by Cora Siré
“What can we do about it?”
“I’m supposed to ask you that question. You’re in charge of this.” Patrón Pindalo chewed a slice of cucumber. The thing was damn hard, or maybe his teeth were giving out, too.
“I can’t stop the students. You want me to go find them and hand them envelopes as well?”
“That’s your advice as lead counsel?” Patrón Pindalo dropped his fork on the plateful of salad greens, wilted and glistening with olive oil. He wanted nothing but to go home, check on his grandchildren, then lie down and rest his back.
“Listen, Javier. There’s a professor at the university, a dean apparently. From an old Luscano family, but unlike the rest of them, he’s a troublemaker. The name’s Molino.”
“Never heard of him.”
“He’s agitating to put up some kind of memorial on the grounds of La Cuarenta.” Patrón Pindalo pointed a finger at Javier. “Go and see him.”
“What kind of memorial?”
“For the so-called disappeared. This professor doesn’t want the prison demolished. But he knows his students don’t care about a few souls lost over a decade ago. So he agitates them, gets them going on an issue they care about, the environment. My sources tell me he’s behind the protest.”
“What am I supposed to say?”
“Talk some sense into him. Don’t order him to shelve the memorial. Just find out what he’s up to. Use some finesse for a change.” Patrón Pindalo waved the waiter over and threw his napkin on the table. He signed the bill. “We’ll continue this at the asado tomorrow. Come early, say eleven.”
Patrón Pindalo strode through the yacht club dining room. His stomach was cramped and his lumbar ached, but he did not regret his treatment of Javier. The asado would heal the lawyer’s pride. Nothing closed a man’s wounds more quickly than barbecued meat, good wine and cigars.
A sailing instructor drove him home in one of the club’s golf carts. Inside the house, he buzzed the muchacha. She came out of her quarters, hair a mess, half asleep.
“Where are the children?”
“At a movie, Señor.”
He asked her to bring a glass of milk. He went into his study, lowered the blinds and lay down on the sofa. When the maid returned, he sat up and drank the milk. She found a pillow and blanket, placed them on the sofa by his side. “Patrón, there’s a woman coming to see you this afternoon.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know her name. She said she had something of your daughter’s.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“Your job is to know.” Her chin dropped, long black strands of hair framed her small face. “You’re too pretty for sadness. Wake me up when she comes.” He shut his eyes but couldn’t sleep. His stomach would not stop churning.
At exactly five in the afternoon, Alma approached the gates to the mansion. Her face burned from the sun and winds off the sea. She held the envelope with the poems over her head for shade as she waited by the intercom. A muchacha appeared from the house and activated a remote. The gates jerked open and Alma slipped through. She crossed the driveway. By the three-storey house, a garden faced the sea, which shimmered behind a line of palm trees. A row of chaises-longues with white cushions was arranged around the swimming pool. The scene resembled an abandoned resort, swept clean and empty, not a towel or pool toy lying around.
The muchacha invited her to wait in an anteroom by the front door. On an oval table, silver-framed photographs were set in a row. Family portraits by the pool, in front of a Christmas tree, at a polo match, all dating from the sixties, by the look of the clothing and the hairstyles. One photo showed the couple alone, posing with the pope, an official photograph taken in the Vatican presumably. Alma registered the message these photos were meant to convey: here lives a well-connected and upright family. The oligarchy framed in hypocrisy but dated. Which begged the question, how much power did they still possess? Flaco would know, but she hadn’t wanted to tell him of her visit here.
“Señora, pase por favor.”
The maid escorted her down a hallway and into a study, closing the door behind Alma. The study had a metallic feel, with its line of polo trophies, tiny statuettes of men on horseback. She shook the man’s hand and introduced herself. He stood appraising her, his face as coppery as seaside cliffs. She couldn’t tell if he knew who she was. “I am the daughter of Hannelore.”
“I meant to convey our family’s condolences but it was a bad time.” Patrón Pindalo gestured for her to sit in a tubular chair. The air conditioning gave off a clammy breeze.
