The Buenos Aires Quintet

by Manuel Vázquez Montalbán

  Güelmes says nothing.

  ‘But Richard Gálvez won’t be satisfied with just getting rid of the Captain. He’s going to want my head as well.’

  Güelmes beams at him.

  ‘Try not to offer it to him. We won’t.’

  ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘Wait for Tom Thumb to find the clues we’ve left him that lead to the Giant’s lair.’

  Magín has left the restaurant to get some fresh La Recoleta air. Night is falling. He is nervous, and lights a cigarette. He looks up at the restaurant sign and the front of the building, the upstairs light in Don Lucho’s office, and Don Lucho’s shadow standing there, golf club in hand. Don Lucho puts the club back in the golf bag. He pours himself another large whisky, and drinks it as though he were still thirsty. He goes over to the street window and peers through the blinds. He spots Magín out on the pavement staring up at his window, lets the blind drop and goes back to his desk. All of a sudden he pulls open a drawer. In it is a black pistol, a shiny Luger that smells as though it has recently been greased. He picks the gun up, caresses it, aims it at targets only he can see. He lowers his arm, puts the Luger back inside the drawer. He thinks desperately, then opens the drawer again, picks up the gun and wipes his fingerprints off with a cloth. He puts it back again when he thinks he hears voices in the street outside the restaurant.

  The most expensive Jaguar of all the Jaguars in Buenos Aires has pulled to a halt. A uniformed chauffeur opens the door and Gorospe gets out. He gives instructions, and heads for the restaurant. Magín is waiting at the door for him.

  ‘Don Leandro, welcome.’

  ‘What’s wrong, Magín? Why no doorman?’

  ‘Today is a rest day for the restaurant staff. Those of us working are volunteers,’ Magín replies. When Gorospe twists his mouth in distaste, he hastens to add: ‘Don’t worry, sir. Everything is under control.’

  In the kitchen, the French chef is finishing off one dish and supervising another with irritating precision. There are only three people – a woman and two men – to help chef Drumond, who suddenly recovers his Spanish when he tastes a stock that does not meet his approval.

  ‘Lighten that stock for me! How long was it in the frigidaire?’

  ‘Since Alfonsín’s time,’ the woman sniggers.

  Much to Drumond’s annoyance, this sets the other two off laughing as well, so hard that one of them loses his glasses in the stew. He looks to right and left to see if anyone has noticed, then snatches his spectacles out of the boiling pot as quickly as he can. He wipes them and puts them on again. Taking advantage of his companion’s momentary blindness, the other assistant gives the woman’s breasts a quick fondle, although she warns him off, gesturing that it is too dangerous.

  A couple in their forties enter the restaurant, keeping a respectful ten yards behind Gorospe. The man’s skin shines from a recent massage by an Austrian masseuse weighing ninety kilos and with a blonde ponytail; she glows as if she has just emerged from thalassotherapy in the Mongo Aurelio Club, with Roman baths thrown in. She looks like a good-looking recent divorcee who has just remarried a perfectly matched divorced husband. Magín bows, and Gorospe comes to greet them.

  ‘Dora, Sinaí, how splendidly happy you look!’

  ‘Leandro – the first to arrive, as ever.’

  ‘So that I can give you the first kiss.’

  They exchange the ritual mwaa! mwaa! but Gorospe clings on to the woman, and his hands stray down her back to grope her behind. She smiles icily and pushes him away, while her husband interjects: ‘Watch those hands, Gorospe, watch those hands of yours. Where is your wife, by the way?’

  ‘I didn’t bring her, so you couldn’t get your hands on her.’ He laughs out loud at his own joke, and then goes on, suddenly serious: ‘No, that’s not true. I divorced her.’

  ‘When? You kept that quiet, didn’t you?’ Dora exclaims.

  ‘It was on Thursday. It was raining, and I had nothing to do. You know how sad it can be in Buenos Aires when it rains. I always get divorced when I have nothing to do.’

  Dora laughs. Magín thrusts a tray of kir aperitifs at them.

  ‘May I offer you an aperitif the chef has invented: Roederer Premier champagne with a few drops of Napoleon mandarin liqueur.’

  ‘I love drinking kir without the blackcurrant!’ Dora gurgles. ‘I can’t bear blackcurrant. What a good idea of the chef’s!’

