by Derek Hansen
In 1982, the Generals shot themselves in the foot. In a bid to deflect attention away from their crimes and gross mismanagement of the country and its economy, they provoked the war with Great Britain over the Falkland Islands. Such is the insanity of Argentine politics that the people went along with it.
Yet Britain and Argentina had always enjoyed a close and valued relationship. Britons introduced the first shorthorn and the first Aberdeen Angus, upon which the beef industry was founded. British capital and engineers gave Argentina banks, railways, tramways, telephones, telegraph, wireless, gas, electric light, and industrial machinery—the foundation stones of modern Argentina. Now Britain was about to give them a hiding.
In the aftermath of the war a return to democracy was inevitable. The Generals hastily passed legislation granting themselves and their agents immunity for crimes committed during the ‘dirty war’. But they’d gone too far to be forgiven.
In 1983, the Radical Civic Union led by Raul Alfonsin was swept into power in the country’s first democratic election in seven years. It was a time for accounting, time for a fresh start. Les Madres de Mayo, the mothers of the Plaza de Mayo, marched every Thursday, parading photos of their lost ones and the agony of their grief. The people cried out for justice. President Alfonsin reversed the Generals’ hastily passed legislation, and lifted their immunity.
Officers turned against their comrades. The papers filled with details of mass graves, secret detention centres, and horrific tortures. Some spoke of prisoners being bound hand and foot, and thrown into the ocean from helicopters. Victims of torture revealed their mutilations to an outraged populace. A picture of a man was flashed around the world. He had been robbed of his sight, his hearing, his tongue, his hands, his feet and his manhood. Yet a brain still sparked inside this wreck of a human being, a brain that was very much alive though horribly deprived. The irony was that the man was not the victim of the Generals at all, but of a vengeful father. The man was none other than Carlos.
The country cried out for revenge. General Jorge Videla and Admiral Emilio Massera were jailed for life, and more than six hundred officers were charged. Former President Galtieri, Brigadier General Dozo and Admiral Anaya were cleared of charges relating to the ‘dirty war’, but served short terms in prison for their part in the war over the Falklands.
For many Argentinians, retribution was just another sad chapter in their country’s sad history. The awful truth was, despite its enormous mineral and agricultural wealth, Argentina was bankrupt. For years the Generals had diverted massive funds to build their military machine, and wise Argentinians had sent more than thirty billion US dollars out of the country to safe havens. There seemed no way Argentina could possibly service its debts to foreign banks.
For Domingo and Bibiana, it was all too much. They were determined their children and their adopted son would have a better life, away from violence and turmoil, and sought sanctuary in another country. They arrived in Sydney in late September, 1984.
FIFTH THURSDAY
‘So? How do you like my spaghetti al limone?’
‘Gancio, it was superb.’ Ramon gestured around the table. There were no dissenters. ‘That is one thing we always agree on even when we can’t agree on anything else. Your pasta is superb. Why don’t you make us pasta more often?’
‘Anyone can make pasta. Perhaps not like my pasta. But you are not big eaters. Maybe Lucio because he likes to eat. The rest of you, no. You like to pick at things. You like the little delicacies. That is why I make you antipasto. That is why I make you many small dishes. Simple.’
‘I’ve got to tell you, Gancio, it’s not a pasta I would have ordered. But it was great.’
‘Thank you, Neil. But do you know why you wouldn’t order my spaghetti al limone? It is because you are Australian, Neil, that is why.’
‘That is discriminatory and inflammatory, Gancio. I thought we were all Australians now.’
‘Let me finish. Maybe none of you would order my spaghetti al limone. That’s why I don’t put it on the menu. You’ve all lived in Australia too long. Your tastes are corrupted.’
‘This better be good, Gancio,’ cut in Lucio, ‘speaking as one Italian to another.’
