“BETWEEN YOU ME and the gatepost I can tell you Don Manuel wasn’t the only one that wanted to pay Ezcurra back,” Guido will confide to me one night after dinner at his house, one of the identical prefabs on the Banco Hipotecario block, located as far away from his parents’ place as the town allows—a mere seven blocks at most. I’ll move in there at his invitation recommending the beneficial effects of childless solitude on my work, a suggestion Mati and his wife would second with nodding enthusiasm. Guido’s wife Leticia will offer me coffee, I’ll accept and Guido will go on with his tale: “There was a society, Don León and Casarico were in it for sure, and the Chief of Police too they say, and … Carving up tourist plots down on the shores of the lagoon, where Don León’s got his resort now, on that little fringe of woodland the floods didn’t get. Ezcurra was flogging that dead horse Expotencia to them and they bought it hook line and sinker. Remember Expotencia?” Nodding, I’ll pull a stapled sheaf of photocopies out of my folder, heftier now than at its last public appearance.
We all have the good fortune to be present at the birth of one of the most promising stages in the history of our nation, a stage in which the former colony is finally beginning to develop into Argentina Potencia, the world power we all long for. At last the dark days of surrender and corruption are coming to an end. Now begins a radiant time of justice and prosperity, of which Malihuel, the demographic, economic and geographical hub of Argentina, must be a part. Separated from Buenos Aires by three hundred and twenty-three kilometres of smoothest tarmac, and from Rosario by one hundred and twenty kilometres of magnificent highway, Malihuel is a beautiful town nestling on one of the banks of the lagoon of the same name—that giant pupil at our country’s heart that was witness in bygone days to the excesses of the unbridled savage and today sports the robes of loftiest civilisation, and the solidest, most shining creations of the restless and eternal human mind. There, by its dreaming shores, a valiant chieftain, lord of our wide open pampas, fought the last battle in defence of his native soil, falling to defeat by the bamboos that spat fire wielded by the white man, uniformed and disciplined in laws that he—a free bird—knew nothing of. But his example lives on, as does that of the heroic gauchos that followed him, figureheads of the struggle for independence. Today, after more than a century and a half, that struggle is about to end in victory. That is why Malihuel, the administrative centre of Coronel González County—the richest of the richest farming region on the face of the earth—has a duty to lead this great march into the future. And so Expotencia was born. Expotencia, the greatest open-air expo in the country—farming machinery in action. Expotencia—a unique showcase for the breakthroughs of today and the promises of tomorrow: cutting-edge irrigation systems, seedbed plots and agrochemicals, cattle shows and competitions, demonstration dairies, intensive cropping, latest-model machinery in action, technical lectures and a full agribusiness, stockbreeding and agroproduct technology portfolio. Over fifty stands, two hundred lovely lady-promoters, twenty telephone lines, a press room, musical numbers, a Provincial Soya Queen Contest … All this and more at Expotencia ’73! Santa Fe’s leading farming and industrial show. Expotencia—yet another attraction to the 45,000 hectares of salt, iodised and curative waters, the golden sands filled with happy laughter and the lapping of waves, the modern ballrooms where social life is free to blossom and flourish, the hard-fought yet harmonious sporting competitions, the internationally renowned shows by artists and musicians … these are the attractions that have made Malihuel Argentina’s foremost inland beach resort, visited year in year out by an endless stream, over half a million strong in the summer months. This is when Expotencia ’73 will open up its doors—an event your grandchildren will one day celebrate as the dawning of a new age. The year 2000 will find us united or downtrodden. And if we are to find union and avoid division, now’s the time to start. If you believe in Malihuel and in Argentina, don’t miss the boat. Sign up for Expotencia ’73!”
“Where did you get that from,” Leticia will ask me intrigued.
“Clara Benoit,” I’ll answer.
“Ah, the famous lagoon files.”
“Reckon it had anything to do with it?” I’ll return to Guido.