  ‘Have you been at the Golf Club?’ Gorospe asks.

  Sinaí shakes his head, unable to speak because he is busy trying the aperitif he has been offered.

  ‘Who goes to the club these days?’ he says eventually. ‘It’s full of this regime’s nouveaux riches. Mmm, delicious! This kir is delicious!’

  ‘De-li-sh-ous,’ Dora echoes him, breathing out the ‘sh’ endlessly until the final hissed ‘s’ entirely robs her of all her remaining breath.

  ‘Forgive me, but this cocktail is for pansies, Magín: what we need is a good Sauternes or a dry sherry, or my own favourite, a chilled tawny port with a slice of lemon.’

  Magín cuts him short by handing him a glass he has prepared especially. The connoisseur’s eyes light up.

  ‘A cold tawny port with a drop of lemon!’

  Gorospe kisses Magín, who does not know where to put himself.

  ‘You’re the finest Perónist maître I’ve ever met.’

  ‘You’re too kind.’

  Carvalho arrives on foot. He looks at his watch and at the restaurant front. He starts to read the illuminated menu next to the door, when a stern voice rings out: ‘We’re closed to the public tonight.’

  ‘I’m not the public. I was invited by Señor Gorospe.’

  Magín looks him up and down. He does not look like one of Gorospe’s usual guests. He lets Carvalho into the restaurant, where Gorospe, Dora, Sinaí and Dolly and Hermann – whose bulk and appearance betray German origins — are still on their aperitifs.

  ‘One has to eat to live,’ Hermann is saying, ‘but just occasionally one has to live to eat.’

  ‘Especially if everyday life is one long diet, boring but healthy,’ says Dolly. ‘Have you tried the Atkins diet?’

  ‘I don’t believe in any theological approach to eating. I believe in the pleasure of food,’ Gorospe replies.

  The group turns towards the door when they hear Carvalho and Magín come in. Magín’s embarrassment and Carvalho’s hesitancy arouse their curiosity. He is obviously not one of them.

  ‘This gentleman says he is...’

  ‘This gentleman is my guest,’ Gorospe cuts him short.

  He takes Carvalho by the arm and leads him over to the others.

  ‘Allow me to introduce you to a great Spanish gourmet, Señor Carvalho. This evening he represents the historical memory of Spanish cooking, which forms such an important part of our Argentine taste – well, for those of us of Spanish origin, at least. But beware Carvalho, this place will soon be full of yids, macaronis and krauts.’

  Everyone laughs at Gorospe’s little joke. As he is presented to the group, Dora in particular catches Carvalho’s eye, but when she opens her mouth to speak, out comes a catalogue of ethnic stereotypes.

  ‘So you’re Spanish? How wonderful. Well, I guess you already know that we pure-blooded Argentines – that is, those of us who have been here for more than three generations – have a low opinion of all foreigners: we see Italians as odd-job men, Spaniards as slow on the uptake, and Jews as restless, unstable, potentially subversive.’

  Gorospe leaves Dora to philosophize into thin air as he whisks Carvalho away to show him the restaurant. His presentation is interrupted by the entrance of twin brothers.

  ‘The Ferlinghettis!’ Gorospe cries like a circus ringmaster. ‘Two peas in a pod stuffed with money and whisky!’

  Magín serves all the newcomers an aperitif. He tries to m
ake amends with Carvalho.

  ‘My family’s from Spain too. From Santander.’

  Carvalho refuses the proferred kir and points to what Gorospe is drinking.

  ‘I knew our Spaniard was a true gourmet,’ Gorospe chortles.

  The group is almost complete – the only ones missing are the Fieldmanns, Cari, Sara, Ostiz and Doñate.

  ‘Is Doñate coming?’ Sinaí asks, intrigued.

  ‘The mysterious Doñate?’ Dora insists.

  ‘Yes, he’s coming,’ Gorospe says curtly.

  ‘As ever, he’ll arrive at the very last moment,’ Ferlinghetti number one adds, ‘just as somebody is saying: “Doñate is going to be late.”’

  ‘So say it, then he’ll appear,’ Dora suggests helpfully.

  With all the bubbles and alcohol the guests have livened up considerably, and Gorospe has to shout to draw their attention to the latest arrival.

  ‘Audrey Hepburn!’

