The Buenos Aires Quintet (19 page)

‘I love gays! I love gays! I love gays!’ the parrot screeches as it flies round the room whose floor is dotted with brightly coloured cushions. Eventually it lands on the shoulder of a black man.

Beside him is sprawled another man, this one dressed up as an explorer from what must be the end of the seventeenth century, although Raúl has no way of being certain. The black man is also dressed like a caricature from a Romantic print. He strokes the white man’s greying, lank hair affectionately.

‘What scared you – the llama or the parrot?’

‘Señor Honrubia said I should come.’

The explorer laughs and comments to his companion: ‘If Honrubia sent him, you’d better search him for weapons.’

Raúl spreads his legs, lifts his hands in the air, and wearily drops his head to his chest.

‘Don’t bother, Friday. This man’s been searched too often in his life. Can’t you tell?’

The black man had not moved anyway, and now he’s observing the newcomer with a wry smile on his face, while the explorer continues to think aloud.

‘If you’re a friend of Honrubia’s who doesn’t need to be searched, that means you’re one of the losers of the dirty war. Only the losers of that war don’t need to be searched – isn’t that right, Friday?’

‘Yes, Mister Crusoe.’

So they’re playing at being Robinson Crusoe and his faithful servant Friday on a desert island. Guessing they are playing a game to see how he reacts, Raúl overcomes a desire to leave immediately the way he came. Instead he asks permission to sit»on one of the cushions, and the gesture inviting him to do so seems to include the whole room.

‘The idea of private property does not exist in this house. Would you like a glass of llama’s milk? Of cold water? A spliff? You won’t find any Coca Cola or Seven Up here. We only have healthy, anti-imperialist drinks.’

Raúl says he hardly drinks healthy anti-imperialist drinks either, but is curious to know what llama’s milk might taste like.

‘I knew you were going to ask the impossible. Our llama’s just got out, and there’s no way of catching her until feed time. Well, you have our permission to explain why you’re here.’

Raúl quickly sketches in the story of his life and the events around it. He explains the 1977 raid, the disappearance of his daughter, his desperate and useless return to Spain thanks to an over-protective father, the identity crisis he’s been going through over the past few months, his need to find his daughter, and Honrubia’s advice – you should go and see a friend of mine at this address, I can’t tell you his name, but however odd he may seem, he might be able to help you. The explorer has been closely observing all the signals Raúl has been communicating – his gestures, his words, the different tones of voice he has adopted while telling his story. He occasionally looks over to his companion, passing silent messages only they understand, and when Raúl’s speech has finished, Robinson and Friday continue their silent dialogue. It’s broken by the parrot: ‘I love gays! I love gays! I love gays!’

This interruption seems to have broken the spell, because Robinson raises his tall, handsome frame and says to Raúl: ‘There was a time when I was powerful and like all powerful men I surrounded myself with information and files for my own protection. I have kept some of them, although I rarely need them in my new life, which is devoted to finding volunteers to set up a phalanstery on the Malvinas islands. I have to decide whether you are worthy of our help, and not just because you are a troubled man or a distraught father. If you knew me, you’d be aware I’m not a man who feels much sympathy for others. Nor am I ruled by vague emotions such as optimism or pessimism. I am a slave to lucidity. And if my lucidity tells me – help this man, then help him I will. What do you think, Friday?’

‘There’s too much sentiment in his story’

‘It’s true, that’s the weakness, but who is it aimed at? That’s the interesting part.’

Friday appears to have understood, with great admiration, his master’s immense talent for spotting where these things necessarily lead. He agrees wholeheartedly. Robinson exclaims: ‘I’m going to help you, because you and I are both fighting the oligarchy!’