‘You forget you are also Australian and Australians like protein on their plate. If I put it on the menu at the same price as my blue swimmer crab linguini or marinara, who would order it? Where is the value? Why pay for blue swimmer crabs and just buy lemon? But my lemon spaghetti costs just as much to make. Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll tell everyone that spaghetti al limone is the special of the day. If anyone orders it I’ll bring you my special aged grappa. Free.’
‘You’re on. What’s the main course?’
‘Garfish. I remove the bones and pan-fry them in butter and a little olive oil and garlic. With fried parsley and patate fritte. For you, Neil, fish and chips.’
‘Don’t forget the lemon.’ Neil watched Gancio retreat to his kitchen then turned to Ramon.
‘So where are you going to start today? Are you going to start with Roberto and keep your symmetry? Obviously he is going to meet up with Eduardo and confront him. That will be the climax. End of story.’
‘Ah, Neil, if only life were as simple as you draw it.’ Ramon could not be provoked that easily. The second part of his story would be the hardest to tell, and he would have to be careful not to get caught up in the telling like an actor lost in the character he plays. Often, in order to generate the right emotions among his audience, Ramon had to assume them himself. Still it was worth the risk. This was by far the most audacious game he’d played with them. This was the ultimate test of his storytelling skills.
‘No, I will not begin with Roberto, and, Neil, would you please stop trying to tell my story. If you think you know how it ends, leave now. Don’t spoil it for the others. What are you going to do?’
‘I’ve come so I’ll stay. I promise to behave.’
‘Thank you. Today I intend to begin with the young lady Lucio would doubtless like to hear more about.’
‘Rosa?’
‘No. The lovely, lonely lady of the night. Eduardo never lost touch with Estelle. He was true to his word. Sometimes they dined together where the chance of anyone recognising either of them was remote. Do you think she might have been ashamed of Eduardo’s caution? Not at all. She saw the wisdom of it. Besides, Eduardo was her only true friend and she believed they had no secrets. Eduardo would not do anything that would hurt her, but they could not close their eyes and pretend they were not the people they were.
‘It’s difficult to believe that anyone would want to hurt Estelle, though the risk of physical abuse is something all the women in her profession have to live with. Perhaps I should begin by telling you what happened to Estelle while we wait for our garfish to arrive.’
Chapter Twenty-eight
Estelle was a working girl but she didn’t work the streets and she no longer cruised the hotels. She now worked through an escort agency, whose strict rules protected her and her clients. They would not accept anyone as a client, neither man nor woman, unless they had a personal introduction from one of their existing clients. Estelle thought that made them very exclusive and gave them class.
She had reached the top of her profession. Sometimes she was hired for an evening and she would be wined and dined in style. She gave her companions the benefit of her charm, her wit, and her intelligence, as well as her body. Sometimes she was hired for days at a time, and sometimes for a week or more, as an escort for a visitor. She was always discreet, even when her clients weren’t, and she was always in demand. She had her favourites, of course, but was careful not to give any indication as to who they might be. The agency was quick to suppress any possibilities of an extracurricular relationship. They had their reputation to think of.
Estelle was as happy as she’d ever been. She could now pick and choose her assignations, though she rarely refused any, because she genuinely enjoyed her work. Her agency never had a mo
re conscientious nor delightful employee.
She had her own apartment off Victoria Street, Kings Cross, which she furnished herself, in a style which suggested the guiding hand of Eduardo. A lot of chrome and glass, modern mixed with art deco. She enjoyed doing her own shopping, and the little delis around the Cross came to know her well. She adored King Island ham and Canadian smoked salmon, especially with a freshly baked baguette.
On this particular day, the decision to have ham or salmon for her lunch occupied her thoughts. She stood on the corner of McLeay Street, waiting for the traffic lights to acknowledge the existence of pedestrians. There was nothing about her make-up or clothing to suggest she was anything but a well-dressed, wholesome young woman going about her legitimate business. She was no more aware of the motorcycle gliding towards her than she was of the endless cars and taxis that passed by. She didn’t see the gloved hand that reached out towards her, and she certainly didn’t see the open razor that it held. But she felt its sting as raked across the top of her breasts and upper arm, and she heard the sudden blast from the exhaust as the motorcycle accelerated away around the corner.