Alma remained standing, the envelope in her hand. “I heard about your son. You know they were buried on the same day at the Cementerio Real.” Gabriel had told her of the double burial.
Patrón Pindalo moved towards the bar and offered her a drink. Alma asked for water. He stooped to retrieve a bottle from the small fridge in the corner. His movements were stiff but self-assured. He poured himself a finger of Scotch. An adjacent wall was decorated with framed maps of Luscano through the centuries, from the Guaraní settlements to the first official map following independence. República Oriental de Luscano looking out to the sea, sketched in ink on parchment, its coastline suggesting the craggy profile of a centurion.
He lifted his glass and touched hers gently with the rim. “What a woman, your mother. We called her ‘the European.’ I used to see her at concerts. She went for your father, I suppose, and was always elegant, an entourage around her. The señoras of Barrio Norte were jealous. They might have had the means, but your mother, she possessed the power…intelligence.”
Alma sat down and put her glass on a coffee table. She was still holding the envelope, restrained the urge to use it to fan away his toxic politeness. He’d noticed the envelope, his eyes moving continuously, taking in her sandals, earrings and her breasts, like a horse-trader inspecting a mare.
He sat down on the sofa to her left. “Yes, she was cultivated and straight, a rare combination. You know she tutored Celeste, had the nerve to call me. ‘Your daughter’s a mess. You need to spend more time with her, Patrón.’ It’s rare in Luscano, someone I hardly know telling me what to do.” His laughter was a bitter sound, escaping from the slit of his lips.
Alma sensed the exactitude of his memory. “I was going through Hannelore’s things and found these poems by Celeste. I thought she might like to have them.” She opened the envelope and held out the four pages of poems.
“Celeste lives in Miami now.” He made no move to reach for the papers. Alma placed them on the coffee table. “She’s coming tonight, as it turns out. Ernesto’s children need her now. I’ll give her the poems.” He leaned back in the sofa and crossed his legs. “I’ve never cared much for poetry. Are they any good?”
“They are, considering Celeste was sixteen when she wrote them.”
“She could’ve been a poet? That might mean something to her now.” He swallowed a mouthful of Scotch and grimaced. “Although she’ll find a way to blame me for the missed opportunity. What became of you, Alma?”
“I teach at a college in Canada, literature and Spanish to pre-university students, many of them from this continent.”
“You’ve probably got a work ethic, the one thing I couldn’t instill in my children. I thought they’d see their old man working and learn from me, just like my father’s example influenced me. But they didn’t have your mother, or any mother, for that matter. My wife died, you probably know that. I raised them and now I’m raising Ernesto’s children.”
He went on about his grandchildren. When he lifted his glass to his lips, she said, “In January 1991, I was brought to La Cuarenta. Unlike the other prisoners, I was released. Did you have a role in that?”
From the gleam in his eye and the curling of his lips, Alma knew he understood the real reason for her visit. “Just to be clear, I was never in th
e army. Of course, I fulfilled my military service at eighteen like everyone else, but after that I stayed away. I’m not a politician either, just a banker and businessman, pure and simple.”
Alma waited through his digression as he tried to establish his credibility, perhaps out of respect for Hannelore or maybe just an ego-driven impulse to distance himself from the junta.
“They went overboard,” he was saying, “And they were sloppy. When your mother called, I had to help.”
“How?”
“I had some contacts.”
“Who?”
“What difference does it make? You got out. And looking at you now, I can see you’re fine.” He had the nerve to pause, as if expecting gratitude. When Alma said nothing, he continued, “This wouldn’t have anything to do with the prosecutor going around trying to dig up old resentments, would it?”
“I don’t like not knowing,” Alma said.
“Secrets and lies, they’re not for me either. Your mother wasn’t the type, she played straight. My son, Ernesto…that’s another story…he was nothing but secrets and lies. He even…” He shrugged and regarded his glass.