A down-at-heel bar, on Tacuari almost level with Avenida San Juan, the outskirts of central Buenos Aires. Four or five chairs, a few locals, almost no one at the bar, and behind it a tired waiter whose obvious lack of interest is what makes the café so gloomy and disturbs Carvalho, who has an Argentine grappa in front of him but is more interested in a doorway on the far side of the street. He looks at his watch. Twelve midnight. The doorway opens and an indistinct young man steps out, pulling a dog along. Neither of them seem too keen on going out. The young man has fair hair; his looks suggest TB or a prince with genetic defects. He’s young, but everything he wears looks old and sad, especially his shoes. Their age betrays not someone scraping by, but real poverty disguised by too frequent washing. Carvalho wraps some croquettes in tinfoil, pays and leaves the bar. He walks along his own side of the road, at some distance from Mudarra and his dog. The youngster yanks the dog’s lead from time to time, making it dig its heels in even more. Then Canelo pees. And shits. Carvalho crosses the street and pretends to bump into them by chance. Mudarra looks at him with an expressionless face.

‘I could set my watch by you two. Whenever I come out from my meal, you and Canelo appear. He’s called Canelo, isn’t he? Canelo!’ The dog seems very pleased to see Carvalho. ‘There’s a good boy’

He takes the package with the croquettes out of his pocket, and tips them on to the pavement. Canelo pounces on them.

‘He’s already eaten,’ the youngster says hesitantly.

‘Animals eat whatever they’re given.’

Canelo makes short work of the croquettes. Mudarra shows more interest in Carvalho.

‘Where do you know us from?’

‘From seeing you come out every night. Shortly after twelve, always. I’m a regular at the bar over there.’

‘And how do you know my dog’s called Canelo?’

‘Because I’ve heard you call him more than fifty times. But I don’t know your name. The dog never seems to call you.’

‘Mudarra. My name’s Mudarra.’

‘That’s a strange name. Sounds like something out of a medieval epic poem.’

‘Out of what?’

‘One of those medieval Spanish epics.’

‘My father was Spanish. From Navarre, I think.’

Mudarra pulls at Canelo’s lead to continue their walk. Carvalho falls in beside them as if he were headed in the same direction.

‘I love animals. Years ago I had an Alsatian puppy, but it was killed; Bleda was her name. I swore I’d never have another one. It was like betraying her. How’s your mother by the way, has she recovered?’

Mudarra smiles as if he’s trying to conceal the reason for it.

‘So you know about my mother too?’

‘Waiters in bars know everything.’

‘I’ve never been in a bar.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I don’t like them.’

Mudarra hesitates, then returns from his little mental trip.

‘Would you like to meet her? She loves having visitors.’

‘At this time of night?’

‘My mother never sleeps. Nor do I. The only one who sleeps in our house is Canelo here.’

He pulls again at the lead.

‘It’s very late. But some other day I’ll come up. Your mother’s an invalid, like mine was.’

‘Worse, far worse. My mother has always been much more of an invalid than anyone else.’

He tugs again on Canelo’s lead.

‘Listen to me carefully,’ Pascuali says, and his four colleagues do so, especially Vladimiro.

Pascuali reads them the report he’s holding: ‘Confidential. Raid on the Brucker residence. Under cover of night. A group of non-identified individuals dressed as motorcyclists, with their faces practically covered. – Does the motorcyclists bit ring any bells? – Said individuals beat and chloroform the guards at one of the rear gates to the property, and broke into a summerhouse which Señor Honrubia uses to rest and meditate in. Fortunately they did not harm anyone in the summerhouse: that is, they did not harm Señor Honrubia, and so there was only material damage and the assault on the guards. Confidential! Con-fi-den-tial! Not a word to the press. Not a word beyond this department. Confidential!’

Just touching the document appears to excite Pascuali. He takes it and rushes through all the department doors out into a corridor of the National Security Headquarters. He carries on past the astonished gazes of several secretaries until he comes to an obviously important door. He pushes it open, goes in and shuts it behind him. A man who’s too young to believe he can be the head of anything at all is watching a video of the Boca-Independiente match.

‘Hello there, Pascuali. Sorry, but I couldn’t get to the match, or see it on TV. See how they stroke the ball around? There’s a lot of stroking going on, but nobody gives it the final touch. It’s as if Bilardo’s forgotten you need balls to play football. That creep Menotti’s been getting at him. Football as art! Did you read that interview with Valdano the other day? Left-wing football! Passing the ball all round the field, just like your lefties! It’s the right-wing that puts the balls into it! If you ask me, Bilardo’s had a lobotomy. Menotti’s left him brain-dead.’

