The Buenos Aires Quintet

by Manuel Vázquez Montalbán

  ‘Tomato sauce?’ the Captain asks.

  ‘No, it’s coulis. Tomato coulis,’ the waitress mumbles.

  ‘I’m sorry, this is a very difficult day, not everything can be perfect,’ Magín apologizes.

  ‘But this papillote is perfect. It’s merveilleuse – tell the chef so from me,’ Dolly says, trying to smoothe things over.

  ‘Chef will come and explain the intimate details of the menu to you,’ Magín informs them.

  ‘But not just at this moment,’ the waitress adds hastily.

  ‘Whenever he gets the opportunity,’ Magín insists.

  Magín follows the waitress out to the kitchen.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ Ferlinghetti number two says. The “intimate details” of the menu. He talks a good meal.’

  ‘Cooking made mankind what it is. There is a materialist theory about the origins of language which says it was born around the fire when primitive man was grilling some bison ribs or cooking the first pot-au-feu,’ Carvalho tells his companions.

  ‘Would that be a dialectical materialist theory?’ the Captain wants to know.

  ‘Of course,’ Carvalho replies. ‘The man who launched the theory is a dialectical materialist. He is called Faustino Cordón.’

  ‘A Marxist? Do Marxists eat?’ Dora asks incredulously.

  ‘I’ve met Marxist gourmets,’ says the Captain.

  ‘Dead or alive?’ Ferlinghetti number one quips, pleased at his own joke.

  His brother’s laughter is cut short by an icy glare from the Captain.

  ‘Pleasure admits neither ideology nor violence,’ Gorospe purrs. ‘A good dinner table calms spirits and brings people together.’

  ‘Does pleasure admit patriotism?’ Dora wants to know. ‘Who is willing to leap to the defence of Argentine cooking, for example?’

  Her suggestion meets only dismissive snorts, which Gorospe puts into words.

  ‘The problem is, there is no such thing. There is excellent food in Argentina – asado or empanadas for example. But there isn’t really anything that could be called Argentine cooking. There’s a big difference between food and cooking.’

  ‘Do you think the same way?’ Dora says, staring at the Captain. ‘I’ve heard you’re a true patriot.’

  The Captain meets her gaze and gives her a long, careful reply: ‘Well, patriotism is one thing, food is another. The flavours we cherish most are those in our memory. They’re bound up with how our taste has developed – that’s why we like asado or whatever our mothers or grandmothers cooked for us. But it’s true that Argentine cooking cannot compete with that of many other nations. For example – our most sophisticated dish is matambre, rolled meat loaf. And our most patriotic contribution is carbonada, our meat stew! As Borges might have said: what paucity!’

  The others applaud.

  Magín has followed the waitress into the kitchen. He looks around, bewildered that no one is to be seen. Then the cold-storage door opens and Drumond and the younger cook appear, hurriedly shutting the door behind them.

  ‘Where’s Santos?’ Magín asks.

  ‘My husband’s left,’ the waitress explains. ‘He changed his mind and walked out.’

  ‘Son of a... !’ Magín screams. ‘Now what are we going to do?’

  ‘We’ll manage,’ the waitress says.

  ‘Drumond, I’d like you to explain the details of the menu to the club members,’ Magín says.

  Drumond is drinking deeply from a huge glass full of gin with a splash of tonic and lemon juice.

  ‘Do you think it’s the moment to be drinking?’ Magín asks.

  ‘Bien sûr.’

  He boards the train in Retiro station, with its distant echoes of Victorian splendour, its historic iron rails that have fascinated him since childhood, as if the iron had become a malleable part of his own existence. He gets off where the old English-built railway ends and boards a modern tourist train, resisting the temptation to get off again at each of the suburban stations that have been turned into shopping centres. Gradually the built-up city gives way to houses with gardens, and then finally the trees of northern Buenos Aires announce that they are nearing the Tigre delta. He does not recognize anything in the terminal, which has also been turned into an American-style shopping mall, so Raúl hastens to get out to the Tigre canals, his sense of hope a mixture of expectation and fear, the same kind of tremulous hope he felt as a child when faced with this maze of dark waters, and imagined that paradise could exist. He is to meet his contact on the boat going to Puerto Escobar, and as soon as he sits by the port bow he is joined by one of the people who took him on his first trip here. They were not supposed to speak to each other, and they remain silent as the boat makes its way to one of the river stopping points, next to a dilapidated row of diesel pumps. The two of them get off, then board a waiting launch. Raúl recognizes the route from the previous occasion, and then there is the same house almost swallowed up by vegetation, rotten from damp and a lack of care, but still beautiful to live in – it even crosses Raúl’s mind to ask how much it would cost to buy it.

