“And they transcended the corridors of memory itself until they found themselves in the shared future of a bed of tears and lust.”’
The corridor ends in a dressing-room; as the door opens, we see it is entirely filled with a huge four-poster bed with baroque columns. The contortionist drops Borges’ hand and rushes to the bed, where once again she twists herself in knots, but with her sex pointing out in the right direction, ready to receive her lover, who leaps on her in a sudden uncontrollable rush of desire and passion. Even though her body is contorted on itself, she goes on calmly smoking her pipe.
Then we are back with the reality of the set, where the presenter is poking fun at Borges Jr.
‘Well! What you’ve told us is quite fantastic, in the Borgesian and in the absolute sense of the term.’
‘In the Borgesian and in the absolute sense, maybe. But not in the relative sense of the word.’
‘No of course, not in the relative sense. But tell me, what would you like to be called? Borges? Borges Junior? Junior?’
‘Anything but Junior.’
Carvalho is in his apartment, watching the interview with the alleged son of Borges and the dramatization of his conception, beating a bowlful of eggs as he does so. The presenter is asking: ‘What would you like to be called? Borges? Borges Junior? Junior?’
‘Anything but Junior.’
Carvalho likes the answer. He goes on beating the eggs.
What is left of the world seen through a whisky glass? Shelves full of all the bottles of drink available to the clients of Tango Amigo. Carvalho has already found his answer, and can see that Alma is doing the same, but without a filter. She is also puzzled at the vast array of bottles, but has no whisky glass. The club is filling up, as people sit at the tables with their marble lamps. Alma is softly drinking a soft drink, a milk shake made with a fruit she has not bothered to investigate. Carvalho’s words reach her from afar.
‘I swear the guy takes himself seriously. He was talking about his father as though he really believed it was Borges. But I know his face.’
‘That’s because he looks like Jorge Luis. If he didn’t, there wouldn’t be so much fuss.’
‘But I’ve seen him somewhere before.’
‘In an earlier incarnation, perhaps. Were you a contortionist in your previous incarnation?’
Carvalho gnaws at his memory, but just then the lights go down for the show to begin. Silence falls on the darkened room, like a veil as soft as the drink Alma is drinking, or the gauze covering her well-rounded breasts. Silverstein appears, dressed as an imagined English writer at the turn of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, with more than a hint of Oscar Wilde, hair parted in the middle.
‘Allow me to introduce myself. I’m the son of Oscar Wilde and the young Lord Douglas. My birth has been kept a secret because ever since I was a child I’ve shown disturbing tendencies, and my psychiatrist, an Argentine who’s more of a Lacanian than a Freudian, suspects I might be Jack the Ripper. I went to a school for the natural sons and orphans of famous writers. That’s where I got to know Arielito Borges, Macedonita Fernández, Osvaldita Soriano, Manolito Puig, and others whose paternity I could guess at, even though it was not officially recognized: ten little girls who were the spitting image of Jorge Asís, for example. In the school, they taught us everything except how to write, and when after a rigorous examination of our chromosomes it was found we had writers’ genes, above and beyond those necessary to write for the magazine Car as, they were deleted. Our fathers couldn’t bear the thought of competition. A lot has been written about the death of the father, but what about the death of the son? Don’t fathers dream of the death of their sons as a way of warding off their own end? That’s why I’m so surprised Arielito Borges writes.’
He puts on a child’s voice. ‘When he was little, Arielito was very stubborn. Just to annoy his father, he used to read the English writers in Portuguese. Which was all the more remarkable, as he could not read Portuguese. Arielito Borges, Borges Junior...but I think Adriana Varela is here, and wants to sing something for you about this genetic prodigy.’
The spotlight moves off him in search of the singer. Carvalho cannot tear his eyes from Alma’s cleavage, until she covers his face with her hand.
‘You won’t get round me again.’
Applause as Adriana Varela appears. Silverstein goes to greet her. He kisses her hand, and welcomes her to centre stage.
‘It’s wonderful news, isn’t it, Adriana? Whoever would have thought the old devil had something more than ink in his veins.’
‘Veins have so much in them.’
‘What’s this tango called?’
‘“Borges Junior.”’
‘By?’
‘Borges Junior.’
The spotlights veer off into the audience. General amazement when they come to rest on the bulky outline of Borges Junior himself. Silence and applause – mostly silence. Silverstein has nothing more to say, and leaves the stage to Adriana. She sings:
Son!
Borges Junior
You are called
By varicosed
Whores
By worm-ridden
Professors
So watch out
Don’t shout.
Son!
Borges Junior
They cry
Miracle-working
Chromosomes
Would-be
Genomes
Don’t let
Them get
You.
Son!
Make sure you make the most of it
And remember you did good
To turn me into a stud.
Don’t leave me outside
Stark-naked in the rain
The fervour of Buenos Aires
Won’t let me out again.
Take care with what you say,
Remember you are flesh of my flesh
Nostril of my nostrils
My lust of a single day.
Son!
Borges Junior
You are called
By varicosed
Whores
By worm-ridden
Professors
So watch out
Don’t shout.
