Behold Things Beautiful

by Cora Siré

  “That’s what’s keeping us going. Pindalo pays well and on time.”

  Flaco rested on the wall, stretched his leg out and rubbed his sore knee. Eduardo sat beside him, drawing a butt from his shirt pocket. He smoked one cigarette a day, two puffs at a time, carefully saving the remnant in his pocket. Flaco handed him a king-size Parliament. “Have one of mine.” They smoked, watching Ana distribute glasses of juice and wine beneath the palo cruz. Isidro prodded sausages on the barbecue. The man could have worn a shirt, Flaco thought. “Seems Ana’s quite taken with Isidro. At my birthday party, she couldn’t take her eyes off him.” But that was back in July. Knowing his first wife, he’d given the affair no more than a month.

  “He takes breakfast with the children every morning, rides with them after school.”

  “Is he good to them?”

  “They love him.”

  Well, he thought, I get what I deserve. “How’s business?”

  “We’ve had to hire a few more security guards at the firm. The port’s been busy lately. A few of the cruise ships have started stopping here. It’s good for business.”

  “What do you know about this casino?”

  “I’m hoping we’ll get the contract. For the casino and the hotel eventually.”

  “Who’s behind it?”

  “A consortium, apparently.” Eduardo stubbed the cigarette out on the wall, tamping the butt before sliding it into his pocket. “Word’s out you were behind the protest last week. True?”

  Flaco let his silence transmit the answer.

  “They’re going to demolish La Cuarenta any day now…you don’t stand a chance.”

  “Ever heard of a lawyer called Javier Martinez?”

  Eduardo shook his head.

  “Phoned me for a meeting, claims he’s working for Pindalo.”

  “You better see him, Flaco.”

  “I need a favour.” He told his brother about Alma.

  Eduardo listened. He’d inherited their father’s poker face without the corresponding addiction to gambling. Flaco, more like his mother in temperament, tended to blurt things. But when he mentioned Lalo Martín, his brother reacted. “The guys hate him. They tacked his photo to the bulletin board at the social club. I know you’re mixed up with him but watch out.”

  “I want you to assign a security detail to Alma, day and night.”

  “Who’s paying?”

  “I am…unless you agree to give your brother a break.”

  “We don’t work for free and you can’t afford it. Tell her to come live here for a while.”

  Flaco looked up at the solid house rising behind the garden. Nobody would harass Alma here, not with the security of the Molino name, Eduardo and his connections in the club where he found the ex-military guys to work for him. But it was no place for Alma and too far from the city. “She doesn’t have a car.”

  “Let’s eat, Flaco.”

  He hobbled behind Eduardo. “Please, hermano, just for a few months. She’s going back to Canada after Christmas.” He chipped away, begging like the little brother he’d once been.

  The tantalizing smell of barbecued meat probably convinced Eduardo more than his pleas. “Bueno. A one-man operation in a car outside her house. She won’t notice. But in return, Flaco, don’t block the casino. That work will be our ticket. We’ll renovate the house, pay the kids’ school fees on time for a change and invest in this place.”

  Flaco whacked him on the back. “Anything you say, hermano.”

  “I’m thinking we’ll get a herd of llamas. Their wool, I hear, is worth its weight — ”

  “Don’t they belong in the cordillera? They spit, for God’s sake.”

  “That’s why I’ll put you in charge of them.”

  “Hijo de puta.”

  Armonía came running. “Hurry up, Papa. The sausages are ready.”

  Flaco felt a searing pain in his knee as he bent to lift her into his arms. He carried her to where the others sat and collapsed into the seat at the head of the table. “Ana, could you get me some ice?” He knew his proprietary tone was unkind and disgustingly macho, but it was a signal to Isidro: This is my family, not yours.

  The trio tuned their instruments, testing the microphones and amplifiers set up by the pool. Muchachas were clearing the buffet, carrying platters and bowls back into the house. The guests, polo acquaintances and bank employees, sat drinking coffee under the umbrellas that shaded the tables. Behind them, the sea lay flat and intensely blue. At the first sounds of the Caribbean merengue, Magdalena and her friends were up dancing.