  He is met by the same man as before, who motions him to sit down, and gets straight to the point.

  ‘I am in a position to give you excellent news. The investigations we have made can help you in your search. Your daughter is alive. She is being brought up by Captain Doreste, whom you know as Gorostizaga, or the “Ranger”, as his military nickname had it.’

  Raúl is on the verge of tears, and his voice is strangled when he asks: ‘Where is she? How can I get her back? What proof do I need to show?’

  He can feel the other man’s eyes on him, and realizes there must be a second part to his proposal.

  ‘The proof depends on an agreement.’

  ‘An agreement between whom?’

  The sphinx in front of him takes his time, not to think what to say but to see if Raúl’s vehement emotions will push him further.

  ‘I’m willing to make any agreement that returns my daughter to me.’

  Satisfied, the sphinx now speaks.

  ‘That’s a good start. You have been in contact with Richard Gálvez Aristarain, who told you about some things his father, the famous Robinson, had found out. And what Gálvez discovered coincides with our own investigations.’

  ‘But who are you?’

  ‘We are who we are. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Señor Tourón. Gálvez Junior got involved in this to get revenge on Ostiz, whom he blamed for being behind his father’s murder. And Ostiz does lead to the Captain and your daughter, but he is not to appear in any of this. You are to present a lawsuit against the Captain and his wife, whose maiden name is Pardieu, and who was part of the farce of the adoption of Eva María Tourón as the daughter of a single mother. The girl is now called Muriel Ortínez Ortínez and is almost twenty’

  Muriel’s name sounds familiar to Raúl, as if he had heard it somewhere recently.

  ‘Gálvez won’t agree to leaving Ostiz out of this.’

  ‘We’ll take care of Richard Gálvez.’

  ‘Why are you helping me? Who are you?’

  ‘You go and find your daughter and sort out the Captain. We’ll look after everything else. In this dossier you’ll find where the Captain’s family lives, how you should proceed so they don’t take flight, and the name of a firm of lawyers who are willing to help you. Don’t get the grandmothers of the Plaza de Mayo mixed up in this, or we won’t supply you with all the proof you need. For the next few hours, the Captain and his troupe of motorcyclists won’t be at his home, and we’ve taken care of the two guards there. So the way is open for you to reach María Asunción Pardieu – she’s the Captain’s wife, who lives under an assumed name because Pardieu is the maiden name they used to register her as Eva María’s mother. You are to enter the house, go up to the woman you find there and say: “I am Raúl Tourón and
I am Muriel’s father.”’

  Up in his office, Lucho Reyero takes a woman’s photo from the desk top. He stares at it, tears in his eyes. Then he starts to speak:

  ‘Of course I always knew there was a risk you’d leave me, but why with that dyke, that ghastly lesbian? What’s she got that I can’t give you? And to think she had the nerve to come here!’

  He stands up and goes over to the interior window. He stares down at Sara and insults her. ‘Filth! Dyke! Disgusting lesbian!’

  There is a knock at the door.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  Magín’s voice reaches him from the far side of the door.

  ‘Don Lucho, there’s hardly anyone left in the kitchen. Something strange is going on.’

  ‘Get lost, Magín.’

  With that, Don Lucho returns to his voyeuristic contemplation of the restaurant, where the guests are deep in conversation.

  ‘I’d like,’ Gorospe says, ‘those who have not had much to say so far – our young actress friend Cari, Carvalho and Doñate – to give their opinion of this Sinaí Riesling.’

  ‘It’s pure fruit,’ Cari exclaims.

  Sinaí pulls a face, but keeps on smiling.

