The Buenos Aires Quintet

by Manuel Vázquez Montalbán

  She points at the police station.

  ‘Don’t you remember what Alfonsín said? Some intellectuals need to be reminded that the difference between democracy and the lack of it is as great as the difference between life and death. What d’you think? I for one know I’m not moving from here until they let Pepe go.’

  An assortment of beggars of a variety of sexes are waiting in line for their plate of food provided by a charitable institution. Loaiza is one of them. He still has the marks of a beating on his face. Raúl is in the same queue. He gets his food and looks around for a free seat at a table. He sits down opposite Loaiza, who is eating half-heartedly. Raúl wipes his mouth with a handkerchief before taking a drink from a tin cup. At this point, Loaiza notices him, and Raúl realizes he is being observed.

  ‘Not hungry?’ Raúl asks.

  ‘I eat to live. There’s not much of me, so I don’t eat very much. Man is what he eats.’

  ‘That’s what many people have said. Aristotle. Feuerbach.’

  Loaiza bursts out laughing.

  ‘This country must either be in a very bad or a very good way. Look what the middle classes have come to! Someone who reads Feuerbach in a place like this! Are you an out-of-work philosopher?’

  ‘I’m Batman, but in disguise.’

  Loaiza offers him his hand across the table.

  ‘And I’m Mirta Legrand, also in disguise.’

  Raúl surveys the injuries to the other man’s face, but does not say a word.

  ‘Yes, a beating: you didn’t ask, but I’m telling you. It had to be me, didn’t it? Someone who suffers from a Dorian Gray syndrome and hates the idea of getting old. It was one of those beatings that really hurt and scare you. Coldly done. Boom, boom, boom, and they knew where they were hitting. A professional thug. That’s the reward we get after all we’ve done for them.’

  ‘If it’s not indiscreet, what exactly have we done for them?’

  ‘We have become marginalized. By making sure we’re outcasts from society, we’ve enabled them to be part of it, to be the dominant sector. If there weren’t any outcasts, how could there be any integrated people? It’s the same question that used to be answered with the formula: for there to be rich people, there have to be poor people.’

  ‘So you’re a Marxist, are you?’

  ‘No, just the opposite. I’m quite a Fascist. Of the masochist faction. A masochistic Fascist. I believe in the happy inequality of the human race. Don’t laugh, I’m being serious. I believe in superior beings, in congenital inequality, in the power of the elite over the majority, in the fact that you can’t compare the vote of any poor fool with that of a university professor or above all of someone like Bernardo Neustadt or Palito Ortega.’

  Raúl is trying to work out if the other man is pulling his leg.

  ‘You’re a cynic’

  ‘In the ordinary sense of the word, yes. Not in the philosophical sense. As far as philosophy goes,’ he stands up and shakes hands again with Raúl, who accepts the handshake automatically, ‘I am Bruno Loaiza, a right-wing Nietzschean.’

  ‘Are there any left-wing Nietzscheans?’

  ‘What an extraordinary conversation for a place like this.’

  He struggles to his feet again, and shouts out loud: ‘Hew many Nietzscheans are there in here?’

  The only reply is the sound of forks scraping on tin plates.

  Inspector Pascuali opens one of the files he has picked at random from the pile on his lap and begins to talk to Vladimiro, who is more concerned with looking in the rear mirror than listening to what his boss has to say.

  ‘You know, it’s surprising. All these people who are supposed to be looking for Raúl Tourón suddenly go crazy and start stirring up the whole of Buenos Aires. Then they go quiet again, and nothing happens in the case, as if they were all happy to see it drag on and on. The state couldn’t care less. Our new director-general couldn’t give a damn about any unsolved cases: he starts from the principle that there’s no point trying too hard to solve anything that doesn’t want to be solved.’

  Vladimiro gives a grudging shrug of the shoulders.

  ‘And you couldn’t care less either. You’ve got the mind of a bureaucrat. But I get really annoyed that there’s a madman loose in Buenos Aires, I get really annoyed that his cousin, that asshole of a Spaniard, thinks he can make fun of us all the time. I’m not going to let him get away with it. I’m going to make him pay’

  ‘Of course you are, boss, of course,’ Vladimiro interrupts, trying to soothe him.

