17 Stone Angels

by Stuart Archer Cohen

  “None of this intruded on Indigo Down. He regarded it as his masterwork, structured around the idea of the world as a vast sacred text, a landscape of nouns and verbs whose secret prophecies hung just beyond reach of the characters that stumbled through them. After four years and eight drafts he sent his agent the new novel. But by that time the world had not only ceased waiting for the next work of Robert Waterbury, it had forgotten who he was. And disgracefully, the market for mystical illumination turned out to be rather disappointing. After seventeen submissions his agent got him a modest advance.

  “‘Ten thousand dollars!’ he told his agent. ‘I could wipe my ass with that!’

  ‘“Maybe you’ll make it back on royalties,’ his agent said, without much belief, and then, ‘Hold on, I’ve got another call.’

  “To console himself Waterbury read about the tribulations of great writers in the encyclopedia. Dostoyevsky, who began his career by being condemned to a firing squad. Cervantes, in and out of jail, passing his last years as a guest of a rich friend. Kerouac, the most tragic, whose first book had been his masterpiece. Most great writers’ biographies ended ‘died poor,’ ‘died a drunk,’ or ‘committed suicide.’ Even this was of little consolation, because a simple trip to the bookstore reminded him that the majority of writers never became great, simply died in unread obscurity, failed commercial ventures without a myth to hold on to. The possibility that he belonged to this final sad category terrified him. The silver-plated tones with which people had once addressed the distinguished author had worn away, leaving only the dull base metal in which was stamped ‘Failed Writer.’

  “So our Señor Waterbury arrives in Buenos Aires with a pair of sports jackets and a suitcase full of good clothes he’d worn ten years ago when he used to work for AmiBank. The plan was simple: to write something formulaic, without a hint of literary or moral ambition. ‘Commercial,’ as the publishers put it. Keep the language simple. Populate it with beautiful women and handsome men. Start out with a murder and leave a trail of bodies all the way to the finale. It would be a thriller of international finance and larceny, set against the background of a country struggling in the wake of a murderous military dictatorship.

  “Of that world, as we know, Waterbury had a particular knowledge. A specialist in finance, he had been sent to Buenos Aires for two years by AmiBank to help tidy up the unfortunate loans of the Seventies and Eighties. In those years, the bank had loaned billions to dictators and thieves and had taken the whole country as collateral. Waterbury arrived in the second phase, where the bank was trading its bad debts for our state-owned enterprises. Telephone companies, copper mines, the national airlines, dams, highways, electric utilities: all were up for sale on the kind of easy terms negotiated by officials who kept numbered accounts at AmiBank’s offshore subsidiaries. It was a good system, a system that worked, endorsed by American economists and the International Monetary Fund. Waterbury had taken part in this fiesta by helping arrange juicy packages for AmiBank’s investors.”

  “Fabian,” Fortunato interrupted, “wait a minute. Where did you get this information?”

  “All writers keep a diary, no? In the case of Waterbury, a very meticulous record of his time in our beautiful Buenos Aires. And, working from these, my cousin and I—”

  “Enough of the cousin! Do you have this diary?”

  “And how did you get it?” Athena added.

  Fabian raised his hand. “Afterwards, I’ll tell you. But can I offer you another coffee, Comiso? Doctora?” He shouted across the near empty café. “Lucho! Three cortados more.” The waiter nodded, and Fortunato noticed that even downtown, which was Federal Police jurisdiction, he didn’t bring Fabian a bill.

  “Bien,” Fabian said, putting down a glass of soda. “We see Waterbury arrive in Buenos Aires and take a room at the Hotel San Antonio on Calle Paraguay, a downtown office district that at night turns into a haven for prostitutes. The San Antonio dates from the Thirties and, though it is small, the marble stairways and gleaming brass rails of the Reception still retain a certain discreet elegance. Waterbury considers his room: a small wood-paneled cube with a bit of gilding around the mirror and the smell of old lacquer. He tries with some difficulty to imagine himself working within the waxy pool of light cast by the desk lamp. He pulls several books from his suitcase and begins to look them over. ‘Write a Bestseller!’ proclaims one cover. ‘Seven Steps to Mystery’ offers another.”

