with you how we could add an erratum to the Ambassador’s annex for the master file. I mean, we can’t have our colleagues thinking we’re just some third-rate . . .’ And he shut the door behind me.
I stood for a moment outside Mr Engineer Smaevich’s door, stunned, uncertain what to do next. I thought maybe I should knock on the door and try to apologise somehow. As I stood vacillating, I felt the receptionist’s inquisitive eyes boring two holes through my back. So I spun around and barked at her, ‘The Engineer President said he is not to be disturbed,’ and I staggered back to the darkness of my desk.
On the verge of hyperventilation, I grabbed an old manila envelope and cupped it to my mouth. Breathing deeply, I accidentally cut my lower lip on the metal tab. My thoughts flew wildly. Had the Engineer really said, ‘Something always struck me as odd . . . ?’ Always?
Had he been doubting my abilities all this time? Had he planned Ezequiel’s transfer, in effect, my replacement? It couldn’t be an accident. Nothing’s ever an accident.
I felt a warm stream of blood trickle down my chin. A few drops fell onto the template for the new acquisition sheets I’d just sent to the typists. (I’d finally accomplished what had taken weeks of planning—I’d formatted them to contain, not only the form name and number but also the phrase ‘Last date actualised’ . . . all within the same footer.
This was the achievement I’d been going to mention to the Engineer, now speckled with blood. My own blood! I crumpled up the master copy in my hand and tossed it in the waste bin.
Right then and there, I pledged myself to destroy Ezequiel. Whatever it cost, I’d have my revenge. And I finally did, too . . . but only after things had gotten much, much worse.
CHAPTER NINE
I’d left the café so late after the orgy that it was early morning by the time I got back home. I had just enough time to quickly shave and shower and change my rumpled suit before I headed to work. Just before I went out the door, I poked my head into the bedroom to see Juli curled up with Miguelito. I kissed his head, and he felt a little warm. Well, I could always say I came in so late I slept on the couch, so I wouldn’t wake them.
The day was terribly uneventful. Because I was so exhausted from the night before, it was a struggle just to stay awake in front of the blank computer screen. I called one or two hotels to get a quote for the conference, but I was so tired I didn’t take notes. Later, I couldn’t even remember which ones I’d contacted.
***
When I got home that evening, Juli was waiting for me at the door. She had a strange look on her face. Teeth bared, eyelids half closed, I couldn’t figure out if she was in the mood or furious with me . . . or perhaps a little of both.
She came up to me and kissed me on the lips, half biting me. I recoiled from the pain, but she held me fast by the shoulders and whispe
red in my ear, ‘I put Miguelito to bed early, so we have all the time in the world. I was thinking of wearing just this,’ she said and pulled out a pair of delicate lace pink panties from behind her back. ‘Do you like them?’
I wiped my lip with the back of my hand and saw a bit of blood. ‘Yeah, sure,’ I said. Trying to overcome my exhaustion and somehow get in the mood, I grabbed at her, but she pushed me back.
‘I thought you might,’ she hissed, ‘because I found them in your jacket pocket when I took your suit to the cleaners this morning!’ Now, I could tell she was definitely angry. ‘Do you want to tell me her name?’ she purred.
I was completely dumbfounded. What in the world was she talking about? Haltingly, I asked, ‘M-my suit pocket?’
‘Yes, honey, the blue one you wore last night when you stayed late in the office to do some “research”, remember? It’s that little slut intern of yours, Muriel, isn’t it, the one with the big boobs?’
‘M-Miranda? No . . . I haven’t seen her since . . . I mean, I would never . . . I mean, I have no idea what . . .’ and then it suddenly dawned on me. With horror, I realised that, at the gathering the night before, when I’d hurriedly gotten dressed in the light of the dying fire, it wasn’t my sweaty handkerchief I’d stuffed into my pocket after all!
Shit! I tried to think of a plausible excuse, but the only thing I could think of was the truth, and that sounded so ridiculous that Julieta would be totally convinced I was having an affair. I imagined telling her: ‘Uh, Juli, I’m not screwing the intern. Actually, it’s kind of a funny story. You see, I accidentally put that thong in my pocket at a black mass. Well, actually, it was less a black mass than it was an orgy . . . In my defence, I didn’t participate, although, mind you, I had plenty of opportunity, and the old lady on the dais was quite willing. You see, my whole purpose in going there was to find out the secrets of time travel . . .’
No, the truth was definitely out of the question. But what was a plausible lie . . . that I really was having an affair? (At least she wouldn’t think I was insane.) No, no, no. She would definitely kill me, if I said that. Then, I got it! Ignorance. That was it. Feigning ignorance was my only hope.
So I said, ‘Juli, I have no idea how that got there. I’m just as puzzled as you are. Look, uh, you know I’d never cheat on you. First of all, I love you. Second of all, I know you’d murder me if you ever found out.’
Julieta was nodding her head slowly. Either I was convincing her, or she was calculating the appropriate dose of strychnine to put in my soup so I would die a long, horrible death. So I jumbled on, ‘Uh, I can only imagine it was Esteban.’
‘These are Esteban’s panties?’ she asked, arching her eyebrows.
‘No, no. I mean . . . I can only imagine that he, you know, had something to do with it. It’s the kind of thing Esteban would do, stuffing panties in my jacket when I was in the bathroom or something.’
Time stood still, as her eyes bored two fiery holes in me, but I could tell she was thinking through the possibility. Lucky for me, it sounded exactly like something Esteban would do.
After an eternity, she said, ‘All right, that sounds plausible. But I’ve got the feeling there’s still something more that you haven’t told me.’
Time travel. Black mass. Creepy shadows following me. She could take her pick. But I said, ‘I swear, I’m not hiding anything. Please, honey, you know I’d never do anything to screw up the life we have together,’ and I hoped that wasn’t too far from the mark.
