Brignone wanted the Gaucho to fire from the veranda and, holed up in his corner, to give him cover while he went inside the kitchen and fired on to the corridor. They had abandoned the main room where the police were finishing their work on the breach, now opened, beneath the impact of the pneumatic drill that was causing the entire building to judder.
The police threw in a few light hand grenades, but in the end decided to opt for one of maximum potency, dangerous to release, with no guarantee as to where it might land. Commissioner Lincoln Genta slipped it in through the bathroom skylight, connected to flats nine and thirteen. The thing erupted on cue, forcing Brignone to race towards the living- room, where he was hit by the raking of machine-gunfire close to the bathroom door.
He fell flat out in the corridor, face upwards and eyes open, gasping, uncomplaining, extremely pale. The Gaucho was talking to himself in a low voice, in a strange sort of muttering like someone praying, while he dragged himself along the floor, the machine-gun still in his left hand, and approached the Kid.
Finally Dorda came level with the Kid and pulled him up against the wall, out of range, raising him against his body, holding him close, embracing him, half-naked.
They gazed at one another; the Kid was dying. The Blond Gaucho wiped his face and tried not to cry.
'Did I kill the cop who did this to me?' asked the Kid, after a while.
'Of course you did, sweetheart.' Gaucho's voice now sounded calm and loving.
The Kid smiled at him and the Blond Gaucho held him up in his arms like an image of the deposition of Christ. With difficulty, the Kid forced his hand into his shirt pocket and held out a little medal of the Virgin of Luján.
'Don't give in, Marquitos,' said the Kid. He called him by his name for the first time in a long while, in its diminutive form, as if the Gaucho were the one in need of consolation.
Then the Kid raised himself up ever so slightly, leaning on one elbow, and murmured something into his ear which no one could hear, a few words of love, no doubt, uttered under his breath or perhaps left unuttered, but sensed by the Gaucho who kissed the Kid as he departed.
They remained motionless for some moments, the blood coursing between the two of them. Total silence reigned in the apartment. The police leaned down into the breach. They were greeted with a round of machine-gunfire and yells from Dorda, now walled in behind Brignone's body.
'Come on you fat bastards, come up if you dare, let's see what you're made of...'
9
The afternoon was more or less about to begin, in the midst of the ruined apartment, surprising Gaucho Dorda who found himself suddenly wide awake and sure of himself, his wrap of coke there beside him and something of his life still ahead of him, taken aback by the number of people still in circulation and determined to view this as a good omen.
'When they come to get me, they'll send in one man on his own, perhaps Silva himself, that piece of shit, the ferocious and cowardly Commissioner Silva, he'll come all alone to assassinate me.'
He smiled to himself, lost, immune, propped up against the door jamb, alert in the damp afternoon light, caressing his machine-gun with his left hand. Ready to die, no way; because nobody's ever ready to die, but prepared to die, yes. Like one endowed with the stigmata, a sign from another age, from whenever, which mark him out: 'You there, you'll come to a bad end.' Encircled, isolated in his lair, enclosed by a ring of death, in the middle of a besieged flat, unable to move, he was prepared to die. The sayings of his dead mother returned like a litany.
'You'll come to a bad end.'
Meaning, dead from a bullet, wounded in the back, betrayed, and none the less he had ended well, whole, without betraying anyone, without allowing his arm to be twisted. He was enthused by his own words and could see, as if in a photo, an arm being twisted, wrestled over the counter in an open-air bar in Cañuelas, followed by his corpse on the front page of the magazine Crónica. 'Dorda the hyena is dead.' Let them come, he said, let them come, the rotten bastards. He held out his arm and tied the rubber tube around it, to bring up the vein.
Nothing else mattered. He leant out of the window, to see what the goons were preparing, they were moving around below like little dolls, pinned to the walls, spotlights illuminating the afternoon. At the back, behind them, there was the Rodó Park, and beyond that, the river. Under the ground, below the drains, were the sewers, the giant pipes running like secret passageways and emptying into the river. To escape through the cellars, excavate a tunnel with your hands, get out through those passages via the sewer outlet, climb up the iron staircase, raise the manhole cover and emerge into the fresh air. Some priests ran a school in the midst of the countryside, with trees, estates, and ancient walls.