  “Those were the books you showed me!” Athena threw in.

  “But of course! How could I make up titles like those? But I continue. As he looks at these books, Waterbury feels a sense of great insignificance come over him, and the room begins to squeeze him. He has no plot, no victim, no main character, only the idea of an Argentine detective on an implacable search for the truth. But what kind of detective? What hidden truth? Maybe he would be an older man, weary, fatigued, near retirement, like Comisario Fortunato. A man for whom the lifelong pursuit of justice has come up short. Stop!—”

  Fabian raised his hand and gave a low-lidded smile. “I know what you’re thinking! You are thinking that my story is one of those literary confections that ends up being about itself. That I’ll put in a Fortunato and an Inspector Fabian and then, ‘My God, here we all are, in a story written by Waterbury himself! How brilliant!’ That’s the classic, no? Like Roberto Altman did in that film The Player, you saw it? Or that other movie, with Travolta? No, chica, that old trick goes all the way back to Cervantes, in the second half of Don Quixote.” He reached for one of the coin-sized cookies on a saucer in front of him and popped it into his mouth. “No, señoritas and caballeros, don’t worry yourselves: I have too much pride for that, and so did Waterbury, who at this moment is preparing for a bad night in Room 306 of the Hotel San Antonio.

  “Our author pulls out his first novel, stares at the picture of himself six years younger, when he still had that easy smile of success. He can only bear a quick glance at his second novel, with its portrait of him in that overly dramatic ‘Please-take-me-seriously!’ style that overpopulates the bookstore liquidation racks like prisoners who, in the face of irrefutable guilt, endlessly proclaim their innocence. He flops on the bed and stares up at the ceiling. He needs background. He needs contacts. Atmosphere. And though he doesn’t want to admit it, he needs someone to take him seriously.

  “His only connection is an old friend from the bank, a certain Pablo, with whom he had worked ten years ago. At that time they’d both been bachelors, cutting elegantly through the crowded sidewalks of the financial district, trading looks with beautiful women and polishing the understories of loans worth hundreds of millions of dollars. You can see their type still, walking down Calle Florida or at the Plaza de Congresso—this year’s selection of handsome young men who’ll make a good catch for the right woman: a ticket to security, the upper class, vacations in Europe and Punta del Este. They’re enchanters, easy to smile, but also wearing well the look of gravity that befits a man of responsibility. A life of gold, amores, that by definition can only be temporary but that has a deceptive sense of permanence to those who are living it.

  “Ten years ago Pablo had the kind of Latin looks associated with actors or singers. Straight black hair, long lashes, an even face with pale skin. As a rising executive with a bright future in finance, he’d attracted both eligible young women and influential men, as Waterbury himself had been attracted to him. And not just to Pablo’s looks but his voice, an intimate, smooth baritone like polished copper, full of humor and a certain philosophical tinge that gave even simple statements an aura of carefree comprehension. Pablo stood out as a person going somewhere, and people wanted to be remembered by him when he got there.

  “Waterbury also hopes to be remembered. He has not spoken to Pablo in four years and waits nervously as the secretary at Grupo AmiBank relays his name. In a moment, Pablo’s welcoming voice cuts through all the years of separation.

  “‘Ché, Roberto! My famous novelist friend! Are you
really here in Buenos Aires?’

  “The phrase ‘famous novelist’ sends a twist through Waterbury’s chest, but his old friend’s warmth reassures him. He explains that indeed he has taken up residence at the Hotel San Antonio with the idea of researching and writing a detective thriller set in Buenos Aires. The two give brief recountings of their marriages and children, then Pablo interrupts the conversation.

  “‘Don’t tell me anything more, Roberto! Let’s meet as soon as possible! This very evening, if you can! Come to my office at five and we’ll go for drinks.’

  “Waterbury cuts the line, content. Pablo sounds exactly equal as in the days when they’d conspired on massive financial packages during the day and more delicate, more sensual packages in the evening hours. He hoped Pablo wouldn’t notice he was still wearing the same suit.

