The Buenos Aires Quintet

by Manuel Vázquez Montalbán

  ‘It’s nothing. You got what you wanted. Now it’s my turn. What is this valuable information you have?’

  ‘Raúl. Raúl Tourón. I’ve got him.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘How many doses?’

  ‘A good question: how many doses. Give him a dose, will you?’

  The fat man goes over to Loaiza and kicks him twice in the head.

  ‘The soul of markets, Carvalho, is the ghost of murdered Nature.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I think. Did your father write that?’

  ‘No, I did.’

  Borges Jr. is accompanying Carvalho as he wanders through the Central Market surveying the displays of meat, fruit and vegetables.

  ‘You’ve almost abandoned me, Carvalho. What’s happening about my case?’

  ‘We almost went to jail because of you. I think the Aleph business has stopped for now’

  ‘I read about the fire. Thank you. Fire does not purify, but it prevents.’

  ‘Your father?’

  ‘No, me again. I thought you must be looking for your cousin.’

  ‘I’ve scarcely had time for that. I’ve been hired by Boom Boom Peretti.’

  ‘Boxers are guided by their sense of touch.’

  ‘Yours?’

  ‘No, my father’s.’

  Borges stays a respectful metre away whenever Carvalho stops to talk to a stallholder. By now they are used to him, and do not dismiss him as a widower, old-age pensioner or queer.

  ‘What are you going to cook tonight?’ one of them asks.

  ‘What d’you reckon for after a fight?’

  ‘Chopped liver!’

  ‘That’s a good idea. Fegatini con funghi trifolati!’

  ‘That’s too many different things on the same plate,’ the stallholder warns him.

  ‘So tell me an Argentine dish I can make.’

  ‘Have you tried our carbonado?. Yes? What about niños envueltos then?’

  ‘No way’

  ‘Well, take this down – it’s good, and easy to make. Mix rice, minced beef and an onion sliced fine: add salt, pepper, the juice of a lemon and olive oil. Strip the leaves from a cabbage and cook them for two minutes in boiling water until they are soft. The rest is simple. You stuff each cabbage leaf with the mixture, roll them up and place them in a dish. Cover them with cold water, and cook them on a slow stove for three-quarters of an hour. They taste wonderful with any sauce.’

  ‘It sounds like a Catalan dish to me. It sounds as if you cook them just like farcellets de col. Would you like the recipe?’

  ‘Yes, please! The other day I made the one you gave me, and my old man was licking his fingers it was so good. Squid stuffed with mushrooms!’

  Carvalho dictates the recipe for farcellets de col to a divided audience. Some of the women in the queue behind him write it down, while others protest loudly that this isn’t the moment, that they are all in a hurry. Borges Jr. adds his contribution as the cookery class draws to its close and the pair of them set off again through the market.

  ‘My father was in Catalonia shortly before he died, and they offered him bread brushed with tomato. Is that right? Bread and tomato! He would say, “what poverty!”’

  He bows and makes his exit.

  ‘I’ll stop by one of these days to pay my bill.’

  Carvalho continues with his search for the ingredients he needs to make the fegatini. Chicken livers, dried mushrooms, celery, onions, herbs. Carvalho’s face reflects a calm anticipation of pleasure, tempered by the realization that the day is not yet over. Back in his apartment, he tries to keep the pleasure going by carefully preparing all the elements of his dish. He makes the pasta. He cleans and washes the livers and puts them on a plate. He puts the mushrooms to soak, and chops the onion and celery. He lifts a bottle of white wine to the light to see how much is left. The door bell rings and he goes automatically to open it. Then he pauses and decides he should take at least a minimum of precautions. He opens the door on the chain and is somewhat disappointed to see who is standing there.

  ‘Altofini.’

  But it is Raúl who enters first. He has forsaken his beggar’s clothes and now looks like a sixties’ lounge lizard, complete with hat. Carvalho checks no one has followed them, and shuts the door behind them. He goes over to the window and peers down into the street. Nothing unusual, it seems.

  ‘The last time I saw you, you were doing your chimney-sweep number.’

