by Derek Hansen
Chapter Nineteen
Although they did not see each other socially, Phil Breedlaw became the first good friend Eduardo made in Australia. Anders Peterson was the third. The second was a call girl.
Eduardo was not cut out for a life of denial. Yet he was scarred in his relationships with women and shied away from any emotional dependence.
He played with women the way sports fishermen play with fish, sometimes reeling them in, sometimes letting them run. The women who did not like this sport could get away easily enough, for light line suited his purpose and was easily broken. Those who stayed were the kind attracted to men with money or power, trading their bodies for dinner at Kables and the passenger seat in a Porsche. Some were clever enough to catch the fisherman, which was the ultimate prize, but none were clever enough to catch Eduardo.
Only once did he ever spend the whole night with a woman. It taught him a lesson. The nightmares had come and he’d cried out in his sleep. He’d woken in a cold sweat, the bedside light on, and this woman, not much more than a stranger, asking questions she had no right to ask. Doubtless she meant well, but Eduardo’s response was to send her home in a taxi without explanation.
He was shallow and callous, though not without good reason. But who could possibly know those reasons, to understand and maybe even forgive?
There was one woman whom Eduardo genuinely liked and with whom he could relax, though he never confided in her. Her name was Estelle, and he met her at an advertising party. She was one of Anders Peterson’s little pranks. She’d been hired along with others of her profession to take care of guests, should their sort of care be required. They came incognito, forbidden to disclose their true occupation, and were paid in advance. They were there to be picked up.
Eduardo saw through the charade the instant he stepped from the elevator. Knowing the game, he cheated. The girls were for the clients, not the suppliers, but Eduardo was sufficiently confident of his standing to steal Estelle.
His manners, as always, were impeccable, and he flattered Estelle with his attention and elaborate compliments. He set out to seduce Estelle as if she were a prized jewel of society.
Estelle was overwhelmed and, ignoring her training, allowed herself to be seduced into believing she was somebody else, the person Eduardo was creating. Ultimately, of course, she felt compelled to confess, but not before they had made love tenderly and thoughtfully, balcony doors open to the night, before that magnificent view.
Eduardo affected surprise at her revelation, and gave her no cause to feel shame. He graciously accepted the truth of it, and made her coffee. She was overcome by his worldliness and his tact. She thought he was the most remarkable man she had ever met.
He was probably the most cynical. In Estelle, Eduardo had found a solution to his problem. It didn’t matter if he cried out in the night, for he knew she would ask no questions. It didn’t matter if they saw each other often, because no emotions were involved other than the genuine affections friends might feel for one another. It helped immensely that they enjoyed each other’s company.
Eduardo took her to the movies and to dinner, always paying for her companionship. She would argue about payment, but in the end would always accept his money gracefully.
The truth is, Estelle loved the way Eduardo made her feel and the way he flirted with her. When she was with him, her self-esteem soared. She was beautiful, she was fun and above all she was worth something that had nothing at all to do with money. She liked to think of herself as his girlfriend. She took to wearing little or no make-up when they went out together, and wearing girlish clothes.
She became depressed when a week passed and Eduardo had not phoned her. She realised she needed him more than he needed her. But there were those times in the small hours when he would cry out and weep into his pillow. Then he would cling to her so tightly she could not move, and she would wonder what could possibly cause so much grief.
Estelle would probably have been happy to let their relationship drift along forever, but in fact the death knell was already sounding. As the friendship between Eduardo and Anders grew, Eduardo moved further into Anders’ world. Anders knew all the right people and Eduardo was well aware of the importance of knowing the right people. So he courted Anders and his friends.
Anders was a show pony. At his advertising agency, he was regarded as a good strategist and a good thinker, a great presenter but creatively suspect. He knew what a great ad should be like, but was incapable of actually producing it. He stole ideas from his staff without a qualm. Yet invite him to a society function, and Anders went into hyper-drive.
His clothes were always the most outrageous, and his conduct the most extravagant. His male model looks never failed to grace the society pages, his arm in the firm safekeeping of one heiress or another. It was as if Anders saved all his creativity and energies for his social life.
Society loved him, as much as it could love anyone, and he was always in demand. But few were more impressed with Anders’ performance than Eduardo. Wherever Anders went, Eduardo was sure to go. They made a good team. Anders flashy and Eduardo urbane. They were eminently eligible targets, and targeted they were, by mothers who eagerly presented their daughters, ripe for the plundering.
As Eduardo’s face became more widely recognised, his arrangement with Estelle became untenable. At first she had laughed at Eduardo’s stories of foolish little rich girls, and she giggled when she saw his picture on the social pages. She was slow to realise the implications.
Eduardo was as gentle as he could be. He gradually extended the intervals between their meetings. The fact was, he could no longer afford to be seen with her, and she slowly came to realise this. Despite herself, she had surrounded their attachment with little myths and fantasies, some childish, but all of them precious. Their destruction brought heartbreak.
Eduardo was fond of her and her distress touched him deeply. But what choice was there? They each had lives to lead and their paths no longer converged.
