‘Have you been introduced?’ asks Carvalho.
‘This is some night! This girl here says she isn’t in fact a girl, she’s an actor who studied with a Russian.’
‘Stanislavski,’ Norman explains.
‘If he says so,’ Carvalho sighs. ‘Tonight no one is who they appear to be.’
Alma comes up, blazing with anger.
‘That guy was trying to touch me up!’
Merletti does not know what to make of her. Carvalho confuses him some more.
‘Merletti, Boom Boom Peretti’s manager. And this is Gustav Mahler, weightlifting champion. He hides it very well – he’s a genius as a transvestite, but in fact he is a weightlifting champion.’
It is hard to tell who is more amazed at this, Merletti or Alma. Half-hidden at one of the few free tables in a corner of the night-club, Pascuali peers out from behind his glass, unsure whether to concentrate on the group at the bar or on Robert and the two blondes.
Altofini moistens his lips with his tongue to lubricate his words; the beggars sitting round him on the ground listen fascinated.
‘In the fifties and sixties, between 1955 and 1965 to be more exact, there wasn’t a decent swindle in Buenos Aires that Mister Balloonman and I weren’t involved in. We sold a farmer in Mendoza a machine for finding truffles that we also said he could use to counterfeit money. I worked with my other half, with my babbo, with my momma. A family that worked like a well-oiled machine. My grandfather had fought with Garibaldi. All of us were anarchists of Italian origin who were carrying out to the letter the instructions Evita gave me when she made me a captain in her people’s army’
‘Did you meet Evita?’
‘Did I meet her? Do you know what you’re saying? When I was seventeen, she got me out of reform school. Why are you here, kid? Not because you’re an aristo, I’m sure. Aristo, me? I was so thin you could shine a light through me. No, Evita, I’m here because I stole. Don’t you worry, she told me. Steal from a thief, a hundred years relief. Capitalism deserves to be ripped off.’
‘That’s what Evita told you?’ another admiring beggar asks.
‘That’s what she told me. Evita, Argentina’s Karl Marx!’
‘Did you meet Karl Marx too?’
Altofini puts a finger to his lips.
‘That’s another story, far too long and complicated at a historic moment like this, after the fall of the Berlin Wall and so on...’
‘When I was young I liked the Marx brothers’ films,’ the most talkative beggar comments.
‘Karl was the eldest of the Marx brothers. He was the one who travelled and knew most. But Groucho was the funniest,’ Altofini declares.
‘Groucho was very funny,’ the Marxian beggar agrees.
‘So none of you have seen Mister Balloonman recently?’
‘His health wasn’t too good,’ the beggars’ spokesman replies.
‘That’s a shame, because I needed him to put me in touch with Loaiza the philosopher. Bruno Loaiza.’
‘What’s Mister Balloonman got to do with a philosopher?’
‘That’s just a nickname, because he was a teacher. I’ve heard he lives around here.’
‘Ah!’ exclaims the Marxian beggar. ‘The professor. He’s a warehouse rat. He’s probably inside over there. He’s hooked on his habit. He’s a loudmouth who thinks he’s better than everyone else, but he’s just the same as all of us. He’s a homeless bum. And someone gave him a real beating just recently.’
‘In there?’ Altofini asks, looking towards the warehouse.
‘If I were you, I wouldn’t go in there at night,’ the first beggar advises him. ‘Even if you’ve only got one gold tooth, it’s not worth the risk.’
‘Everything on me is mine. Including the dirt.’
Reluctantly, Altofini sits down by the fire. Then he curls up like the others, studying their gaunt faces hypnotized by the flames. Absorbs destruction upon destruction. He swallows, and tries to go to sleep, but cannot avoid keeping one eye open. Inside the warehouse, Loaiza also has an eye open; he uses it to keep watch on Raúl, who finds it impossible to sleep.
‘What or who are you hiding from? You’re not an addict, you’re not hooked on anything, you’re an educated man. So what on earth are you doing here?’