  ‘I went home to change. And look who I found in that rubbish dump. But I didn’t find the person I was looking for: Loaiza.’

  ‘I did,’ Raúl says.

  He thinks about it, and eventually explains what happened. Carvalho listens without saying a word. Raúl finishes, and waits for Carvalho to rebuke him.

  ‘Did you see the Captain arrive?’

  ‘Like I told you, I got Raúl out of the warehouse, and we hid in one of those old disused cranes that are almost falling apart. Then we saw the motorcyclists arrive as usual, followed by the car. The fat man and the Captain were inside. I can just imagine what happened in the warehouse. They must have been furious.’

  ‘What about Loaiza?’

  ‘I didn’t see him. He must have been somewhere in the crowd, because it was like the Calle Florida on a Saturday. Everyone was there. Even Pascuali and his sidekick, the one with the name of a Bolshoi ballet dancer.’

  ‘Let’s be logical about this. Pascuali was following you to see if you would lead him to Raúl. There’s no other explanation. We were following Loaiza and ran into Raúl. The Captain was after Raúl – Loaiza must have sold him the information. An open and shut case. What about you? Are you still happy with your little soap opera? D’you still want to be a fugitive?’

  ‘I wish I were at least a fugitive.’

  Carvalho loses his temper.

  ‘What the fuck do you want?’

  ‘I want people to stop shouting at me!’

  ‘You mean you’re going to see that joker?’

  ‘He helps me relax.’

  Merletti shrugs and nods to another man. Peretti’s assistant opens the door and in comes the flabby heavyweight bulk of Borges Jr., who waddles over to the table where the boxer is resting, his hands already in their gloves.

  ‘Borges Jr. at the service of one of the world’s great fencing masters. Because you are not a boxer. You are a swordsman, and beyond that, an angelic knife-fighter of the open pampas.’

  ‘Did your father write about boxing?’

  ‘No, he never got beyond knife-fighters.’

  Borges takes one of Peretti’s gloved hands and gives it a ceremonious kiss. Then he withdraws without turning his back, half Royal Hussar, half dashing croupier from a Mississippi steamboat. The open door to the changing-room lets in a solid wall of noise from the Argentine Boxing Federation, waiting expectantly for the main bout of the evening.

  The public are shouting as if trying to escape all their hundred years of solitude and silence. The announcer jumps into the ring, microphone in hand. In one corner stands a young Basque boxer with his team. His long nose has been flattened so often it seems like a second face jutting out like a wall. In the other corner, Peretti and his seconds. In the front row of the public, Merletti, Robert and his two girl friends. A little further back Carvalho, Alma and Muriel. The two women are very excited.

  ‘A world championship bout for the superwelterweight title!’ bawls the announcer. ‘In the blue corner, the challenger, Aitor Azpeitia!’

  The public boos and jeers.

  ‘Aren’t you applauding your fellow countryman?’

  ‘We’re not from the same country. He’s a Basque and I’m mixed race.’

  ‘But you’re both European.’

  ‘I’m Afro-European,’ Carvalho tells Alma.

  The announcer raises his
arm and the crowd falls silent.

  ‘In the red corner, the current world champion, Boom Boom Peretti!’

  Patriotic cheers and applause as ethnic ecstasy takes hold of the public in much the same way as the tongues of fire of the Holy Spirit took hold of the apostles. The boxers exchange pleasantries. Azpeitia is gruff and swaggering; Peretti elegant and disdainful. The bell rings. The referee gives his instructions. The two men touch gloves, and the Basque whispers in Peretti’s ear as they part: ‘I’m going to cut your face to pieces, pretty boy.’

  Peretti smiles but says nothing. He goes back to his corner. The gong sounds. The two boxers circle the centre of the ring. They start jabbing at each other, taking the blows on the gloves. Then Azpeitia launches an attack, which Peretti dances away from. The Basque’s punches are hard, but Boom Boom ducks them and suddenly unleashes a right hook that does not land full on his opponent’s face, but hurts him nonetheless. Gasps from the public.

