17 Stone Angels

by Stuart Archer Cohen

  “‘March of 1976 arrives. Peron is dead and his widow Isabella is floundering through the last farcical year of her presidency. The golpe comes and the Generals stare down from the podium. Now the money began to flow in from the northern hemisphere like weather. The foreign bankers could lend with confidence, because in the documents signed by the military and their economic functionaries, the entire nation of Argentina will be the collateral. What a paradise! Loans guaranteed by the government, cumbersome financial regulations loosened: an excellent climate for a man with good contacts, a man who never forgets your wife’s name.

  “‘By that time Mario had come to have great influence. In some branches of the National Bank and the Ministry of Public Works the entire middle range of bureaucrats were secretly on his payroll. When contracts were to be bid, one allocated an extra seven percent for Mario, who would apportion it most usefully. And those who didn’t take that friendly lunch with Mario, or have a comfortable chat with him over a drink at the Jockey Club, would find themselves always left standing on the outside of the deal. Mario offered clever ways to hide the money overseas, and to circulate it back into Argentina through secret partnerships in his growing web of businesses. Mario came to dominate trucking and package delivery. He built on his wife’s fortune, buying cattle farms and meat packing plants and government concessions to manage the airports and the harbors. With more money he opened more businesses, with more businesses he had more contacts, and with more contacts he could pay more bribes. Thus he rose to create his stinking corrupt empire, and to decorate it with pretty young girls who looked at him as if he were a great man!’

  “La Señora de Pelegrini etches a few more specifics. How Mario used sabotage and violence to destroy his competitors in the trucking business, and blackmailed his package delivery rivals into selling out to him. She tells how he organized his friends in the Armada into a secret offshore corporation, then used their influence to procure huge contracts supplying beef to the armed forces. She begins to name names, including that of the admiral who provided Waterbury with his introduction to Pelegrini.

  “Waterbury looks up from his notes. ‘Wait a minute.’ He feels the project veering off into a confusing and perhaps dangerous quadrant and is unsure whether he wants to hear more. At the same time, it is too early to refuse a prize of two hundred thousand dollars based on a bit of gossip. ‘Let’s return to the wife,’ he says. ‘What is she doing all this time? Does she suspect what’s going on?’

  “La Señora at once relaxes into a happy nostalgia. ‘Ah, his wife! His young beautiful wife is lost in the splendor of motherhood, dutifully caring for his most precious possessions. It is she who must manage the servants and oversee the nannies. She is the one who must sort through the flood of invitations and social obligations that a family of such importance is burdened with and, of course, maintain her position as a leader in the world of Arts. After Fiorella comes the birth of Edmundo, and then Alicia. Her life is busy and blissful, until, like an astronomer sensing the gravitational pull of a dark hidden moon, she feels the presence of mortal sin intrude upon her life.’

  “Waterbury looks up from the page. ‘Mortal sin?’

  “She turns to him. ‘Of this, we’ll talk the next time. I think I’ve given you enough to fill twenty pages, no?’

  “She accompanies Robert Waterbury through the empty rooms of the Castex Mansion and retrieves from the front closet a sealed cardboard box. ‘I prepared these materials to help give you a sense of the times.’ As he walks to the car Waterbury can feel Abel Santamarina examining him with his strange light eyes.

  “At his room he opens the box. Editions of La Prensa announce the golpe de estado that brought in the Dictatorship, and small articles dipped from the financial newspaper detail the business transactions of obscure corporations. Again there are magazines of the Seventies and Eighties, a cassette of popular music of the time, a dried rose coming apart in an envelope, a silver rattle, a picture of a tomb in La Recoleta and a book of poems, privately printed in a luxurious leather-bound edition, written by a poet who hides her identity behind the filigreed initials ‘T.C.’

  “Waterbury surveys this strange expediente of Teresa Castex’s life with pity. Her poems are odes to ‘Arte’ or ‘Amor’ that crumble in a heap of pretentious references. ‘Oh Art, my lover, why have you ravished me and left me sitting in the waste can like an invitation from a social inferior?’ He senses Teresa’s boundless aspirations, desires which he knows will forever suffocate beneath her narrow spirit and non-existent talent. He begins to think of what she has told him in a different light, the story of a trivial woman who gradually discovers the depths of corruption within the man closest to her and so begins her own awakening.

