What happened, Dandy? I thought you retired. What’s up with you, Perro? As you see, visiting my old friends in trouble. I’ve got a lawyer. I know, but have I ever touched you? I just want to talk. I don’t have nothing to say. Who’re you working with, Dandy? Mickey Mouse. Not Miranda the Mole, by any chance? Mole’s in jail. Don’t bullshit me, Dandy, he just got out. You don’t say? I hadn’t heard.
Dandy seems to be speaking in slow motion, and it seems like he’s about to start to cry. He tries to hide the tremor in his hands by pressing them together, but it doesn’t work. Lascano nods at Sansone and they walk out of the cell.
Do me a favour. What? Go to the storeroom and ask them to give you a little boric acid. What’s that? It’s a chemical they use to kill cockroaches. What do you want it for? If you want a canary to sing, you’ve got to give him his favourite birdseed. How much do you need? Not much, a handful. You’re not going to poison him, are you? Not to worry.
A few minutes later Sansone returns and hands Lascano a little paper envelope filled with white powder.
Do you smoke, Sansone? Don’t even mention it, I quit a year ago. How about the sergeant? Let’s ask.
They take a few steps over to the officer, who’s dozing at his desk.
Hey, Medina, do you smoke? Yes, sir. Do you mind showing me your pack of cigarettes?
Medina takes a pack of half-crushed Particulares out of his jacket pocket and hands it to Lascano, who empties the contents out onto the desk. The two policemen watch him, intrigued. Perro pulls out the foil, puts it aside and returns the cigarettes to the box. He shakes out the foil and brushes off all traces of tobacco with his hand. He smoothes it out on the edge of the desk, blows on it, lays it down with the foil side facing up and pours some of the boric acid into it. He folds the paper carefully, fashioning a small envelope. He thanks the sergeant, motions to the deputy superintendent and they return to the cell. Lascano sits down in front of Dandy; Sansone sits to one side and watches. The prisoner’s eyes are irresistibly drawn to the little envelope on the table. He squirms in his chair. Lascano opens the envelope, just enough to give him a glimpse of the white powder.
I brought you some candy. Wouldn’t a snort right about now be nice, Dandy? Don’t fuck with me, Lascano. I’m not. I’m making you a business proposition. What? You give me information and I give you a little blow. You give me nothing and I snort it all myself. I’m not selling out to nobody…
Dandy’s entire body betrays the urgency he feels for the coke. Nothing would feel better right now than sucking that anaesthetic in through his nostrils. Lascano observes him carefully — the prisoner has eyes only for the powder — takes a shiny new banknote out of his pocket and begins to roll it into a straw. Dandy starts to get desperate as Perro takes out the card Fermin gave him at the bank and traces two equal and parallel lines of powder on the foil.
I’m not giving nobody away, understand, Perro? But Dandy, I’m not asking you to say anything. I’m just going to ask you a few questions and you’re just going to answer me with your head, yes or no.
Dandy looks at him and nods. Lascano smiles.
Mole planned the whole thing, right?… Very good, Dandy, that’s the way. He ran off with the money, right?… We’re doing great, any minute now you’ll win the lottery, but now you’re going to have to make a big effort. Where’s Mole hiding?… You’re not going to say? Okay, watch me, I’m taking away the stuff, Dandy… Give me the name of a place. Haedo… A street. I don’t know. You’re going to lose it. I told you everything I know. Anything else?…
Lascano doesn’t need to know anything else and Dandy doesn’t have any more information. As Lascano stands up, he pretends to stumble and drops the envelope. The white powder flies through the air, falling slowly to the ground in front of Dandy’s desperate eyes. Lascano doesn’t realize he’s left Fermin’s card on the table.
As they walk away down the corridor, they hear Dandy’s shouts, cursing Lascano and demanding vengeance, echoing against the walls. The noise stops the second the sergeant goes to the cell and opens the door.
Still laughing, Sansone and Perro leave the building together and walk down Entre Rios toward the House of Congress.
Oh, before I forget, Pereyra is looking for you. Who? Pereyra. I don’t know him. He’s the prosecutor in the Third Court. A young guy. Do you know what he wants? He’s working on an old case of yours. He said the name… but I can’t remember it. Give him a call. Did you say the Third? Yeah, the Third.
At Rivadavia, they each go their separate ways. Lascano continues along Callao, the name Haedo still echoing in his head. He now remembers that’s where Eva’s parents lived.