  A thin, waif-like woman has made her entrance. Everyone’s rush to give her a kiss takes Carvalho aback. It is as though they are worried they will not get there in time.

  ‘How beautiful you look, and how thin! And yet you eat all the time, it’s not fair!’ Dora says.

  ‘I burn off the calories,’ Cari replies. ‘And I only very rarely allow myself excesses like tonight.’

  One of the Ferlinghetti brothers is the last to kiss her. He makes such a meal of it that his brother stares daggers at him. At that precise moment, the Fieldmanns come in. Isaac and Raquel, their skins tanned by many hours on the golf course, the oldest of the guests. The greetings ritual all over again. Don Lucho descends from his office eyrie, humming a popular song:

  Have this one on me

  I’ve no one to rely on

  So lonely, far from home

  I need a shoulder to cry on.

  ‘Everything going to plan, Lucho. The only guests missing are Sara, Ostiz and, of course, Doñate,’ Gorospe informs him.

  ‘You invited Sara?’ Don Lucho asks.

  ‘She is a member of the Club.’

  Lucho tries to hide his annoyance, but is put out still further when he spots Carvalho.

  ‘He’s a great Spanish gourmet,’ Gorospe tells him soothingly.

  ‘We know that,’ Dora reproaches him, ‘but you haven’t told us what else this mysterious fellow does.’

  ‘I’m a private detective,’ Carvalho explains.

  Gorospe is not at all pleased that Carvalho is so open about his profession, but nothing will make his broad smile slip.

  ‘How private?’ Dora wants to know.

  ‘As private as they come these days,’ Carvalho tells her. ‘In the future all our police forces will be privatized, and so will our prisons.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope no one gives you any business tonight,’ Don Lucho says. ‘No one is to kill anyone, understood?’

  Some of the guests show they are curious about Carvalho, but most of them cannot get over the fact that there is a stranger in their midst. The tension is relieved when a dynamic, angular woman appears in a wheelchair, propelling herself along as if she was competing in the paraOlympics. ‘That’s Sara,’ Gorospe whispers in Carvalho’s ear. Everyone expresses their delight at seeing her, except Don Lucho, who glares blackly at her. The guests try to make room for Sara in the centre of their group, but she refuses forcefully. There is little time for them to adjust their attitude from one of compassion to the normal enjoyment of someone’s company, because the financier Ostiz commands everyone’s attention by the simple expedient of coming in and throwing his arms wide. His eyes flicker across Carvalho’s face when they are introduced and the detective says: ‘I think we’ve met before somewhere.’

  Ostiz makes no reply beyond a knowing smile.

  ‘Dinner is served!’ Gorospe shouts. ‘You know Doñate will only appear when we’ve all sat down. It’s magic.’

  Everyone takes their seat, the couples sitting as far away from each other as possible. Lucho grasps Sara’s wheelchair and pushes her towards the table, leaning over to whisper in her ear as he does so: ‘You bitch!’

  Sara pretends she has not heard. Still smiling and cheerful, she hisses back at him: ‘Cuckold, cuckold!’

  Lucho leaves her at the table and withdraws upstairs to his office.

  ‘Magín, start serving the entrées,’ Gorospe orders. ‘Doñate is late.’

  No sooner has he pronounced the words than Doñate appears in the restaurant doorway. Carvalho tries to conceal his sense of shock. Doñate. The Captain.

  Magín goes into the kitchen. The plates for the first course are ready.

  ‘To whet their appetite,’ chef Drumond says, his French accent returning as he surveys the hors d’oeuvre: ‘Sashimi de thon frais mariné an soja, artichaut déguisé et la marinade de légumes nouveaux aux agrumes, carpaccio de morue... Merde! they are supposed to be served one after the other, but...’

  ‘They’ll eat them anyway,’ Magín says.

  All at once there is a loud clatter of pots and pans. The cook with the boiled glasses has thrown a pan at the other, younger man. The woman shrieks and stands in front of her lover to protect him.

  ‘Whore!’ the myopic cook shouts. ‘D’you think I didn’t see you? You’ve been fondling each other all evening!’

  He snatches up a big kitchen knife and lunges after them, but Magín and the other man manage to stop him.

  ‘Calm down, all of you,’ Magín shouts. ‘You,’ he tells the woman, ‘put your apron on and come and help me serve.’