‘If I knew the answer to your questions, I’d have no problems. I’m hiding from reality. I don’t want to accept reality.’
‘An exile then?’
‘Can you tell?’
‘I can tell – I could before they went into exile, and I can now they’ve all come back. They never could accept reality.’
‘And you can?’
‘I know what it is, but it doesn’t interest me. Seeing I can’t destroy it, I destroy myself. But what you’re running from finished a long time ago. What’s still pursuing you? Ghosts?’
‘Ghosts and real people too.’
‘Pascuali?’
‘He’s not really after me. He’s doing his job. The one who’s really after me is a sinister figure linked to the secret services. Though I don’t know why he’s so obsessed with me either.’
‘The secret services. Does your pursuer have a name?’
Raúl hesitates, but eventually sighs and carries on.
‘A meaningless name, yes. The Captain. You have to have been in that dirty war to appreciate all that “The Captain” means. We never managed to find out what his real name was.’
Loaiza flops back on a pile of sacks and tarpaulins. He stares up at the distant roof.
‘The Captain,’ he says, thoughtfully.
Carvalho and Alma support Norman as they leave Fiorentino’s. Merletti is the last person drinking at the bar. Pascuali goes over to the table where Robert and the two blondes are sitting.
‘May I?’
‘That depends,’ Robert answers.
‘Of course you can,’ the light blonde says. ‘I like a man with imagination.’
Pascuali sits next to the darker blonde. Robert and the other girl wink at each other and get up from the table.
‘Film? Theatre? Television? What line are you in?’ the blonde asks Pascuali.
‘Sound and special effects.’
This takes the blonde aback, but not for long.
‘Very special effects?’
‘Extremely special.’
‘Would you like to try one on me?’
‘Here?’
‘No, at my place.’
Pascuali lets himself be dragged off down a tunnel of night and silence. The ash blonde opens the door to her apartment. The inspector’s silhouette appears in the door frame, then follows her as she switches on the lights in the different rooms.
‘Sit down and pour yourself a drink. I’m going to slip into something more comfortable.’
Pascuali fills a glass with the only spirit that does not smell too sweet, and shouts questions at the woman in another room.
‘You were saying that Spanish bloodhound Carvalho has business with Boom Boom Peretti.’
‘That’s what his son told me. Ready for the big surprise?’
Pascuali cannot take his eyes off the door where the blonde disappeared, and now reappears, turning down the lights as she comes in. She’s wearing only a déshabillé. Smiles seductively, sure of her charms. Pascuali puts his glass down. She reaches the sofa, will not let him get up, but ruffles his hair. Then she lets the déshabillé fall to the floor. Pascuali stares at the naked body, but it takes him a long while to believe the evidence of his eyes: beneath the firm round breasts, the succulent navel, the tiny waist he could grasp in one hand, there hangs a short, thin, operated-on cock, pink as a lipstick. Finally he raises his gaze to the blonde’s face.
‘Don’t you go for alternatives?’
‘Alternatives? I can’t see any.’
Pascua
li stands up, confronting the darkly furious blonde. Pascuali smiles non-committally. He bends his head and kisses the girl’s hand.
‘Sweetheart. I’ve just realized it’s very late and I have to go and breastfeed my babies.’
He tilts his head, turns for the door and leaves, leaving the false blonde with a scowl on her face and a parting shot on her lips:
‘Who’s going to pay for the time I wasted?’
Alma is beside herself with laughter, and Muriel joins in.
‘No one was who they seemed to be, apart from the Spaniard with that dour poker face of his. Why does he always look so Spanish? So down-in-the-mouth?’
‘Poor thing. From all you’ve said, he seems so, so...helpless.’
‘Poor thing? Helpless? Carvalho? Help! And Norman was priceless, he looked just like one of those femmes fatales in 1940s Argentine films, one of those vamps who lead all men to their doom. But best of all were the two fake blondes with Boom Boom Peretti’s son.’
‘Did you see Peretti?’
‘No, but I could. He’s going to fight at the Argentine Boxing Federation. D’you want to come? D’you like boxing?’
