Lunch with the Generals

by Derek Hansen

  That was his plan. He lay on his back and went over and over it in his mind. But other thoughts rose unbidden. He tried to concentrate on his plan but Rosa was insistent. She appeared before him demanding his attention, her bloody butchers waiting for a sign. He jumped up off the bed and stumbled into the bathroom. He ran the tap and repeatedly doused his face in cold water, banishing Rosa but not his guilt.

  His guilt had not lessened over the years, it had merely been pushed aside. Now it flooded his senses bringing regrets and questions he’d desperately repressed. Hadn’t he always known in his heart that his plan was doomed—that Carlos would never stand by and let him walk away with Rosa? His superiors would never have forgiven him. No, he had condemned Rosa to her fate as surely as he had condemned Victor. Why? Because he could not bear for another man to have her if he could not? Was that the reason? The parallel wasn’t lost on Eduardo. Poor Annemieke. There was nothing he could do. He could no more allow anyone to steal Annemieke from him than cut his own throat. He sank back onto the toilet seat and held his head in his hands, the heartless young man in an older man’s body. The years had changed nothing.

  Roberto bore all the agonies of those helpless individuals who love without hope. Added to his pain was the burden of her infidelity and his fears for her safety. His fear of the shadow in the unlit car.

  ‘Once more,’ he said to himself, ‘then I will confront her.’

  He knew where she would go and decided to get there before her. To stand guard under the stairs, and warn her if the man in the car made any move. But what could he do then? What could he do? This question tormented him. He had too long to think about the answer.

  Eduardo left the Sebel at a brisk jog. He jogged down towards Rushcutters Bay, before winding his way back uphill towards Anders’ apartment. His route dog-legged back and forth through laneways and quiet back streets. He approached the narrow lane between the two buildings from the opposite end. His nervousness had made him run faster than he intended. He paused to catch his breath, then slipped invisibly into the lane.

  There were gateways into people’s gardens. Of course there were! Why hadn’t he considered this? People used the lane to carry their garbage out onto the street. Was it collection night? He looked up and down the narrow pavement. Nobody had put their bin out. His heart rate slowed. He took a deep breath. And another. And another.

  He prayed that Annemieke would come soon. He could barely stand the tension. Sweat stung his eyes. He wiped it away. Somebody walked past the lower end of the lane. Silhouetted! As he would be. Yes! The street was lighter than the lane. But wait! His mind replayed what his eyes had seen. He’d only seen the top half of the silhouette, probably less, because of the way the lane arced downwards. All he had to do was crouch. So he crouched, as low as he could.

  He checked his watch. Eight-thirty. Come on! Come on! He put his hand in his pockets, checked the items he’d checked a hundred times before. All there, as he knew they would be. He heard footsteps. His heart turned cold. He crept silently towards the street. He heard laughter, and a door open. He waited. The door closed. Once more he glanced up and down the street. Deserted.

  He shrank back into the shadows, blood charged with adrenalin, heart pumping.

  ‘Good Christ,’ he said. ‘Sweet Jesus.’

  Nine o’clock came and went. A man shouted and a woman wept somewhere in one of the houses further down. A drunk pissed on the wall opposite, before staggering up the stairs to the street above. Just before ten, a cab pulled up outside the apartment building. A man got out. Eduardo recognised his voice. It was Anders. It was Anders, with a voice amplified and distorted by alcohol, telling the cab to wait. It was Anders telling Eduardo to go. Annemieke would not be coming that night.

  ‘Dear God,’ Eduardo thought, ‘I have to do it all again tomorrow!’ He didn’t think he could.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  Annemieke showered and changed. Now that she had made up her mind to break with Anders, she felt strangely righteous. She had the foolish notion that Eduardo would be proud of her, proud of the sacrifice she was making for him. She dressed conservatively, in a suit with a blouse that buttoned to the neck. She even wore a bra. On top of it all, she wore the cloak of her newfound morality.

  She would give Anders no chance to sweet-talk her. No chance to plead and soften her resolve. She would sit him down and, as kindly as she could, let him know that whatever had been between them was now finished. She hoped he’d be adult about it. They might even have dinner together afterwards.