She was puzzled by the strange sensation and the sudden wetness. She was wondering if she’d been splashed by a puddle when the people around her began to scream. She looked down in bewilderment and saw the spreading crimson stain. She watched uncomprehending as her dress turned red, and little rivers formed around her shoes before rushing over the falls into the gutter. She fainted.
The Kings Cross slasher had claimed his first victim. On and off over the next few months there were more attacks. Nobody was really sure if they were the work of one person or of copycats. There was no pattern and no apparent motive. The randomness of the attacks made them doubly terrifying. Nobody was ever arrested or charged.
‘Your garfish,’ said Gancio proudly, presenting each plate momentarily before placing it on the table.
‘Ramon, you bastard!’ Lucio was outraged. ‘How can you do this to us? How can you do this and then expect us to eat our lunch?’
‘Garfish is a particular favourite of mine. If you can’t eat yours I will be more than happy to help out.’
Milos and Neil broke up laughing. Ramon—whether by luck or cunning—had judged things to perfection.
‘But what happened to Estelle? Is she dead?’
‘Now, Lucio, we have a rule, no?’ cut in Milos with mock severity. ‘We do not tell our stories while we are eating. Otherwise we do not do justice to the meal or the story.’
‘Thank you, Milos. The garfish really are superb. Lucio, you would be a fool to leave them.’
‘Sometimes you worry me, Ramon. I wonder what really goes on inside your head. If this is a true story then Estelle deserves our sympathy and our pity. Yet you turn her misfortune into a big joke.’
‘I apologise, Lucio. You are quite right. I was wrong to try and sandwich her between courses.’
Once more Milos and Neil choked back their laughter.
‘You are a bastard, Ramon. Sometimes I think you have no heart.’ He turned to Neil and Milos. ‘You are right. He’s a calculating bastard.’
Chapter Twenty-nine
By the age of eighteen, Annemieke probably knew more about camouflage than any military expert. Her looks drew men’s eyes irresistibly to her. Then she’d find them staring, not at her, but at the immobility in her right cheek, the slackness about her mouth, and the downturn of her lips. Sometimes she would read pity in their faces. But mostly she would see their interest check and die, as if her affliction was a communicable disease.
On the few occasions she allowed boys to take her out, they’d make excuses for her to their friends, pointing out that she’d been in a bad car accident. There’d be murmurs of sympathy and, inevitably, there’d be somebody thick-skinned enough to want to know all the details.
So she learned. She learned to look for the location of lights so she could turn the right side of her face away from the brightness. She cocked her head to the right when engaged in conversation, and her long hair would fall forward and throw that side of her face further into shadow. At dinner she would always take the last chair on the right facing in. When she went to the movies she always timed her entrance with the dimming of the lights. She became a chameleon. She learned how to hide in public places.
When she ventured outdoors during the day she clung to her old ways and wore a broad-brimmed hat. She also wore over-size sunglasses, which she allowed to rest on the lower part of her nose. Her brothers used to joke that they needed a torch to find her.
Annemieke believed she had disguised her disability to the point where she was rarely vulnerable. But, in effect, she was shutting herself off from the rest of the world. She’d erected barriers and discouraged people from trying to break through. She seemed cool, detached and serene but, in fact, she was always on her guard. She created her own little world and locked herself into it, not realising that by doing so, she’d locked everyone else out.
Her girlfriends had a succession of regular boyfriends yet Annemieke had none. They went out together in boisterous groups yet Annemieke always held back, never quite part of the inner circle. She wanted the intimacies that close friends bring to one another, yet she wasn’t prepared to let herself go and pay the price demanded of her. She didn’t understand the temporal nature of curiosity. She couldn’t see that, within the space of a week, all her friends would not only cease to show interest in her affliction, they wouldn’t even notice it.
