V
She had put on a tailored suit. It wasn’t her favourite form of dress, but every now and then she enjoyed playing the part of a young professional, a secretary or a promising executive. She had managed to get an interview with the lawyer Roberto Palma, Undersecretary of Housing and Planning for the Buenos Aires city government.
It hadn’t been hard to establish that the Iriarte who was said to have negotiated with Vicen’s mother was an advisor to Palma. She had written an email to Rodolfo Corso asking him if the names Rivero, Iriarte and Palma rang a bell from his journalistic investigation into the trafficking of women in Misiones. Rodolfo replied:
Dear Vero,
I see that you are still on the trail of Juan García. It’s a shame that we’re talking about a journalistic investigation and not a game of bingo, because this would be the moment to shout “Full house!” All three men are connected to our friend. Rivero was a second-rate bully with an impressive criminal record (although it’s been cleaned up in the courts – you don’t need me to tell you about Argentine justice). In reality, I don’t know which Rivero you’re referring to, because there were two of them – brothers. That said, both of them were García’s thugs.
Iriarte was practically a kid in those days. A promising mobster. He had one defect: he liked hitting women, and there had been a charge against him that I didn’t manage to check at the time.
The distinguished Dr Palma didn’t work in the municipality but in provincial government. He had some bureaucratic post, I can’t remember what it was. But his main activity was something else. He was García’s defence lawyer in the trial that was brought against him for trafficking women. It went so well for him that he moved part of his operation to Buenos Aires. Now he’s secretary of something or other in the city government.
I hope to see my name in the Acknowledgements when you publish your first collection of reportage.
She had requested an interview with Undersecretary Palma from his press office. When asked to give a reason, she said that she wanted to write a piece on the plan to eradicate the villas. For some time the city government had wanted to be rid of these shanty towns which were occupying land that was worth a fortune. Their intention was to evict the people who lived there and build offices and expensive apartment blocks on those sites. That part of the plan wasn’t being publicized, but it was enough to see who was backing the proposal, and which lobbyists were pressing for it, to guess at the real strategy for that land. Palma had appeared giving interviews in which he boasted about offering the residents of the villa a better quality of life outside it. He was happy to speak to any newspaper or broadcaster. And Verónica, on the pretext of a fast-approaching deadline at Nuestro Tiempo, had managed to get an appointment that same afternoon.
Palma showed her into his enormous office, with views onto the Plaza Mayor and the Casa Rosada, the presidential palace, beyond it. He offered her coffee and Verónica asked instead for a glass of water.
“How are things at Nuestro Tiempo?”
Palma made a couple of observations about the magazine to show that he read it. He was very careful to say that he didn’t share the publication’s ideological line. Verónica began by asking him about his plan to demolish the villas. The undersecretary gave answers that seemed to have been written for a publicity pamphlet. Verónica could have collared him for abuse of cliches, if nothing else. You didn’t have to be a great journalist to spot the flaws in Palma’s plan. It would be enough to be a curious one. But she wasn’t there for that. When she saw that Palma was running out of things to say, she decided to get to the nub of the issue that had brought her to his office.
“Tell me, Dr Palma, what position does Ernesto Iriarte hold in the sub-secretariat?”
The official blinked a few times before answering:
“He’s an advisor to this portfolio.”
“Your advisor.”
“To the sub-secretariat, yes, and to me too. I am the undersecretary.”
Verónica made as if to consult her notes, although she had every figure and name memorized.
“Iriarte offers homes to people in emergency situations.”
“Well, he often acts as a mediator between the families and the sub-secretariat.”
“I understand. But I have a piece of information here that I don’t altogether understand. Apparently he offered a house to Carmen Garamona, from the Villa Oculta.”
“I don’t know about that particular case, but it is part of his foundation. We take people out of the villas and offer them decent homes to live in with their families.”
“Aha. Help me with this, Dr Palma: what seems strange to me is that Señora Gramona would be offered a house in El Chaco as compensation for her son being run over by a train in Haedo.”
“As I said, Verónica, what we do is offer people homes. We have arrangements with different provinces for people who want to go back to their place of origin.”
“A good way of reducing immigration from the interior.”
“It could be taken that way. I don’t see the problem.”
“And, along with homes, you offer cash payments. Because you yourself authorized a payment of seven thousand pesos to this woman.”
“Look, if we take this case by case I think you’ll see that we help people in many ways.”
“I’m sure you’ve helped many families who lost their children under the wheels of trains. I’d almost say that the city government should open an office exclusively for that.”
“I don’t understand what you mean, or what you’re trying to prove. I’m giving serious answers to your questions, even though they seem inconsistent and out of place. Let’s finish this here.”
“Please don’t be annoyed. A couple more questions, and then I promise we’re done.”
Palma’s cheeks were flushed and he had started nervously tapping on the table. He was ready to throw her out of his office, but she thought that she could risk a couple more questions.
“Are you still in touch with the Rivero brothers?”
“I don’t know anybody called Rivero. Your last question, please.”