  Patrón Pindalo was reclined on a chaise longue located as far away as possible from the speakers. He was glad to see his grandchildren having some semblance of fun. Less appealing was the sight of Javier Martinez leaning towards the décolleté of Ernesto’s wife. Javier had come early as ordered, not remorseful but subdued, reporting that he’d set up a meeting at the university and prepared some new documents to placate the Uruguayans. Patrón Pindalo had sat him next to Celeste, hoping for some chemistry between the two. Celeste looked sad and dried out, her over-tanned skin like parchment. He couldn’t blame Javier for hitting on the widow, but she ought to know better. The six months of mourning Ernesto were not even up.

  Patrón Pindalo closed his eyes so he’d be left alone. He would have liked to slip into the house and look through his telescope again. Another shipment was due. Those Argentinean vigilantes couldn’t get enough of the rifles. His stomach struggled with the excess meat he’d consumed, too heavy and greasy. Another downside of this aging business was that you couldn’t eat anything good anymore. He rose to get a digestive from the bar.

  Javier waved from the dance floor, shouting over the music. “You can’t beat this, Patrón.” In a broad gesture of his muscular arm, Javier took in the pool, the band, the sea gleaming beyond the terrace. “It’s why I came back. No place on this earth is as civilized.”

  Patrón Pindalo poured cognac into a snifter. That’s what he should have said to Alma yesterday. Civilized was the word that best described this life. Too bad she hadn’t come to the asado. It had been spontaneous, the invitation before she’d left, an effort to placate. Truth was he needed some company. Alma had shown up, a trim and graceful apparition in his study, her stock desirable. And best, her aura of a well-travelled person yet familiar with the ways of Luscano. Alma would chase the pity away from people’s eyes. So what if she’d been one of those almost lost by the army’s inept handling of troublemakers? She owed him her existence. He’d called Galtí on her behalf, one of a few calls he’d placed after frantic friends had begged for help. Not always, of course. In some cases he’d done nothing. When Ernesto had told him that his friend, Roberto Seil, had disappeared, he’d opted not to intervene. The young man had been a bad influence, capable of drawing Ernesto into serious trouble. But Hannelore Álvarez, when she’d called, he’d been more than willing. What a woman! Strong, persuasive and beautiful.

  Patrón Pindalo swirled the cognac in his glass, contemplating his meeting last month with Gabriel Seil. Like Ernesto, the man was all obfuscation and weakness. His manoeuvring smelled of guilt. Since then, he’d postponed trying to find out what Ernesto had done with the documents stolen from his safe. He’d have to wait out the consequences. His next move, throwing a wrench in this professor’s plans, might yield the truth.

  He returned to his chaise longue and sipped the cognac. Javier and the widow were dancing a tango. Who could blame her if she remarried? Javier would be useful to have around. The children might despise him at first, just as Ernesto and Celeste had despised their stepmother. And they’d been right. Too late in life he’d learned that children were often excellent judges of character. Magdalena could sniff out a fake from across a polo field.

  The cognac settled his indigestion but his chair vibrated to the infernal beat of the pounding music. Closing h
is eyes, he tried for a soothing image, came up with the opening of the casino, Alma on his arm as they crossed the red carpet beneath a glittering marquee, their entrance so grand everyone would forget the prison had ever existed.

  Manuel was midway through an anecdote Gabriel had heard at least fifty times, his medical rescue of some politician he’d managed to bring around after a heart attack. Like everyone else around the table, Manuel had made it his mission to impress Alma. They’d served her the choicest cuts of beef, kept her wineglass full, complimented her dress, and placed the candles closest to her when sunlight faded from the sky. Gabriel watched them warily. He couldn’t blame his sister or his mother for trying so hard, but Manuel was crossing the line from welcoming a stranger into the fold to overt flirting. He addressed Alma exclusively, his moustache gleaming with drippings of his meal until even Gabriel’s mother, polite to a fault, squirmed in her chair. At the end of the anecdote, she delved in. “Tell me, Alma. How do you find Luscano after a prolonged absence?”

