Betty Boo

by Claudia Piñeiro

  Early the next morning, Nurit puts on the only trainers she owns, a present from her ex-husband – not yet “ex-” back then – on her forty-ninth birthday, the last one they spent together before separating. You spend too much time sitting in front of the computer, he’d said; you’re going to end up with an arse like a pancake pan. She would have preferred a more romantic present and a less graphic metaphor, but her husband always was a pragmatist and by then she no longer had very high expectations either of him or their marriage. Or of metaphors. But five years on, the trainers are coming in handy. Although she still can’t bring herself to go jogging. So she puts on jeans (an Argentine staple that when combined with something smart works just as well for a party as for a picnic) together with a T-shirt and sunglasses, and just before leaving applies some sun cream and sprays herself with insect repellent. Evidently the club’s authorities haven’t found a way to kill or keep out mosquitoes. Or are the ones here trained to recognize outsiders and, having identified Nurit as an intruder, biting only her? She looks at the map they gave her on the day she arrived and tries to work out the shortest route to the entrance gate. There are too many curves in La Maravillosa, culs-de-sac, roundabouts and circular streets that require careful navigation if one isn’t to end up like the Minotaur, trapped in Daedalus’s labyrinth. She works out the best route to the entrance and memorizes it, but folds up the map and tucks it into a pocket, anyway. Just in case she gets lost despite her good memory. She picks one of the books she brought with her – Muriel Spark’s Memento Mori – to read as she walks and puts her mobile in one pocket and some money in the other, in case she feels like buying something in the store. What else? she thinks. And finally she leaves the house. I should have worn a hat, she realizes, a few yards from the house, but she isn’t going to turn back now.

  Today being a Saturday, Nurit sees more people than she has in all the time since she moved into La Maravillosa. She knows nobody; some people say hello, others don’t. She has the feeling that something about her appearance is drawing their attention. As though there were some dress code with which she’s failed to comply. But she can’t think what. The jeans can’t be wrong, nor the trainers. Perhaps the book? But it bores her to walk without reading. Maybe people think it’s a dangerous habit because it takes her attention off the road. If that’s the case, they don’t know that Nurit Iscar is accustomed to reading in any situation: walking, travelling on the bus or underground, in a queue at the bank; even in a cinema when the lights are still on before the film begins. And with her eyes fixed on the book – and behind sunglasses to boot – she feels protected. She wouldn’t like anyone to recognize her, to know that she is here masquerading as one of the residents while secretly spying on them. Even though anyone who reads El Tribuno must suspect that Nurit Iscar is here, it’s not the same as knowing for sure that she is, or as recognizing her face. A spy. The non-fiction angle, as Lorenzo Rinaldi would say. Two days ago a woman came up to her in the supermarket and said: I know you, don’t I? And stared at her. Possibly, Nurit replied. The woman smiled. From the Pilates class, right? Yes, Pilates, that’s it, Nurit lied. She wants to remain anonymous for as long as possible. Not that people have told her very much yet, but as soon as they learn that she’s not one of them, they’ll tell her even less. And they’ll look askance at her. She hates getting funny looks. If that’s what people mean by “the evil eye”, she believes in it, in the idea that people can hurt you by looking at you with hatred, anger or contempt. For all those reasons, Nurit Iscar walks along in sunglasses with her eyes fixed on her book, because she likes reading while she’s walking and to avoid anyone recognizing or staring at her. Not that anybody is looking. Most people she passes are jogging. A few walk. Two young women rollerblade by. Quite a few are on bikes. A boy no older than twelve passes, driving a quad bike at an alarming speed. Electric golf buggies, mopeds, skates, motorbikes. The non-car traffic component in La Maravillosa is the most diverse she’s ever seen, to the extent that she doesn’t even know the names of some of the vehicles that pass her.

  As Nurit Iscar is reaching the halfway point of her walk to the entrance of the country club, Carmen Terrada is getting into Paula Sibona’s car, in preparation for a weekend at La Maravillosa providing company for their friend, as they promised. Are you taking a bathing suit? Paula asks. Yes, I’ve brought one, Carmen says. It’s one of those end-of-March days that often count among the best in the year: sun, clear sky, unoppressive heat.