Son!
Borges Junior
They cry
Miracle-working
Chromosomes
Would-be
Genomes
Don’t let
Them get
You.
Son!
Make sure you make the most of it
And remember you did good
To turn me into a stud.
Above the applause, Carvalho’s voice. He has been staring the whole time at Borges’ posthumous son, and now he roars into Alma’s ear.
‘I’ve got it! I saw that guy in Pascuali’s cells!’
Two fists flashing in the middle of a ring. Skilful fists, driven on by the audience’s enthusiasm. Peretti is fighting Negro Salta. Peretti is a middle-weight, about thirty years old, and looks as though he has never been caught square on the nose by any blow. He floats round the ring like a fencing champion, or a prince turned boxer. His opponent is a stolid punching bag from Salta province. He pits his strength and courage against the constant dancing of the prince of the ring.
‘Go on, Negro! Smash his pretty boy’s face in!’ someone shouts from the crowd.
‘There’s no one good enough to even touch Peretti!’ another voice replies.
‘Boxing is for men!’
‘Get up there and see if you’re man enough to land one on his face!’ shouts a blowsy blonde.
Her companion tries to calm her down. ‘Don’t go making a fool of yourself, because it’s always me who gets into trouble.’
But the woman carries on shouting at the man who had criticized Peretti.
‘You’re all mouth and no balls!�
��
‘Get into bed with me and I’ll show you I’ve got more balls than that asshole who’s with you!’
The blonde’s companion sighs wearily. He takes off his elegant overcoat and his white scarf, folds them carefully on his seat, turns to the man insulting him, and without a word lands a powerful punch on his chin. Soon all the public is joining in. The blonde woman is trying to gouge out the eyes of the man who insulted her companion. In the ring, Peretti’s fists have done their work: one final blow spins Negro Salta round and sends him crashing to the canvas. The crowd roars. Peretti walks back ever so slowly to his corner, back to his opponent. He leans on the ropes and gives a self-satisfied smile to the audience, most of whom are still involved in a fight of their own.
The three Japanese businessmen seem to have agreed not to react to Güelmes’ explanations. All three are perched uncomfortably on the edge of their seats, ready to get up and leave at any moment.
‘It’s the letter of an unbalanced mind. A poor wretch who it’s true did collaborate at the start with research that fifteen years later – more than fifteen years later – finally gave the results we wish to share with you. Where was Raúl Tourón all that time? In Spain – and now he’s back looking for revenge. Trying to cause problems.’
‘We won’t invest in projects with problems.’
Another of the Japanese supports this.
‘It’s you who have the problem, and it’s for you to solve it.’
The two who have spoken look across at the third, silent one. He says something in his own language and immediately stands up. His two companions follow suit, while a worried Güelmes half-raises himself from his seat behind the desk. He does not really understand what is going on, and it is no use him trying to gain a little time: ‘Why don’t...’
As they make their bows and leave, Güelmes does manage to regain his composure and see them out like a minister should. Left on his own, he mutters: ‘What can that fool have said?’
A half-open door in the office swings wide, and the Captain and Font y Rius enter the room, followed by another Japanese man.
‘We know what he said: “These racists think all of us Japanese are stupid.”’
Güelmes starts to pace up and down. The Captain sits calmly, and Font y Rius follows his example, staring down at the tips of his shoes. The Japanese interpreter waits politely for further instructions.
‘We’re the stupid ones. You two above all.’
The Captain points to Güelmes and Font y Rius.
‘If you hadn’t been so squeamish, Raúl Tourón wouldn’t be a problem any more.’
Güelmes explodes.
‘Who would have thought that bastard, that crazy son of a bitch would stick his nose into this of all things?’
Font y Rius protests weakly that after all, it was Raúl who made the discovery, but Güelmes bursts out again.
‘He made the discovery, and that’s all. Who developed it and turned it into a commercial prospect?’
‘But we agreed we should respect Raúl’s life.’
‘Tell him to keep out of our business then!’
Deep inside, the Captain is pleased at the way Güelmes and Font y Rius are arguing.
‘All that Raúl Tourón wants is to get in the way. That letter he wrote to our possible partners is a declaration of war.’
Font y Rius becomes sarcastic.
‘A dirty war, Captain? The kind you like?’
‘There are no clean wars.’
He gets up, goes over to the desk, picks up the letter and waves it as though it were incontrovertible proof: ‘This is a declaration of war.’
He reads coolly, as though detailing the evidence:
‘“...I should like to inform you that the offer that The New Argentina has made you through its associates Señores Güelmes and Font y Rius is based on usurpation. The writer of this letter is the biologist who fifteen years ago discovered a possible link between animal behaviour and the quality of animal feed. A sinister plot is now underway to rob me of the fruit of my labours. To demonstrate the validity of my claim, I would refer you to the information I sent to the Congress on Nutrition and Development held by ECLA in Ottawa in 1975, and to the article published in Ciencia Latina in January 1976, entitled An animal is what it eats”’
The room is silent. Güelmes has stopped his pacing, and is staring with contained fury at Font y Rius.
