by Derek Hansen
Rosa could think of many things, some which had nothing whatsoever to do with politics.
‘Think, Rosa. You have always taken my words to the people.’
Rosa gasped. She saw herself as the headstrong girl handing out his pamphlets to students, and now leaving Argentina Libre on restaurant chairs.
‘La Voz del Pueblo? No. No! Tell me it isn’t true!’ Her eyes begged for a denial, but Victor’s soft, sad smile held firm.
‘I must go,’ he said. ‘Please, Rosa, there is nothing to fear. Just go about your life as normal.’
Then he was gone. But how could she go about her life as normal? Her life had changed forever. She’d just discovered that her husband was the most wanted man in Argentina.
Roberto was anxious to get to school. Rosa let him go with his friend, for once not insisting that he eat breakfast. With the house empty, with no reason to pretend, Rosa broke down and cried. She cried for an hour, sitting alone in the kitchen. Tears of despair, hopelessness and fear coursed down her cheeks. How could Victor do this to them?
She began to hate. She hated Victor’s politics, all politics, and she hated his mission. But she didn’t hate him. She hated the position Victor had put them in. The more she thought about it, the more obvious the solution seemed. Victor would have to give up politics and let someone else be La Voz del Pueblo. She would give Victor an ultimatum. His politics or his family. He would have to decide. She would make him decide. But in her heart she wasn’t ready to make a stand. She was helpless. A fresh outpouring of tears testified to that.
Jorge could tell she’d been crying. She wore dark glasses though the day was overcast and rain was imminent. She kept them on even in the restaurant, but Jorge had seen that her eyes were swollen. She was distracted and had no appetite. Jorge sat quietly, biding his time. She wanted to speak, but didn’t know how to begin. She wanted to tell someone, to share the burden, but didn’t dare.
‘Come,’ Jorge said eventually. ‘There is no point in staying here. I can see you have a lot on your mind. I suspect they are things that can only be said in private. My apartment is nearby. We can go there.’
Jorge paid for the drink he’d had and left a generous tip. A taxi took them to his apartment. As soon as the door closed behind them, Rosa began weeping. Jorge put his arm around her and comforted her. He spoke to her as if she were a child. Still she wept. He took her in both arms and she sobbed as though her heart would burst. He patted her back. He stroked her hair. He kissed her. And when she didn’t object, he kissed her again. And again. Not lightly, not as a friend, but as a lover. This time she responded. Their kissing became urgent and desperate. Then she was upon him as the confusion of her rioting emotions sought release in passion.
Her tongue darted inside his mouth and she could feel him pressing hard against her. She wanted him more than she’d ever wanted anyone in her life. She kissed him and kissed him and wouldn’t let go. Her skirt fell away. His questing fingers unbuttoned her blouse. Her passion was in full flood and the dam ached to burst. His hands were on her buttocks as he stripped off her bikini briefs. Then she took him inside her in one great shuddering gasp.
For a while, the frenzy of their love-making freed her from the pain and desperation of the reality she could not face. Then she told Jorge everything. Carlos was right. Their heads shared a pillow and she told him more than he had ever hoped to hear. Victor’s life was in his hands. He had the information he needed to force a deal with Carlos. And what information! He could already see the admiration on Carlos’ face. He could already taste his triumph. Jorge wanted to shout with joy but he forced his attention back to Rosa. He would have to handle her carefully. It was one thing to make love, another thing entirely to make a commitment. Rosa had to want to come back to him.
‘You must leave Victor,’ he said. ‘You must take Roberto and leave him now. Now! While you still have a chance. I will find a place for you and protect you. I will get you and Roberto to a safe place, away from Argentina. I am right and you know it. You must trust me.’
‘I can’t. He needs me. He is my husband and he is a good man. I cannot abandon him.’ Rosa clung to Jorge, secure in the protection of his body. ‘I will talk to him. I will make him give up his writing. Maybe we should all leave Argentina.’
‘You think the Generals have short memories? You think they forgive so easily?’ Jorge got up with apparent disgust. He left Rosa lying on the bed, naked and vulnerable. She held out her arms to him but he ignored her.