The envelope keeps Lascano’s chest warm. Until a few hours ago he was alone, aimless and broke. Now he has three grand, a job — to find Miranda the Mole — and a desire — to find Eva. He feels that life is beginning to take a turn in the right direction, that just maybe all the setbacks and bad luck are moving to one side and a luckier season is about to begin. It’s odd, but he feels optimistic, which is much easier to do when you have three grand in your pocket. But that feeling summons another, which leads him to a rather shady locale in a run-down shopping arcade on Calle Bartolome Mitre, where you can purchase a gun, no questions asked, as long as you know how to ask for it.
16
Lascano spends the whole night compiling all the bits and pieces of information about Miranda he has stashed away in his memory. He was in charge of the investigation that led to his arrest. Mole got off with a light sentence because he’s one crook who doesn’t scrimp on lawyers. He’s astute and intelligent but, unfortunately, devoted to crime. He’s always dreamt of convincing him to work for the police. A mind like his would be an enormous boon because you have to think like a criminal if you want to capture one.
The things that matter to a man tend to remain the same, despite time and experience. And if there’s one thing that matters to Miranda, it’s his family. His wife and son. As far as Lascano knows, she has nothing to do with his criminal activities. She’s a “native beauty”, the girl next door — though not such a girl any longer — who had the misfortune to fall in love with a crook. But she’s nobody’s fool: several times she managed to shake off a policeman who was tailing her to get to Miranda. The son must be about twenty by now. Too bad he doesn’t have any contacts to find out what the kid is up to. He remembers spending days and days watching the house, which is what he plans to do again now.
A little before dawn Lascano stations himself in the doorway of a house on Pasaje El Lazo. From there he has a good view of the front door as well as the back, which Miranda could easily come and go through. Miranda’s house is silent and still. The neighbourhood slowly begins to come to life. A Falcon carrying three plainclothes cops turns the corner at Cuenca. Perro immediately recognizes one of them: it’s Flores, one of the most corrupt and bloodthirsty superintendents of the Federal Police. Lascano knows that his presence there is no coincidence. Flores has the same idea he has, except Flores is not going to waste time following the son and hoping he’ll lead him to Mole, as Lascano was planning to do. He’ll surely take a much more expeditious route, like, for example, kidnapping him and demanding Mole in exchange. Perro’s brain kicks into high gear. He starts walking away quickly while digging around in his pockets for a coin. As soon as he’s out of sight of the Falcon, he jogs to Jonte. El Quitapenas is raising its metal curtain. He dashes in, rushes to find the telephone, picks up the receiver and dials information.
Please, the number for Channel Nine…
A recorded voice recites the number, one digit at a time. He hangs up, cradles the phone between his shoulder and his ear and inserts another coin into the slot, repeating the number to himself as if it were a mantra. He dials.
… The news department, please…
It seems an eternity before they answer.
Come on, come on…
It rings six or seven times, then finally a young voice answers.
Listen, there’s been a shootout here in Paternal… Thousands of shots… I think there are piles of dead bodies… I’ll give you the address… Write it down, 2049 Cuenca… Half a block from the corner of Cuenca and Jonte… Yes… Is there some kind of… reward?… Jorge Lopez… That’s fine, when the van gets here I’ll tell them who I am… You’re welcome.
He hangs up, then dials the police. A woman answers immediately. Trying to sound arrogant and intimidating, like a lordly landowner, he spits his words out like a machine gun.