“When you look at it Ezcurra lost just as much money as they did if not more. This is what happened. He’d brought some people over from Santa Fe who were going to make the blessed flood canal we’d been promised since the colonial days—one day they threw a party at the Yacht Club and everything to celebrate the project going through. And there it is, still approved. Without the canal to control the floods there were no plots and Ezcurra promised to speed up work on the canal if they came in on Expotencia. So in the end the guys from Santa Fe turned out to be involved with the Montoneros or something like that and lasted all of two seconds in the provincial government, the whole Expotencia thing collapsed and on top of losing everything and being up to his eyeballs in debt Ezcurra ended up being tarred as the town lefty. He wanted to rub shoulders with the town’s big cheeses and wound up … I’m not saying his partners in town wanted his blood the way Don Manuel did. But when the chips were down they weren’t going to bend over backwards to save him were they.”
“SORRY, I’M AFRAID I’m not convinced the articles had anything to do with it. Don Manuel wasn’t one for wasting powder on chimangos,” pipes Licho after Don León hangs up, running a polite finger over the pile of photocopies on the table. “But Don Rosas Paz did have two granddaughters of courting age that’s for sure—one, Elvira, ended up marrying a French agronomist with BO; the other, María Luisa—Pipina they called her—was left on the shelf. They were always coming into town whenever there was show at the lagoon—anything to get away from the estancia—and knowing our dear Darío’s reputation …”
“Nice theory,” rasps Iturraspe, “if it wasn’t for the fact they were both so ugly just looking at them was enough to make a bull a bullock, and for that at least we have to give the deceased his due—he had good taste. The thing is,” he says to me as he turns round, “everyone’s got their theory but actually nobody really knows why Rosas Paz had it in for Ezcurra.”
“Be that as it may,” Don León now goes on, who ever since Licho’s interruption has been looking daggers at the table in indignant silence, “Don Manuel decided to speed things up. He was dying, or at least he thought he was. Pulmonary emphyteusis he had and had to go everywhere with a nurse and a blue cylinder. Used to call it the “heir-scarer”. Even went out hunting he did—he’d plant the nurse and the blue cylinder in the back of his pick-up and shoot anything with legs, wings or fins that moved, edible or not, anyway he couldn’t touch any of it on account of his diet and what the farmhands didn’t take was left for the dogs … partridges, martinetas, ducks, hares, armadillos, caracaras, herons, lizards, possums, plovers, owls …” Don León interrupts himself to wet his lips in his second Ferroquina.
“Chimangos?” I ask giving Licho a wry sidelong glance.
“Chimangos too. In the country if it ain’t got horns it’s a pest, he liked to say. Anyway duelling had gone out of fashion, quiet revenge wasn’t his style and there was no joy to be had from the legal system. So that left the police.”
“MALIHUEL POLICE HEADQUARTERS,” says Don Ángel referring to the building less than a block away that, together with the courts, occupies an entire block, “is in charge of all the police stations in the county including the ones in Toro Mocho.”
“One of the privileges we have as the oldest town in the area,” adds his brother Vicente with a smile, taking a sip of after-dinner coffee. “This is where they lock up all the lags.”
“When they lock them up that is. The police chiefs are appointed in Santa Fe and are generally from thereabouts. They don’t stay long, a year or two, and they’re sent off to thieve somewhere else so the area can recover. Like crop rotation,” chuckles Don Ángel at his own joke. “That’s what I’m telling you, Superintendent Neri was different.”
“That’s what my gr
andfather always used to say,” I impinge. “That he was a different breed of policeman. ‘The finest police chief in Malihuel’s history.’ Was he really that good?”
Don Ángel and Vicente glance at each other to see who’ll answer:
“Don’t know about the other towns see, that’d be asking too much. But we’re quite certain he didn’t lay a finger on Malihuel,” answers Don Ángel for both of them. “Don’t shit where you eat right? He was a sort of local Robin Hood Neri was. Stole from the rich towns and gave to the poor ones,” he chuckles again.
“Most police chiefs are just passing through”—Vicente completes his brother’s thought. “They don’t hobnob with the local population and get out as soon as they can. There are those as prefer a police station in Toro Mocho to the headquarters here. But not Neri. Actually I reckon he’d grown rather fond of us,” he ventures and glances at his brother.