‘Victor is the most wanted man in Argentina. They will not rest until they have him. And, Rosa, they will take you with them. And they will take Roberto. If not yourself, Rosa, think of little Roberto.’
Rosa began to cry once more. Jorge ached to take her in his arms, but he didn’t. He left her lying exposed and alone on his bed.
‘Leave him, Rosa,’ he urged. ‘You have no choice. You must leave him.’ He walked out of the room.
Rosa didn’t leave Victor. She argued with him and she ran crying to Jorge. She sought solace in his arms. Still she would not leave Victor and the home they had made together. As the nights passed and the soldiers did not come, they returned to the old, familiar patterns of their lives.
Jorge grew impatient, Carlos more so.
‘Where is the information you promised?’ he demanded ‘Your father, too, grows impatient. Other matters are involved.’
‘I will know soon,’ Jorge equivocated. ‘These things cannot be rushed. You are a professional surely you know that?’
But Carlos was unimpressed by Jorge’s rhetoric.
‘Give me a number where I can reach you,’ Jorge asked.
‘Sometimes I wonder if you are really so stupid.’ Carlos rang off.
Jorge was getting desperate. He knew if he pushed Rosa any harder she would turn on him. He couldn’t risk that happening. He had to secure his position as her only true friend. She had to believe he wanted only what was best for her.
But time was running out. Jorge could not believe he was the only source being used to trap Victor. Perhaps others would discover Victor’s secret, before he could trade it in return for Rosa and Roberto’s safety. The consequences then were unthinkable.
Jorge had another problem. Drupa 78, the printing exposition in Dusseldorf, was less than three weeks away. It would take him out of the country for a month, and demand every second of his time for the following twelve. He had to act.
He took a taxi to his father’s headquarters and went to see Esther Teresa.
‘I need funds transferred to my New York account,’ he said and gave her the details. She showed no surprise at the amount.
‘Sit down,’ she said, and a sigh came from deep within her. She reached across her desk and took his hands. She held them silently, as if in prayer, before speaking.
‘It is a dangerous game you play, Jorge Luis. There are no friends in this game, no allies, just shifting alliances. Everyone, even you, is expendable. This is not a time for heroics. Just to survive is enough.’
So Esther Teresa also knew. Who else, Jorge wondered? The stakes kept doubling, and the longer the game lasted, the greater the risks became.
‘I have no choice, Esther Teresa. I did not seek involvement in this thing. But I must also do what is best for me. It is my life. No one else can live it for me.’
‘They can, Jorge. Sometimes it is better to let them.’ Her eyes pleaded a cause she hoped was not lost. ‘We must all make sacrifices. Sometimes the sacrifices seems too much. But the head must rule the heart. Take care, Jorge. Weigh every action carefully.’
She watched Jorge leave. Then picked up the phone to his father’s office.
When Carlos rang again, Jorge was curt with him.
‘We must talk,’ he said. ‘This time I will try the yerba maté.’ He hung up.
After almost two months of silence, the Voice of the People was once more raised in protest. He listed the names of those who gave their lives in the raid on Argentina Lib
re, and those who had simply disappeared.
‘The Voice of the People cannot be silenced,’ he raged, ‘while people are still free to dream. Of justice. Of equality. Of a society both fair and free. While a single Argentinian is denied the right to his own opinion, to the freedom to express it, then the Voice of the People shall be heard. While a single Argentinian is held in poverty by the greed of the few, then the Voice of the People shall be heard.
‘My voice may be extinguished by a single bullet, but others will take my place and cry out in the name of justice. And others will take their place, and still others theirs. This voice will not be silenced.’
Argentina Libre began appearing in cafeterias, bars and public places as before. Every Thursday, ordinary men and women risked their lives distributing copies, leaving the damning trail of evidence behind them.
By normal standards Argentina Libre wasn’t much of a newspaper. The quality was poor and it was pathetically thin. But it did adhere to the principle that readers of newspapers are creatures of habit. Dailies must arrive daily and morning papers in the morning, always at the same time or earlier. Argentina Libre was a Thursday newspaper. That is when people looked for it and expected to find it. That is also what made it easy to catch distributors.