  ‘I’d say it isn’t exactly a Riesling, but is closer to a hock, which is similar to a white Burgundy but with more of a spring-like bouquet, as our young friend here has correctly observed,’ Carvalho says, pointing to Cari.

  ‘I agree with the attribution and am a great fan of hock, which I tried in Germany when I was military attaché there. The Germans call the bottle Bocksbeutel, because they say it is shaped like...’

  ‘Shaped like what?’ Carvalho asks slyly.

  ‘Yes, yes, like what exactly?’ Dora eggs him on.

  ‘Gorospe will tell you, he’s more forthright than I am,’ the Captain says evasively.

  ‘Like bulls’ balls,’ Gorospe says.

  Everyone laughs. Ferlinghetti number two wants to lead the conversation back to the wine.

  ‘In fact, hocks are nothing like Riesling – Rieslings are drier, more perfumed, more subtle – and they have a bouquet which is a mélange of lime, acacia and orange blossom, with very occasionally a hint of cinnamon.’

  ‘What a poet!’ gushes Cari.

  ‘No, it’s just that he’s read the Larousse des Vins,’ Ferlinghetti number one corrects her.

  At this point, a red-faced Drumond sweeps in, closely followed by Magín. His entrance is greeted with a round of silent applause. Drumond drops his chin like an actor, and launches into his speech, gathering confidence as the words flow in a fluent Spanish with a French lilt.

  ‘Tonight I am offering several hommages to French nouvelle cuisine. The first course I learnt from my master Gérard and his minceur exquise, or cooking to lose weight.’

  Señora Fieldmann gives her husband a sharp jab in the ribs. Until now, both of them have devoted themselves to eating rather than talking.

  ‘Gérard, in Sainte-Eugénie! Do you remember we went there, to eat and lose weight?’

  ‘Eating to lose weight?’ Gorospe says suspiciously. ‘Back to the theology of food, the theology of guilt! But go on, Monsieur Drumond, go on.’

  ‘The scallops were a tribute to that great Swiss master of subtlety, the magician Girardet.’

  ‘A round of applause for Girardet!’ proposes Ferlinghetti number one.

  A short but enthusiastic clapping of hands.

  ‘And the Pantagruel potpourri by Troisgros is a playfully symbolic dish in honour of the Argentines’ love of meat, because it has beef, veal, pig, lamb, chicken and oxtail in it, all of them cooked differently. It’s baroque but light, aimed at bringing out the flavour and the texture of each of them, cooked in walnut or peanut oil to give it that final touch!’ Drumond says triumphantly.

  ‘Chapeau!’ exclaims Dora.

  ‘And for dessert I have allowed myself to go from the exquisitely obvious choice of Troisgros’ tango oranges, a tribute to Argentina’s worldwide fame, to Bocuse’s Mont Blanc aux marrons glacés, with in between Gérard’s kiwi sorbet — which you can use as a sort of trou normand before you start on the meat potpourri, and a crazy fantasy invented by Troisgros: an acacia blossom soufflé “Liliana Mazure”!’ Drumond declares, at the height of his oratorical powers.

  ‘Wonderful!’ all the guests exclaim.

  ‘Just one question,’ Carvalho says, interrupting them. ‘Why is the acacia blossom soufflé called “Liliana Mazure”?’

  Drumond smiles coyly.

  ‘What would cookery be without mystery? I don’t mean to be rude, mon ami, but permit me to take that little secret with me to my grave.’

  This speech is received with delirious enthusiasm by the gourmets, especially the women among them. Dora even climbs on to a chair to clap her hands above all the rest, and to take photos of the chef. Drumond leaves the restaurant beaming, with an exit he has studied for weeks.

  ‘What would cooking and life be without mystery?’ Sara says.

  ‘You yourself are a mystery,’ Ferlinghetti number one says.

  ‘My only mystery is that I’m a cripple and different.’

  Ferlinghetti number two puts his lips close to Cari’s ear, nibbles it, and whispers: ‘Are you different like Sara? Different? Really different?’

  Cari laughs a little inanely.