“He was more devoted to the town that’s for sure. It was his last destination and he’d decided to stick around with his wife when he retired. Had no children did they Vicente? They’d started work on the house and everything, two storeys it was going to be, the first in town. Don’t know if you noticed it when you used to come, on the right as you come up the lagoon road. You can see the foundations clear as anything. You should take him to see it Mati if he’s so interested in the story. Why not go tomorrow now you’re here?”
“One of Malihuel’s big tourist attractions,” whispers Mati with a wink that attempts to be conspiratorial.
“I DON’T KNOW about the best, no, that’s saying a lot, but he certainly was different. Not at all like a copper. He and Professor Gagliardi used to play chess at that window table there. Gagliardi had several regional tournaments under his belt but the Super didn’t always come off worse,” recalls Don León, sipping his brimming Ferroquina in Los Tocayos. “And here in town he never missed a trick. If the owl in the belfry winked Neri wanted to know which eye. I don’t know if he was as honest as they say but at least he was efficient. And had an education—you’re the one as knows Nene—was he actually a lawyer or not?”
“The proverbial three subjects short of his degree.”
“So why didn’t he finish?” asks Iturraspe.
“Gave it up apparently when his old man got blown away. Another copper. Only child, father a hero, mother a widow. That was his version at least.”
“But?”
“Goodness only knows. Didn’t have it up here if you ask me and the excuse fitted like a glove.”
“You’d be better off sticking to what you know and going and fetching me some smokes from Chacón’s. Tell him to put them on the tab”—Don León puts the sceptic in his place.
“SO HE WAS having this house built on a policeman’s salary was he?” I ask Mati next day, one cold, grey Saturday, after his father’s finally worn him down.
“He had a cheap source of labour,” Guido winks at me.
“The cons,” I say to confirm. They smile in agreement.
“Got them to paint the headquarters first mind. The way it is now, that was the last time it saw a lick of paint. Had them classified by occupation and milked the lot for all they were worth. If you ask me that’s how it should always be right? Get them doing something useful while they’re in,” airs Mati.
I nod, much as I beg to differ. I don’t feel up to arguing the toss.
“The master builder was from Elordi remember?” Mati addresses his brother. “Used to work for Titín and had a fight with his cousin I think it was. Killed him with a Bic to the jugular. That’s accuracy for you. When he got out he’d developed an attachment for the town and wanted to stay but there was no work.”
“He had to pay the architect though. Couldn’t find anything to arrest him for,” cracks Guido.
“And the materials I should think,” I butt in. “I mean if it was going to be such a luxury home …”
“It was even going to have a pool, the first in town. We’ve got several now though, now we’ve lost the lagoon … Too bad you didn’t come in summer ’cause otherwise …” starts Mati and stops, studying the ground plan possibly with a professional eye.
Now that I was seeing it I remembered it clearly—the cement floors cracked apart by weeds and undergrowth, the walls shrouded in hanging gardens of campanulas. As teenagers we’d played one last rubble war here, which was cut short when Guido sent a brick flying into his brother’s forehead and we all ended up at the little ward with Doña Isadora giving him first aid. I look at Mati in astonishment, then at Guido. Has it taken me twenty years to realise my great childhood friend wasn’t Mati but his younger brother?
“So why did they leave?” I ask. “The Neris, I mean.”
“Actually I can’t really remember but I think the Ezcurra affair had something to do with it didn’t it Guido?” Mati asks his brother, who he seems to get on much better with outside the family circle. “Ezcurra had something to do with it I’m sure.”
“HERE IT IS SIR …” Nene Larrieu will remark, plonking the stained cup down on the table, “… an ex-presso for an ex-con.”
“Don’t you ever get tired of that joke Nene?” Haroldo Cuesta, the ex-con in question, will reply to him the day he made his way over to the bar at Licho’s invitation, and then to me, “I was in the jailhouse from January sixty-six to June seventy-seven, I’ll never forget. Then I was sent to Coronda for another year and eight months. Nothing political. Rustling.” He will explain: “Got to eat. So yeah I got to know the headquarters from the inside back in old Hog Neri’s day.”