  Pascuali punches the empty air, desperate to make some gesture.

  ‘D’you know why I punch the air when I’m mad?’

  Vladimiro shrugs a second time.

  ‘Because if you punch your desk like they do in films, you smash your hand.’

  Pascuali is delighted at his own joke.

  ‘Here he comes, boss.’

  Carvalho has come out of his apartment building and walks a block to his car. When he gets in and drives off, Pascuali and Vladimiro start to follow him. Carvalho stops in a nondescript street, as if he is looking for somewhere in the vast city. A beggar comes up and leans in his car window.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Don Vito, you look like the chimney-sweep from Mary Poppins.’

  Altofini gets in the car. He’s pleased with his disguise and with himself. They roam Buenos Aires until Carvalho pulls up to let Altofini out again. He strides off purposefully into the recently fallen night, and Carvalho sets off again.

  ‘Who should we follow?’

  Pascuali moves in behind the wheel by the simple expedient of sliding along and pushing his assistant out of the door.

  ‘You go after the beggar. I’ll follow the Spaniard.’

  Norman and six glasses of grappa lined up on the Tango Amigo bar. Norman is drinking so that Alma will scold him. But next to him, Alma is staring absent-mindedly at the inside of another glass full of whisky, while on stage Adriana Varela sings the last verses of her tango. Just as Norman is adding his applause to the public’s, Carvalho arrives and installs himself alongside them.

  ‘You’re late,’ Norman accuses him.

  ‘Late for what?’

  ‘For almost everything,’ Alma warns him.

  When Norman nods vigorously in agreement, Carvalho makes as though to stand up and leave.

  ‘I can’t bear people getting metaphysical on me at this time of night.’

  ‘Have a drink and you’ll soon see things the way we do,’ Norman says, grasping his arm.

  Carvalho accepts, and nervously downs his first glass.

  ‘On the prowl?’ asks Alma.

  ‘Widening my net.’

  ‘I’ll go and bring the funeral to a close,’ Norman says lugubriously.

  He goes over to the stage and ends the show, bidding the public farewell in a hoarse whisper. At the bar, Alma and Carvalho sit drinking side by side – she is a bit tipsy, he’s catching her up fast.

  ‘Will you come to Fiorentino’s with me?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘One of the places Boom Boom Peretti frequents. His manager Merletti has asked me to go, but without Peretti. He’s two hundred kilometres from Buenos Aires, training for his fight tomorrow. It seems there’s a Basque who wants to smash his face in.’

  ‘He’ll never manage it.’

  ‘We’ll see. Are you coming?’

  ‘I won’t go without Norman. He’s depressed. He wants to kill himself.’

  ‘Give him a good fuck.’

  Alma cuffs him good-humouredly.

  ‘If I want to. But I don’t. It’s not my Mother Teresa night. It’s my spiderwoman night, my murdering spider night.’

  She draws her nails lightly across Carvalho’s face.

  ‘I’ll ask Norman to go with us.’


  Norman has left the stage and is taking his make-up off in his dressing-room. He mouths a goodbye to Adriana Varela when she appears in the doorway, and then stares at his face in the mirror with the make-up still half on. He puts two fingers up to his temple and pulls an imaginary trigger.

  ‘Imprecise, imperfect, immature. Defined entirely by what I am not.’

  He stands up as if he has suddenly had a brilliant idea. He goes over to the wardrobe, rummages among his costumes, and picks out a long maroon boa. He wraps it round his neck, and uses one end to fan himself with in front of the mirror. Then he puts more heavy liner on his eyebrows, and applies turquoise lipstick to his lips.

  At the bar, Alma sees something that makes her blink and stiffen.

  ‘Did you see what I see?’

  Carvalho looks in the direction that has given Alma such a shock. Norman, dressed like a blonde from a 1940s Buick advert, is swaying towards them.

