The almost-notary walks into the room. He seems almost as nervous as Norma. He must be thinking that the plan is thrown off with Silvio in the room. “This is Mr. Silvio Cilmes,” he says. “And you two gentlemen?”
“I’m Kukier, his attorney.”
“And I’m Morero, the owner of the real estate company.”
“Well, this is everyone then.”
The almost-notary just needs to go through a few more steps, and yet, suddenly, he shoots a frightened look at the door. Now is the moment for Norma to go to the bathroom and not come out until everything is over. But with Silvio there, poor Silvio, how can she leave?
The door opens and three men come up behind Silvio and his companions. They are carrying guns.
The almost-notary pulls out his own pistol, his hand trembling.
The man behind Silvio yells at him, “Drop your weapon or you’re dead!”
Norma yells, “Not him!” just as she hears a gunshot. Her fear doesn’t stop her from running to Silvio and grabbing his arm.
The two of them rush out of the room. There is shouting, another gunshot, a door slams.
“Norma!” Silvio gasps, but she doesn’t stop dragging him along.
They pass through the kitchen and approach another door.
“Are you hurt?” she asks.
“Just grazed.”
“Then let’s get out of here.”
Outside the building they see Beto. “Good job, Normita. Jump in the blue car,” he says.
“Where are you taking us?”
“To a little joint, just until this mess gets cleaned up,” Beto says, winking.
It’s a little place in Núñez. Not three rooms with a patio, but it will work. Later, the group comes for Silvio to smuggle him to Brazil. Norma, meanwhile, must go on with her life. She’ll need a few days first, however, to clarify things with Luis.
The Excluded
by Leandro Ávalos Blacha
Recoleta
Translated by M. Cristina Lambert
Marcelo was the first person I met from the building. He was leaving Rogelio’s apartment with a laptop under his arm. He almost dropped it when he saw me.
“I thought the police were done investigating.”
My uniform always confused people. I showed him my patch: SECURITY. “I’m Rogelio’s sister.” I let him know I’d be moving in the next couple of days. Actually, I’d only brought a few clothes in a bag. I kept my eyes on the laptop.
“He was going to buy another one, he’d promised this one to me,” he explained. “If you want it . . .”
I told him I did, that I wanted to check it just in case there was any useful information.
“The police already saw it.”
“If my brother wanted to give it to you, you can have it afterward.” I asked him for the keys. I’d learned to recognize a thief from my job. And I was facing one. The way they looked, moved, stood, gave them away. Marcelo didn’t hide his anger.
“Welcome to the building,” he said drily, and ran down the stairs.
I removed the tape marking the crime scene. There was a lot to do, beginning with changing the locks and straightening up. All of Rogelio’s meticulousness had been destroyed. They’d turned his place upside down. I saw pieces of glass and ceramic and I pictured those vases and statues on the shelves, now thrown on the floor. Whoever killed him acted viciously. The bag on his head, the cuts. It was my first time visiting the apartment. I couldn’t bring myself to look around. Rogelio hadn’t been talking to us. Nor were we speaking to him. We envied him.
I settled in the kitchen. I was sure I’d find a good bottle of champagne in the refrigerator. I drank almost the whole thing in one gulp, then opened another. Finally, I owned something. I couldn’t help laughing. What would my brother say about that intrusion? The half-breed drinking out of the bottle a few yards from the chalk outline where they’d found his body.
* * *
The doorbell woke me up the next morning. I put on Rogelio’s bathrobe—I’d never felt anything so soft. It was a very fine zebra-print silk. The bags under my eyes were dragging on the floor.
“I have to stop drinking,” I said aloud, as I did every day. I tried to fix my hair.
When I opened the door I saw Marcelo. There were others behind him.
“We live in the building. We wanted to give you our condolences and deliver this.” One by one they passed a silver urn around, which the super eventually handed to me.
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s God’s will.”
“May the Lord keep him in His glory.”
“He was a good man.”
“We’re here for whatever you need.”
I stared at the urn until they left. I didn’t have the slightest idea what to do with Rogelio’s ashes.
I picked up the paper, La Nación, by the door. When I returned, the place had come alive. You could hear music in the background. The TV was turned to a news channel. The blinds were open. The coffee maker on. I’d seen several remote controls lying around. I’d have to figure out how to program them. I was grateful for the coffee. It was just what I needed.
Rogelio’s death took up a full column in the newspaper’s crime pages. The news avoided the bloodier details we’d read in Crónica when the crime occurred. They linked it to other cases, but still didn’t give details. It wasn’t unusual for a thief to claim he was a cabbie so he could rob an old fag. As no one from the family was pushing the investigation, the police didn’t try very hard. Marcelo gave them the description of a young guy who used to visit my brother. They had an Identi-Kit. The only clue—sex ruined people. They’d obsess about the security of their homes, yet would take anybody to bed.