“No, it’s better if I don’t ask it. I was going to ask if you still see Juan García, but you’re going to tell me that you don’t know him. Have a good day, Dr Palma.”
VI
Those were not the best days of Verónica’s life. She had asked for some days off from the magazine so as not to have to go to the newsroom. Patricia gave her them without asking why. Verónica could have said that she was working day and night on the investigation about children on the railways, but she didn’t even want her boss to call and ask her how it was all going. She had come a long way since first suspecting that the train driver’s suicide concealed something more than a personal drama. She had the name of the chief suspect in running that criminal operation, she had interviewed the man who must be responsible for selecting the children and the man responsible for making witnesses’ and victims’ families “disappear” by removing them from Buenos Aires. If she wanted, she could stop now and write the article. With the wind in her favour she could even have criminal proceedings brought. There was always some investigating judge with an appetite for trouble. But it was unlikely that the justice would go the full distance and condemn these men for the earlier deaths. At most they would be prevented from playing their bloody game. And she wanted to see the murderers and their accomplices behind bars.
There was another reason, however, why Verónica wouldn’t settle for what she had got so far. That was the risk that her discoveries to date were only the tip of the iceberg, that another journalist might come along to put the metaphorical cherry on the investigation. She herself had sometimes jumped on investigations published in other media and managed to find out more. She wasn’t going to let that happen to her.
She had reached an important point in her story, but she didn’t know how to go further. Juan García couldn’t be found anywhere, nor did she have concrete proof of a
nyone’s involvement, not even Rivero’s, and he seemed the most compromised. Palma had alibis which, however wild they seemed, would lead any judge towards a presumption of innocence rather than guilt.
She wanted to concentrate on the investigation, but she couldn’t. She was still brooding on what had happened a few nights back. The fight with Lucio, Pedro’s appearance, and, finally, the priest in her bed. Lucio was the one most on her mind. Perhaps because what had happened with Pedro had surely been more unsettling for him than it was for her. As for Lucio – she thought of him continually. The best thing to do was take the bull by the horns. She sent him a text asking him to call. It was exasperating, this business of having to wait to talk until he wasn’t with his wife. She wouldn’t be the one to break the agreement, although she felt like calling him, even calling him at home. She had had his telephone number since before they became lovers, since Carina, the sister of his dead co-worker, had given it to him. At that time, when she had called the house and his wife had answered, Verónica hadn’t felt able to speak to her. If she rang again, would she dare to ask for Lucio? This time, she didn’t even get as far as dialling the number.
After several failed attempts at communication, they managed to speak and arranged to meet the next morning in a cafe. A change of scene was called for. When she arrived at the bar, Lucio was already there. Seeing him calmly standing there, without the phantom of sex, or the desire for it lurking around them, stirred a tenderness in her that she had not felt in their previous encounters. She couldn’t forget, though, how Lucio had destroyed any chance of their happiness as a couple. It sickened her.
VII
Call me when you can. Lucio received the text on the way home. At first he thought that it would be better not to answer, but he was curious and wanted to speak to her. He got off the bus a few stops earlier than usual, to be able to talk to her without being overheard. The call went to voicemail. She must be using the line. He rang her back a couple of times more and each time the call went straight to voicemail. He didn’t know what to do. If he got home and she rang him then, he wouldn’t be able to take the call. But he also didn’t like the idea of switching his mobile off until the next day. He decided to wait on a street corner until his phone rang. Ten minutes later he got another text: Can I call you? He dialled her number and she answered.
“How are you?” Verónica’s voice sounded relaxed, warm. Very far from the tone of their last exchange. Perhaps she was ashamed, or just tired.
“I’m OK – and you?”
“Hurting.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“It’s bad. Lucio, I need to see you. I think that, after what happened, we should talk.”
They arranged to meet in a bar on the block where Calle Boulogne Sur Mer crossed Avenida Corrientes, not in La Perla, their usual meeting place. They needed somewhere neutral, free of memories that might intrude on the conversation. A meeting over coffee, not alcohol, alternately watching or ignoring the people who walked past on the avenue, with the only background music an espresso machine and the glare of a television screen as decoration.
Verónica drank her coffee unsweetened, but she still picked up a spoon and stirred it. He had noticed this habit in her soon after they first met, but for some reason he had never felt able to ask her why she did it.
“I can’t bear to carry on being hurt by you,” Verónica said, staring at the circles made by her spoon in the cup.
Lucio was taken aback.
“I’m hurting you? Look” – he pointed to his cut cheekbone and showed her his fingers with the lacerations still visible from the last night they had spent together. Verónica considered them dispassionately.
“That’s nothing compared to the injury done to me by our relationship.”
Was there any point in going over the details? In saying that she had started this? In reminding her of all the times she had seemed like someone carrying a branding iron with which to mark his body or mind? In recognizing that he also took pleasure in her suffering, that he wasn’t prepared to be generous to her? All those words were superfluous, and yet they were still talking.