When Jorge arrived at Los Locos, the car, the driver and Carlos were already in place. However, neither Jorge nor Carlos were in a mood to eat. They settled for the wine and soda water.
‘So,’ Carlos began, ‘you have brought me here to tell me you want indemnity for the adulterous slut.’
‘It is a small enough thing to ask, considering the information I bring.’
Carlos laughed.
‘What could you possibly tell me that I don’t already know?’
For an instant Jorge felt panic rise. But of course Carlos couldn’t know or else he would have acted. Jorge looked at the sneering face across the table. Patience. He would put the peasant in his place soon enough.
‘First your guarantee of indemnity. For Rosa and her child.’
‘What do you want? The boy scout’s oath? Shall I cross my heart?’
Jorge let him play.
‘Okay. You have it.’ Carlos smiled benignly. ‘What’s one whore more or less for my men? They have enough to amuse themselves already.’ His eyes hardened. ‘Now you keep your side of the bargain.’
‘Victor Gustavo Sanguineti is La Voz del Pueblo.’
Carlos froze. The smile vanished.
‘You are certain of this?’
It was Jorge’s turn to show contempt.
‘Just make sure you keep your end of the deal.’ Jorge stood and turned to leave the restaurant.
‘Sit down!’ roared Carlos. And Jorge did, as surely as if his father had spoken.
They planned the raid for Tuesday evening at dinner time, when they knew both parents and child would be home. Victor, they reasoned, would be up against the deadline for his story for Argentina Libre. There was a chance they might find some evidence of it in his home. Some thoughts, perhaps. Some revisions. Proof wasn’t necessary for conviction for there would be no trial. But it would convince Carlos’ superiors that he had indeed got his man.
For Jorge, the days leading up to the raid were full of doubts and self-recrimination. After all, hadn’t he just condemned Victor to the most horrible fate? To torture and, ultimately, to death. Yet it was necessary, he reasoned, made necessary by his obligations to his father. And what about Rosa? He was reasonably sure she would come to him first, but not certain. There were many things he’d wished he’d handled differently. But she’d been so reluctant to act. She’d forced his hand.
He decided to take Rosa and Roberto with him to Dusseldorf, but he wasn’t convinced that Carlos would allow them to leave the country. He arranged for a light aircraft to fly them over the border to Paraguay, where they could fly to the United States and then on to Europe. He asked for permission for one of his father’s minders to accompany them, to handle the bribes and pay-offs.
He threw himself into his work, hoping that would occupy his mind. The tension would build until it made him physically ill. Then he would return to his work, and the cycle would begin again. Rosa rang him, anxious to meet, but he pleaded pressure of work and put her off. He could not face her over lunch, knowing what was about to happen, knowing what he had done.
Tuesday dawned wet and overcast. The clouds swept in over the River Plate and dumped their load on the city. Jorge was filled with foreboding. Things went wrong right from the beginning. Jorge had decided to stay at his office till either Rosa or Carlos rang, and confirmed that the terrible thing had been done. But this was not to be.
His secretary rang. While she was announcing his visitor, Carlos strode into his office. Two thugs accompanied him.
‘I have decided to let you share our moment of triumph, Jorge Luis,’ he said. ‘You will accompany us.’
Jorge swallowed hard. This was not in the plan. Rosa would know he was involved.
‘No!’ he said. ‘That would ruin everything.’
‘Do you want the whore or not?’
What could Jorge do? He had no choice. He collected his raincoat. The two goons grinned at one another. They would have carried him out bodily if he had resisted.
As their car sped towards La Boca, Jorge tried to think of ways to save the situation. He could tell Rosa that his father had heard of the impending arrest and alerted him. He had interceded on her behalf. He had come to make sure neither she nor Roberto were harmed. He might get away with it if he could get her and the child out of the house quickly enough.
As soon as their car pulled up outside the house, the waiting soldiers rushed in. Jorge heard the door burst open. He heard Rosa scream. Then Carlos took his arm and led him inside.
‘Jorge! What have you done?’
