Ten minutes later the boy is parking the car at a street corner across the road from the bar where they have agreed to meet Roberto Gandolfini. Jaime Brena gets out and the others wait for him inside the car as agreed. Brena crosses the road and, before going into the bar, stops at a kiosk to buy cigarettes. The Crime boy follows him with his eyes, which then come naturally to rest on the face of Karina Vives. She notices and smiles, and he feels like someone caught spying through a keyhole. To cover his awkwardness, he feels compelled to say something: Your eyes look very irritated. This is an observation he regrets as soon as Karina explains: I haven’t stopped crying since last night. Now the boy’s even less sure what to say. Being in such a small and as inevitably intimate a space as a car can only make matters worse. She’s the first to break the silence: Don’t you guys ever cry? Us guys? You men. The boy says nothing, but makes a gesture with his mouth that could be interpreted as a hesitant “no” or “occasionally” or “some of us may cry, but not me”. But he doesn’t say any of that, limiting himself to the gesture. So what do you do when you feel bad? Karina wants to know. We surf the Web, chat rooms, Facebook, Twitter, all that. I asked someone the same question a while ago and he said: We lie in bed, zapping through the TV channels. You must have been asking someone from another generation, an older guy, right? So the technology that stands in for men’s tears depends on the generation, Karina says. Yes, the boy answers. But whether young or old, they never actually cry, she persists. The boy makes an ambivalent gesture and turns on the radio in hopes of putting an end to this uncomfortable exchange.
As the boy is tuning into some song that, while not much to his taste, will allow him to say nothing and pretend to be listening, Jaime Brena is entering the bar. He looks around him, trying to work out if any of the people sitting at tables may be Roberto Gandolfini. He sees two couples, a woman with her children, a young man – almost as young as the Crime boy – and a woman of about fifty crying beside a window. This is no time for gallantry, he thinks; he’s had enough of crying women for one Sunday afternoon. Irina wasn’t much given to crying: she preferred shouting, and tears would only spring into her eyes sometimes after a lot of shouting – tears of rage, mind you. Why would he think of Irina now? Why does he think of her every so often, especially on a Sunday afternoon? Jaime Brena picks a table close to the door. He glances around him again. Nothing. Then a man comes out of the toilet, talking on the phone, and sits down at another table diagonally opposite Brena’s. He says something like “OK, so I don’t need to worry? One last push and we’re done.” Jaime Brena catches only a few syllables, guessing the rest from reading his lips. Brena watches him. He’s a short man in his fifties, perhaps a little too young to be Gandolfini’s brother. The man snaps his phone shut and plays with it on the tabletop, spinning it one way and then the other. He’s wearing glasses and his clothes are expensive: good quality but rather old-fashioned. High-waisted trousers, the shirt buttoned up to the top, classic moccasins and a beige twill jacket. Under Jaime Brena’s scrutiny the man appears nervous, anxious even. Now he takes some photographs out of a brown manila envelope and looks through them one by one. Is it him? Brena wonders. It must be. That face looks familiar. But Jaime Brena doesn’t know what either Gandolfini looks like – neither the dead brother nor the living one – so if he does recognize him it must be from somewhere else. The man looks at his watch and fans the photographs in front of him as though to cool himself. Jaime Brena is increasingly persuaded that the man sitting diagonally to him is the one he’s here to meet, but he bides his time, watching him and studying his movements. This wait, he soon realizes, is agonizing for the man. So much so that finally he stands up, looks around him and says, almost shouting: I’m Roberto Gandolfini; is anyone here to meet me? Everyone – customers, waiters, the cashier – looks at him as if he were mad and now they’re on their guard, caught in mid-action, alert to what this nutter may do next. Everyone except Jaime Brena, who also stands up and says: Yes, I am. And he walks towards the man’s table. May I sit down? he asks. Yes, of course, take a seat, says Gandolfini, and normality prevails in the bar once more. Hurriedly he shuffles the photographs back into the envelope, perhaps still undecided whether or not to show them to a stranger. What would you like to drink? he asks, and Jaime Brena says: A milky coffee. The man says: I’ll have the same, and then smiles, waiting for Brena to say something else. Thanks for coming, Brena adds. No, on the contrary, Gandolfini replies. I’m grateful for an opportunity to talk to someone about my brother; it was all so quick, so unexpected. Well, what accident isn’t? Brena says. The man surveys him in silence for a few seconds and only after an uncomfortable pause asks: But you weren’t at school with him, were you? I don’t remember your surname (it’s the Crime boy’s surname, not that Gandolfini knows that). No, I wasn’t at school with them; I