I put the urn away in my bag, donned my uniform, and left for work. I considered tossing the ashes in the first garbage can. I felt guilty. Rogelio was saving me from having to commute from Lanús. It was still strange for me. I felt like an intruder living here. Recoleta was a bubble. We half-breeds would come in to do our work, and then leave. Everything was too perfect, pretty. A little Europe. I saw an imposing building and wondered what it was. Perhaps just a school. But it looked like a cathedral. Even death was pretty and fancy in the neighborhood. Rogelio’s soul of a diva would have dreamed about a place in the Recoleta Cemetery, among the illustrious dead. There was no site without history or an important function: museums, libraries, embassies, good restaurants, designer shops. The streets smelled of imported perfumes. The old geezers weren’t abandoned and dressed in rags like in Lanús. They strolled around looking nice—calmly, slowly, aided by their maids. Three or four of those old men might own half of Argentina. They wouldn’t have lasted two minutes in Lanús. Don’t be prejudiced or resentful, I had to repeat to myself. I felt at any moment they’d send me back to the periphery.
Before I realized it, I was at the shop.
“Good morning, Noelia,” said the owner. She never called me by my name. She sounded cordial. “How’re you doing?”
I shrugged. “It’s life, ma’am, thank you.”
She said I was right to take it like that, a good philosophy. I nodded and stood by the door looking out at the street. I checked my watch. I’d memorized the Alvear Avenue routines. The movements of the hotel tourist contingents. The time of day when some women passed by wearing sports clothes on their way to work out. Good asses, nice tits. People walking their dogs. Except for the maids, I felt I was the only one working.
Suddenly, there was a commotion in the shop. Some actresses would be coming in to try on dresses. They gave the owner prestige, but you had to squeeze them to get a cent out of them. They wanted everything for free. The owner dressed some of them for life. As for me, I usually assumed they were assholes. She’d charge them for dresses I wouldn’t even wear as a whore as if they were made of golden threads. The women were delighted. I wouldn’t express an opinion or say a word, even if they chatted me up. I just made sure they didn’t take anything. It was surprising how
quick they were at stealing.
When things quieted down, the owner asked me about the funeral. If I was a believer. If I went to Mass. I said yes to everything. It’d look bad to admit that no one from the family came. For the first time in fifteen years I dared to ask for her advice—what to do about the ashes.
“Did your brother want to be cremated?”
I nodded.
She told me she didn’t approve of cremation, and even less of sprinkling the remains somewhere. She recommended I keep them or consult a parish priest. I could take them to a church cinerary.
* * *
I’d just gotten home from work when the bell rang. It was two of the neighbors.
“Gabriel, from the fourth floor.”
“And I’m Olivia, my dear, from the eighth.”
I vaguely recognized them.
“We know what a mess the apartment was left in; you must need help cleaning it up.”
Although I’d rather have had some wine by myself, it wasn’t a bad idea. I let them in and pointed to the furniture strewn about.
“I don’t understand how nobody heard anything.”
“Two deaf old people live upstairs and downstairs,” Olivia responded.
“The one downstairs is my ex-wife,” the man said.
I was surprised the fag would mention a wife.
“How dreadful. Rogelio kept this place so nice . . .”
“Did he have visitors?”
“All the time.”
After a few minutes of them helping me, I ended up working by myself. Olivia had sat down and Gabriel soon joined her. They were sniffing around among Rogelio’s belongings more than cleaning up.
“Is there anything of his you’d like?”
I saw their eyes brighten; they couldn’t wait to get started. Gabriel went directly to the closet and took out some clothes. Shirts and loud jackets. Olivia grabbed some knickknacks. I suspected they were expensive, but they looked hideous to me. Later they split some books between them.
“I lent him these,” said the old woman. She was lying. But they came around, and went back to cleaning up. They told me about the building: The old man on the seventh floor was curt but respectful. Gabriel’s ex, “a mad old woman.” Two older couples lived on the lower floors. The one on the third floor never left home; he was under house arrest. Olivia said he was in the military.
“He’s no longer the only law representative,” she added, pointing to my security credential. “Isn’t that true, Lieutenant Rodríguez?” Then she changed the subject. She’d skip from one thing to another, inserting some English words here and there. From films to astrology, from my uniform to questions about my family. For some reason, she always mentioned Marcelo.
“Ask him whatever you want, he’ll take care of everything. He runs the building. He’ll get you maids, nurses, pay taxes, make repairs, take care of your shopping.”
Gabriel nodded. It was clear Marcelo had them eating out of his hand. He knew how to manipulate these old jerks.
Olivia didn’t stop helping herself. She drank more than me. She only got up when Gabriel screamed like a lunatic when he saw the time.
The apartment actually did look a little more presentable. Someday I’d have to figure out what to do with so much space.
Olivia offered to help me decorate. “You have to give it your personal touch.”
It was difficult to erase Rogelio from the place. His queerness was present in everything, from hundreds of tiny ornaments to a huge portrait on the living room wall. He came off as conceited, a show-off, young, like he had been when some rich old guy took him away from home. I laid down on the bed with his computer. I checked his Facebook updates. I couldn’t resist looking at my cousin’s vacation pictures. She was on the beach, in the Caribbean, with her disgusting husband Raúl, who looked like an overweight gorilla—fat, hairy, and wearing a G-string. She, with her tits about to jump out of her bikini. Too much woman for a truck driver. I moved quickly to landscape photos. I searched for another one of her in a bathing suit, and remembered our summer vacations in San Clemente. Then I went to get some wine. I could look at her for hours. But when I came back, the screen was black. I thought it must be the battery. I pushed the computer aside and looked for the cord. Suddenly, white letters appeared on the screen, like in a chat room: Hi, Noelia.