‘Will you still call me?’ she asked.
‘Of course,’ he replied, and to his credit he did.
Some claim Eduardo’s rise in Sydney society was as inevitable as the dawn. He was wealthy enough, or at least gave that appearance. He was sophisticated, heterosexual, and single.
He tiptoed lightly through attachments, artfully dodging entanglements, all the while putting on hold the sort of questions prospective parents-in-law with money feel entitled to ask. What else could a man with no past do?
Naturally there was speculation.
‘He’s a remittance man,’ claimed the romantics, ‘banished to Australia for some amorous indiscretion.’
‘He’s an opportunist, a johnny-come-lately from Leichhardt with ink under his fingers,’ claimed others, ‘trading on old world manners and an exotic accent.’
Anders would often be questioned about his friend, and asked to confirm or deny the latest rumours.
‘He’s just a good friend and a business colleague,’ Anders would reply and laugh. Later he would relay the latest gossip to Eduardo, in the patently transparent hope that he would be forthcoming about his past. But Eduardo would only grin and shake his head.
‘Such a big city. Such a small town,’ he’d say.
Eventually Anders could no longer cope with the questions and Eduardo’s continual evasions.
‘For Christ’s sake,’ he said, ‘what have you got to hide? This thing is getting bigger than Ben Hur. Everybody likes a mystery, Eduardo, but sooner or later the mystery has to be solved or everybody gets pissed off.’
Eduardo would no more take Anders into his confidence than run a full page confession in the Sydney Morning Herald. Yet he recognised the need to quell speculation because his silence only served to encourage it. He was not the only expatriate Argentinian in Australia and who knows whose ears might prick up and take notice? The time had come for the man with no past to acquire one.
‘I will tell you this, Anders, and I
ask you as my nearest and dearest friend not to betray my confidence. I do not speak of my past for only one reason. The memories are bitter and no useful purpose is served by reviving them. I do not want your pity nor the pity of our friends. I could not bear that. Some may see my story as heroic and me the tragic figure of misfortune, but that is a pathetic role which I’m anxious to avoid.’
Anders listened avidly, hanging on every word. Why is it that people whose stock in trade is the lie and the half-truth are themselves so easily gulled?
‘You see, Anders, I come from a country where nothing is secure. Not property, nor reputation, nor life itself. Under the Generals, we have three choices. Side with the Generals or take no side at all, which amounts to the same thing, or align yourself with those who oppose them. It is easy to oppose the Generals. There is much to oppose, and there are many groups to join. But if you are caught you risk being hauled out of your bed in the middle of the night by the death squads. There is a name for people who oppose the Generals. They are los desaparecidos or the disappeared ones. Because once they catch you, you disappear. For ever. And so does your family’s wealth. That is “redistributed”.
‘My family were wealthy. In Argentina the rich are very, very rich. They owned the controlling interest in an import-export business dealing in commodities, where the players were few and the prices easy to rig. Naturally, many palms had to be greased. Many large donations were made. To this day I am not sure what went wrong. I’m not sure whether it was my parents who became greedy or their beneficiaries.
‘Whatever happened, my parents chose to align themselves with a group of liberal businessmen who were very vocal in their opposition to the Generals. They believed that they were wealthy enough to protect themselves from retaliation. They believed they had between them enough power to influence government and curb its excesses. To this day, I cannot believe the ease with which their egos overcame their intelligence.
‘Of course it was foolhardy bravado. It was a scenario orchestrated by the Generals and their operatives. My entire family—my parents, brothers and sisters—were all swallowed up when the Generals cracked down.
‘I know only the barest details. The soldiers came and my family ceased to exist. All our property and holdings were confiscated. I alone escaped because I was in America on business at the time. My uncle managed to phone me before he too was taken.
‘I know my parents both had bank accounts in America and Switzerland because that is the practice in my country. But they never told me the details. Perhaps they left details with our lawyers, in a sealed envelope, addressed to their children in the event of their deaths. I would be surprised if they hadn’t. But our lawyers never tried to contact me, and when I contacted them, they denied the existence of any such envelope. Obviously, I could not return to Argentina to challenge them.
‘All I had left was my own bank account with the Chase Manhattan, which my father had insisted I open. Without it I would have been left penniless, a pauper with no family and no country. It did not mean I was wealthy however. What little there was in the account brought me to Australia, and allowed me to purchase my apartment and the Hot Ink Press.
‘That, Anders, is my story. You see why I choose not to repeat it, and why I must demand your discretion.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Anders, genuinely moved, and for the moment convinced he would never tell a soul. But what value is there in a secret consigned forever to distant cells in a dull brain, its currency depreciating, its brightness dimming with each passing day? Within twenty-four hours, Eduardo’s secret had burst the bounds of trust and friendship, and wormed its irresistible way onto Anders’ tongue. The story spread from pillow to pillow, in whispers framed by promises of confidentiality, growing in detail and conviction, till all the curious were satisfied.