Hello… This is Judge Fernandez Retamar of the Second Criminal Court… Let’s see, I want to report an assault occurring at this very moment at a private residence… No, I’m in the street… It’s a residence… Cuenca and El Lazo… There are three men stationed outside in the alleyway in a grey Falcon… I didn’t notice… They’re armed… Send people immediately… I’ll wait here for you… Agreed… Step on it…
Lascano returns at a fast clip to Miranda’s house but keeps walking past it at least a few yards. Everything remains calm. One of the cops stands guard, next to the Falcon, the other two are still sitting inside. He sits down on the front steps of an Italian-style house. Lascano doesn’t have to wait long. Two squad cars, blasting their sirens, enter the alleyway in the wrong direction and two others block the other end of the street. The car doors open and twelve uniformed police officers get out, their pistols, machine guns and rifles drawn, and crouch down behind their cars. The inspector, talking through a megaphone, orders the men in Flores’s car to come out with their hands up. They register a moment of shock and confusion. The order is repeated through the megaphone. Several neighbours look out their windows. The shutters over the window in Miranda’s house open and Susana looks out. Flores and the other cop descend from the Falcon and slowly lift their arms over their heads. Flores shouts that they are policemen. In response, they’re told to get on the ground face down. They look at each other: they have no choice but to obey. Lascano stands up. A news van from Channel Nine arrives and brakes abruptly. Susana opens the front door, looking sick with worry. A reporter walks up to her, straightening out his tie and fixing his hair. A cameraman follows behind, shooting the scene. The uniformed officers, their fingers on their triggers, cautiously approach the men on the ground. Susana walks to the corner and tries to see who the men are. A sergeant goes up to her and takes her by the arm; she shakes him off with an indignant gesture. Flores is already standing up, angrily brushing off his suit. The inspector desperately tries to explain. Lascano smiles. Susana turns on her heels and heads for her front door, where her son has appeared. Flores seems about to levitate from rage; he motions to his men; they get in the Falcon and leave. The inspector guestures to the squad cars to let him through. Relieved, the twelve policemen return to their squad cars and leave. The reporter pats his hair into place as the cameraman returns to the van and sits down in the back seat. Lascano turns to look at Miranda’s house. Leaning against the door frame, Susana, still and serious, is watching him. Perro slowly crosses the street toward her.
Mrs Miranda, I am… I know exactly who you are.
Her interruption was abrupt and bitter. Lascano opens his arms in a conciliatory gesture; she starts to close the door.
Wait. What do you want, Lascano? I’m the one who organized this whole to-do. What are you saying, that I should give you a medal? Listen to me for a second, please. I’m listening. I concocted this whole thing to stop them from kidnapping you, your son or both of you. What are you talking about? I was watching your house when I saw Flores and the other two in the alley. Who’s Flores? Ask your husband when you see him. Those guys are after the money Mole stole. And they wouldn’t think twice about using any means to get it. And you, what’s your game? You just happened to be walking through the neighbourhood? No, I’m looking for your husband. He doesn’t come here, get that through your head. That’s fine, please allow me to give you some advice. Is it absolutely necessary? I think so. Out with it. Leave your house for a few days, those people are very dangerous and you can be sure they’ll be back. Thank you, I’ll keep it in mind.
The woman shuts the door in his face. Lascano feels a sharp stab in his chest and can’t breathe. He stumbles, his head knocks against the door and he falls to the ground. Susana opens the door and sees him crumpled up at her feet. Fernando looks at him, frightened, and bends down to help him up.
Are you okay?
Perro loosens his tie and feels the air beginning to flow back into his lungs. He’s drenched in sweat. Susana disappears and an instant later returns with a glass of water and a wicker chair. Lascano rejects the chair and accepts the water. He takes tiny sips. His breath is still laboured but he’s starting to recover.
Are you better? Yes, it’s passing, I apologize. Would you like me to call a doctor? No, it’s not necessary. Are you sure?
He nods. His vision has cleared up.
Don’t take lightly what I told you. Those people are dangerous. It’s okay, don’t worry. Another thing. What? Tell your husband what happened and that I’m looking for him. He knows he’ll be safe with me. If he gets in touch with me I’ll tell him. Good. Do as I say, get out of here now.
17
Sitting in the chaise longue, on that small balcony he built with the wood left over from the house, and which has become the most coveted spot, Fuseli lets the Folha de Sao Paulo drop out of his hands. He takes off his reading glasses and waits for his eyes to adjust to the distance. Soon the beach comes into focus: his woman is lying on a beach towel watching little Victoria build a sand castle with Sebastiao, Leila’s son. The waves, the deserted islet and behind, el mato de la serra that ends just a few yards from the sea at a rugged path of black rocks. Rain clouds rush across the sky. The cachoeira roars above the road. The Brazilian cantiga Leila is humming in the kitchen reaches him through the window as does the scent of the palm oil she uses to make her famous moqueca de camarao. He thinks that life has gotten good in this place. This love he has found is not sewn with the cloth of great passion but has instead been patiently, laboriously embroidered with threads of solitude, stitched with needles of companionship and held together with hooks and eyes of saudades. A tolerant and peaceful love that asks no questions and makes no demands, whose roots are sunk deep in daily life, that has never pretended to be anything more than this day-to-day existence, known to be temporary without this ever creating resentment, and that always had one mission above and beyond all else: to give little Victoria the happiness that he and his woman had been denied. That said, he never stops missing Buenos Aires. It’s a feeling — definitely worthy of a tango — that embarrasses him. He was never drawn to tango music, except the tangos duros of Discepolo, Borges’s milongas or the reas sung by Rivero, but even these, he could take only in homeopathic doses. He thinks the self-congratulatory conceit of the lyrics lacks all trace of modesty. He deplores the facile sentimentalism, the cheap sensationalism and retrograde moralizing, and, to make matters even worse, these are precisely the qualities touted with such pride as its highest virtues. Now, however, he often feels a stab of nostalgia that sounds very much like a bandoneon.