  “Waterbury begins to write, and to his surprise, it comes easily to him. A magnate, an ingénue, a background of theft on such a massive scale that it can only be called business. There are the revolutionaries and the corrupt politicians, there the complicit functionaries of the United States, as he himself had been. The tango, the pompous facades, the racks of cow bones suffering over hot coals: it all whirls around him and becomes the city itself, so that when he walks in the streets they are the streets of his book, the bitter taste of coffee is of his book. Waterbury writes without thought, crashing through ten or twelve pages at a sitting where before he would only write three. The vain and shallow Teresa Castex becomes a woman torn between her own material security and the knowledge that she has become part of an evil cancer that includes her in its filthy web. Shall she expose it, and risk the luxuries and status it accrues to her? Or shall she close her eyes? Thus Waterbury extracts his novel from the frivolous clucking of Teresa Castex.

  “At the same time, distant footsteps are pacing in the background of Waterbury’s brain. There is something a bit dirty about this arrangement. As a guest of Don Carlo, he is a traitor. As a friend of Teresa Castex, he is a user. And as a foreigner balancing between a rich and ruthless magnate and his angry wife, he is a cursed boludo. In his latest encounter with Don Carlo he has noted a tension that worries him. He meets with Pablo at his office to ask for advice.

  “‘With Carlo Pelegrini? The Carlo Pelegrini, of MovilSegur and all the rest?’

  “‘Yes.’

  “Pablo swivels his head downward to the white carpet, letting out a long rich breath. He is silent for a surprising amount of time before he looks up. ‘Does he know you are here?’

  “Waterbury feels a little flutter of anxiety. ‘No. Why?’

  “‘Pelegrini … ’ He shakes his head. ‘How did you meet Pelegrini?’

  “‘Some friends gave me an introduction, and then things developed.’ The writer mentions the admiral and the former minister of economy, then recreates his little tango with Teresa Castex and her version of her own life and the life of ‘Mario.’

  “Pablo nods, and for the first time Waterbury sees his carefree features dulled down with worry. ‘You shit yourself, hermano.’

  “‘What do you mean?’

  “‘Pelegrini is heavy. He has a security apparatus directed by exrepressors of the Dictatorship. He has many turbid businesses. Don’t mix in with him.’

  “‘I’m already in, Pablo! I have a contract for two hundred thousand dollars. We can live for four years on that. It buys me the time to write a real book.’

  “‘Don’t put yourself—’

  “‘I’m just a fucking novelist! What’s more useless and ineffectual than that? He has nothing to fear from me!’

  “‘It’s not what you are, it’s what he thinks you are. Moreover, to play games with another man’s wife, here in Argentina, is always dangerous. This isn’t a culture where the two men shake hands and talk about philosophy.’

  “‘Don’t be ridiculous. I have a wife!’ His protest feels weightless even to himself. He wonders if Pablo knows of his continuing friendship with Paulé.

  “‘That’s fine! You don’t have to convince me. But be careful, Robert.’ He clears his throat
. ‘And one more little thing: better that you don’t come to this office again. From now on we meet outside.’

  “‘What do you mean.’

  “His friend speaks delicately. ‘Robert, I tell you this as a friend, and it must be kept in absolute confidence. The theme is thus: The relationship of Grupo AmiBank with Pelegrini these days is a bit tense. There’s a species of competition, let’s say, between the Grupo and the Pelegrini interests. If Pelegrini sees you coming here and meeting with me, well, he might have the mistaken idea … ’ He puts up both hands to close the matter. ‘Better that no, Robert. My advice is that—’

  Fabian’s sentence was interrupted by the sound of Fortunato’s cell phone. The Comisario took it from his pocket. “Fortunato.”

  The Chief’s voice boomed through the tiny holes. “Miguelito! How goes it, querido? I called to see that La Doctora left well content. Did you give her the certificate of appreciation?”

  Fortunato could feel Fabian and Athena trying to interpret the call. “No.”