Then the dark clouds around her forehead began to clear, and I could see she had believed me. She sauntered up to me and kissed me again—this time without drawing blood—and said, ‘You understand why I was freaked out, right?’
‘Sure, sure,’ I said, trying to strike a conciliatory tone, ‘there’s no harm done . . . at least nothing that a few stitches wouldn’t fix.’
‘Well, Miguelito is in bed, so . . . why don’t we try something new tonight?’
‘Now, that’s more like it,’ I said, caressing her neck.
‘Of course,’ she purred in my ear, ‘you’ll have to wear a condom until I’m sure about this, and you’ll have to take a blood test in three months.’
You know, looking back, there are times in my life when I wish I’d just shut my mouth. I mean, I’d just gotten out of the dog house with Julieta. I’d squeaked by with the stupid cover story about Esteban, and I’d covered up my whole crazy obsession with time travel. And now, to top it all off, we were going to have make-up sex . . . and yet, I was going to fuck everything up again.
Suddenly indignant, I said, ‘A condom? You want me to wear a condom? You told me you were still on the pill.’
‘Of course I’m still on the pill, but that’s not going to save me from getting HIV or gonorrhoea or the clap.’
‘B-but,’ I stuttered, ‘you said you believed me.’
‘No. I said that your story sounded plausible. After all, you’re the philosophy professor. You should know the difference between plausibility and the truth.’
Angered by her logic, I stumbled on, repeating, ‘A condom? A condom? That’s rich, coming from the girl who said, “It’s okay. It’s that time of the month, so we’re safe.” ’ I tried to stop myself, but the words were escaping from my mouth like water running through my fingers, ‘I trusted you, and look what you did to me.’
‘What I did to you? What I did to you? You bastard! How dare you speak to me like that. After all I’ve been through, I can’t believe you have the balls to say something like that. Well, now you’re not going to have to worry about wearing a condom, because we’re not going to have sex . . . ever again.’
‘Fine!’ was the best retort I could come up with.
‘Fine!’ she shrieked back, and at that we heard Miguelito crying. Then she said, ‘Now, I’m going to see what your son wants, because you obviously don’t give a shit about him!’ and stormed out of the room.
I couldn’t think what else to do. So I stomped into my study, slammed the door and locked myself inside.
I took out my latest acquisition of Butler’s Saints, turned to the entry and started taking down notes. There must be a clue, somewhere, to going back through time, so I could fix my life before it completely fell apart. If only Saint Perpetuus would unlock his secrets for me!
CHAPTER TEN
From the other side of the cubicle, I heard Esteban’s voice say, ‘Man, you really fucked up. You know that, right? I mean, Julieta’s totally hot.’
‘Yes, Esteban,’ I replied. ‘I realise that. Look . . . can I crash at your house tonight? I don’t have anywhere else to go.’
‘Sure, sure, no problem. My mom’s still visiting her aunt in Mar del Plata, so we’ll have the place all to ourselves. We can go in a couple of minutes. I’ve just got to, uh, finish up my research.’
As I waited for Esteban to finish surfing the porn sites of northern Europe, I flipped through the last section of the newspaper and glanced at the police section. At the bottom of the page, there was a small article about the rising crimes against the elderly. Desensitised now by this sort of news, I scanned half-way through the article, until I read the paragraph that made my blood run cold:
Retired professor from the University of Buenos Aires, Amadeus Alcibiades Pendleton, was found bludgeoned to death at his home in Recoleta. According to the deceased’s sister, Nancy Elizabeth Pendleton de Etcheverry, his priceless collection of Indian artefacts was left untouched, as was his assortment of pre-Columbian erotic statuettes. All that was missing from the dead man’s apartment were a couple of books . . .
***
I stood at the graveside in the cemetery of Avellaneda. Scattered around the leafless plantain trees, their skinny branches reaching up like wires to the drizzling sky, were scores of people who had known Professor Pendleton. There were two deans of Departments of Philosophy and one from a Department of Political Science, assorted professors and authors, and half a dozen former classmates of mine, all of w
hom—I winced at the thought—were full professors by now.
My heart was wrenching. At the same time, I couldn’t help from smiling when I noticed four or five rather strikingly-beautiful women in their early-fifties scattered throughout the crowd. Their make-up flawless, their silhouettes perfect. I calculated they must have been freshmen back when Professor Pendleton was in his prime . . . That old dog.
As I looked at the mound of dirt and the tombstone that simply read ‘A.A. Pendleton’, I had to shake my head. He could have been buried at the Pendleton mausoleum in the Recoleta cemetery, because his family had been in Argentina with the first English settlers. He could have spent all eternity arguing politics with President Sarmiento and Admiral Brown and Evita Perón.
But that was just typical of Pendleton. Throughout his life, he’d tried to evade the fame his intellect had brought him. Now, in death, he was just the same. He’d rather be remembered by a handful of people who actually knew him than by hordes of tourists ticking off his tomb in their guidebook before going to catch a tango show.
If I were him, I’d have arranged a brass band for my funeral and a eulogy by the Governor and had placed a plaque on my tomb that read, ‘Mankind Has Lost One of Its Muses’ . . . But if I really were him, I thought, I’d never had gotten myself into the mess I was in now.
I looked across the grave at Julieta standing there. We’d come by separate taxis. I hadn’t talked to her since our last fight, and I didn’t fool myself that she came because of me. She cared very much for Professor Pendleton, perhaps almost as much as I did, for the kindness he’d shown us when we’d first gotten married, pulling some strings to get me a paid internship at the Ministry, until our baby came . . .
The St Perpetuus Club of Buenos Aires Page 14