  The last, pale glow of departing day faded and died in the course of the taxi ride to Potts Point. The air was hot and sticky as she paid her driver off on the corner.

  ‘Have a good weekend,’ he said.

  ‘You too,’ she replied, making the effort to smile.

  She regretted wearing her suit. She wished she’d worn something cooler. To compound her problems, the tension which she’d largely held at bay through the day, now began to manifest itself.

  ‘That’s all I need,’ she thought, ‘puddles of perspiration under my arms.’

  She groaned at the image. She knew she could handle Anders once she got over the first part. Starting was always hardest. As she walked the short distance to Anders’ apartment, her mind rehearsed her opening sentences. They all sounded pathetically corny, like something from a television soapie. She was totally preoccupied as she passed the alley, and a pad of chloroform was clamped over her mouth and nose, and a strong arm dragged her into the alley. Her first instinct was to draw breath and scream. She lost consciousness.

  Roberto jumped with fright. His breath came in fear stricken sobs. It was happening again! His mind flashed back to another night under a different set of stairs. He wanted to rush to Annemieke, to save her. He wanted to cry out. But his fear let him do neither. He watched, unable to help, unable to tear his eyes away. The man had his head down as he dragged Annemieke into the alley. Then he looked up. He looked both ways up the tiny street. It only took an instant, but in that instant he was caught in the spill from the street light.

  Roberto reeled back in shock. It was him! It was the man he’d locked eyes with from beneath the stairs in La Boca. The man was older, and he had changed, but he recognised the look. The look of fear, panic, repugnance. Shock overwhelmed him as his brain released locked away memories. Images, unspeakable images, flooded back. He saw Carlos advance on his mother. He saw his cock, hard and evil. He heard his laugh. He heard his mother struggle and the soldiers laughing. His pounding heart threatened to burst, and the six year old boy inside his body cried out in anguish. But no sound escaped his lips any more than it had ten years earlier. In fear, his voice once more abandoned him.

  Eduardo dragged his razor out from the pocket of his tracksuit. He snapped it open. He had to be quick. He didn’t dare look upon her face, for if he did, he knew his courage would fail. But how else could he be sure of severing the nerve? He didn’t want to hack at her face. He didn’t want to disfigure her. He just wanted to return her to the way she was when he met her.

  When he had lain on the bed planning his every move, it had all been so simple. He’d visualised how he would do it. How he would slide the razor across her face. Now he realised his colossal blunder. He was right handed. He had to strike the right side of her face. He would have to do it backhanded. Or move behind her. There wasn’t time! There wasn’t room. Dear God! He looked down at her to line up the razor. Her sleeping face was innocent, pure as an angel’s.

  ‘Do it!’ the voice inside him screamed. ‘Do it!’

  But he hesitated, the razor poised centimetres from her cheek. He closed his eyes.

  ‘Now!’ screamed the voice. ‘Do it now.’

  Chapter Forty-nine

  Roberto hit Eduardo with all the force he could muster. It was a clumsy attack, but it was enough to knock Eduardo off balance. They faced each other, on their knees, the unarmed, tearful boy and the wild-eyed madman with the razor.

/>   ‘Why?’ Roberto screamed at him.

  Her throat burned and she wanted to throw up. She was waking up. But where? She couldn’t remember going to bed. What was happening to her?

  ‘Why?’ a voice screamed nearby. ‘Why? Why?’

  The fog swirled in her brain but slowly she began to remember. She was on her way to see Anders. Something had happened. What was it? She struggled to remember. She heard somebody sobbing. Eduardo?

  ‘Because I love her. Because I love her.’ Tension drained from Eduardo and he couldn’t help himself.

  ‘No! Why did you betray my mother and my father?’

  Mother? Father? Eduardo? She opened her eyes. There was a thin slit of darkness paler than the rest … the sky? … and people moving within it.

  ‘Why did you bring the soldiers?’

  Her head ached and suddenly she vomited. The voices stopped. Her head cleared and she remembered. The hand over her face and the strong arm. She lay still and listened.

  ‘Why did you betray us?’

  Roberto?

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Eduardo?

  ‘It was you. I recognised you. Don’t deny it. It was you!’ The boy began to sob.