  Meanwhile, Jaime Brena is sleeping. The Crime boy calls him: he wants to arrange a time to come by and pick him up. Give me an hour or so, kid, I’ve got some business to finish here. The boy’s wise enough to know that the business involves Jaime Brena still having a pillow stuck to his face, but he says that it’s fine, that there’s no hurry, he can wait. His girlfriend complains that she’s going to be on her own all weekend. I’m going for work, says the boy and switches on his computer to fill the time until he goes to Brena’s. He types “José de Zer” into Google, discovering that the neighbourhood named for him is Fort Apache, birthplace of Carlos Tévez. It had previously been named Army of the Andes by Cacciatore, its mayor under the dictatorship, who had either forgotten or scorned the fact that its first inhabitants had named it Carlos Mugica, after the activist priest who was murdered in 1974. While covering a gunfight in the neighbourhood de Zer unwittingly excised the dictatorship’s choice of name and rechristened it with the one we know today. This is like Fort Apache! he shouted at the camera, as bullets whistled around him. He deserves a place in history for that alone, the boy thinks. Today people all around the world know Tévez as “El Apache”, never imagining that they have José de Zer to thank for that. If de Zer hadn’t renamed the barrio, what nickname would the Argentine player have today? Little Soldier from Army of the Andes? The Crime boy learns, also thanks to Google, that one of de Zer’s first jobs was in the ticket office of a theatre and that he was sacked for stealing. The anecdote appears in almost all the biographies returned by his search, as though knowing it were a necessary part of understanding his personality. And the words, “Follow me, Chango, follow me” were spoken by de Zer to his cameraman Carlos “Chango” Torres, when they were following the lights of supposed UFOs that had come to Mount Uritorco and were later revealed as a hoax: the lights in fact came from portable lamps placed there by de Zer himself and his team. “Follow me, Chango, follow me”, and the two men had followed the light of those lamps. It was a practical joke, like that inflatable toy that fed the legend of the Loch Ness monster for so long. The boy laughs. He wonders how come he never heard that story of the lamps before. De Zer was ahead of his time, Jaime Brena will say to him later as they drive towards La Maravillosa, a forerunner of every lamp that one of our colleagues lights today with less grace and greater impunity, presuming to think of themselves as defenders of journalism and getting offended if anyone dares compare them to de Zer. And he’ll confess that he respects José de Zer, despite his flaws; even if he was playing a game, the rules were clearer then and others could decide whether or not to play. That clarity is harder to achieve these days, kid, Brena will lament; our profession is one in which the clarity is getting darker all the time. An observation worthy of de Zer himself.

  The Crime boy’s girlfriend is asking again why she can’t go with them. Without answering, he dials Jaime Brena’s number. He knows that ten minutes haven’t gone by yet, but he doesn’t feel like waiting any longer. Brena’s phone rings; it isn’t the Crime boy on the other end, though: Comisario Venturini got in there first. Hello, my dear, how are you? Well but poor, Brena replies. When are you taking me out for that asado you owe me? the police chief asks. Not today, Comisario – I’m going to La Maravillosa. El Tribuno has rented a house there for Nurit Iscar and I’m going over with a friend to see her. What perfect timing – I’m going to be in the area too. If I have time I’ll drop by for a chat. Absolutely. Give me a call and I’ll come and meet you, Brena says and hangs up. The phone rings
again: All right if I come by to pick you up in ten minutes? the Crime boy asks. Make it fifteen, Brena says. I want to go too, says his girlfriend and, just to shut her up, the Crime boy says: OK, come then. Shall I take a swimming costume? the girl asks.