I tried to turn off the machine, but the text continued to appear: We’re friends of your brother’s.
I stared at the screen without responding.
And yours. Don’t be afraid.
Tomorrow, after work.
Quintana and Ortiz, in front of La Biela.
In the phone booth you’ll be told how to proceed.
Don’t talk to anyone.
I closed the computer and ran to look out the windows. There were no people on the street. But I imagined that in the apartments across the street someone was checking me out.
Don’t be crazy, Noelia, I said to myself. I looked out through the peephole. The hallway was empty. I made sure the door was locked. I stuck the computer in a cabinet and opened a bottle of wine and drank sitting in an armchair until I fell asleep.
* * *
“Goodbye, lieutenant,” I heard as I was leaving. Olivia was sitting on Marcelo’s stool. The boy was polishing the door a few yards away. He was wearing a tight, sleeveless T-shirt. I said hello to the woman and approached Marcelo.
“Don’t you ever take off your uniform?” he asked, smiling. He’d stood up and flexed his muscles. My head was splitting.
“Why do you care?” I spat out before quickly apologizing. I had to control my reactions.
Marcelo continued to clean as I asked him about my brother, his friends, and the people who visited him.
“I don’t get involved in the tenants’ lives. I already told the police what little I know.” He noticed I was uneasy. “Did something happen?”
But I just didn’t trust him enough to be honest. “I had a strange feeling, something I didn’t understand. Don’t worry, thanks.”
I said goodbye to Olivia and she gave me a military salute. As I walked along I noticed my bag felt heavier than usual. I was still carrying my brother’s urn with me, but I didn’t have time to go back and leave it in the apartment.
I rushed on to the shop and the owner arrived shortly after. She was in a bad mood, and came in without saying hello.
* * *
My mind was elsewhere all day. Shoplifters from the garment district could have come in and I wouldn’t have even noticed them. The owner called me out on this once, snapping her fingers. “Wake up, dear!”
She needed help moving some furniture. Her worry in the last few days was about all the foreign brands closing their businesses in the country—less competition if they left, but their presence gave the avenue some prestige. If things continued like this, she said repeatedly, we’d soon be wearing banana peels and coconut shells, like in Venezuela.
“Did you make up your mind about your brother?”
“I’m discussing it with my parents,” I lied. We didn’t talk about Rogelio in our family, except for his assets.
“I hope you’ll find a place for him to rest in peace.”
I was the one who needed peace. I left work not knowing exactly what to do. I headed along Alvear up to Ortiz. I decided to go by La Biela and check out the scene there. It was too safe a place for anyone to try anything illicit. When I got to the tea room, I glanced around. People were strolling leisurely and accepting flyers for nearby restaurants and bars. I’d never allowed myself the pleasure of being so carefree, had never been on vacation that way. They were almost all foreigners. I approached a phone booth—it was red, like the English ones. I wondered whether the phone would ring at some point or if I’d just be waiting for nothing. I took a few steps around, pretending to be checking my cell. Then I felt something touching my bag. I quickly turned around.
“Noelia Rodríguez?” asked the man.
By then I’d grabbed him by the
arm, twisting it behind his back.
“I’m the lawyer . . . don’t you remember?” he said in pain.
The man had contacted me when Rogelio died, saying he could take care of the paperwork. He was my brother’s age. Just as old, though more sickly. I let him go; he straightened his suit.
“Sorry. Are you all right?”
“It was my fault, being so mysterious. I didn’t want to tell you anything, except in person.”
He took me by the cemetery and stopped in front of an abandoned discotheque. It had a black façade, a Closed sign, and some half-torn posters pasted to its walls. You could see a girl’s almost naked torso. The lawyer attempted to remove it.
“Some businesses are no longer welcome in the neighborhood.” But he had no strength and I had to help him.
He said Rogelio had some business affairs he hadn’t told me about. Investments in bars, nightclubs. Some with VIP airs like this one. They’d operated for years, but had now closed down. The neighbors harassed them.
The old man kept on walking. He didn’t want to stop at any of the cafés. I was tired after standing all day at the shop.
“Rogelio had a lot of hope for you.”
I burst out laughing. We’d hardly seen each other for the past thirty years.
The lawyer said I probably knew nothing about him. “But your brother was always kept abreast of everything.”
I told him not to talk nonsense. We’d lived without his help, just managing to scrape by.
“He was present in every way,” the lawyer insisted. Rogelio had assured him I’d be in charge of taking his place when he retired. Although he hadn’t imagined a retirement like the one he had. The attorney shared his hopes. He finally asked me to sit with him in a pizzeria. He pointed to a sidewalk chair.
“Counselor,” the waiter greeted him. It was quite seedy, even for me.
“He started with this.”
I looked at the sign: Rogelio Pizza.
* * *
I turned in my resignation letter—I would stop working in just one week. It was a betrayal to the owner.
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