‘No, but I do like Peretti, he’s so, so...’
‘Helpless? Do you think all men are helpless?’
‘No. Interesting, unusual.’
‘And he’ll seem even more interesting if I tell you something I shouldn’t really tell you at all.’
Muriel looks at her expectantly. Alma leans over and whispers in her ear. Muriel’s face registers her surprise.
‘So when he was young, Peretti...’
‘When he was very young. We have to find Loaiza. I’ll see what the people who entered the university with him know. Even if in some cases I have to hold my nose, because they stink just the way he used to.’
‘I’d love to get Boom Boom Peretti’s autograph! I’ll help you!’
‘That’ll make it much easier.’
‘Are you laughing at me?’
‘It’s time for my class.’
‘What’s the class today?’
‘About what Lionel Trilling has to say on Henry James.’
Muriel looks embarrassed, as if she does not dare tell Alma she is not going to the class.
‘Aren’t you coming?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Got a date?’
‘I want to get things straight once and for all with Alberto.’
‘So Alberto’s the one, is it? The smartest of the lot. The one who’s going to have the most problems. Haven’t you learnt a thing yet? What’s your family going to say? It had to be Alberto, didn’t it?’
Muriel cannot believe what she is hearing.
‘You’re talking to me like the mother in some old-fashioned film!’
The two of them burst out laughing again, holding each other tight.
‘Some day you’ll have to introduce me to your father, because you never talk about your mother.’
As ever when Alma mentions her family, Muriel cannot think of anything to say in reply. Alma gives a sigh and before getting up to go into the faculty, pushes three books under Muriel’s arm.
‘Here, take these. Read up on it at least.’
Alma is disappearing inside the building as Muriel shouts: ‘If you see Peretti before I do, ask him for his autograph, please!’
Alma nods without turning round. Muriel reads the titles of the books: The Liberal Imagination, The Opposing Self, Middle of the Journey. Then Alberto bursts in, startling her.
‘Caught you!’
‘Idiot! You scared me. What did you catch me at anyway?’
Alberto seizes one of her books.
‘The liberal imagination! That sounds like the Chicago School. Like neo-liberal crap. A Latin American or North American asshole.’
Muriel is not having a good day. She snatches back the book, shouts ‘Cretin!’ at him, and storms off. Alberto is baffled.
‘It was a joke. An intellectual joke.’
Day is breaking when inside the port warehouse Loaiza starts to tremble, to drool – he shudders, shouts insults, curses, shivers uncontrollably.
‘Do something! Do something!’
But Raúl does not know what to do. He goes over to the window with its broken panes and looks down into the yard. All the beggars have disappeared except for Altofini, who is still sleeping by the dead bonfire.
‘For God’s sake, do something!’
‘What do you want me to do? Call the cops? An ambulance – that’s it, I’ll call an ambulance.’
Loaiza grabs hold of his arm.
‘I don’t want any ambulances or cops!’
Loaiza fumbles through his pockets and inside his clothing. He pulls a purse out of his filthy white T-shirt. His hands are shaking, but he manages to find a crumpled piece of paper. He hands it to Raúl.
‘Ask this son of a bitch for money, tell him it’s for me. Then score some dope for me. Go on, hurry, you asshole!’
He looks as though he is about to pass out, but in fact he is turning aside to avoid throwing up on the sacks. A stream of the foullest vomit Raúl has ever had to smell hits the floor just by him. Paralysed with disgust, he hesitates, still holding Loaiza’s bit of paper in his hand. After a while, he goes over to the window. Altofini has got up. He’s stiff: every bone aches. Raúl mouths some almost silent words. He is signalling as if to attract Altofini when he hears a noise beside him. He has no time to turn round. He does not see the strained, threatening face of the addict beaded with sweat, as he swings a heavy stick and clouts him on the head until he loses consciousness.
Altofini is still walking stiffly as he emerges from the dock. First he checks his pockets, then his appearance. Both of them leave a lot to be desired. He scans the horizon. A few cars pass by. An occasional taxi. He walks to the centre of the road.