  Magín and the kitchen maid make their way into the restaurant. Their faces and the dishes they are carrying announce the start of the meal. The Captain is being presented to everyone, Carvalho included. They look each other up and down.

  ‘José Carvalho Tourón, private detective.’

  They manage not to shake hands, merely nodding their head.

  ‘We share a first name then. José Doñate, retired army officer.’

  ‘No one here believes you’re retired,’ Sinaí reproaches him.

  To judge by the suppressed laughter that escapes them despite the respect the Captain inspires, the others obviously all agree with him. Ostiz takes him aside to say something, but apparently Doñate is only half-listening and half-looking at him, because he is busy ogling Dora and trying to warn Carvalho off at the same time. With Dora he is all charm.

  ‘Dora, if the other ladies present weren’t just as beautiful, I’d say you are truly beautiful tonight,’ he says.

  ‘You poet!’ Dora replies simperingly.

  But his charm does not extend beyond Dora. Carvalho has heard his growled comment to Ostiz: ‘Go fuck yourself.’ Ostiz tries to make him see reason, but to no avail. Sinaí gets up self-importantly and directs their attention to the wines displayed on a nearby buffet.

  ‘I would have preferred French wines, perhaps a bottle or two from South Africa, but Gorospe insisted I choose from my own vineyards!’

  Everyone applauds.

  ‘I’ll only say a few words about them because I know you are all experts. I’ve chosen a Cotes de Arezzo as the sparkling wine – the champagne let’s call it, because our Argentine sparkling wines are every bit as good as champagne. Then an ’89 Riesling Sinaí which is a good honest drink, and also, in honour of my wife here’ – more applause – ‘a young Château Dora which can be drunk with another more full-bodied wine, the Château Margaux Francesca, named after my mother, which despite its name is not an imitation of a Château Margaux but a fine Merlot wine in the best traditions of Mendoza.’

  ‘Very good!’ Gorospe bellows. ‘As you all know, when it comes to wines I’m a nationalist, whenever I can’t have a good French wine instead, that is.’ The others boo and hiss. ‘That reminds me of a story I once heard about that great poet of negritude, Senghor – who was Senegalese – who, when
he was asked “Do you know a lot about Senegalese cooking?” replied: “Enough to prefer French cooking.”

  Loud whoops of approval, but mostly the gourmet guests are already busily sniffing the hors d’oeuvre, tasting a little with the tips of their forks, and generally swooning with pleasure.

  ‘Mmm, how delicious!’ some say.

  ‘What subtle flavours! What texture!’ say the others.

  ‘What do you make of this, Carvalho?’ Gorospe wants to know. ‘Try this tuna sashimi. It smells of the sea, has the consistency of air and glides across the tongue.’

  ‘It glides,’ Cari enthuses.

  ‘Smooth is the word,’ Ferlinghetti opines.

  ‘Smooth and gentle, like a French kiss,’ Sara suggests.

  ‘What are you thinking about, Sara?’ the Captain wonders. ‘Isn’t Lucho eating with us?’

  ‘We begged him to, but he refused,’ Gorospe replies, pointing up towards the office.

  Don Lucho is surveying the dinner guests from his hiding place. He points the Luger at Sara in her wheelchair and mouths silently: bang! bang! Meanwhile in the kitchen, the female assistant in her waitress’s apron is beside herself with rage.

  ‘This is a trap! I’m off!’

  She undoes her apron and flings it on to the kitchen table. Unfortunately it lands straight in the pot full of squid stuffed with mushrooms. Drumond and her husband try to stop her leaving.

  ‘Lupe, I’m sorry. You’re right, I’m a hopeless cuckold.’

  ‘Of course you are, at last you’ve got it. You’re a miserable cuckold, nothing more!’ she shouts at him.

  ‘There’s no need to insult me, Lupe!’

  ‘You were the one who said it.’

  The cook grabs the kitchen knife again and flings himself on his wife. The younger man steps in between them, and whacks Lupe’s husband on the head with a heavy copper pan. A dull thud. He falls to the ground, and the other three stare down at him in panic. There is a different kind of panic in Magín’s face: he has served some of the papillotes but is looking for the waitress to bring in the rest. Eventually she appears through the swing doors, still unsteady on her feet, but carrying the two required plates. She places them in front of the Captain and Carvalho, nervously staring down at a bright red stain on her blouse front.