So Annemieke played the part of the happy teenager for her family’s benefit, but daily her loneliness grew. Her friends spoke of their sexual encounters and the gap between them and the virginal Annemieke widened alarmingly. She needed somebody who was more worldly and mature, somebody she could respect and trust enough to put aside her self-consciousness. At night she fantasised about meeting such a man, but she had to wait another four years before her father brought him home to dinner.
Chapter Thirty
When Eduardo boarded the Garuda Airbus to Jakarta, he was dismayed to find the business section fully booked. Normally he could count on at least three seats to himself, at least as far as Bali. Now only one seat remained, his, on the aisle next to the biggest man on the aircraft.
He groaned inwardly. He recognised the man from previous trips and knew exactly how broad those shoulders were. However, he suppressed his apprehensions and, with his usual impeccable good manners, sat and introduced himself.
‘Good morning. I believe we have seen each other before on these trips. My name is Eduardo, Eduardo Gallegos.’
‘Jan Van der Meer, pleased to meet you at last.’ He extended his giant hand towards Eduardo. ‘You are right, I have observed you many times. I have often wondered what it is you do that keeps you so busy.’
‘My work keeps me busy.’ Like most frequent flyers, Eduardo dreaded being trapped by talkative strangers and held captive to conversation in which he had not the slightest interest. His portable computer was his escape route. But until the aircraft was safely in the air, it had to remain stowed under the seat in front of him. He had no choice but to give the man alongside his full attention.
‘I know you are a creature of habit,’ the big man continued, ‘so you can relax. I won’t be the one to break your routine.’
Eduardo relaxed immediately. His companion understood. His relief was palpable.
‘Let me tell you what you do. The first thing you do is reach for your paper or a magazine. Not today, because this rude stranger has interrupted you. Sometimes the magazine you read is one in which I advertise—The Collector. Perhaps we have a common interest? Once airborne you plug straight into your computer. You skip breakfast. You work through the movie. You drink only coffee. You stop working for lunch. You drink red wine with soda water with your meal. I tried it myself out of interest but I cannot recommend it.’
Despite his reservations Eduardo laughed.
‘Then you work until the plane touches down in Bali. You
stay aboard during refuelling and sometimes you doze off. I have dozed off watching you so I’m not entirely sure what you do next.’
Again, Eduardo found himself smiling. The big man continued, obviously enjoying himself.
‘You skip the meal on the Jakarta leg and keep tapping away on your computer. Half an hour out of Jakarta you go to the toilet to freshen up. You always take around ten minutes so I make a point of going before you in case a woman occupies the other toilet to do her make up. Ten minutes is a long time for a man my age to hold his water, particularly on an aeroplane. Something to do with the altitude. You smile, but it’s true. I know I only look thirty, but in fact I am nearly twice that age. What are you? Forty? Forty-two?’
‘Forty-four, pushing forty-five.’
‘Huh! You are still a child. One day you will find out what it is like to grow old. But I am digressing. You are always one of the first off the plane and you always thank the crew in Bahasa. Let me tell you, they appreciate that. Too many people never bother to learn the host country’s language. Then while I wait for a blue taxi, your driver picks you up in a Mercedes.’
The Airbus began its lumbering run down the runway, striving for the speed necessary to defy gravity.
‘I must say I am impressed.’ The big man amused Eduardo, and for once he was not automatically counting down the seconds before the red light went off and he could reach for his computer. ‘You are very observant.’
‘Not at all!’ Jan roared. ‘Just bored. So bored that you are the most exciting thing I can find to keep myself entertained until the movie comes on. Not true. I read a little. I sleep a little. But I cannot work on these things. Perhaps it is the airconditioning. Perhaps it is just that I don’t have your discipline.’