  Nurit Iscar is nearing the entrance to La Maravillosa. Even before reaching the barrier she can see the women waiting outside. As she leaves the compound, one of them, faster than the others, runs up to her. “Need has the face of a heretic” was the title given by Lorenzo Rinaldi a few days ago to an editorial in which he reproached certain opposition governors mired in funding conflicts with the president. Are you looking for an hourly cleaner? asks the woman who’s come up to her. Nurit Iscar doesn’t know it, but the blonde woman speaking to her is the very one who was shouting in the line that day that Gladys Varela was waiting to go into La Maravillosa, that last day she came to work, moments before she found Pedro Chazarreta with his throat slit. Yes, I do need a cleaner, Nurit says. Could you work today until mid-afternoon and the same tomorrow? Whatever you need, I can do, says the woman. Great, let’s go, Nurit says, and turns back towards the entrance. As they approach the barrier, the guard stops them. Does this lady have a work permit or an entry card? he asks, referring to the maid while addressing himself directly to Nurit. She looks at the woman inquiringly. No, says the maid, who seems uncomfortable. Then she needs to go to the office and fill in an entry form, which you can sign as authorization. Of course, says Nurit, and goes with the woman to do the paperwork. The woman presents her name and ID number, showing her document and handing over her bag to be examined. A guard asks her if she needs to declare anything she’s bringing in and she says no, then quickly changes her mind and says: Yes, the mobile phone, which she hands to him so that he can make a note of the make and model. The guard enters her details into the computer and sees something on the screen that catches his eye. He prints off the permit, but before giving it to Nurit Iscar to sign he asks the woman who was shouting in the entry queue the same day they found Pedro Chazarreta’s body to wait outside. The woman does as she is told and stands grudgingly outside the door, looking in through the window. Waiting. The guard looks at Nurit Iscar and says: I asked to speak to you alone because a warning came up on the screen just now. And what does that mean? asks Nurit. The system is asking me to advise you that Anabella López – the guard nods towards the woman waiting outside the door – used to work for a neighbour and resident of La Maravillosa, Señora Campolongo: do you know her? No, I don’t know anybody here. Right. Well, Señora Campolongo has asked for this woman to be barred from the club, do you see? No. Señora Campolongo has requested that Anabella López not be permitted to enter La Maravillosa. Why, though? Because Señora Campolongo had an issue with López. But is that legal? Legal in what way? I’m asking if Señora Campolongo has made a formal complaint, or if there’s a court order preventing the maid’s entry. No, this is just a courtesy to members of the club. A courtesy. Yes, that’s how we manage things here: we put an alert on the system. Señora Campolongo couldn’t make a “legal” complaint, as you put it; because she has no proof, then these girls go straight to a lawyer who’ll start some interminable, cripplingly expensive suit. There was a federal lawsuit brought against a resident a few years ago for denying the constitutional right to free circulation and work. We remember it very well here because it almost cost us our jobs. They asked us if the woman had worked for that member and we had to say yes, because it was in the register. It was a nightmare. That’s why Señora Campolongo didn’t report this to the police. But she did report it here at the gatehouse so that we could prevent anyone else falling victim to this situation. Ah, says Nurit, and what is “this situation”? That Señora Campolongo doesn’t wish this woman to enter. But what’s she accused of, even if it hasn’t been proven? Apparently Anabella López stole from her. She stole something? Yes, a cheese. A what? A wheel of cheese. A wheel of cheese. The man looks at her blankly and she looks back. If you like we can call Señora Campolongo in and she can explain things better to you. She can tell me about her cheese being stolen? She can tell you whatever you need to know. And tell me, if I decide to run the risk of this woman stealing my cheese and employ her anyway, will you and the other guards let me bring her in or will you bar the way with rifles? They’re shotguns. OK, with shotguns, then. No, we can’t prevent you from bringing in whoever you’d like to work in your house, because of free circulation and the right to work; this is merely a piece of friendly advice from Señora Campolongo to her neighbours. A courtesy. Yes, a courtesy. How kind. Yes. Where shall I sign? Sign what? The authorization to work. So you are authorizing this woman’s entry? Yes; I don’t really like cheese, you see. I understand, says the security officer, and then says nothing more. Nurit goes out with the signed permit and hands it to the woman. Here you are, she says, and they start walking. After a few yards she stops, looks at her and says: I’m going to ask you something, and whether I let you work in my house or not depends on your answer, so think about it carefully. Did you steal a wheel of cheese from Señora Campolongo’s house? The woman looks at her. Be careful how you answer, Nurit warns her again, looking at her hard. The woman holds her gaze without saying anything. She waits. Well? says Nurit, moving her head in an invitation to speak. Finally the woman says: Yes, I took the cheese. Nurit waits for a moment in silence then says, OK. OK? Yes, OK, you’re hired, she says, and starts walking. If you feel the need to take anything from my house, let me know and I’ll decide whether or not you can take it, agreed? Agreed, says the woman, but she seems to fall behind, as though this exchange had distracted her from the natural action of walking. Come on, hurry up, because people are about to arrive at my house and I haven’t sorted out the kitchen yet. The woman catches her up and they walk in silence for a while until Anabella López says: And it wasn’t a whole cheese, just a half. A half cheese, that’s all. That fat cow ate the other half. Which fat cow? asks Nurit. That fat cow Campolongo, says the woman.

  They walk the rest of the way in silence.

  12

  First to arrive at La Maravillosa’s entry gate are Carmen Terrada and Paula Sibona. Somebody calls from the gatehouse for Nurit to authorize their entry. Ten minutes later the women step out of Paula’s Ford Ka in front of the house where Nurit Iscar has taken up residence at Lorenzo Rinaldi’s request. That entry procedure’s more rigorous than a medical check-up, says Paula. All that’s missing is a cervical smear test. Don’t give them ideas, says Nurit. By the way, that journalist who works on the Crime desk at El Tribuno is coming too – you don’t mind, do you? Not at all; I’d love to meet Jaime Brena, says Carmen. No, it’s not Jaime Brena, it’s a young guy, someone I’ve only met recently. Brena’s moved to another section, Nurit explains. Which section? Carmen asks. Jaime Brena was the best Crime correspondent left. I prefer Zippo, Paula interjects. You prefer Zippo because he’s dark and hairy, but Brena’s the better writer, says Carmen. Yes, Nurit agrees. You read his articles and it’s like reading a story. How strange that they moved him – which section is he in now? Carmen asks. No idea, but I’ll find out, says Nurit and, changing the subject: I didn’t have the energy for an asado, so I’ve bought some empanadas and I asked Anabella to make some salads. Who’s Anabella? The lady who’s helping me in the house. Swimming pool and domestic help on the weekends – what luxury, says Paula. Where can I get changed into my costume?