‘I wonder how that jerk managed to get our Japanese friends’ address. How he discovered they were in Buenos Aires. It seems to me he’s not on his own – someone is helping him, and I don’t mean that dumb Spaniard, or Alma, or Silverstein.’
‘Less words, more deeds.’
The Captain seems to be speaking above all to Font y Rius, and he marches out of the room with a final sally, followed by the interpreter.
‘I ask myself the same questions as the under-secretary – I’m sorry, as the minister. And I can only find one answer. A jerk holds our future in his hands. And don’t imagine for a minute that I’m the only one threatened. All three of us are, and everything we’ve been trying to achieve.’
As soon as the Captain and the interpreter have left the room, Güelmes rounds on his companion.
‘The Captain is furious – he knows how to conceal it, but underneath, he’s furious.’
‘So what? It’s as if nothing had changed, as if we were still his prisoners. I don’t want to be anybody’s prisoner! What about you? What good is all the paraphernalia of power to you? You still think like a prisoner, like one of the Captain’s prisoners.’
‘And you? Aren’t you a prisoner of your guilty conscience? The prisoner of a ghost, of an imaginary Raúl? The Raúl we all loved doesn’t exist any more. Now there’s only an animal in a corner that will die lashing out. We have to choose.’
‘Choose to kill him, as your Captain wants?’
Güelmes dismisses the idea with a wave.
‘This stress isn’t good for me. Let’s leave it for today’
He takes an apparatus to measure blood pressure out of a desk drawer. He thrusts a finger in it, and checks the result. Wide-eyed, he stares at Font y Rius as if he is the one to blame.
‘See that? My pressure’s gone sky-high! Fourteen over eleven! Fourteen over eleven – d’you know what that means?’
He detains Font y Rius with a hand as he is about to stride out in disgust.
By now he is perfectly calm again.
‘One of those two has to go. Either Raúl or the Captain.’
The buzz of young people chatting, consuming breakfasts, books, jokes reaches his ears like a distantly familiar sound landscape. Something he would rather not call his youth. Not because that would be nostalgia – good or bad – but because it seems to him inappropriate. It does not feel right. He wants to leave as quickly as possible. Font y Rius is unable to contain himself when Alma expresses her surprise at him agreeing to meet her in the university bar. He is too nervous to go along with her attempts to make their meeting more relaxed.
‘I can’t see any other solution. I can’t hold them back much longer. If Raúl doesn’t sort it out...they’ll get him.’
‘How did you manage to pass the message about the deal with the Japanese on to him?’
‘Raúl came to see me. It was like an apparition, I can tell you. I was caught up in some boring administration, and to take my mind off it I looked out into the garden. The usual patients were there, with all their usual tics, and all the usual nurses and guards. But something told me there was a visual intrusion, and I soon saw what it was. Raúl. He was walking very calmly in among the lunatics, as if trying to work out where he was. A short while later, he was sitting opposite me. I tried to talk to him affectionately but responsibly. “Do you know what you want?” I asked him. “Everything. Or nothing,” he replied. I tried to reason with him: “This is a bad momen
t for all or nothing. We have to make do with a little something. We can’t win any wars, so we have to be satisfied with winning the odd battle. What is it you want?” “I want to be who I am.” “Who you are, or who you were? It’s impossible to be the person you were. Twenty years have gone by. For you, for me, for our memory.” We can’t even trust our memory. My career. My daughter. I think I know who has her.” “Are you sure?” “No, I’m not sure. I was closer to her before they killed Robinson.” Are you listening? “What Robinson are you talking about?” I lost my patience. “So you want to win back a daughter who doesn’t know you, who wouldn’t even recognize you? And who we don’t know the whereabouts of? Wouldn’t the cure be worse than the illness? Your career is easier to save.” And it was then I made my mistake. Are you listening, Alma?’
‘I’m listening.’
‘I said to him: “Not all or nothing, but something, something you can hold on to, Raúl. Would you like to be a partner with us?” He replied: “A partner in exploiting a discovery I made and you stole from me?” I insisted: “It can’t be all or nothing. The Captain is a bad enemy but a good partner.” “You’re all kidnapped people,” he said. “You’re living the Stockholm syndrome. You’re partners with your own jailers.” “Not all or nothing. Something, something, Raúl.” D’you understand what I was trying to tell him, Alma? D’you understand my position?’
‘I understand. You’re the good cop, the Captain is the bad cop and Güelmes is the professional. When we were being interrogated we had time to learn all the roles.’
‘You’re so harsh with everyone else, but I think you’re a little soft with yourself. It was me who gave Raúl the idea of getting mixed up in this, of interfering in our project. Once it was done, I thought I could suggest to them that they brought him in properly, and do a deal with him.’
‘That’s the Yankee method. Take things to the edge of the abyss, then do a deal. That’s what we always denounced as the Kissinger school – his satanic way of calculating probabilities. So Vietnam was bombarded with napalm to ensure peace, and in Latin America the left was wiped out, so a deal could be done with the survivors.’
The Buenos Aires Quintet Page 25