  ‘Call me Nelly, please. Tonight I want to be Nelly’

  Carvalho puts his money on the bar and gets up to go.

  ‘Count me out.’

  ‘Is that how you reward Norman’s efforts? Are you such a macho you can’t play along?’

  ‘Those Spaniards are more macho than my mother,’ Norman says in a high effeminate voice.

  Carvalho stops in his tracks. Comes back sighing. Offers his arm and his night to Norman.

  ‘Miss Nelly, remember you owe me every dance tonight.’

  ‘You will be mine, you Spanish bull, all mine.’

  Hidden in the shadows, Pascuali witnesses the scene in amazement. He takes the cigarette dangling from his lips and crushes it on the floor. Then he follows the three of them out of the bar. He is still on their heels when they go into Fiorentino’s, where a first glance reveals at least half a dozen people from the world of film and theatre seated under the protective gaze of icons from the past staring down from the walls. There’s a quiet buzz of conversation, full of relaxed and mannered voices – a lot of the latest street talk, not quite so fresh jokes. Norman frees himself from Carvalho’s grasp.

  ‘My, the place is full of ostriches and peacocks! Who needs you? The night is mine. Tonight I’m anybody’s. Let’s see if I can pick up a starlet.’

  ‘What about him and me?’ Alma asks.

  ‘Your boring old selves. This hasn’t been your millennium, has it?’

  Norman totters off, hips swaying. Carvalho spots Merletti over in a corner.

  ‘I just have to speak to that bulldog over there in the corner. I’ll be back.’

  ‘So you’re abandoning me as well? Why did I come with you two?’

  ‘Pick someone up.’

  Carvalho heads for the table where Merletti is looking bored in the company of Boom Boom’s son and two young ladies. When he sees the detective coming over, he has a word with them, and by the time Carvalho has reached their table, he is on his own. Carvalho looks to see what has happened to his two companions. Norman-Nelly is trying to make it with a young – incredibly young – Argentine film actress who wants to look like la Benedetto. Alma is deep in conversation with an ageing actor who specializes in millionaire roles, or perhaps really is a millionaire.

  ‘What about your friends?’

  ‘And yours?’

  ‘They’re too young.’

  ‘Mine are like something out of Alice in Wonderland.’

  ‘How about a ten-year-old Talisker? They don’t have Springbank here.’

  Carvalho nods. While Merletti is ordering the whisky from a waiter, the detective watches Boom Boom’s son kissing one of the girls. Merletti has seen it too, and his face hardens, his mouth hardens, and his voice hardens when he speaks again.

  ‘Let’s get straight to the point. I brought you here to talk behind Boom Boom’s back, but to try to help him. He’s an intelligent man, sometimes too intelligent for his own good, if you understand me. All this nonsense about letters, blackmail, and turning to you is rubbish. Peretti should never have got involved – his reputation’s on the line. I’ll kill the bastard!’

  These last words come spilling out, as does Merletti’s anger and the move to leap up and confront Robert, who has his tongue somewhere down one of the girls’ throats, while the other laughs hysterically.

  ‘Is kissing prohibited in here then?’ Carvalho wants to know.

  Merletti regains control. The whiskies have arrived, and he waits for Carvalho to take a sip.

  ‘I’d like you to consider me a client, on the same basis as Peretti.’

  Carvalho’s face twists to show his surprise.

  ‘I’ll pay you to be the first to hear all you find out about Loaiza and his links with Peretti.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be ethical – either for me, or for you.’

  ‘All I want to do is protect Boom Boom. If I didn’t pay you, would that make it ethical?’

  ‘No way. I’d be thrown out of the private detectives’ union.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s funny’

  ‘Don’t worry; not many do.’

  ‘I’ll do anything to protect Boom Boom. As you can see, I even work as babysitter for his “son”.’

  ‘Isn’t he his son then?’

  ‘Adopted son, yes. Almost kosher. It took him nine months to get all the papers – a pregnancy, in fact.’

  He laughs out loud, enjoying his own joke. Carvalho drinks thoughtfully. The ageing actor is nuzzling Alma. Norman starts to nuzzle the starlet. Carvalho makes up his mind.