“Is that what they used to call him?” I’ll ask.
“He liked to throw his weight around,” the ex-con will expand. “Not just anybody mind. Never laid a finger on any of us; we weren’t worth the trouble. He only dished it out to the hard nuts, the heavyweights, the ones who stood up to him … Getting smacked around by Hog Neri was a mark of distinction, a blessing from the bishop. ‘I moved all the way down here because I was told this town had real men in it,’ he’d say. ‘So let’s see where that good ol’ Malihuel grit is shall we?’ I think deep down he liked it when you stood up to him. He showed you more respect after that. As I said, the man was naive.”
“Naive? Why naive?”
“’Cause he thought we felt the same way. The badge wasn’t enough, no, he wanted us to respect him as a man too. Always had something to prove did old Hog.”
“AN UPRIGHT MAN, a decent man,” will be Dr Alexander’s diagnosis when I visit him. “The day he left town he wore the same suit he was wearing when he came. How many people can you say that about? Superintendent Neri was an exemplary human being. Ehhhm, where’s this going to be published? Ah. No, because I’d been told …”
“DIDN’T NOTICE THE SUIT. Couldn’t take my eyes off the Torino Grand Routier he’d picked up in Fuguet. Brother what a set of wheels!” Iturraspe will remark when I tell him the story.
CITING ASSORTED FATIGUES, they’ve retired for the night—Vicente, Mati’s grandfather and Mati’s wife, who, having lashed her husband with several withering looks, has taken the children to sleep at the house next door. Toying with the last threads of our flagging after-dinner chit-chat, that leaves Don Ángel, the dutiful Mati, the rather livelier Guido and Leticia, Celia, who’s toiling in the kitchen and resurfaces every now and then to offer another round of coffee, and myself.
“He had Don Manuel breathing down his neck for a whole year Superintendent Neri did. What he was asking him to do was straightforward enough—drag Ezcurra out of his house kicking and screaming and put a bullet in him there and then for all the world to see. He’d have settled for less earlier. But now the military were in power Don Manuel wanted to have his cake and eat it. All that waiting had whetted his appetite.”
“Withdrawal symptoms,” I remark. “Happens to the best.”
“So I reckon he dealt with them direct,” Don Ángel goes on, “when he saw the police chief playing hard to get. He had his contacts Don Manuel did that’s for sure. And th
at’s where things got complicated see. We’re not talking about just any old spade either mind you. An Ezcurra no less, one of the Ezcurras of Rosario, and an Alvarado on his mother’s side. Right here in town. If the Super did what Rosas Paz asked him the whole town would be down on him like a ton of bricks. And if he didn’t the military would run him out of town, and what was the use of that, ’cause Greco wasn’t going to turn his nose up at the chance.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Oh didn’t I tell you? Greco’s … Neri’s boy he was. Subsuperintendent Greco, he stepped into Neri’s shoes as chief when he retired. He ended up sticking his oar in too.”
“BETWEEN A ROCK AND A HARD PLACE,” confirms Don León, sprawling in his bar chair, and lights his 43/70 after offering them round, while everyone gathered around him nods almost imperceptibly. “He was a few months off retirement and thought he’d make it through by passing the buck, but he didn’t. He’d decided to stay on in Malihuel as well. And I’ll tell you something else. Just between ourselves I’ll tell you something as lots of folk don’t know—he intended to stand for mayor when your dear grandfather’s term was up, ’cause by then he was having health problems that’d force him into early retirement if I remember right. Had the slogan sorted out and all, the Super had, told me in private he did—‘Firm hand, clean hands’. Not bad at all eh? But Rosas Paz set the cat amongst the pigeons. They were ruining his prospects as mayor before he’d even got started. And there was something else—there’d been pressure to move the headquarters and the courts to Toro Mocho for years. Think where we’d be now—no government offices, no island beach resort … Because my place for now … You lot’d be the only ones left eh Guido?”
An Open Secret Page 3