  The little voice sounded surprised. “You forgot to give it to her? What happened, Miguel? Now we’ll have to send it.”

  “Mira, this moment is a bit inconvenient. I’m in a reunion with Inspector Diaz and a colleague from the United States, the Doctora Fowler. It’s a matter of some priority. I’ll call you afterwards.”

  Fortunato waited a few seconds then said agreeably, “Perfecto!” and cut the line. He threw a dismissive little pout to his companions. “Continue.”

  Instead Fabian rose from the table. “With your permission,” he said, and looked towards the back of the restaurant. Fortunato’s bladder had been insisting for some time, but he’d suppressed it, unwilling to leave Fabian alone with Athena. Now he stood up and followed the Inspector to the bathroom. A mistake: the tiny bath room felt crowded and he had no choice but to talk to Fabian’s back as he waited his turn. Fortunato stared at the expanse of parrot-green cloth, its collar concealed by the cascade of blond curls. If one wanted to commit a murder, this would be a good way to set it up, except in this case there would be no alibi or escape route. Too early to say whether Fabian was attacking or supporting him, or if Fabian knew he had committed the murder at all. He wasn’t sure where to start.

  “I congratulate you, Fabian. I don’t know how much of this is true, but on a cinematic level, it’s a great success.”

  “That’s the important part, Comiso,” Fabian said to the wall. “When they make the film I’ll try to get you named as a technical advisor. Thus we can spread the money a bit between colleagues, as is the tradition.”

  “The thing that bothers me is that you didn’t put me up to this beforehand. Combining forces we could have arrived much more rapidly. I had heard that the Federales were arming an investigation.”

  Fabian adjusted himself and then turned to the Comisario, who was blocking the door. He forced a stiff pleasantness onto his face. “With your permission, Comiso. I don’t want to be rude to La Doctora.”

  The lunch hour had ended and the waiter scattered another round of little white cups on the table. Fabian had accessorized his plumage with a small cigar he’d bought at the counter and now he hung it in the air between them and cocked his head as if he were listening to the smoke. When the Comisario sat down he began again.

  “Bien. Waterbury has written more than thirty pages in three days. He prepares a copy for La Señora and arrives at the Castex Mansion at the appropriate hour. Unexpectedly, Santamarina, the ex-torturer, intercepts him at the security post and surprises him with a full search. He revises Waterbury as if he has never before visited the Mansion Castex, then takes his portfolio and empties out the papers, carefully surveying their contents. Finding the sheets that tell the story of Mario’s rise to power, he rewards the author with a stare of violent contempt, then puts the manuscript in a paper bag and guides Waterbury towards the house. The butler does not meet them at the door. Instead Santamarina himself leads him through the long silent gleam of the mansion, past the frescoes and the smiling Dutch peasant. There is a smell of floor polish, of lemon. Don Carlo is waiting for him in the smoking room, ensconced in the aroma of leather and tobacco. Above him hangs a photograph of a racehorse that was put to sleep before he was born.

  “‘Ah, Robert. Sit down! Sit down, amigo.’ The magnate wears a button-down shirt of cream-colored silk, crossed by an iridescent gray tie loosened at his neck. The jacket lying across the arm of another chair makes Waterbury suppose that he has come home from his office for this meeting.

  “Waterbury creaks into the leather armchair that Pelegrini has indicated. ‘Teresa isn’t here?’

  “‘Yes, she is here,’ the businessman says, ‘but she’s busy at the moment. She asked me to receive you myself.’

  “‘Oh!’ Waterbury says. In the room with them now is the fictional Mario, and the tales of Mario’s beatings and extortions hover in the air. ‘It’s an unexpected pleasure.’

  “Don Carlo nods to Santamarina and the bodyguard places Waterbury’s pages beside him and moves wordlessly out the door. ‘And,’ Carlo says glancing at the words. ‘How is your project with my wife?’

  “Waterbury feels the vague sting of an accusation, tries to steady his voice as he answers. ‘It’s going well.’

  “‘And does she have great potential as an author?’