“I don’t know, Lucio, I’m tired of this. The other night ended up a bit of a disaster. I don’t know any more what I can tell you and what I can’t – but I’ll tell you anyway. That night I ended up sleeping with another guy.”
Lucio felt a void open in his stomach, like an implosion of his organs. He didn’t want to pick up his coffee cup for fear that his fury would make his hand shake and that she would notice. With as neutral a voice as he could manage, he said:
“You’re a big girl. Do whatever you like. Just don’t tell me.”
Verónica was doubtless trying to find ways to hurt him. She couldn’t resist the pleasure of causing him pain.
“This seriously was a disaster. The guy was a priest. Or is a priest. I don’t know if he’s already cast off his robes by now.”
Lucio laughed. Verónica was mocking him. What would she invent next?
“All that’s missing now is for you to tell me that your period’s late.”
“Don’t be an idiot. If it was late I’d never tell you.” Verónica checked the time on her phone and got up. “It’s probably best if we don’t see each other any more.”
She picked up her phone and her bag and left. Lucio asked the waiter for another coffee.
VIII
For three days she stayed locked in her apartment. She didn’t even go out to buy food but made do with what she found in the fridge, the freezer or the cupboard, which was never much, because she didn’t like doing a weekly shop. She had decided not to take calls even from her friends. But when Pedro called she did answer, thinking that perhaps he had found out something new about Vicen. Very quickly she discovered that Pedro wanted to talk about his problems, about the challenges he faced. Verónica kept up her side of the conversation and tried to be encouraging, but she didn’t invite him to the apartment, nor did he suggest they see each other. Pedro called twice more. The third time she told him that she too was going through a difficult time, personally and professionally, and that she felt unable to help him. That his problem was too much for her and that she couldn’t do anything except urge him to live the life he wanted.
During those days, Marcelo, the building’s doorman, had cause to worry about her again. He had knocked on her door a couple of times and offered to do some shopping for her or any other job she needed. He was so kind and unconditional that he was the only person to whom she gave any kind of explanation.
“I’ve got a few problems, but nothing so serious that you won’t see me out and about again in a few days, back to my usual bouncy self. If I need something I swear I’ll call you.”
Later, when the phone rang and she saw that it said CALLER UNKNOWN, she thought it would be Pedro again, coming to park his theological hell at her door. Better not to answer. The telephone rang again, a second and third time. What if it wasn’t Pedro?
“Hello, I’m Rafael. You interviewed me at Spring Breezes.”
Verónica, who had been sitting at her computer, stood up when she heard Rafael’s voice.
“I need help. The club coach, Rivero, is bad news. I reported him and nearly got killed. I’ve got nowhere to go.”
“Where are you, so I can come and get you?”
Rafael gave her the address. In less than five minutes Verónica was in the street trying to hail a taxi. In half an hour she had arrived at the destination. The address corresponded to a Chinese supermarket. She asked the taxi driver to wait – they would be returning to Villa Crespo in a few minutes. She went into the supermarket and walked up to the till, where a Chinese woman was standing. With some incredulity she said:
“I’m looking for Rafael. Is he here?”
The Chinese woman shouted to someone in her language. A man peered around a door at the back of the supermarket. Then the same man appeared, this time accompanied by Rafael. His face was badly bruised and he walked with
difficulty. It was no exaggeration to say that they had almost killed him.
“Julián is my friend,” Rafael told her, indicating the Chinese man standing next to him. “But I can’t put him at risk by staying here any longer. And I can’t go back to the hostel because that was where they went looking for me.”
As far as Verónica could see, Rafael didn’t even have a bag with some things in it. It was just him, and no luggage. She gently squeezed his arm.
“I’m going to take you somewhere safe. You’re coming with me to my apartment.”
15 Leaving my Heart
I
Rafael really didn’t look good. Without even asking him, Verónica made the decision to call a doctor while they were still in the taxi. A female doctor, in fact: her sister Daniela. She told her that it was a long story that would take time to explain, but that she had someone at home who had been badly beaten up. Could she come and see him? Daniela agreed somewhat grudgingly, saying that three o’clock that afternoon was the earliest she could come.
When they arrived at the apartment, Verónica told Rafael the truth about her investigation: that the article about neighbourhood clubs was a ruse to get to people like Rivero.
“As soon as I saw you, I could tell you had nothing to do with it. That’s why I gave you my card, because I was hoping that at some point you would get in touch.”
Rafael told her that he had found out that Rivero was organizing the contests on the railway tracks. That he had suspected something strange was going on for a long time, that he had only recently been able to confirm his suspicions when one of the boys told him what was happening. That he was sure Vicen had died in the contest, because the boy who had told him had been with Vicen on the Sarmiento line that night.
Verónica made him repeat everything several times. She didn’t want to subject his claims to a police-style interrogation, but she needed to be sure Rafael had not misconstrued something or forgotten an important detail.
Rafael also told her about what had happened in the police station when he went to report a crime and how Julián had saved him that night.
The Fragility of Bodies Page 25
