Purgatory (5 page)

‘I have friends who went to Europe who told me that they have fabulous creams over there that we’ve never even heard of,’ said Chela.

‘They’ll get here. Everything in its own time,
niña
,’ said the president. ‘Argentina used to be cut off from the world but we’re going to open the doors to imports so that our industries learn to compete.’

‘I’d really like to visit Europe,’ said Chela.

‘Who wouldn’t?’ the president’s wife sighed. ‘My dream is to meet the Holy Father; every day, he grows more like Pius XII. He has such a gentle, such an aristocratic manner about him, and such strength of character.’

The monsignor brought his hands together and raised his eyes to heaven.

‘The Lord never fails those who love Him. Your dream will come true sooner than you think; plans for just such a trip are already well advanced.’

‘Every night, I pray to God to keep the Holy Father healthy. Once we’ve dealt with the extremists, the first thing we’ll do is go to Rome to give thanks. But just now we can’t go anywhere. We have to look after our home.’

Dinner was served and the monsignor, seated at the head of the table, said grace. He prayed for a swift victory for the nation’s armies and, his beatific smile almost caressing the president, intoned: ‘Through me, and through the arm of our
comandante
Our Lord Jesus Christ, bless the process of national purification which makes it possible for us to eat in peace.’

‘Amen,’ said the president. He lifted his untouched glass of champagne. Everyone else did likewise. ‘To peace.’

For a while, no one spoke. The president’s wife praised the asparagus soufflé and the spider crab which Dr Dupuy had had shipped all the way from Tierra del Fuego. The chaplain accepted a second helping and, eyes half closed, savoured the food.

‘Congratulations, my dear doctor. This is delicious.’

Dupuy accepted the compliment with a chilly smile and turned to the president.

‘Did you have a good day, señor?’

He made a small gesture which the waiters immediately understood. They were to serve another round of Dom Perignon. Though in private, Dupuy addressed the president informally, he was careful to observe protocol when others were present. Behind the president’s display of strength, he knew, the man was sensitive and insecure.

‘I can’t complain. I spent the morning addressing the World Advertising Congress and I’ve rarely heard such an ovation. The business community is thrilled by what’s happening here. They say that in a couple of months we’ve managed to get the subversives on the ropes. We’ve flushed the rats from their nests. We inherited a country in chaos, now we live in an orderly society.’

Ethel felt compelled to intervene.

‘Every night I prayed to God that you and your men would take power quickly. The Argentinian people were horrified to see the country in the clutches of that brainless burlesque dancer
⁶
. We were afraid that by the time you came to power, the country would be in ruins. I’ve been terribly impressed by how quickly you’ve restored order. Even Borges – a man of few words – said how proud he is of the army that saved the country from Communism. I heard him on the radio only a couple of hours ago.’

‘Ah, yes. I had lunch with Borges and a number of the intelligentsia. My advisers invited them so we could discuss cultural matters. Only one of them proved intractable – though it was the one person we least expected – a priest, a certain Father Leonardo Castellani.’

‘I thought he was dead,’ said Dupuy. ‘He must be at least eighty.’

‘Seventy-seven I was told. I see you know the man.’

‘Not really. I’ve read some of his writings. He translated a section of St Thomas Aquinas’
Summa Theologica
and wrote a number of rather good crime novels. He was told that the Jesuits would punish him and indeed he was expelled from the order and sent into reclusion in a monastery in Spain. It was only a few years ago that the Vatican permitted him to say Mass again.’

The president had barely touched his food. He was so thin, the other
comandantes
called him the Eel. It was a nickname that did not displease him. Even as a young cadet, he had been slippery, cold, inscrutable. Though he had not sought it, he had accepted the highest office in the land for the sake of the military. Even now, at the height of his power, he was still an eel, noted for his secrecy, his cunning, his good luck.