  “‘Bien,’ Waterbury says, trying out some old verso, ‘in literature there is nothing absolute. An excellent book in the literary sense may sell poorly, and be considered a failure, while a mediocre book may sell a million copies.’ Don Carlo is still pinning him there with his eyes. ‘So, as to her potential, that’s a disposition that I can’t really make, especially not before the book is finished.’

  “Don Carlo stares at him silently for a time, then turns his attention to the manuscript and begins to look through it, saying at the same time, ‘So long since I studied English, and then it was technical English, of the kind needed to read service manuals and write invoices. Not fine English, like this.’ He examines the page. ‘Ah, look at that! Extortion. It’s the same in Spanish. Extorción. And here: bribe. That’s a coima, no?’ He continues reading for fifteen minutes, without excusing himself or apologizing, knowing that Waterbury will sit quietly and wait for him. ‘What’s this?’ he says. ‘Blackmail?’

  “‘Chantaje,’ the writer answers him softly.

  “‘Ah, chantaje, of course. And here is liar, that means mentiroso, and arrangement. That means arreglo, no?’ Carlo looks up and Waterbury can see the veneer of his smile wearing away. ‘This Mario is a real hijo de puta!’

  “The writer swallows, feeling the heat rise to his face. ‘Yes. That particular character isn’t very straight, but he’s operating in an environment where that’s demanded of him for success. At the end of the book he changes.’

  “‘But how? From what I see here he is beyond change! He has a standard of living based on extortion and bribery. Such people can’t change. Especially when they are part of a corrupt system. You have to kill them!’

  “Waterbury begins to speak and his voice rises and breaks. ‘You know, Carlo, it’s not up to me to judge my characters. I just try to present them. A novel needs a full array of characters, and … ’ he tries an intimate little shrug, ‘somebody has to be the bad guy, no.’

  “The magnate drops his smile and cuts him off. ‘Don’t play the boludo with me. Do you think me so stupid?’ He puts his anger away and takes a softer line. ‘To the point. At the start, I was happy that Teresa had a project, because the truth is that since the children are gone she is a bit lost. She has paranoid fantasies of this and that. Do you understand? I indulged her fantasies because I thought that this might be a sort of therapy for her. But this,’ he holds up the manuscript, ‘this is an insult!’

  “‘It’s just a character—’

  “‘Yes, just a character with businesses like mine, that worked at a computer company, like I did. It’s an insult and a violation of my confidence in you! I welcome
you into my house and in return you encourage my wife to defame me with this confection of lies she has invented from the newspaper! This doesn’t go! It doesn’t go! Not for a novelist or anyone else!’

  “Poor Waterbury cringes into the squeaking leather cushions without an answer. Pelegrini goes on lashing at him. ‘She told me she already gave you ten thousand. Ingrate! Take that and don’t ever come back!’ Pelegrini rips out a little laugh. ‘Did you think a writer of the last ranks, like yourself, could legitimately make two hundred thousand dollars writing a book? You’re dreaming! Only in a dirty deal like the one you made with Teresa, where you take advantage of an unstable woman, only thus could you make that much money with your supposed talent. And if it was only I who thought so, you wouldn’t be here in Buenos Aires working a cheap confidence trick and trying to pass yourself off as a grand literary success!’

  “The author doesn’t feel his body, only the lurid pink distress of his mutilated sense of self. He can only sit and wait for Pelegrini to finish annihilating him.

  “‘This doesn’t go any further. You understand? If any part of this ever appears anywhere, in fiction or in any other form, no amount of money in the world will be enough to justify the consequences to you and your family. And don’t make any mistake: I can find you here, at the Hostal San Antonio—or there.’ Pelegrini recites Waterbury’s address in New York and the name of his daughter’s school, then lapses to a silent glare.

  “Waterbury has no answer. He fumbles to his feet and stumbles out of the smoking room. Santamarina is waiting for him, puts his hand on his arm as he directs him across the spacious chesswork of tiles and the glittering chandelier. There is no Teresa Castex and her lucrative vanities, no inspired literary thriller, only the warm spring air of Buenos Aires, the straining Doberman of the custodian, the high black gate and then the unsteady sidewalk. Two blocks away a flock of black taxis gleam like cheap hearses in the sunlight.’