met them on the school-leavers’ trip and then I stayed in touch for a while. Not with the whole class, just that particular group – Chazarreta, Collazo, your brother. The famous Chazarreta, Gandolfini says. The famous Chazarreta, that’s right, says Jaime Brena, feeling his way. In that case we must also have met back then, Gandolfini says. No kidding? I was that horrible brat who tagged along everywhere with them. Don’t you remember? Even on the school-leavers’ trip. One of my mother’s crazy ideas. She said that everything my brother did I must do too, to be fair; can you believe it? She had a rather peculiar concept of justice. Sometimes mothers try so hard to get things right they get them wrong. Can you imagine how pissed off my brother was with me? Gandolfini says, and laughs. They send him on his end-of-school trip with a little brother and a nanny to look after him. Quite a woman my mother was, quite a woman. The man stops, staring at his hands, as though looking at them helped him to remember. Brena says: I was very sorry to hear about your brother. Gandolfini makes a sad face, a strange, melancholic smile, and nods his head. Yes, it was a terrible accident. It was raining and my brother loved driving fast, you know? Somehow we all knew that one day that would be the death of him. Gandolfini takes out the photographs again and this time he does show them to Brena. The first, top of the pile, Brena suspects is similar to the one missing from Pedro Chazarreta’s photo frame: it’s of six friends, in a mountain setting, most likely Bariloche, holding the flag of their school: San Jerónimo Mártir. Brena’s seen this photograph somewhere else, he’s sure of it. Or is it déjà vu? Little Ranch, says Jaime Brena, with the photograph in his hand. I never knew why they called themselves that. The man stares down at the image, inverted from where he’s sitting. Then you were lucky, Gandolfini laughs. I don’t understand, says Brena. Nothing, just a joke, the man says, and resumes his melancholic smile. Brena waits. They called themselves Little Ranch because it was at the Chazarretas’ farm that they held their initiation ceremonies. Initiation ceremonies? says Jaime Brena. You know, those things kids do when someone comes into the gang, a new member. Joining rituals, says Gandolfini, trials that you had to undertake, that kind of thing. I don’t remember it very well; it’s such a long time ago. You were part of the group? Brena asks. Of which group? Little Ranch. Oh no, no, they didn’t let me into that one. They said I was too young. I went everywhere with them like a ball and chain, a tax on my brother’s freedom to go out, but they didn’t include me in anything; although they did use me as an errand boy whenever they could. My brother was nearly ten years older than me. And we didn’t have the same mother. My father had been a widower when he married my mother, then some time later they had me. So we had the same father but a different mother. Half-brothers. I see, Jaime Brena says. They are silent again for a moment, openly observing one another. Brena is wondering where he knows this man from, but Gandolfini is the first to ask the question. You look familiar to me, he says. Could we have met before? Well, Jaime Brena says, tackling the question head-on to avert suspicion, some people say I look like a journalist from El Tribuno; people have even stopped me in the street because they think I’m him. Ah, yes, that’s it. You look like Jaime Brena. Jaime Br
ena, that’s the one. And is there somewhere I might know you from, Señor Gandolfini? I’m in business development. We start up companies, get them running, and then we sell them on. We also do feasibility studies, analysis of national and international markets, future trend studies, that kind of thing. We do a lot of consulting work for big economic groups, even for a few politicians, so I’ve often been on television programmes or news reports where they ask me to speak about some aspect of my expertise, says the man, adding with undisguised pride: I’m the go-to man on several areas in this country. Especially relating to economic matters, you know? Yes, yes, now that you say it I think I’ve seen you on some show on cable. Very likely. The men are silent again for a moment, then Gandolfini gets to the point: Why don’t you ask me those questions you sent to my son, now you’ve got me in front of you? OK, though really it wasn’t so much that I wanted to ask questions as that I wanted to get back in touch with that group of friends from my youth, find out what became of them. All the stuff that happened – first with Chazarreta’s wife and then with him – have brought my memories of that time flooding back. The man observes him with an expression that’s accommodating but also penetrating, and then he says: Yes, the death of Chazarreta’s wife brought us all together again; at the time of her death we hadn’t seen each other for a while. Or I at least hadn’t seen the others for a while. I saw my brother, of course. Not as often as we used to, because of our respective commitments, but we were in touch, we kept up with each other’s news, we were a family. But not the others. And then there were the other deaths, one tragedy after another. The man breaks off for a moment and stares down