Eduardo caught the glances and the sympathetic smiles that blossomed around him, and milked the part, bearing his tragedy with an heroic stoicism. Yet his place in society was still very much that of the guest. He still had to supply the component that assured him of acceptance. He now knew what he had to give them, and began to contemplate ways of going about it.
Australia rushed headlong into the excesses of the mid-eighties. The entire population went on a spending spree as banks and other lending institutions fought with one another for the privilege of providing credit. Advertising agencies boomed as their clients spent big to grab as many of the consumers’ borrowed dollars as they could. Their favoured suppliers boomed along with them.
The Hot Ink Press flourished, fronted by the stylish Eduardo, and backed by Phil’s expertise. There seemed no limit to the possibilities. Money poured in the door, which they used to lease more equipment which could do things, faster, better and more cost efficiently. Their leasing commitments soared and their wages bill along with it. But they only had eyes for their turnover. How could they have problems when they were obviously doing so well? They had competition, powerful competition, but it seemed for the moment, at least, that they had them on the run.
Burton Simmons was their main competitor. They had dominated the profitable agency market until Eduardo had come along. Many of Eduardo’s gains had been at their expense, but they were fighting back and more than matching Hot Ink Press’ investment in new technology. For all that, Eduardo and Phil disparaged them as competition. As yesterday’s heroes. Phil should have known better.
Burton Simmons had always been profitable and it caught the eye of the accountants. They saw the potential for even greater profits, and delegated the task of bringing them in to one of their whiz kids. The trade journals were full of the story as Burton Simmons announced the extent of their investment, and the services they would soon provide.
Eduardo and Phil were too successful to take much notice. Besides, the trade journals were only as accurate as the information they received. Nobody lied exactly, but you’d need extrasensory powers to discern the truth.
Another factor in the success of Hot Ink Press was undoubtedly the easy relationship that existed between Eduardo and Phil. They trusted each other and respected each other’s special abilities. And beneath it all was genuine affection. They were two soldiers on the same side, fighting the same battle with different though entirely complementary weapons.
They rarely met socially, for outside work they had little in common. Nevertheless they enjoyed a meal together whenever they could and, through Phil, Eduardo was introduced to the delights of Asian cooking.
Eduardo became a devotee, and displayed all the zeal of a convert. He insisted all their business meetings took place in the evening over a meal, and they would agonise over their choice of venue. Eduardo had been raised on beef, yet he took to Sydney’s prodigious choice of fresh seafood with the enthusiasm of a seagull. He loved sashimi, and whole snapper cooked Thai style. He loved oysters, lightly steamed with ginger and lime. He loved the fiery Szechuan dishes, the Malay prawn laksas, and fish balls with noodles in soup.
Through 1985, they continued to win clients from Burton Simmons and their success begat more success. They had the name and the reputation, and in the fickle world of advertising, that’s usually enough to get the business. They were still a distant number two to Burton Simmons, but they dreamed of being number one.
The rude awakening came not long before Christmas. In the space of one week, they lost their two largest clients to Burton Simmons. Eduardo was aghast. He couldn’t think what had gone wrong. Phil couldn’t help. Phil showed him a note of thanks he’d received for the last job they’d done. The agency could hardly have been more effusive in its praise.
Eduardo rang both agencies asking why they’d taken their business away. In both cases, he got the same answer. Burton Simmons had made them a proposition which they could not refuse. As Phil sniffed around the trade, the details became clear. Burton Simmons were discounting. They had bought the business back at a price that could never return a profit.
‘What’s going on?’ Eduardo asked Phil.
‘I’m not sure. We’ve hurt them a bit, but not so much that they have to start giving their services away. The business we’ve taken off them means a lot to us. But it’s not much more than a drop in a bucket to them.’
‘How badly will it hurt us?’
‘Don’t know.’ Phil thought for a second. ‘We’re going to have to replace it or lay off people, I guess. We’ll have to check with Don.’
Don was their accountant. He was a fussy little man, precise in his habits and his dress. He had an over-inflated sense of self-importance and an over-elaborate moustache. He wore both blatantly.
The obvious step was to invite him to meet over dinner. After all, Christmas was just weeks away, and it was their custom to take their accountant to a celebratory meal. Besides, in the scheme of things, this setback could only be temporary. Business was just too good.
They met the following night. Don listened politely as Phil and Eduardo discussed various ways in which they could maintain their technical advantage. They discussed the merits of yielding their pre-eminence to Burton Simmons and other competitors.
‘Let others bear the cost of introducing agencies to the new technology,’ Eduardo argued. ‘We should sit back and see which system proves most popular, then come in with second generation equipment. That is how we will regain the advantage.’
‘If you’re intending to lease more new equipment, I would advise against it,’ Don cut in quietly.
Eduardo and Phil were stopped in their tracks. They turned to their accountant, clearly concerned. Don was a plain talking man. That was one of the qualities they most admired about him. He never hid behind the jargon of his profession nor was he one to equivocate. But, while plain talking and straight dealing are admirable qualities, truth untempered by tact can have a rude, bludgeoning bluntness. And that night Don bludgeoned them.