News from Buenos Aires is ambiguous. Alfonsin issues an order for the military commanders to be prosecuted. That photograph of the generals in civilian court — charges against them being read out by a bureaucrat in a grey suit and a bearded young man, treated like common criminals — brought home the fact that this was the first, perhaps the only measure any government has ever taken that has made him happy. But, in the best tradition of the Radical Party, what it wrote with one hand it tried to erase with the other when it passed the Full Stop and Due Obedience laws, an attempt to give impunity to subordinates for the brutal acts they committed with their own hands. As a consequence, nobody was satisfied, neither those demanding justice nor the carapintadas, the military officers who’d staged an uprising against the fledgling democracy. There are constant rumours and fears of uprisings, conspiracies, bad omens. The President insists th
e house is in order, but he himself must have a hard time believing it. Fuseli’s dreams of returning make him want to believe it to be true.
The sky bursts open, releasing a torrent of heavy rain over the jungle, the sea and the beach. His woman gets up, calls to the children, and the three walk slowly back to the house. Here the rain is not an event to take refuge from but rather a fact of life that flows out of the sky with perfect ease. Like darkness. In the tropics night doesn’t fall gently but rather pours onto the scene, like a gigantic bucketful of black water, and although it happens every day it never fails to surprise.
He looks up at the mato, thinks about the amount of life that swarms in among the roots of the sambambaias, that flies, crawls and camouflages itself, that imitates well-trained birds on the heliconias or that treads softly like the oncillas through the leaves of the bananeiras, as big as elephant ears. All that throbbing of pure animality, that urgency to live and reproduce, to kill and die, the entire framework of instincts, scents that mark out territories, eyes like beams, sweet or frenetic howling. All that restiveness drenched with rain. This hot land teeming with thousands of sounds, where our simian ancestors still swing from the branches that, according to Fuseli, we never should have left.
Return. To where? To what? If he returns he’ll have to deal with getting a job. He has a difficult time imagining himself standing in front of a dissecting table, poking around inside cadavers to find the key to their demise, clues that would lead to a possible culprit or free an innocent suspect. Here, he has carved out a niche for himself, a place the locals have generously made available to him. Patients of all kinds come to his clinic, for he is the only doctor in a town without a hospital. In this place he has discovered the joys and the sorrows of working with bodies that are still alive. His work as a coroner was, in many ways, more relaxing. All he had to do was find out what the cadaver was trying to tell him before throwing it away. A dead body is nothing but a bunch of information to investigate, decode, order, systemize and record, but the subject himself is no longer anybody. It has no hopes, neither suffers nor desires anything, it has become an object, a thing already past its due date that is humbly initiating its process of decomposition, its return to the biosphere. It can be examined, studied, packed up and sent off to those who decide where it will go. His interaction with that dead flesh carries no commitment, responsibility or consequences, because its future is already beyond the realm of science. Because the dead force us to face our condition as beings subject to the laws of nature and our powerlessness over death, we are always so quick to hide them away in tombs, mausoleums and graves. They show us what we prefer not to see. The living, on the other hand, demand certainty; they want to be told that the inevitable moment to relinquish their suit of skin and bones has not yet arrived. They desire, feel, suffer; they place their fear, despair and pain, as well as their hopes, at their doctor’s feet; they make him the repository of secrets that will cure them or at least bring some relief. Hope is a fundamental component of the healing process, hence a doctor must act as if he knows, communicate confidence, give comfort and strength to fight against illness, even though the fact is that what he knows is a mere grain of sand in the vast desert of what he doesn’t.
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