“I’m not staying in Luscano long, but while I’m here, I want to clear things up.”
“That’s admirable, it really is, but I don’t know anything more. I called someone I knew in the military, at the top. He’s dead now, it makes no difference. But he arranged for your release.”
“I’d like to know his name.” This aging patriarch, for a moment, had held her fate in his hands. Alma stared him down.
He put his glass down on the table. “You should stay here. It’s beautiful, there’s no climate like it in the world. I’ll help you find work, if you like. I know the rector at the university.”
“Why would I stay in a place where a poem can put a person in prison and a phone call can get them out?”
“It could happen anywhere.” It was chilling, his arrogance in the air-conditioned room under halogen lights.
“Everyone has the right not be subjected to any cruel and unusual treatment or punishment.”
His lips tightened. Alma stared at him. He was embarrassed, couldn’t admit his incomprehension of English. She translated the words for him and their source, the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms, section twelve.
He laughed. “Are you that naive? I won’t pretend to know anything about Canada, but I’ve seen enough of the gringos to know they may have a bigger arena and fancier names…special interest groups, lobbyists, ex-politicians…the ones behind the scenes with the clout to activate agendas, issue clemency, make sure their sons don’t risk their lives in wars that line their pockets. Luscano’s no different.”
He started going on about George W. Bush. “I met him in Texas once…before he was president. A congenial type. He never served in the military but look at him now…all national security and military intervention. That’s what the junta did, bring about national security and our economy’s the stronger for it.”
There was no point in debating him. Having confirmed his role in getting her out of prison, Patrón Pindalo wouldn’t tell her more. Loyal to name and background, brutal in opposition, no doubt he’d gore anyone in his way.
22
Gabriel flung back the sheet and jumped out of bed, covering it with a duvet. He washed the pile of dishes in the sink, then swept the floor, sweat stinging his eyes. His efforts to clean up the apartment were interrupted by the ringing telephone. First his sister: “Yes, I’ll bring the empanadas… No, Inés, I don’t know her that well.” Minutes later, his mother: “We’ll be there by one… No, we’re walking over… I don’t know what she likes for dessert. Ice cream is fine.” At forty-three, inviting a woman to a family asado should not stir up this anticipation and micro-planning. But he couldn’t blame them. He too wanted it to be perfect for Alma.
Gabriel collected the accumulated newspapers and magazines on his desk. Blowing dust off the bookshelf, he found a photo of Aude and him in Buenos Aires and slid it between two books. Getting Alma here would require a massive detour after the asado, some pretext. He looked around. There was nothing to lure her with. Come back and look at my books? A glass of wine was all he could offer. Or coffee. Did he have any milk? He opened the fridge and found a carton, half full, that smelled reasonably fresh.
After showering he rummaged in the armoire for his last clean shirt, staring down his reflection in the mirror inside the door. Would you buy a used car from this man? A resounding no. But would he want to sell one in the first place? On the top shelf of the armoire lay the box with Roberto’s notebooks. Perhaps he’d show them to Alma and she’d discover the entries on Aude and ask, “Whatever happened to this woman?” And he’d have to admit, “I looked for her and found her. She became my lover.” He closed the armoire door, his reflection swinging away. Best to keep Roberto out of it. His brother had always been luckier with women.
Gabriel found a rag and sat on the bed, wiping the cemetery grime off his shoes. He still regretted never having brought Aude to his mother’s home. She would have seen him in a context, loved by others, and absorbed their empathy. Of all the women he could have fallen for, he’d gone for Aude, first because she’d been Roberto’s lover and second because she read only poetry, came from Estonia and, like him, lived a maladjusted existence that rendered her permanently exiled. Had her love been truly reciprocal, had the tenuous filament that held them together been stronger, she would have never followed her husband back to Ottawa. A few secret meetings later, she’d called it off. “I’m not suited for long-distance affairs, Gabi.” Oh yes she was. Aude’s real problem? She wasn’t suited for love, too deeply immersed in herself. Best not to think of her either. He gave the apartment a last glance, decided it looked half decent and locked the door.