  “As Waterbury arrives at the Grupo AmiBank headquarters the river of secretaries and businessmen is flooding into the streets at the close of the day. The crystal windows of the cafés are full of elegant encounters and the walking street of Florida has a sense of busy ease. Grupo AmiBank’s lobby is a jewel of marble and steel, set off by a naked colossus squeezing a globe. Waterbury asks for Pablo with his gringo accent, and the guards become respectful. Pablo is one of those from the tenth floor, for whom a driver is always waiting after work.

  “An old man in a red jacket drives the elevator, croaks out its arrival at the penthouse. There is paneling of rich tropical wood, and a secretary out of a fashion magazine, with her long blond hair and her robust breasts. She greets Waterbury like an old friend, Señor Waterbury, and leads him through a glass door into a hallway with a carpet as deep and white and soundless as snow.

  “‘Robert!’ Pablo says his name in English, with only a trace of an accent. He comes to his feet, still very much the Latin playboy, his jet-black hair untouched by gray. As they clasp hands he embraces Waterbury and kisses him on the cheek. Even in his elevated position Pablo’s voice has retained that ability to make one instantly feel intimate and welcome. Waterbury feels privileged to be in his presence.

  “The office itself is dignified without being too ornate. The paneling, the flat cloud of carpet, wide immaculate windows that look out towards the muddy gray Río de la Plata. On the big wooden desk Waterbury sees a gold pen and the backs of picture frames. Against the wall a glass cart holds a dozen liquors and a seltzer bottle.

  “‘I’ll prepare you a drink! Scotch, no? I’m sorry I don’t have your Glen-bangie, but I hope you’ll sacrifice yourself and drink Señor Walker as a favor to me.’ Pablo speaks in the English he perfected in a year in the AmiBank office in New York, and Waterbury answers the same way.

  “‘What a memory you have!’

  “Pablo takes a few cylinders of ice from the silver bucket and snaps them into the glass. “How would I forget your favorite? You, the great Scotch snob, who forced me from bar to bar insulting the selection? Eh? You ruined me! And then in your book you said it all tasted like poison, hijo de puta!”

  “Waterbury laughs. “That was the character speaking, not me!”

  “‘Ah! Look how he denies it! As if you were working for the government! Soda?’

  “‘If it’s only Johnny, you’d better add some soda.’

  “Pablo shakes his head in mock despair and splashes soda into the carved crystal. He pours one for himself and sits across from Waterbury on the thick brown leather couch. He takes a moment without saying anything, overcome with the simple pleasure of seeing his old friend. “You look good, Robert. It seems the years have treated you well.”

  “Waterbury dodges the urge to deliver a long recounting, instead puts a pleasant face on things. “I can’t complain. I was lucky in finding my wife, I have a wonderful daughter. I won’t say it’s been the easiest ten years of my life, but I guess having an easy life wasn’t my priority. Meanwhile, here we are drinking whiskey. Life is kind!”

  “‘Thus it is, hombre. I’ve also been fortunate. But tell me about your wife. What is your daughter’s name? Did you bring a photo, I hope?’

  “Waterbury has left the photo in his room. His wife is a pretty woman, but the picture he’s brought was taken in bad light from a bad angle, and though the child looks luminous his wife’s face came out bloated and fat, a false image that gives him little pleasure. Pablo’s wife, on the other hand, shows up marvelously in the photo on his desk. Named Coco, she poses on Ipanema beach in a bikini and long gleaming brown hair.

  “They talk a bit more about family and then Pablo takes on a serious look. “And the writing. It goes well for you?”

  “Waterbury, while a poor liar, has a certain capacity for half-truths. ‘You know, Pablo, for a writer, it’s only going as well as the next book, but I think Buenos Aires will render up something good.’

  “‘I read The Black Market. It was excellent. I wanted Coco to read it but she doesn’t read English.’

  “‘It came out in Spanish!’

  “The financier looks embarrassed. ‘I must have been in New York at that time,’ he says doubtfully. ‘I don’t remember seeing it.’

  “Waterbury feels that twinge of failure again. The Spanish rights had been sold for a modest amount to a publisher in Madrid, and he doubted the distribution had been extensive.

  “‘And what about your second book? I never heard from you about it.’