‘Who’s going to stop for someone looking the way I do?’
When he sees Altofini leaving the warehouses, Loaiza slips out as well. He keeps close to the dock wall, fearful of being seen.
A car pulls up next to Altofini. Inside are Pascuali and Vladimiro. They look tired.
‘On the early shift?’ Pascuali asks him.
‘Same as you, by the look of it.’
‘Dressed for the carnival?’
‘No, for transcendental meditation. Sometimes I like to dress like the dregs of humanity to remind myself of the human condition. Polvus eris et polvus reveteris.’
‘You’ve chosen a poor place and a poor disguise to catch a taxi,’ Pascuali says, commiserating.
‘Yes, you two are heaven-sent. May I?’
He makes to get into the car, but Pascuali deliberately drives on a few metres. Altofini wearily accepts the challenge. He shuffles up to the car. Pascuali sticks his head out of the window.
‘This isn’t a taxi. What were you looking for round here?’
Altofini shrugs. He has nothing to say. Pascuali mimics his shrug and pulls off again.
‘Police. You’re all the same. Cops! The only good cop is a dead cop.’
He spots a phone box in the distance and starts toward it, but someone has beaten him to it. He turns back towards the port and stands staring at the empty warehouse.
The man on the telephone seems to have a lot to say. It’s a desperate, shuddering Loaiza, who has the mouthpiece close to his lips and is speaking in wheezing gasps.
‘No, I don’t want to give my message to anyone. I want to speak directly to the Captain.’
Raúl is coming to. Blood drips down his forehead. He opens his eyes. The warehouse ceiling looms threateningly above his head. He is tied up. He struggles in vain with the ropes.
Altofini makes up his mind and walks towards the warehouse. He takes out a gun and a small torch from his inside pocket. He enters the building, walk
s along the different stacks. Climbs up rotten staircases. There are ashes from fires, excrement and tins everywhere. In one of the upstairs rooms, Raúl, tied up, calling for help.
‘Is that someone there? Help me, please.’
Altofini has not heard him. He is still searching every corner, philosophizing on all the debris and destruction he comes across.
‘We are nothing.’
He thinks he hears sounds. He cocks his revolver and edges towards where they are coming from. He hears them more clearly now. At last he stumbles on the storeroom where Raúl is lying tied up on the floor.
‘I’m Raúl Tourón.’
‘Oh, shit!’ is Altofini’s only comment as he bends to undo the knots. ‘The world’s a small place. What are you disguised as now, a bum? Who did this to you?’
Freed from his bonds, Raúl stands up and hands him the scrap of paper Loaiza gave him. Altofini reads it.
‘Peretti? Boom Boom Peretti? What have you got to do with Peretti?’
‘Nothing. But the man who hit me on the head and tied me up does.’
Altofini slaps his own forehead.
‘Loaiza!’
‘Do you know him?’
‘I’d like to. So he was the one who tied you up? Has he gone far?’
‘Why? He needed a fix. I wanted to help him. He gave me this address to ask for money. He was quite sure I’d get it, then all of a sudden he hit me.’
‘What did you tell him? Did you say anything about your situation?’
‘More or less.’
‘Did you mention anyone? Pascuali? The Captain?’
Raúl nods.
‘Shit! We have to get out of here as quickly as possible. I bet he’s got the whole of Buenos Aires on their way here by now.’
Loaiza staggers up to the gate of a large mansion on the outskirts of Buenos Aires. He pushes it open. The effort is too much for him, and he collapses on to the gravel path. He scrambles to his feet, and manages to reach the front door of the house. He passes out again.
The needle of a full syringe hovers over Loaiza’s dilated vein. The anxiety on his face gives way to a satisfied smile. He opens his eyes and blinks: all he can see at first is the fat man’s blurred features and his huge bulk, which gives way to reveal the Captain, who stares down at the junkie contemptuously. Loaiza stammers: ‘Captain. Thank you.’
The Buenos Aires Quintet Page 31