Suddenly he notices Pascuali is not joining in, and the file in his hand suggests to the head of the service that perhaps he should switch off the video and turn his swivel chair to properly face his subordinate.

‘Thank you, sir, for this confidential information, but it seems to me that this is a clear case of unwarranted interference in an official police investigation being led by this ministry, by your service and by my department.’

The service head lets him talk.

‘If you authorize it, I’ll teach the Captain and his motorcyclists where they belong.’

The service head studies Pascuali, and eventually deigns to speak.

‘You’re not going to teach a thing to the Captain, Pascuali. The Captain was defending the state long before you, and if he got his hands dirty, he wasn’t the only one. Every state needs its sewers and sewer experts, especially a democratic state. What the public side doesn’t want to know is handed to the hidden side. Don’t be so naïve.’

‘But if we keep this kind of parallel police we’ll end up in the same kind of shit as before.’

‘Don’t exaggerate. A democratic state is never completely drowned in shit, but it does exist. Every four or six years it renews its leaders at the polls. What are the ballots? Toilet paper? Well yes, they are that too. Ballot papers can also be used to wipe away shit. You just get on with your own work – you do it very well. Let the Captain and his lads know you’re on to them. But nothing more. They can be a bit – how shall I put it? A bit theatrical. You’ve got nothing theatrical about you, have you? You’re too straight for that.’

At that, he swivels his chair back and switches the video on again. Pascuali mouths increasingly crude but silent curses. His face is a picture of contained indignation, which spills over when he is back in his own office and seated once more in his chair, faced by his four expectant colleagues. He shouts at them to leave, but keeps Vladimiro with him.

‘Stay here, Vladimiro, would you?’

Vladimiro sits in silence, closely observing the emotions struggling to burst out of Pascuali’s lips, cheeks and eyes.

‘Tell me, Vladimiro, the day you became a policeman, did they tell you to leave your balls on the door handle?’

‘Not that I remember.’

‘I thought this was a profession where you had to have balls, but I was wrong. Even I have to make sure I leave my balls on the door handle before I go into a room. So that whenever any asshole politician gives me a kick in the balls for what he calls reasons of state, like Morales our beloved head of service, that idiot covered in masters’ degrees, he will be surprised to find there’s nothing there. D’you understand what I’m saying, Vladimiro?’

‘More or less.’

Vladimiro glances down at his watch, and Pascuali notices.

‘Are you in a hurry?’

‘Yes, to tell you the truth, I am.’

‘A piece of skirt?’

‘Almost. A family
asado.
’

‘Ah!
Asados
are sacred. Be off with you, Vladimiro, and forget what I said.’

‘So what do I do with the balls?’ ‘What balls?’

‘Mine. Do I leave them hanging on the door handle? Or keep them with me?’

Pascuali explodes, and looms over Vladimiro, who backs towards the door.

‘The only one who needs balls around here is me!’

The open back yard of a neighbourhood villa, a villa twelve metres wide and with a hundred years of neglect showing in its iron window grilles and a tiny balcony like something out of the Marx Brothers’
Night at the Opera.
A constantly growing crowd of people, mostly married couples between thirty and fifty years old, with a varied assortment of children, adolescents and relatives; the men looking lost without their ties, the women lost in their necklaces. Some of them are busy around a modest barbecue that has already produced one lot of meat and is now being made ready to grill twice as much again. Sparkling cider is the drink of the day. Others are drinking flat Asturian cider from a barrel. While they wait for the
asado,
everyone is trying the
empanadas
or slices of spicy Spanish sausage prepared by the local Italian butcher. Favila’s ancient wife is trying to make herself useful, struggling against her Parkinson’s and her nieces, grandchildren and children, all of whom want to make her sit down. But she will have none of it, and lurches dangerously around with trays of meat and bottles, although she never drops a thing – no one can remember her ever having dropped anything at all. Her eldest son puts an arm round her shoulders.

‘Mama, why don’t you go and fetch the old man? Tell him we’re all here...even the cop.’

He points to someone – Vladimiro – and everyone laughs.

‘Don’t let anyone ever get the idea of telling Favila Vladimiro is a cop. He thinks he’s a lawyer. Well, he thinks what he wants to think,’ the old woman says.