  Gabriel felt for Alma, but he couldn’t come up with an elegant interception. She handled the question well, mentioning the new boardwalk along the coast, the charms of the architecture, streets and plazas. “And of course, the trees and flowers.” Alma gestured to Emma’s small garden, the white rosebuds creeping up the trellis, the blossoms on the lemon tree.

  “And the people?” Inés asked. “Do we seem terribly Third World to you?”

  It was painful, the loaded question. Gabriel mentally rehearsed their exit.

  “There’s poverty in Montréal. Homeless people sleep on the streets even in winter when it’s dangerously cold.” Alma paused to drink some wine. “What I notice most here are the delineations. The rich are very rich but small in numbers compared to the migrant workers from Bolivia and Brazil, the muchachas, gardeners and street vendors who are practically indentured, dependent on the goodwill of their employers.”

  “I couldn’t survive without my muchacha,” Inés declared.

  “That’s terrible,” Gabriel said, “as if she’s an appliance or — ”

  “You know,” Emma intervened, “we’re as attached to Milagro as we are to each other. She and I, our need for each other is mutual, especially now that we’re both old.”

  Alma conceded that for women especially, muchachas represented another set of hands in the household. Working in Montréal, coming home late from teaching all day, she too would have liked someone to have cleaned, done the laundry, prepared dinner, and keep her company. “But I’ve noticed,” she added, “that the shantytown by the river, once just a cluster of shacks, has taken over the area.”

  Manuel had to launch into a rambling diatribe on the illnesses, tuberculosis in particular, imported by migrant workers. Gabriel couldn’t bear it and went into the kitchen, where Milagro stood drying glasses by the sink. “You should come outside and sit with us. It’s beautifully warm tonight.”

  Milagro handed him a stack of plates, asking him to reach up and put them on the top shelf. “Tu novia es muy simpática.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend. Yet.”

  “I hope you find your happiness at last, Gabi.”

  When he returned to the garden, the conversation had turned melancholy, the trait of the Seils that regrettably, Gabriel knew he best represented. Aude had often chided him, “You’re so pessimistic.”

  “Roberto,” his mother was saying, “always played guitar at our asados. He’s here with us, I can feel him.” She gestured towards the sky above the ochre tiles of the house, where the new moon, a sliver of mother of pearl, was inlaid among the first stars.

  Gabriel put his hand on Alma’s shoulder, claiming he had to work early tomorrow. The good-byes and abrazos seemed interminable. Emma insisted on giving him the leftover empanadas and cutting some flowers for Alma, wrapping their stems in tissue paper.

  They left on foot, Alma holding the bouquet and Gabriel carrying the parcels of leftovers. She laughed with him about Manuel’s anecdotes but was careful not to criticize his brother-in-law directly. Not that he would have minded. A soft breeze picked up as they walked towards Barrio Norte and the sea. Alma seemed to be heading straight for her house and Gabriel couldn’t find the words to suggest they walk to his apartment. They reached her front gate. He was surprised to see the house fully lit, to hear the sounds of drumming from somewhere inside.

  Alma asked him in for a glass of wine. He followed her through the unusual layout. The courtyard, instead of being placed at the back, occupied the centre of the house, a rectangle beyond glass sliding doors. Within it, a group of women formed a circle, and there was Roma beating a drum between her knees.

  In the kitchen, Alma found a vase for Emma’s flowers and opened a bottle of wine. He was relieved she didn’t suggest they join the others. Standing next to her, Gabriel detected the lingering residue of burning wood from the asado, a faint smokiness that enveloped them.

  She didn’t mind his presence next to her. Gabriel seemed intensely interested in watching the drummers through the small window in the kitchen. A few played Andean bombos, others, the small beaded drums of the Brazilian rainforest and timpani of Paraguay’s jungle. The asado had been a reprieve for her, a nostalgic reminder of Luscano’s charms set in the oasis of a family garden, and a distraction from the impulse to follow Carlo Cruz on his Sunday rituals.