at his hands again. Jaime Brena watches him; time passes and it’s as though Gandolfini has no awareness of the length of time he’s been in this attitude, silently staring at his hands. Finally he says: Fate is a strange thing, isn’t it? Yes, Brena nods; then he points to the photograph and says: Out of six friends, three are dead. The man corrects him: Not three, four are dead. The remark stuns Jaime Brena. What do you mean, four? Gandolfini picks up the photograph and points to each of its subjects: My brother in a car accident, Chazarreta apparently murdered, Bengoechea in a stupid fall while he was skiing and Marcos Miranda (he points to the tallest man in the group of friends), who’s just died in the United States in one of those absurd attacks where a guy goes crazy and shoots some random person coming out of a supermarket pushing a shopping trolley. So another of the friends has just died? Yes, Marcos Miranda, a couple of hours ago. I saw it by chance on CNN. An Argentine who had lived in New Jersey for years and was the CEO of an important bank. You haven’t heard anything about it? No, Brena replies. You will for sure; it’ll be in all the papers. It’s one of those stories everyone gets on to. Luckily only a couple of people were injured, and not seriously. There are a lot of mad people around these days. Yes, a lot of mad people, says Brena, still stunned by the news. So the only two friends still living are Luis Collazo and… What was the other one called? His name’s slipped my mind, Brena lies. Gandolfini looks at him, scratches his head as though that might help him to remember, looks at him again and then says: Vicente Gardeu? That’s it, Vicente Gardeu, says Brena.
Gandolfini nods his head a few times, as though confirming the fact to himself. And once again the men fall silent, watching one another, appraising each other, but this time Brena senses that Gandolfini’s expression has changed; only slightly, but enough to notice. Gandolfini checks the time on his watch. Well, if there’s nothing else you wanted to ask, he says, and starts putting the photos away. Brena stops him: Not ask, as such, but tell me, is there any chance you could lend me that photograph so that I can make a copy then give it back to you? No, look, it’s one of the very few mementoes of my brother and his friends that I have left, Gandolfini says. It would mean a lot to me, Brena insists. I’d like to have something to remember them by. It’s not a very good photograph, says the man; it’s just a snap. That doesn’t matter. No, I’m sorry, not this photo. If there’s another one you’d like I’ll think about it, but not this one. Gandolfini closes the envelope containing the photographs as though to put an end to the conversation. Then he reaches into an inside pocket of his jacket, takes out a card holder and gives Brena his personal card. If there’s anything I can do for you, this is a more direct way of getting in touch than via Facebook. OK, thanks very much, says Brena. One last favour – could I take another look at the photograph? The man hesitates before reaching into the envelope and taking out the picture. Jaime Brena studies it as though trying to imprint it on his memory. He’s sure he’s seen this photograph somewhere else. Positive. He curses his memory, which used to let nothing escape but which he feels has been waning for some time. Gandolfini puts out his hand for the photograph and Brena returns it. Thank you, Brena says, and let me pay for the coffees – it’s the least I can do. It seems like a fair deal, agrees the man. Thanks, then, and he leaves.
Jaime Brena watches him through the window. Where has he seen that photograph before? He takes out his pad, crosses out Unknown One and puts in “Marcos Miranda”. Then he crosses out Unknown Two and puts in “Vicente Gardeu”. To the right of Marcos Miranda’s arrow he writes: killed in the US by a gunman. He puts the pad back in his jacket pocket. He thinks of Chazarreta and the other dead men. He thinks of Gloria Echagüe. He thinks of all the work he did on the story of that woman’s death. He thinks of himself, a few years ago, reconstructing that crime, interviewing Chazarreta, putting together reports – even some for television. Television. That’s it, on television – that’s where he’s seen the photograph, on the report that went out not long after Chazarreta had been killed, when they still knew nothing, that report in which he had done a piece to camera, and which ended with a series of photographs of the Chazarreta couple: photos of Gloria Echagüe, photos of Pedro Chazarreta, photos of them both together, photos of when they were young, recent photos. Photos of Gloria Echagüe with friends. Photos of Chazarreta with friends. And other photos, although he doesn’t care about those any more. He only cares about the one in which Chazarreta appears with his friends. He’d be willing to bet that it’s the same photograph. He has to get hold of that tape; if this weren’t a Sunday it would be easy, but if he calls someone now they’ll boot it into Monday. Or even Tuesday. He’s going to mention it to the Crime boy. He must know some magic way to locate it in a corner of the Web. Jaime Brena has no idea where or how, but he has faith in the boy in these matters; a lot of faith.
Betty Boo Page 19