  “His stomach tightens. ‘It wasn’t very commercial. It was called Indigo Down.’

  “‘What an unusual title! What was it about?’

  “‘It was about these strange prophetic messages that start appearing in the newspaper. A kind of advertising campaign. And my idea for promoting the book was to actually place those ads in real newspapers, to make the whole thing play out as it did in the book, in the real world.’ Waterbury shrugs.

  “Pablo stares at him, uncertain of whether his friend’s idea is genius or absurdity. ‘And what were the messages about?’

  “Waterbury feels his face going a bit pink. ‘Corruption. Good and evil. The ads are attacking the wealthiest citizen in the city, exposing him level by level, promising justice.’ He takes a sip of his whiskey. ‘But the editor left for a better job and the company backed out on the promotion agreement …’ He shrugs. ‘It’s a fucking endurance test, Pablo. It’s about how much disappointment you can take and still keep trying.’

  “Pablo chuckles, then shakes his head. One might think that Waterbury’s book about an international capitalist who takes on a conscience about the half-dirty nature of his work might cause some inquietude on the part of the director of the Grupo AmiBank, but the financier gives that theme little importance. ‘The truth is, I admire you, Robert. You threw off your position at the bank like an old pair of shoes and made yourself brand new. There are very few who have that capacity of renunciation. The rest of us hide in our shells like turtles, peering out.’ He hunched his head in towards his shoulders. ‘Perhaps this, oh, maybe some day that.’ Letting up again: ‘I see you as a sort of guerrilla of the spirit, like those misguided leftists of the Seventies.’

  “‘Didn’t most of those guys die miserably?’

  “‘Bueno! You don’t have to take the metaphor that far! The point is that you have the courage to challenge the status quo.’ Laughing again, that exhilarating, intimate laugh that wraps itself around Waterbury like an embrace. ‘And now you are here! Tell me about this Buenos Aires book. What is it about? Can I help you with it in some way.’

  “‘It’s not all clear yet.’ Waterbury isn’t sure how much he should really tell his friend, sitting, as they are, on the top floor of the Grupo Capital AmiBank offices. “‘I’m imagining it as a murder mystery, involving finance, corruption … That sort of thing.’

  “Waterbury watches Pablo’s face for any sign of displeasure, but the financier looks pleased and attentive. He asks: ‘And who is the victim?’

  /

  Fabian, on posing the last question, leaned back and rubbed his chin. “It’s ironic, no? That Robert W
aterbury was writing his own future in his journal, without even realizing it. But in a sense we’re all thus, writing the book of our own lives, where we are, infallibly, the principal character and whose ending we never know. Our fantasies become our destinies. For that reason I imagine that death must have come as a great surprise to Waterbury. And one from which he had difficulty maintaining an editorial distance.”

  Fortunato felt a haze of anguish rising from Fabian’s last remark. He remembered Waterbury’s look of near-irritation that he’d been pressed into something so ridiculous as a kidnapping. Later, when fear had stripped away everything else, the look he’d given him over the seat. Protect me.

  Athena interrupted his musings. “Fabian, I missed my flight for this. If you have Robert Waterbury’s journals then why don’t you just give me a photocopy?” She sweetened the pot with an inviting smile. “Then we could discuss something more pleasant over dinner.”

  The Inspector laughed, shaking his finger at her. He turned to Fortunato. “She’s half-piola, the girl, eh? I think Buenos Aires is infiltrating her soul!”

  Fortunato moved only his eyebrows. “Let’s make her an Inspector.” He knew Athena would never trick anything out of Fabian, but by listening he could already make the first deduction. First, Fabian had Waterbury’s diary, or a copy. Though a youth of great verses, the story and philosophy seemed borrowed, maybe even studied for future use in his conquests. These were the observations of a mature and thoughtful man, who had already lived his share of corruption and failure. A man like Robert Waterbury.

  Fortunato mustered his most dignified face, sensing at least a momentary safety in his traditional role. “Speaking seriously, Fabian: if you have the diary, better that you produce it. I don’t know what the judge will say about these irregularities.”

  “And with good reason, Comiso, with good reason. But that is for afterwards. For now, I continue with my little story.”