‘I had no idea the priest would prove so turbulent. I shall have to rebuke my advisers for inviting him. From the moment I saw him, he did not strike me as a man of God. He has a glass eye. A frozen, cadaverous eye. Over dessert, he had the gall to suggest that I release a former student of his from prison, someone named Conti. He ranted and raved like a man possessed.’

‘He always was possessed,’ Dupuy offered.

‘He started shouting that this student of his was a great writer who had been tortured half to death after his arrest.’

‘My God. What did you tell him?’ This from the wife with the swollen legs.

‘I told him the truth. I told him my government is at war against Communist subversives, but it does not resort to torture or to murder. Professor Addolorato, who was sitting on my right, managed to save the day. “How could you even think of bringing such an outlandish accusation to this table, Father?” he said.’

‘Addolorato is a fine man,’ his wife agreed.

‘You don’t know how grateful I am to him. The priest was about to launch into another diatribe, but Addolorato told him to calm down. “We are all living through troubled times,” he said, “let’s not distract the president with such trifling matters.” ’

Simón stopped eating and, for the first time, joined in the conversation. Dupuy and Ethel were afraid he would say something rash. And indeed he did.

‘Torture,
comandante
, is not a trifling matter, regardless of the ends for which it is employed.’

The president twisted his mouth into an expression of disgust, but it was Dupuy who reprimanded him.

‘This is none of your business, Simón.’

‘This is everyone’s business. I can’t be expected to hold my tongue when a crime is being committed.’

‘Calm down,
hijo
.’

The monsignor raised the index and middle fingers of his right hand as though exorcising Simón. ‘There are things which, though they may seem like crimes, are actually simple justice. You need to understand. The momentary pain of one man, one sinner, can save the lives of hundreds of innocent people. Try to think of it that way.’

‘The question is not one of quantity, Monsignor. As far as I am concerned to torture a single human being is the same as torturing all of them. As I’ve heard it said in the parish church in my town: when they crucified Christ, they crucified all humanity.’

‘You cannot compare the two. There was only one Christ. He was God made flesh.’

‘True, but two thousand years ago, nobody knew that.’

Emilia’s breathing was ragged and she was beginning to sweat. She looked as though she might faint. Everyone turned and she felt embarrassed to be the centre of attention.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, getting to her feet, ‘I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m feeling a little dizzy.’

‘Simón, take her up to her room,’ the father commanded. ‘Give us a moment to compose ourselves.’

‘It’s probably the champagne,’ said Emilia. ‘I don’t drink. I’m not used to it.’

The mother too got up from the table, looking nervous.

‘I’ll just go and see what’s happening.’

The president’s wife smiled, dismissing the episode lightly.

‘Perhaps she’s expecting. Perhaps her little dizzy spell might be considered a godsend—’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Dupuy interrupted, embarrassed. ‘Neither she nor her husband are ready to start a family. I’ve said as much to both of them and they agree.’

‘Babies come without being called,’ the monsignor said. ‘We must respect the will of the Almighty.’

From that point, the dinner began to go downhill and by the time the mother came back with the good news that Emilia was much better and had fallen asleep, there was nothing more to say. Dupuy was left with the unpleasant feeling that the president blamed him for the pall cast by his son-in-law over the evening.

As he was leaving, the monsignor asked Dupuy in confidence whether he had had Simón’s background thoroughly vetted. ‘He’s a member of your family, Doctor, so he can’t be a Commie, though – God forgive me – he talks like one.’