Outside, the warm breeze carried whiffs of coffee and fresh bread from a nearby café. Women in summer dresses were heading for Sunday mass, some pushing strollers or dragging their toddlers by the hand. These mothers struck him as beautiful this morning, the promise of summer in their bare arms and legs.
He walked to the corner of Primero de Abríl and waited until the bus chugged towards him. Once seated, he scanned the ads posted above the windows, their perky slogans originating from a different century than the bus spewing leaded exhaust fumes up the avenue. Gracias, the blonde gringa beamed, the cell phone in her hand wrapped in a red Christmas bow. She oozed happiness, that elusive state exploited by marketers and pop psychologists. Gabriel imagined an ad for the Cementerio Real. A woman wearing a tight black dress posed under a coral tree. Gracias, the caption would read, a grandmother floating blissfully in the sky above.
Did happiness even exist? Every emotion had its opposite. Working at the cemetery had exposed him to more than a lifetime of sadness. He occasionally witnessed a redemptive result from the personal tragedy incurred by death. There were some who mustered astonishing serenity in burying their dead. Even more powerful, a few mourners overcame past ruptures to reconcile with siblings or cousins with whom they hadn’t spoken in years. He had seen them embracing by a grave.
Gabriel caught a glimpse of the cemetery’s southeast corner by Castillo’s house, and felt affection for the place, especially since he wasn’t working today. Ever since Patrón Pindalo had come to his office and delivered the veiled threat to have him fired, Gabriel had been assessing his options. Supposing Bilmo dismissed him, where would he find work? Other cemeteries were smaller, run by families or affiliated with a church. He couldn’t fathom going back to the bookstore and spending the afternoons gossiping with Roma. He needed a new Plan B. Aude had provided one, the fantasy that she’d call from Ottawa, begging Gabriel to come. That had been pure delusion.
He spotted the lineup wending out of the empanadería, pulled the cord and disembarked at the next stop. He’d placed his order in advance so Juanita would hand him the packets of warm empanadas, Castillo help
ing out beside her. Gabriel hoped that their happiness would rub off on him, and arriving at Alma’s house, he’d be irresistibly gallant and cheerful.
It was the warmest Sunday so far this October spring. For many, it was the season’s first asado, its rituals especially relished. All over Luscano, in backyards, on the beach and in the countryside, kindling was being ignited in barbecues made of blackened stones. Some tuned guitars in anticipation of singing after the meal. Others filled coolers with bottles of wines, sparkling water and soft drinks for the children. Empanadas were laid out on baking sheets and large cuts of meats and bulky sausages were extracted from refrigerators. By late afternoon, the scents of burning wood and sizzling meat mingled in the hazy sunlight.
At the Molino finca outside the city, Claudia and Ana set the table under the palo cruz, its outstretched branches offering yellow flowers to a cloudless sky. Isidro stood stoking the fire with a prong. The heat was intense and he removed his shirt, hanging it from a branch. Ana noticed the horse trainer’s muscular back and elbowed Claudia. The women watched as he prodded the wood in the barbecue until they heard the sounds of Flaco shouting in the field beyond the garden where a football game was in progress.
“Over here!”
Fredo kicked the ball towards his father but Eduardo intercepted and dribbled it down the field. He kicked and scored another goal.
“Papa, why’d you tell me to pass? You weren’t ready.”
Flaco heaved, his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. It was killing him, this running. Thankfully, the bell clanged outside the kitchen and his kids, nephews, nieces, cousins and brothers ran off the field. Eduardo waited for him by the goalpost.
Flaco tried not to limp as he followed his brother towards a low stone wall encircling the garden. Eduardo pointed out the missing tiles on the roof of the house, the warped window frames and the sagging foundation. Flaco listened helplessly to the litany of defects. The plantation house, the stables and fields required more capital than he could save in a decade. “You’ve still got the polo ponies?”