  ‘Eduardo?’

  He turned and found himself looking into Annemieke’s frightened, wondering eyes. It was too much for him. The boy’s accusations. Now Annemieke’s. The razor dropped to the ground. It bounced and skidded. Annemieke picked it up. He cupped his head in his hands.

  ‘Eduardo, what is this? What are you doing here?’

  Tears streamed down Eduardo’s face.

  ‘I love you,’ he said. ‘I could not lose you to Anders. Or to anyone else.’

  ‘But, Eduardo,’ she begged, holding the razor in her fingers, horror in her eyes. ‘What were you going to do with this?’

  ‘Dr Tannen said …’

  He stopped. He didn’t need to say more. Annemieke looked at the distraught figure of her husband and understood exactly what he had intended to do.

  ‘I couldn’t do it,’ he sobbed. ‘I tried to close my eyes, but I looked at you. I couldn’t do it.’

  She dropped the razor and took him in her arms, the unfaithful wife made to face her husband’s desperation. And the bottomless pit of her shame.

  ‘I saved you,’ said Roberto. ‘He killed my mother and my father. He tried to kill you.’

  ‘Thank you, Roberto,’ she said softly. ‘Now I think you should go. We’ll talk later.’

  The boy began to cry, silently, pitifully. But Annemieke had no comfort to give him. She gave him twenty dollars for a taxi instead.

  Ramon finished speaking and sat motionless, head lowered.

  ‘Is that it?’ asked Milos bluntly.

  Ramon nodded.

  ‘Why did you change your story? That ending is preposterous. You did not tell us the story of Rosa and Victor, of their betrayal by Eduardo, only to have Roberto’s accusations dismissed with a single sentence and a twenty dollar cab fare! That is preposterous!’

  ‘A crock of shit.’

  Ramon turned away from Milos and Neil.

  ‘And you Lucio, what do you think?’

  ‘I think it’s bullshit too. I think you changed your story.’

  ‘Why, Ramon?’ asked Milos again. ‘Are you going to tell us? Or shall I?’

  Ramon stayed silent, head bowed.

  ‘Then allow me. You have gambled with our friendships, my friend, and you have lost. We have all lost. And why? Because of your arrogance. The arrogance of Jorge Luis Masot alias Eduardo Remigio Gallegos alias Ramon Basilio Pereira. You think we didn’t suspect this was your confession? We—each of us!—suspected this. We tried to warn you. But no! You are too smart. You think you can tell us fiction and convince us that it is truth. Sometimes you almost succeed. But this time you told a true story thinking you could trick us into believing it was fiction like all your other stories.

  ‘That was unbelievable arrogance. You were right when you said “truth does not have the convenience of fiction”. You know that. We know that. And, Ramon, we are not so stupid that we can’t tell the difference! I’m not certain when you realised this, when you realised you had lost control of your little game. So you changed your story. You gave us this trite ending.

  ‘Ramon, you have done a terrible thing. We did not ask to know your sorry history. We did not want to know. We were happy taking each other at face value and enjoying each other’s stories. But I for one will not sit at the same table as Jorge Luis Masot.’

  ‘Me neither. If you’re not Eduardo … Jorge—call him what you like—why did you change the ending? If you are, then you’re not somebody I want to know.’ Neil looked contemptuously at Ramon. ‘Jesus Christ, you’re an arsehole.’

  ‘Is it true, Ramon? Is it true what Milos says? Are you this man Eduardo?’

  Ramon ignored Lucio’s plea. He sat, face expressionless, saying nothing.

  ‘I am sorry, Ramon, sorry that you felt you had to do this thing. I will miss our Thursday lunches.’ Lucio was almost in tears.

  Gancio approached the table with coffees and cognac. He took one look at their faces and hesitated.

  ‘You owe us the truth, Ramon.’ Milos now sounded more resigned than angry. ‘For old time’s sake, you owe us the real ending. Eduardo took back his gift, didn’t he? The most precious gift any man can give to a woman—that is how you described it. That is how I expected the story to end. And I expected retribution. If not, why bring Roberto back into your story? You owe us, Ramon, in the name of all the lunches we have had together. You owe us the truth.’