  Gabriel’s mother represented the type she’d often wished for as a child, a gentle presence in contrast to Hannelore’s cringe-inducing directness. And thinking of her mother just as Gabriel put his arm around her, she imagined the familiar voice uttering her opinion. “A cemetery administrator? Alma, please.” She laughed and Gabriel, interpreting this in his own way, turned to kiss her. The drumming accelerated. This man, hesitant and, Roma was right, on the gloomy side, held her and Alma did not mind his taste of wine and cigarettes. They kissed until the drumbeats slowed to a measured rhythm, the cha-doom cha-doom cha-doom of a living heart.

  23

  Sara tapped on the open door. “Doctor Molino? A man’s here to see you.” A pale grey suit shimmered into the office. Flaco pushed aside the term papers and pointed at the chair across from his desk. The man sat down, snapped open his briefcase and slid a business card towards Flaco. Embossed with gold lettering, “Javier Martinez” followed by his degrees, BA cum laude from Dartmouth College, MBA from Yale, doctorate of law from the University of Luscano. Flaco looked up from the card. “So, Doctor Martinez — ”

  “Javier, please.”

  “What can I do for you?” Flaco went for irony with the American turn of phrase. It would have been more typical to comment on the card, mention some long-lost cousin who’d also studied at Yale, seek out a connection, however tenuous, Luscano-style and establish his own credentials in the process.

  Javier laid a laptop on the desk between them. A few keystrokes and the screen displayed a PowerPoint, the images timed to change every few seconds. The first slide was the casino itself, a structure of glazed glass and asymmetrical juttings, set against a bright green background. The ivied buildings of the campus were reduced to pink shadows. More Miami than Luscano, the casino’s design lacked any correlation to the nearby architecture of the university. Trees had been moved, shrubs added, colours enhanced, the river’s murky water transformed into a sparkling blue. The slides flashed promises of job creation and tourist income among graphics of the hotel and golf course to be constructed on the fields where they’d executed the prisoners.

  What was he supposed to say? Sara glanced at him when she placed the coffee cups on the desk. He couldn’t meet the eyes of this student who’d marched with the others to demonstrate against the development. Like most of her friends, Sara had assumed one protest would bring victory. And maybe he had too, for a naive moment. But then he’d been summoned to the rector’s office for a curt meeting. The rector explained that the demolition of the prison would proceed as scheduled and ordered Flaco to
cease all activity aimed at sabotaging the construction of the casino. Waving aside Flaco’s arguments, the rector told him Patrón Pindalo had offered a generous donation to the faculty with the understanding that the expanse of lawn behind Humanities would be designated a sculpture garden. “Your memorial for the disappeared will inaugurate the sculpture garden. It’s a concession, Dr. Molino. If you don’t take it, you’re fired.” Flaco stormed out of the office, leaving the rector waiting for gratitude.

  Flaco swallowed his coffee in one shot while Javier enunciated the project’s benefits. It was tempting to point out that legalized gambling in a country prone to corruption did not correspond to recent government affirmations on transparency and accountability. He let the lawyer’s words pollute the office as he stood and walked to the window.

  A bulldozer hunkered in front of the prison. Flaco looked down at the yellow machine. Would it be capable of breaking down the old walls or did they plan to use explosives? When Javier finished his pitch, he turned to face the lawyer. “Tell me, Javier, where were you in the early nineties?”

  “Dartmouth, New Hampshire.”

  “So you didn’t witness what happened here?”

  “You mean the — ”

  “Do you have any siblings?”

  “Two older sisters.”

  “Imagine this. You’re in Dartmouth studying in your dorm and you get a call from Luscano. One of your sisters has vanished. Nobody knows where she is. Your parents have gone to the police, checked the hospitals and morgue, spoken to your sister’s friends. They meet others on a frantic search. It turns out people are disappearing. The government denies this. You hear your mother’s distress over the phone. What would you do?”

  “Hypothetical. It didn’t happen.”