The Buenos Aires Quintet (26 page)

‘Oligarchy. My, my, Pascuali. You sound like a policeman who believes in the existence of the class war.’

‘I’m not in favour of AIDS, but AIDS exists whether I like it or not.’

The detective speeds up again, to see if Pascuali will follow him, but the inspector drops back, and signals to a nearby car to follow Carvalho.

This must be the ward for the sickest of the sick, so Carvalho finds himself tiptoeing as if to avoid having to feel too much pity. The doctor he is following appears to be sleepwalking, but his sleepiness is rapidly transformed into nervous energy once he is on his own with Carvalho in the hospital office.

‘I must warn you that my friendship with Raúl Tourón and his wife Berta, may she rest in peace, was never political. And I have no intention of giving away any professional secrets by talking to you.’

‘This is a case of life and death. Friday – or rather, Liberto, who used to be the Gálvez family butler – is in the terminal phase of AIDS, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, and as far as his medical condition goes, I won’t tell you anything more.’

‘He needs a treatment, a treatment you used to give him, and which he hasn’t been to see you for in several days now’

‘Correct, and I’m surprised, although I do read the newspapers and watch TV from time to time. I thought it must have something to do with the murder of Señor Gálvez – of Robinson.’

‘I admire your powers of deduction.’

‘Science uses both deduction and induction.’

‘Don’t be so inflexible, my friend. From the moment you give me some idea as to where I might find Friday, there’ll be no more need for this conversation. And if finding Friday means finding Raúl too, don’t worry. You knew him from your student days. But I’m his cousin. And his sister-in-law, Alma, has already spoken to you. She thinks it’s a good idea.’

‘All I know is that Liberto had a friend over in Calle Bolivar. Behind Lezama park. Do you know where I mean?’

‘A very close friend?’

‘Very close.’

Carvalho simply shrugs and so, to get him off his back, the doctor consults a file and writes down an address and hands it to him.

‘This conversation never happened.’

There are too many people around, so just in case, Carvalho tells the taxi-driver to pull over, and he walks the last few yards towards the crush of police cars, cops directing the traffic away and onlookers. He joins the crowd, trying to push his way through to the front. When he succeeds, his gaze follows that of all the others: up at the windows of an apartment block where the police can be seen moving around inside as if deliberately putting on a show for the spectators. Pascuali is standing at one of the windows, listening to the forensic surgeon’s explanations or looking over at the bed where the dead body of Friday, in his underpants, has still got the
atrezzo
of an overdose: rubber tubing round the arm, a syringe dangling from a vein. The surgeon removes it with gloved hands. To do so, he has had to step over another body on the floor: that of a youth who looks as if he is merely asleep, one forearm draped over his eyes.

‘An overdose? The one on the floor as well?’

The forensic expert nods, and Pascuali punches the air with frustration.

‘Take away everything you can, and then search the room thoroughly – under the paint on the walls if necessary’

He goes back to the window, and the expression on his face changes abruptly. Among the crowd outside he can make out Carvalho, and he also sees another old acquaintance pushing his way through towards the detective – Raúl. Although he does not yet know it, Carvalho will soon meet Raúl again. Pascuali takes a walkie-talkie out of his pocket.

‘Attention cars four and five. Take up position by the electrical goods shop on the corner. But don’t let anyone see you. Our friend Carvalho and Raúl Tourón are standing close to the shop. Surround them without being seen. I repeat. Arrest them before I get there – I’m on my way now.’

He signs off and runs out of the room. Raúl meanwhile has moved alongside Carvalho, made himself known to him, and urged him to talk without looking at him, as if they were simply two more curious onlookers.

‘I found the bodies before the police. I’ve been hidden here for several nights.’

‘So what are you showing yourself in public for?’

‘I didn’t have time to get away. Anyway, I was curious. Friday said he had something to give me from Gálvez.’

But Carvalho has not taken his eyes off the parked patrol cars. He notices their doors opening, and a suspiciously large number of policemen seem suddenly to want to take a stroll, a stroll in their direction.

‘If you want to be arrested, and for Pascuali to keep his bargain and send you to Spain with me, stay where you are. Otherwise, make a run for it, because the cops are closing in.’