'Pupil, you'll be enrolled as a pupil.'
And he used to first of all imagine an eye watching over him as he slept, an eye belonging to Pinky Jara, the watchman, blind in one eye, a single eye all white and milky, who beat them all over so that the individual marks couldn't be distinguished. Gaucho used to wet his bed and they made him pick up his mattress and parade before the lot of them, while they laughed at him and he carried his mattress out to dry in the sun, pacing the patio without crying, that Gaucho, until he was sent into the showers, and there, the water streaming all down his face, yes there he could cry without anyone noticing.
'Don't be a pansy, Dorda, don't be a tart, watch out - pansies get pissed on!'
And they laughed, the rest of them, and he threw himself on them, and they all rolled on the ground, hailing blows. 'Pupil', his mother turned him into one to be shot of him, and the word sounded strange to his ears, like a curse. 'You'll attend as a pupil,' his dead mother informed him, and he thought they were talking about an eye operation, making a mark that would forever prevent him from seeing his mother's face, but later, as time went by, he realized it was the girls, whom they'd spy on from the rooftops, through the skylights of the village brothel, getting fucked, their white legs flailing in the air ... Were they the pupils, were they sending him there? That surely couldn't be so. Madame Iniguez's pupils, who went for their walks at dawn through the empty village. There were no men in the house on the heights, behind the old corrals, they had to do everything for themselves, the women, with only a handyman to help out, and they got rid of him pretty sharpish, to be all women, living off prostitution, there behind Maria Juana station. Rusita was the first woman he ever went with, she didn't speak like a Christian, but smiled at him relaying words in a foreign language, all mixed in with a few Argentine words. 'You handsome fellow, pay me a canario, come inside me, darling,' uttered with such an air of indifference she might have been totting up bills, or reciting words distantly remembered from a dream. They were on a level, he and the Russian, neither of them really knew how to express their feelings properly He went to visit and sat down beside her, looking at her as she stroked herself between the legs. For that privilege he paid her what he'd earned or what he'd stolen around the country estates, in the station sidings, in the depths of the store run by Abad, the Turk. They said nothing to one another. The Gaucho was almost speechless during this period of his life, aged fourteen, even thirteen, fair-haired, light-eyed, face flat as a biscuit, and sometimes given to hearing his brainwaves resonate in imaginary tubes like sweet music to the pure and inexplicable voice of Rusita, who spoke to him in her own language, but also called him lovely, handsome and learnt to say My Blond Gaucho and more sweet-talking phrases so incomprehensible that only the two of them could understand, and which entered into the Gaucho through the depths of his heart. He attempted to explain it to her, those roots woven into his heart, belonging to an arbour watered by his blood. And she, what did she understand? He attempted to explain to her. And she knew that he should not be looking for love among women, that his soul could not seek warmth with her kind. He too wanted to tell her things, about the songs his late mother listened to, but his voice wouldn't come out. He practised what he wanted to say to her, but the words tripped him up. Then
she looked at him smiling, as if she understood the Gaucho to be different from the rest of them, not effeminate, a true macho, but different from the rest, a pervert they said in the countryside, but not a queer, so, and she buffed her toe-nails, naked, sitting on her bed, the smell of the nail polish remover making him both sick and hot, and he felt like varnishing his own nails, and gazed at the woman with the little balls of cotton wool between her toes, and he wanted to kneel down and kiss her, like the idea of a virgin, but he couldn't manage it and remained there silently, sad, subdued, and from time to time she smiled and spoke to him in her incomprehensible language or sang to him in Polish, the little Russian, and in the end she approached him and the Gaucho permitted his cock to be touched, whether erect or flaccid, without ever succeeding in penetrating her and sometimes it was he who touched Rusita, caressing her as if she were a doll, a little kid he loved in secret, that Blond Gaucho.