  Muriel has shut her eyes. She does not want to see the fight, she simply wants to see Peretti win. Alma does watch, acknowledging the punches with a faint grimace, while Carvalho shows no emotion at all. Robert is shouting his father encouragement. Merletti does the same. The Basque butts Peretti in the face. Outraged, Boom Boom feels the effects with his glove. The referee cautions Azpeitia. Then more clinches. Peretti lands two more blows without much effect, and the bell rings.

  Ten more gongs come and go, with the Basque soaking up punishment and trying all the while to use his strength to cut Peretti. The crowd jeers and insults him.

  ‘Use your right, Boom Boom!’ they shout. ‘Smash him!’

  Muriel is not enjoying it. She opens her eyes and looks round the hall. All of a sudden she starts in disbelief. Her father is there, and next to him, the fat man. Muriel tries to hide behind Alma.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  But Carvalho has followed Muriel’s gaze and has spotted the Captain. Alma cannot understand what is going on, and communicates this to Carvalho. He does not say a word, but from now on, his attention is divided between the ring, the Captain and Muriel.

  By round eleven, the Basque is tiring. He holds Peretti in a clinch and deliberately head-butts him twice. The referee gives him another caution. As they are stepping back, Peretti lands a fierce left to Azpeitia’s stomach, and when he tries to cover up, hits him with a straight right to the face. Azpeitia stumbles and leaves his guard open. Peretti steps in and lands a second right, followed by a stunning left. The crowd drowns in ecstasy. Only the Captain and Carvalho appear unmoved – staring at each other.

  ‘Pepe! Where’s the girl?’ Alma says, suddenly realizing Muriel is no longer with them.

  ‘She doesn’t like boxing,’ Carvalho comments laconically.

  But the roar of the crowd forces them to concentrate on what’s going on in the ring. The Basque challenger is down, and the referee has begun his count. Peretti is the winner! The crowd goes wild. Robert and Merletti hug each other. Alma looks desperately for Muriel in the crowd. She has vanished. Peretti trots out to his dressing-room and while his seconds are removing the tape from his hands, Merletti gives an excited running commentary on the bout. Peretti examines his face in the mirror, looking at the marks Azpeitia’s fists have made. He runs his fingers over his cheeks, and stops at the huge bump on his forehead.

  ‘Any longer and that son of a bitch would have messed up my eyebrow!’

  ‘Yes, he was a tough son of a bitch all right, but you flattened him, Boom Boom. That punch to his liver left him chopped like pate de foie.’

  Robert laughs hysterically.

  An attendant comes in and says something to Peretti. The boxer mulls it over, hesitating. Eventually, he nods. He dips his fingers into a pot of cream Merletti holds out to him, and spreads it gently over the bumps on his face. He turns round just as Alma and Carvalho enter the dressing-room.

  ‘I’ve brought an assistant with me – Dr Alma.’

  Peretti kisses her hand, much to her barely concealed delight. Carvalho takes the boxer to one side, despite Merletti and Robert’s suspicious glances.

  ‘Let’s just say the plot is thickening,’ Carvalho says. ‘We’ve found Loaiza but can’t actually get our hands on him. Your friend has strange relations – and I don’t mean sexual ones. And also, it seems he was badly beaten up a few days ago.’

  ‘I had nothing to do with that.’

  ‘I believe you. But even more worrying than the beating he got is the fact he seems to have links to groups from the dirty war.’

  This surprises Peretti. He exchanges a glance with Merletti that Carvalho catches.

  ‘Bruno always liked playing with fire,’ Peretti says, turning his attention back to the detective.

  ‘Did he have those kinds of links when you knew him?’ Carvalho asks.

  Peretti thinks before replying.

  ‘Bruno liked provoking people. There was a lot of repression in the university, and there was a strong official line, but Bruno liked doing down the lefties. He always said that potentially they were just as murderous as the military thugs in power.’

  ‘Did you think that?’

  ‘I didn’t like terrorism, but I didn’t support the dictatorship either. I’ve always stayed out of politics. They asked me to do like Palito Ortega or Neumann and put myself down as a candidate for Menem or for the “Radishes”, the Radicals. Politics is an even more uncertain business than boxing. Between Perón and the military, I choose Jünger.’