More than once, Dupuy had noticed that his son-in-law made no attempt to keep his irresponsible thoughts to himself. He would have to bring the boy to heel. With things as they were, there was no place for dissidence, for argument. How could Simón not understand that in saving the country from toppling into the abyss, any and all means were acceptable? If it was necessary to torture people to purge the country, then there was nothing to be done but torture them. The sacrificial sufferings of Joan of Arc and of Miguel Servet had served only to make the Church stronger. True, good men sometimes paid for sinners, but such things were inevitable in wartime. The junta could not publicly admit to the summary trials and executions since this would simply allow the enemy to launch into an endless, disruptive debate. The only thing to be done was exterminate the subversives quickly and quietly. If a military leader preferred to take them prisoner and use them as slave labour, so be it, provided he did so in secret. This priest with the glass eye had had the gall to raise the case of a disappeared Christian with the president. Let him bring up the subject as often as he liked. No one would listen to him. Right-thinking people were sick to death of violence. What they wanted was peace and order. The spirit of Argentina which Dupuy wrote about so often in
La República
had risen from the dead, it was sanctified.
Dios, Patria, Hogar
– God, Country, Family – were words which Dupuy believed should be inscribed on the white band of the national flag beneath the Sun of May. He would suggest as much in his next editorial for the magazine. Using the Socratic method which was by now his trademark, he would say: ‘If the Brazilians have forged their democracy with the motto
Ordem e Progresso
, which is emblazoned on their flag, and the United States have the words
In God We Trust
engraved on their banknotes beneath their own protective emblem, why should Argentina not publicly declare that it is founded on three hallowed words: God, Country, Family?’ It would be a timeless lesson which would forestall any onslaught by totalitarian subversives. They do not believe in God, nor in the family, and the country for which they are fighting is Soviet or Castroist rather than Argentinian: a strange country, a Communist country.

Simón disappeared in Tucumán at the beginning of July. The days were mild and the nights frosty. He and Emilia had been sent to Tucumán by the Automobile Club on an easy mission, virtually a holiday. They were to map a ten-kilometre stretch of an invisible route – nothing more than a dotted line on the map – to the south of the province. ‘It’s changed a lot, that province,’ Dupuy told them. ‘Until recently, it was a brutal, feudal place. The subversives had the gall to declare it a free American territory. Can you imagine? Now, it’s a wealthy, peaceful province: there are no more terrorist attacks, no more kidnappings. The kerbs are painted blue and white; everywhere you go, there is order. In less than four months, the military government has worked miracles.’

At Tucumán airport, there was an Automobile Club rental jeep waiting for them. They spent the night at a hotel in the centre of town and at 5 a.m. they started driving south. The early hour, the brittle air, the emptiness of the streets: all these details which seemed so trivial were the first things Emilia would later remember. The shimmer of dew on the fields of sugar cane. The shadows of dogs moving under the street lamps. The tobacco leaves lying lazily in thick mats. Every few kilometres there was a military checkpoint and at every one they had to present their papers and explain why they were going where they were going. They were stopped in Famaillá, Santa Lucía, Monteros, Aguilares, Villa Alberdi. At the checkpoint at La Cocha, a sergeant emerged from the toilets, trousers halfway round his ankles, and barked at his men to check the jeep again. ‘Check under the seats,’ he told the guards. ‘These fucking subversives hide their weapons in a false bottom under the seats.’ ‘We’re cartographers, we’re with the Automobile Club,’ Simón explained. ‘We make maps.’ This made matters worse. They were hustled into a storeroom and subjected to a barrage of meaningless questions. ‘How do we know your papers aren’t forgeries? Why did you rent a jeep instead of a car like anyone else?’ In the corners of the storeroom were piles of corn cobs and rats. They were huge, grey, menacing. To allay the doubts of the guards, Simón sketched the route they were to map, from Los Altos to the banks of the Río El Abra. He explained that most maps omitted landmarks and that the course of Ruta 67 was not accurately mapped. He and his wife were here to rectify these mistakes. ‘There was a plane overflying the area yesterday,’ the sergeant said. ‘It came by twice, flying very low. I suspect they were taking photos. Right now I’m thinking maybe they had something to do with you. That’s how they plan terrorist attacks, spying missions, people who pretend they’re just passing through. Cardologists, natologists, everyone pretending to be something they’re not. Cartologists like you.’