This must have all been happening around 1957 or '58. He'd already started going about armed, and she was neither surprised nor afraid, to see him deposit the Ballester Molina on the bedside table, she made as if not to notice, just carrying on, sweetness itself, beneath the night light, speaking her language like a litany. When was that? He can no longer remember. He'd done time twice in borstal, but as yet they'd not sent him to Melchor Romero, as yet they'd not attempted to empty his head with their electric shocks, with their insulin injections, to make him like the rest of them. It was Dr Bunge, with his round spectacles and pointed goatee, who was the first to begin telling him that he had to be made like all the rest. That he had to look for a woman and make a family. Because since forever the Gaucho - who was a killer, an animal, an assassin, a man quick to anger, feared throughout the province of Santa Fe, and along all the frontier posts - the Gaucho had always fancied men, agricultural labourers, old Uruguayan peasants who crossed the river at dawn, from the far side of Maria Juana. They took him under the bridges and sodomized him there (that was the term employed by Dr Bunge), they sodomized him and obliterated him in a fog of humiliation and delight, from which he later emerged both ashamed and liberated. Always detached, always enraged and unable to say what he felt, with those voices reverberating inside him, the women who gave him orders and muttered obscenities to him, issuing contradictory commands, cursing him, and all the voices in Dorda's head belonged to women. That was why they treated him with injections and pills in hospital, in order to cure him, to render him deaf to the voices, to save him from the sin of sodomy. He smiled to himself now, remembering how he looked at the labourers with whom he lived during the harvest season. They had to spend months living closeted together, in high summer, with the other peasants, and a sunburn that could fry your brains. Until the afternoon when they were playing at sapo{21} together in the store, all of them pretty much drunk, and they began to have a go at him, making fun and cracking jokes, and the Gaucho couldn't respond, he only smiled, with vacant eyes, and Old Soto took him on, provoking and provoking him until the Gaucho treacherously killed him, pulled him down when the old man was attempting to mount his chestnut mare, and he kept missing his footing in the stirrup and the Gaucho, as if merely wishing to halt this ridiculous dance, took out his weapon and shot him dead.
That was the first dead man in an endless series (or so said the Gaucho, according to Bunge). That was when the epoch of disgrace began and the Gaucho went from being a pickpocket, a loser, to being an assassin. They took him off to Sierra Chica and put him on bread and water, locking him up until he confessed to what everyone knew. He had clear memories of that period which he recounted to Dr Bunge, who noted every last one of them in his little white notebook.
'If you carry on like this, you'll end up badly, Dorda,' the doctor told him.
'I am already a bad lot,' said the Blond Gaucho, with difficulty in expressing himself. 'I've been on the wrong track since I was a child. I'm a hopeless case. I don't know how to express myself, Doctor.'
He waved his hands about to convey what he really felt, but they laughed in his face. He became enraged. 'You'll end up badly,' his late mother went on and on saying to him.
And he'd ended up here. In this flat beside his dead brother, behind a machine-gun aimed at the street, and the street crammed with marksmen out to kill him.
'They'll stake me out, and then they'll send me back to Sierra Chica again, along with the Chileans.' They were horrific, the Chileans, they treated him like a beast. 'I'm not going back there. No way will they get me back to Sierra Chica.'
He leaned out of the window, beside the Kid stretched out on the floor of the flat, the medal clasped in his fingers, and the Gaucho could feel him there, dead at his feet, the only man who had ever loved him, and who'd treated him as a person, better than a brother, that Kid Brignone had treated him like a woman, understanding whatever it was he couldn't bring himself to say and so always saying, he the Kid himself, whatever it was the Gaucho felt without being able to express it, as if reading his thoughts. But now he was there, he could see him stretched out with his clear expression, the Kid, covered in blood, face upwards, dead.
He leaned out of the window and looked down on to the street. Downstairs, there was an unusual degree of quiet. He could hear the secret police moving about over his head, as if they were dragging or manoeuvring corrugated iron across the roof.
'Come and get me, bastards,' he yelled. 'I've still got two boxes of bullets.'