Raúl once again cowers like an animal at bay, then runs off as fast as fear can carry him. The police cannot understand why Carvalho just stands there passively while the other man is fleeing, and fan out too late to catch the fugitive. They reach Carvalho just as he is lighting a Rey del Mundo cigar in the open air, but with the relaxed gestures of an after-dinner smoker. They do not like this, and whip out their pistols with almost sexual excitement: ‘Stop! Don’t move!’ one of them shouts hysterically, while a cautious circle gradually forms around this solitary smoker, who apparently has not realized the seriousness of what is going on. Pascuali comes panting up, and pushes his way through the circle. He stands in front of Carvalho, and then all at once reaches out, snatches the cigar from the detective’s lips, throws it to the ground and tramples on it.

Hardened criminals look the same everywhere in the world, just like fools and madmen. Carvalho is with seven or eight of them, all much as might be expected, except for one tall half-blind man. He has realized Carvalho is not another old lag, and asks him for a light.

‘The corrupt and corrupting state no longer distinguishes between virtue and vice, it simply puts a limit on them. My father once wrote: “There will never be a door. You are inside, and the fortress is as big as the universe.”’

‘Was your father a prison warder?’

The other man’s patience must have been tried so often, and yet he is polite when he replies: ‘My father was Jorge Luis Borges. The flesh and blood of literature.’ He hands Carvalho a card, and presents himself. ‘I am Jorge Luis Borges’ natural son.’

He takes a notebook out of his jacket pocket and gives it to Carvalho.

‘
In
Praise of Darkness,
one of my father’s best books. I copied it out by hand. I know it by heart. Do you love books?’

‘So much so they burn in my hands.’

‘What a fine image! It’s true, books are like flames that sprout from our hands.’

‘In my case, it’s quite literally true. I burn them.’

But he has already spotted Pascuali on the other side of the bars. A jailer opens the cell door. Pascuali motions to Carvalho to come out, then sets off down the corridor. Carvalho follows him, but not before he waves farewell to Borges’ son, who thanks him for it by starting to recite, in a strong, deep, serene voice:

And has neither obverse or reverse
nor circling wall nor secret centre.
Hope not that the straitness of your path
that stubbornly branches off in two,
and stubbornly branches off in two,
will have an end. Your fate is ironbound.

Pascuali has turned round and observes the scene. He comments drily: ‘There are more lunatics outside the asylums than in them.’

‘Have you arrested him for being mad?’

‘For criminal impersonation.’

‘But isn’t he Borges’ natural son?’

‘Supernatural more like. And you can go.’

By now they’re out in the doorway of the police station, and Carvalho has no reason to refuse the offer. But Pascuali holds him back a few seconds more.

‘You broke our pact. You helped Raúl escape, after we had agreed I would help him leave the country without problems. You’re crazy. Not even I can keep everything in the Raúl Tourón case under control, and you go and get mixed up in Robinson Gálvez’s death too. And that’s an even dirtier business. Did you know Robinson Gálvez was a shark who was blackmailing his former pals in the aquarium to get funds to take over the Malvinas? Do you know who his pals are? Even bigger sharks!’

And as if Carvalho were another shark, Pascuali heaves him out of the station with such force he almost falls down the front steps. Without turning round, Carvalho takes a deep breath and spits out the words, loud enough for the inspector to hear: ‘You bastard!’

He desperately needs to get back to his apartment, to get in touch with Barcelona and Biscuter, to cook a meal perhaps – but if only he knew what or who for? He phones Alma from a public phone box, but she is evasive. When he reaches his apartment, he goes straight to the kitchen and considers the possibilities. He remembers a recipe he has seen in a magazine supplement, said to be from a Catalan woman in Sant Pol de Mar.
Pilot a catalana,
on a bed of vegetables and squid slices. First mix minced pork with egg, breadcrumbs, garlic, parsley, sprinkle flour on it, and fry. Drain off the fat, and place the meatballs on a bed of spinach and slices of squid cut like thin pasta. A vinaigrette sauce with a touch of sherry vinegar and a little soy sauce.

‘Is that you, Biscuter? I’m sorry, I haven’t had a moment.’

Biscuter has a long list of complaints and needs, but yes, yes, the bank transfer has come through, and everything is in order for Carvalho’s return.