  ‘Food awakens the memory of food,’ Gorospe declares. ‘Dora and Sinaí, do you remember that unforgettable lunch we had at Le Carré de Feuillant? It might not get the most Michelin stars, but it is always excellent, and that was where we ate that wonderful civet of game. In the autumn of 1990...’

  ‘Two,’ Sinaí finishes the sentence. ‘It was 1992. It’s true, that was a wonderful meal. The only thing that spoiled it for me was that on their wine list they had Catalan and Spanish wines, but none from Argentina.’

  ‘A Dutch colleague of mine gave me an extraordinary South African wine to try in Holland. A Jacobsdal Pinotage. It was so good I sent to Cape Town for more,’ Fieldmann says, still eating and casting his eyes greedily at what the others have left on their plates.

  ‘All he ever remembers are good wines and our arguments,’ his wife reproaches him. ‘I think he must write them both down in his diary.’

  In the kitchen, Lupe is still slumped in a state of shock on her chair. Slowly what has happened appears to sink in. The young cook is keeping a watchful eye on her as he gets on with his tasks. Drumond only has eyes for the dinner. The cook goes hesitantly over to Lupe.

  ‘There was nothing else we could do!’

  Lupe finally succeeds in emerging from her stupor, and stares at her lover with increasing fury.

  ‘Murderer! He was the father of my children!’

  Drumond waves at them to stop arguing. Lupe struggles to her feet. Her eyes roll wildly as she searches for something on the kitchen table. She sees the knife her husband had wielded and before Drumond can intervene, plunges it into her lover’s stomach. He reacts as disbelievingly as a cook can after being stabbed and before falling stone dead to the floor. At this moment, Magín comes in from the restaurant. He stares at Drumond. Lupe sees nothing. Magín holds his head in his hands.

  ‘What about the dinner? What are we going to do about the dinner?’ he asks eventually.

  Drumond stubbornly refuses to speak. From the restaurant can be heard the twitter of female voices, the deeper boom of the men fighting to impose their point of view.

  ‘It’s a cliché to say you can’t eat well in Germany’ Hermann is pontificating. ‘You only eat badly in today’s Germany because it has lost its traditions due to a poorly assimilated development and because it has been invaded by all kinds of barbarians.’

  ‘Do you mean the Yankees?’ Sinaí asks.

  ‘The Yankees, the Turks, the Poles and the ossies,’ Hermann specifies. ‘The people from the east don�
�t know how to eat, and they don’t have anything decent to eat anyway because of the state those communist hordes left them in. But I can remember my grandmother’s cooking...it was wholesome, full of taste, the food of peasants and farmers.’

  ‘Hell is other people,’ Dora muses. ‘I believe that. Nothing could be more true.’

  ‘Did you think that up?’ Ferlinghetti number one wants to know. ‘No, Sartre did.’

  Magín reappears from the kitchen. He is carrying as many plates as he can in his hands, or balanced on his arms.

  ‘Good God, Magín,’ Dora says. ‘Why don’t we help you?’

  At this, most of the women guests stand up and head for the kitchen. Magín is balancing far too many plates to be able to stop them, but he shouts: ‘No!’ so imperiously that they all halt in their tracks. Magín places the plates in front of each guest with all his remaining aplomb and dexterity, and then excuses himself.

  ‘Do forgive me for shouting, but a kitchen without mystery is not a kitchen. The food would not have the same flavour if you all knew the secrets of chef Drumond’s inner sanctum.’

  ‘That’s true. This postmodern idea that customers in a restaurant should be free to wander round the kitchens is like putting a condom on your palate,’ Gorospe says.

  Cari laughs out loud.

  ‘Palate condoms? Leandro! What are we to think of you?’ Sara cries.

  ‘Think what you like. The truth is the truth.’

  By now, all the sorbets have been served. Dora closes her eyes and talks with them tight shut.

  ‘It’s true. They open a pinprick in the soul for all the other delights to come rushing in.’

  ‘Food for pansies,’ Gorospe grumbles. ‘Sorbets are nothing but food for pansies.’

  ‘What have you got against homosexuals, Leandro?’ Cari asks him.

  Gorospe gets to his feet, waddles round the table, and kisses Cari on the hand.