  ‘Is that a kind of tank?’

  ‘No, a Prussian writer.’

  ‘Politics only becomes a sure thing when it turns into boxing. I’m afraid Loaiza’s dangerous liaisons will make their presence felt.’

  ‘I’m a personal friend of the president.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it. All I ask is that you don’t keep anything from me. In the crowd tonight I saw a figure who represents a whole era – the Captain, he’s known as. He had power in the cellars of the dictatorship, and still thinks he has now there’s democracy.’

  ‘You can trust me.’

  Carvalho signals to Alma for them to leave, but she comes over to Peretti and holds out a pen and piece of paper.

  ‘Would you mind signing an autograph?’

  Carvalho can’t believe what he is seeing or hearing.

  ‘Is it for you?’ asks Peretti.

  ‘No, it’s for a student of mine: could you dedicate it to Muriel, please. She was here, but she was too shy to come in.’

  Peretti writes something and signs his name. He hands the autograph to Alma, who looks at him gratefully. There is a worried look on the boxer’s face as he watches her leave with Carvalho, then Robert rushes up to him.

  ‘What did he say about me?’

  ‘Why should he mention you?’

  Merletti butts in.

  ‘Go and have your medical check-up, then I’ll explain.’

  Carvalho and Alma leave the dressing-room and walk down the centre aisle of the hall. Muriel is waiting for them at the exit.

  ‘Where did you get to?’ asks Alma.

  ‘I don’t know what came over me.’

  ‘Here’s the autograph for you.’

  Muriel takes it and stuffs it into her bag. She does not know what to say. Her eyes are red from crying.

  ‘I’ll tell you the truth. I saw my father in the audience.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘You don’t understand. He’s very strange, very conservative. He’s always attacking university teachers. He says they corrupt innocent youth. I gave him an excuse about coming home late, but I didn’t tell him I was coming to the fight with you.’

  Alma puts an arm round her waist, and pushes her towards the exit.

  ‘Parents. No one chooses their parents. You have to take them as you find them.’
<
br />   Carvalho’s face is as sad as a funeral, the corner of his eyes mist over. Half-hidden behind a column, the Captain watches them leave, and then decides to head back to the dressing-room. He flattens himself against the wall just outside the door, from where he can make out what is going on inside, and hear the exchanges between Boom Boom and Merletti. The manager is trying to explain something to a furious Peretti.

  ‘I had to do it, Boom Boom. You’re an idealist. If it had been me, I wouldn’t have brought in outsiders – I would have sorted it out amongst us: that’s why I arranged to see the Spaniard in Fiorentino’s, and that’s where he met Robert and his “girl” friends. Robert’s always playing at mixing the three or four sexes. That’s why he was so worried about what the Spanish bloodhound might tell you, and dumped me in it.’

  ‘What else are you hiding from me?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘It was you who had Loaiza beaten up.’

  ‘How could I, if I didn’t even know where he was?’

  ‘Don’t lie to me again, it was you!’

  ‘Yes, what the shit, it was me! What are you going to do when they find him? Set him up in a restaurant, or give him more money to buy drugs with? Shit only understands shit, I say’

  Peretti cannot stand any more, and punches Merletti half-seriously. Merletti slaps him in return, and in a few seconds they are really fighting, working off their anger but without seriously trying to hurt each other. Eventually Peretti collapses breathless on to the massage table, while Merletti turns his face to the wall as if trying to find somewhere to hide his body and his face. Robert, who has had nothing to do with the fight, walks out of the dressing-room without noticing the man listening outside, and carries on until he has left the Argentine Boxing Federation altogether. He shows little interest in the small crowd gathered round a big hefty man who is reciting poems to the jeers and laughter of people whose eyes and minds are still lit up by Peretti’s flashing punches.

  Robert climbs into a sports car driven by the ash-blonde from the other evening at Fiorentino’s, who is now an effeminate male with dark fair hair. They kiss each other fleetingly, and pull off.