Rosa’s eyes were wide with horror and disbelief. Her accusation hung in the air. Soldiers held her and Victor immobile, pinning their arms behind their backs. Rosa’s eyes never left Jorge, even as they bound tape around her mouth. He burned with shame. He knew then that no explanation would ever be good enough. Soldiers came in from the study with slips of paper and notes. La Voz del Pueblo had been careless, not that it changed anything. Victor was as good as dead. At least he could save Rosa and the boy. The boy! Roberto! Where was he? His eyes flicked around the room and caught Victor’s. His eyes held Jorge’s, silently pleading, ‘Spare the boy.’
‘So. How do you feel now, Jorge Luis Masot?’
Jorge’s mind raced. What was Carlos doing! The room was filled with soldiers, all of whom would boast of the capture of La Voz.
‘Well, what do you say, Jorge Luis Masot?’ Carlos taunted him, drawing out each syllable of his name.
‘We have an arrangement.’
‘So we do, so we do …’ Carlos seemed pensive for a moment. ‘I keep my word. I give her to you. Go ahead, take her.’ He nodded to the two soldiers holding Rosa. They picked her up and slammed her down hard on her back, on the dining-table the restorers had failed to collect. They pulled up her skirt and tore away her panties. They spread her legs wide.
‘See?’ said Carlos genially. ‘I give her to you. And afterwards, I give her to my men. Did you really think I would let her go free? This whore who has been distributing illegal publications for the last four years? What’s wrong with you, Jorge Luis Masot,’ he taunted, ‘aren’t you man enough to take her? Don’t you have the balls to do it in front of her husband, instead of behind his back?’
Any hope Jorge had now vanished in the face of Carlos’ treachery. He looked at Rosa, spreadeagled before him, and his eyes fell. There, suddenly, he saw a small face staring back at him. Two eyes so wide and filled with unimaginable terror. The boy! The boy was hiding under the stairs. His head spun but he forced his face to remain unaffected. He turned away and there was Victor. Victor knew. Victor willed him not to betray his son.
‘Well, Jorge Luis Masot, shall I show you how?’ Carlos advanced on Rosa, unbut
toning his fly. Jorge could take no more. He turned and ran. The soldiers laughed at him as he ran past them down the stone steps and out onto the street. He ran and ran. But could he ever outrun his guilt? Could he ever outrun the horror of his betrayal?
Ramon’s voice had diminished to a whisper, then ceased altogether. His friends, still bound up in the story, let the silence hang over them. When their eyes finally sought out Ramon they found him lost somewhere within himself as if, in his story, he was reliving his past.
They exchanged looks with one another, embarrassed but also concerned. They waited for Ramon to gather himself together. Neil was first to speak.
‘Nice fella, that Jorge. Friend of yours?’
‘Oh Jesus, Neil …’
‘It’s all right, Milos. We all know what Neil is like. My apologies. Sometimes the storyteller gets more wrapped up in his story than his audience.’
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Of course he’s all right. He’s just stringing us along. Dramatic effect. Game playing, what you’re always on about.’
‘Sometimes, Neil, you overplay the insensitive property developer.’ Milos turned to Ramon. ‘You said earlier this story trespassed on your past. Did a lot of this sort of thing go on? Were you …?’
‘Was I involved? Milos, all of Argentina was involved.’
‘What would have happened to Victor and Rosa?’ Neil always asked where others were content to wonder.
‘Who knows?’ Ramon spoke slowly. ‘Unspeakable things happened. There were over three hundred clandestine detention centres. They may have witnessed each other’s death.’
‘Holy Mother! How much of this story is true?’
‘All of it, Lucio.’
‘Ha! What did you expect him to say?’ Neil shook his head at Lucio’s naïvéte. ‘He always says his stories are true. This time he has drawn on his past, that’s for sure. An unfortunate past, too. Ramon has drawn on many facets of his life. Like Jorge, Ramon also has ink under his fingernails. We know that. But beyond that we’re really no wiser. Were there atrocities in Argentina? Of course there were. They go on in every war. Besides, we’ve already read stories about them in the papers. But you know better than to take Ramon at face value. Yeah, he looks genuinely tired but it could just as easily be one of his little games. A game to add credibility, to sucker us along. What do you reckon, Milos?’