He could yell it and could think, without saying as much, 'I've a load of drugs, a wrap of cocaine, enough to stay awake, I've been up that many hours.' Morning had come and then noon, and they were still unable to dislodge them from inside. He stuck his nose into the packet and inhaled, feeling as if it were liberating him, filling his throat like fresh air, a limpid freshness that cleared his head and made him think that he was going to manage to get out of there, to save himself.
He was going to be gone, taking out all the cops he could along with him, they'd sworn as much to one another without actually mentioning it, the Kid Brignone and the Blond Gaucho. On one side of the doorframe they'd made notches with a penknife, there at the entrance, of each cop they'd brought down. There'd been so many it was an effort to remember, around ten or twelve of them. If he'd had a bomb, if he'd had dynamite, he could have tied it to his belt and hurled himself at the street, where all the cops were waiting to watch him die. That way he could be blown to pieces with the lot of them.
Even the crack police were unused to being confronted by men who stood up to them and didn't back down. What they were used to, that useless lot, was to play torturer or hangman, tie you down with bedsprings, shock you until you explode. But when they found someone who stood his ground, who refused to lose his head, they wasted hours in failing to summon up the courage to go and get him.
'Come up and get me, Fatso Silva, you stuck pig.'
To the Gaucho, it was as if his voice came out unwavering, and the entire city listened with rapt attention, his voice resounding like the voice of God from on high, the voice of the Holiest in the Heights, right across the capital. 'Holy Mary Mother of God pray for us sinners now and in the hour of our death Amen.' He recited the prayer on a single exhalation, he recalled every word of the prayer Sister Carmen had taught him. In an orphanage run by nuns who taught him how to pray and sometimes the Gaucho would pray in order to eradicate the voices and he always recited the same prayer to Our Lady the Mother of God.
'Bring me a priest,' he commanded. 'I am going to make my confession.'
They had entered the paved courtyard on horseback and the woman went outside to request they show some respect, with a double-barrelled shotgun under her arm. Where did this memory materialize from?
'I have the right to request a priest. I am a baptized Catholic.'
Shots and some distant voices could be heard from outside.
Now he was calm he knew full well that special branch were there, crawling over the neighbouring apartments. He kept remembering the woman with the shotgun - could it have b
een his mother? - but then he couldn't remember anything any more, he blanked out, everything vanished into a vacuum, into nothingness. It was the same with his life. The years before the orphanage he could recall perfectly well, thereafter everything was erased, until he met up with the Kid. The days flew by him, and the months never ended. Prison makes the days go by more slowly and the years more quickly. Who said that? From when he came out of prison, he remembered nothing more right up until today, sitting on the floor beside the window, waiting for them to come and kill him.
The Gaucho Dorda had no more voice left to pray. Poor fellow, he was going to die in the Eastern Republic of Uruguay. He had travelled a great deal, his father, who owned a fleet of carts and used them to go harvesting every year, to make money.
A light wind blew in through the inner windows, moving the burnt curtains like ghostly spectres. The Kid's body lay full length on one side of the room, beside the window giving on to the patio. And he could see his father, all of a sudden, who arrived every evening on his skewbald horse.
'What do you have to say, partner ...'
The horses rapidly became accustomed to the engines of the harvesters, when they came to clear the plantations with the weeds at their height, and they'd rev the accelerator on the regulator, and the horses would pause and, when the problem was dealt with, they'd proceed again. Now images were forming clearly in his mind, of a harvest up in Tandil when he was ten or eleven years old. The speed at which they sewed up the sacks: when the score went up to thirty a hectare, he had to prepare two or three a cart, and in his haste he sewed his shirt tail into one of the sacks. The silk thread in the mouth of the sack needed stitching into a cross, a real cross. He could never learn how to properly sew up the mouths of those sacks. He was semi-retarded, they said, but it wasn't true, he just found it difficult to talk normally, because he was always kept busy arguing with those women muttering things inside his ear. Sewing the words, stitching them to his body, with greasy thread, a tattoo worn on the inside, the words of his dead mother engraved in him as if on a tree trunk.
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