  ‘What do you know about Loaiza?’

  ‘Enough for me not to burst into tears if he turns up in a rubbish dump one of these days with his balls shot away’

  Altofini has lit his lighter so that he can distinguish the bulky shapes lying around the embers of a bonfire in a warehouse yard in the Puerto Viejo. One of the forms gets to its feet. The gleaming teeth of a beggar are thrust under Altofini’s nose, followed by a knife that gleams just as brightly. Altofini does not flinch, even when other beggars stand up, other knives and threatening objects are thrust towards him. He stands firm, clears his throat and says: ‘Sorry to disturb you. Has any of you seen Mister Balloonman?’

  The beggars are as taken aback as Vladimiro, who is hidden at a safe distance, or Loaiza, looking on from behind a barred window on the first floor of a warehouse. The newcomer has succeeded in getting everyone’s attention. Loaiza is suspicious. Raúl’s voice calls from beside him: ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘He looks like a madman, but I don’t trust him,’ Loaiza replies.

  Raúl looks down at the bonfire. Something in Altofini’s movements seems familiar. Loaiza notices his hesitation.

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Just for a moment, I thought I did. But I don’t think so. For a moment I thought so, but no, it’s nothing.’

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘It was a false impression.’

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘Don’t get hysterical. I thought it was someone who is looking for me.’

  ‘So they’re looking for you too. And look – there’s another voyeur over there.’

  From Loaiza and Raúl’s vantage point they can clearly see Vladimiro hiding behind some oil drums.

  ‘It seems everyone’s playing cat and mouse. Do you know him too?’

  ‘I can’t see him very well. But I think he’s a cop. I think I saw him with Pascuali.’

  ‘Pascuali! You do have good connections, don’t you?’

  Merletti cannot bear it any longer; he goes over to Peretti’s son.

  ‘The fun’s over – we have to be getting back. Peretti told us to be back before daybreak, and it’s two hundred kilometres. You know how he gets before a fight.’

  ‘You go, uncle.’

  The girls laugh. Merletti leans over Robert,
takes him by the lapel of his jacket, and hauls him to his feet.

  ‘I’ll abandon you in Buenos Aires, nephew’

  ‘You wouldn’t have the guts.’

  Merletti drops him, turns round and heads for the bar. Carvalho is stuck halfway between Merletti and the youngsters. Robert calls to him.

  ‘Why don’t you have a drink with us, Mister Bloodhound?’

  Carvalho sits with the group. One of the girls sidles up to him and starts stroking his arm. She looks like a fragile blonde with a wicked gleam in her eyes, but Carvalho instinctively draws his arm away. He surveys Robert, made up like an adolescent Helmut Berger.

  ‘Don’t you like my friends?’

  ‘From the waist up, yes.’

  Robert and the girls exchange hurt glances.

  ‘Not from the waist down?’ the blonde asks.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Robert asks.

  ‘Because they’ve both got cocks strapped round their waists.’

  ‘Cocks?’ the blonde says incredulously.

  ‘Cocks, pricks, whatever you call them. You’re a pair of queers.’

  ‘I’ll scratch your eyes out!’ the other blonde screams.

  ‘Calm down. You’re to blame for making it so obvious. Anyone can see your pricks from a mile off.’

  ‘This asshole here was the only one to spot anything,’ the first blonde says, pouting.

  Carvalho leans forward smiling, almost friendly, towards Robert.

  ‘Does your father know about the friends you keep?’

  ‘I’ll scratch his eyes out!’ the blonde insists.

  ‘My papa spends all day at his boom! boom! and at night all he does is sleep to get his strength back.’

  All at once Carvalho lifts Robert’s shirt sleeve, and part of the tattoo appears.

  ‘From prison? Reform school?’

  ‘I’ve got another one up my arse.’

  ‘Do you want to see it?’ the dark blonde suggests.

  Carvalho gets up and walks over to the bar. Merletti is staring incredulously as he hears Norman’s secrets.