  Ramon played with the crumbs on the tablecloth before him. He absently picked up the pepper mill and, using it as a pestle, began to grind the crumbs to dust. They stared at him, waiting for his reply.

  ‘Do not judge me yet,’ he said in a voice so small they strained to hear him. ‘You are quite right, my friends, that is not how the story ended. In truth, the story still awaits its final chapter. But the events did not occur in the way I just told you. That is not what happened. I will backtrack but, please, first some coffee.’

  ‘Fuck the coffee.’

  ‘Fuck you, Neil! Fuck you! Fuck you! Let him have his coffee. We’ll all have some coffee! If this is our last lunch together let’s do it properly.’ Lucio glared at Neil daring him to argue.

  ‘I agree with Lucio,’ said Milos. ‘What harm can it do to have a coffee? Let’s all have a coffee, then let Ramon finish his story. Gancio, please serve.’

  They drank their coffee and sipped their cognacs in silence. There was nothing left to do but preside over the ashes of their lunches, and of a story that had gone horribly wrong.

  Chapter Fifty

  Roberto was a coward. Not by choice. All of us want to be heroes and Roberto was no exception. But violence terrified him. It immobilised him. It stole his breath and denied him the use of his limbs. Just as he had been unable, as a small boy, to come to his mother’s defence, so he was now unable to defend Annemieke. Twice the boy was tested, albeit in the most cruel of circumstances, and twice he was found wanting.

  So he didn’t rush headlong into that dark, narrow lane unarmed to tackle a man who could pick him up and snap him like a twig. He stayed hidden in the shadows of the stairway while Eduardo’s razor raked Annemieke’s face, not in delicate incisions half a centimetre apart, but in frenzied, panic-driven slashes.

  Roberto watched as the man in the black tracksuit reappeared. Watched as he snatched quick looks up and down the narrow street. The man began to jog towards him. He jogged across the street. He jogged directly under the street light. He jogged briskly up the concrete steps, and away.

  Roberto didn’t run to her. He thought she was dead. He couldn’t bear to look at her dead. Then he heard a muffled cry. Then sobs. Then the sound of somebody being sick. Then a scream. Of fright? Pain? Then he heard a cry of such pain and agony, his heart stopped and his blood froze in his veins.

  ‘No!’ s
he cried. ‘Oh God! No!’

  He saw Annemieke stagger out of the alley. Her hands covered her face. Even in the dark he could see the blood. He saw her stagger to the apartment block. Saw her press the intercom. Heard the buzzer. Saw the door open. She staggered inside. He heard people’s voices. Lights went on down the street.

  Later, witnesses said they saw a tall, thin young man run away.

  Annemieke staggered sobbing into Anders’ apartment. She needed him to take her in his arms. Hold her. Comfort her. Share her tragedy. Instead, she saw Anders recoil in horror. When he finally put his arm around her, it was only to guide her to the bathroom. He poured water into the basin and gave her a towel.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ he said. ‘Jesus Christ!’

  He dialled emergency. He went back into the bathroom sickened by all the blood. Especially blood tainted by scandal. Annemieke fainted and he caught her as she fell. He lay her down on the bathroom floor and turned her head to the side. He didn’t want her to drown in her own blood. Not in his bathroom.

  The ambulance arrived, and the police. He asked what hospital she’d be taken to. No, he wasn’t going with her. The one kind thing he did was ring the father of an ex-girlfriend. He was one of Australia’s leading neurosurgeons and he remembered meeting Annemieke. She had told him all about the Los Angeles clinic and Dr Tannen. Peter Metcalf was a good man. Of course he would attend her.

  Then Anders busied himself sprinkling stain-removing powder over the blood on his carpet, before the police trod it all through the apartment.

  Annemieke was taken to St Vincent’s where a theatre was already being prepared for her.

  Eduardo jogged back to the Sebel Town House. Just another jogger dodging dog shit and syringes. In his black tracksuit, in the hot evening air, it wasn’t hard to work up a solid sweat. Besides, tension had given him a good base to build on. He disposed of the razor and gloves through an iron grille over a storm drain. He buried the bottle of borer killer and the cottonwool pads under rubble in a mini-skip.