‘I’ll prepare you a meal that’ll have you licking your lips, boss.
Pilota catalana,
it’s called, it’s meatballs on a bed of vegetables with strips of squid. I got the recipe out of a magazine, it’s by a woman from a place near here called Ruscalleda.’

The world’s a small place.

‘It couldn’t be from anywhere else.’

‘Are you surprised at the recipe?’

‘Who wouldn’t be?’

‘My cooking is getting more sophisticated. When will you be back, boss? I’ve got news from Charo you might like to hear. I think she’s coming back too.’

Carvalho need not reply, but Biscuter insists.

‘What d’you make of that?’

‘Good.’

‘D’you know what she said when I called her? She said you were the love of her life.’

‘Of all her life?’

‘She didn’t make that clear.’

Carvalho struggles to free himself more from Charo than from Biscuter, and returns to his cooking until he is interrupted by the door bell. He takes a revolver wrapped in a plastic sheet out of a jar of Italian pasta. He sticks it in his waistband under his apron. Then he goes to the door and peers through the spyhole. He opens the door to an Alma who is every bit as exhausted as he is.

‘I want to eat something warm and comforting. I’m at such a low ebb, I don’t think the tide is ever going to turn.’

Carvalho ushers her in, and describes the first course.

‘But that’s architecture, not cookery’

‘I have several other alternatives already prepared: onion tortilla with cod; sweet and sour lamb with herbes de Provence, and figs in syrup.

Alma cannot believe her ears. Carvalho is offended by her disbelief, and strides off to the kitchen to show her all the food is real.

‘Incredible. And did you cook all that to eat on your own?’

‘I was depressed, and anyway, I always keep the leftovers. In Spain I used to cook for a neighbour, Fuster, who’s a friend. Here in Buenos Aires when I cook I fill the place with imaginary guests. Sometimes I have to throw whole casseroles of food that’s taken me hours to prepare straight down the toilet.’

Now they have finished eating, and Alma allows herself to be drawn into Carvalho’s silence; allows him to look longingly at her, to lightly caress her face and to play with the curls of her hair. She leans towards him, smiling and her body welcoming – but at that very moment the door bell rings, and Carvalho glances down at his watch and exclaims: ‘What a stupid son of a bitch I am!’

Alma is taken aback.

‘Don’t worry. It’s Don Vito. I’d forgotten I asked him to come.’

Alma pleads with her eyes for him not to go to the door.

‘I’ll get rid of him as quickly as I can. Stay out of sight.’

Don Vito slumps into the office armchair, exhausted by the tango that is his life.

‘Your call made the love around me evaporate.’

‘You should wear Fahrenheit by Yves Saint-Laurent. Nothing makes that evaporate. But now you’re headed for the high spot of your career. You have to tail a cop, our friend Pascuali.’

‘Are you crazy? So I get in a taxi and I tell the driver: follow that car, that police car over there?’

‘Hire someone by the day – take on someone you trust, and pay them a fee.’

Don Vito’s face lights up.

‘Madame Lissieux! She was a women’s rally driver champion in Europe!’

‘So I’m giving you back the perfume of love. I need the complete list of all the people Pascuali visits in the next twenty-four hours. He’s investigating men who are too powerful for him to summon to the station. I want to know who they are.’

Alma is waiting for him naked between the sheets, but she still has a few questions.

‘The hunter hunted. But why Pascuali?’

‘I’ve been hired by Robinson’s son, a yuppie who takes a plane to go and have a cocktail in Mar del Plata and returns for a game of polo in Buenos Aires. Friday turned up, dead from an overdose. Raúl had been there. Sometimes he stayed in an apartment a young lover of Friday’s had, behind Lezama park. He turned up one day and found two corpses. Overdoses.’

‘The Captain.’

‘I don’t know. Robinson was busy blackmailing all his rich pals to get money to retake the Malvinas. I’m guessing Pascuali has a list of his victims, and will go and interview them in their homes. He won’t bring them in to the station – class still counts. Vito will tail Pascuali, and within two days we’ll have a list of all the offended oligarchs. I want to have a few tricks up my sleeve, because I reckon young Gálvez is playing a game of his own.’

‘Robinson was a terrorist.’

‘This Robinson, yes. The original Robinson Crusoe was the perfect example of bourgeois individualism and the providential philosophy of modern capitalism.’