13
No-one is going to teach Oso Berlusconi how to rescue hostages. Let the toffs in the embassies play their golf and bridge—that’s what they were trained to do, but we’re the ones who pay for that bunch of pansies, Oso snarls to Carroza: the peace treaties they sign are drawn up on the bodies their armies have spread all around. We dig the trenches to defend the salons where those leeches dance the waltz.
“I don’t think they dance the waltz any more,” Carroza corrects him, intrigued by Oso’s attitude. “That was in the nineteenth century.”
A calm silence followed the first volley of shots. Oso ordered them to stop firing, although it took some time for everyone to react. As so often, some of the men have forgotten to switch on their radios, they are thinking more of their pensions than the details of the operation, wishing they were at home already, clutching their wives if they can still bear each other, then climbing into bed as soon as possible, happy to return home without a scratch. They have already made enough of a sacrifice, stretched out on the wet grass and taking orders from a madman.
The silence is so profound they can hear the music from the nearby Riachuelo market.
“I’d like to see them out here on the ground in their best sports clothes and four-hundred bucks running shoes.” Oso is referring to the diplomats of course, in particular the Italian Ambassador who has just called him on his mobile, breaking all the rules of the damned protocol, shouting at him that he had to make sure he respected the lives of his fellow countrymen. “As if this was the Dubrovka Theater in Moscow and not the Descamisados de América. Fuck that pedantic fascist.” Oso Berlusconi suspects that some rat with a walkie-talkie is keeping the ambassador informed step by step about the rescue operation. “I bet it’s one of those provincial boys. They’ll kill people for a few bucks, but want paying in foreign currency to betray someone.”
“They sell themselves dear,” Carroza agrees, wondering what is going on elsewhere, where the fugitive that Verónica put on to him could be now, what Verónica herself is doing at that moment in his hideout on Azara. He ought to have answered the runaway cretin, to have found out from him which side the fatal shots might come at any moment. Although he already knows that well enough; that is why he lies on his left-hand side, so that he can keep a good eye on Oso.
“To hell with international pressure,” growls Oso, giving the order for his men to open fire again.
This time he gets the result he wanted. Shouts come from the shacks, lights flick on as though the people inside were just waking up from a deep sleep, one of them screams, “Don’t shoot, we surrender,” but what matters most are the silhouettes, the dark mass pouring out of the back doors that gradually turns into identifiable shapes as the figures come leaping toward them, arms protecting their heads, others running as fast as they can, straight toward the guns, including those of Oso and Carroza, all of them more than ready to finish the fleeing figures off before they can even identify themselves.
Too late Oso discovers that behind the first three people fleeing the shacks—the guards, who should be the only ones—another group is emerging, running helter-skelter without even obeying the natural instinct to crouch as low as possible or to cover their heads, shouting out in incomprehensible foreign languages for them not to shoot, that it is them, the kidnap victims, the richest of all the tourists on board the Queen of Storms, the ones who a few minutes from now ought to be appearing safe and sound on television so that the ambassadors can praise the efficiency of the Argentine police, express their gratitude that they are representing their nations in a country that protects its visitors more than it does its own citizens.
Too late, Oso bawls for them to stop firing. His earlier instructions were so precise and emphatic that nobody believes him now. The only one who does not carry on shooting is Deputy Inspector Carroza, but that is because his Czech rifle jams, refuses to do anything. Seeing it is useless, he throws it aside and draws his 9 m.m. He points it straight at Oso’s head.
*
Pacogoya can see lights at the far side of the seemingly endless field; what he cannot do is force any more air into his lungs. He falls exhausted, breathing in mud, several worms and filthy water. He moans like a wounded dog, struggles back to his feet, then slumps back to his knees again, only to get up once more until through his tears he sees the lights. Despite his bound hands, he is still clinging to his mobile as if that is his oxygen supply. Someone must come to help him, he cannot die like this, he does not want to die now, or ever, if possible. He curses his bad luck and the mistakes he has made to stay alive; he would even declare his love to Verónica and take her to live in the Recoleta apartment she likes so much. You have to give women what they like; there is no point digging into their hearts to find answers, there is nothing there. Pacogoya has been convinced for ages now that women are the opposite of what feminists and lesbians (to him they are the same thing) claim, nothing more than scribbles on the canvas of the irrational, mere excuses to remain forever as victims. That is why he has never stayed with any female, and sometimes even prefers queers and fags, transient beings like him, freaks who put make-up on or shave depending on the time of day and what kind of party they are going to, clamber onto stiletto heels and wiggle their asses or empty the contents of their automatic into the back of whoever they are with when things get hot. He thinks of them, his clientèle of sad nights and hopeless dawns, like this one that finds him running blindly toward the lights, under which a service-station attendant watches as a puppet still dangling from its strings approaches—a scrawny Che Guevara looking as if he has been caught by a tribe of headhunters, tottering into the pool of light and calling for what he supposes is help, although he cannot understand what he is saying or shouting, what drug seems to be masking the meaning of the squeal that is the last sound he produces before he slumps to the ground of the forecourt, unconscious or dead.
*
The sketches talk: the representation of reality offers more than reality itself; art reveals what not even the most vicious torture session can uncover. That is why, and not because of any soft humanism (which he cannot stand), Scotty (who is not Irish either) puts more faith in art than in the paid executioners in the federal police.
It is not easy to torture anymore. Judges are in a difficult position and the rats in the press can smell blood. They like nothing better than to expose torturers and double the sales of their newspapers; human-rights groups bleat their indignation across the front pages and the whole of society is scandalized. Nobody wants to be left out when it is time to pretend. Art (at least, as Scotty understands it) is more discreet. And more effective. Restoring paintings has given him that discipline, has made it possible for him to communicate with the immanent, of not making things explicit but knowing where he stands, what he is faced with.
The information from the Bolivian Margaride appears to be true. Those two birds of ill omen—Miss Bolivia and the Jaguar—were born from the same egg. Yet they are not brother and sister. Or rather, what separates them (or so Scotty suspects) is what is going to unite them.
How do they look like each other? He stares at the sketches he himself has made, pinned on the wall. They do not. Yet their eyes are identical. If he were a surgeon he could transplant them from one to the other and they would go on seeing the world the way they do now—as a hostile place, a lair of predators on the prowl, leaving them at the mercy of the erratic laws of the universe. The same look, the same glow that lights nothing, the same deep dark holes.
But there is something more, something that has nothing esoteric about it, something close to home for Carroza, even if he is not Irish and is not called Scotty but Yorugua. Lying there on his back with the faces he himself drew staring down at him: it all helps for the past to come oozing up to the present. Just as good wines that have been aged for years (and Scotty and Carroza are in their own way good wines) take on flavor from the oak barrels where the grapes have been fermenting and the shady solitude of yea
rs bubbles up in a clear stream when they are uncorked, so the information reaches the cop’s brain as he lies horizontal on his bed.
“Shit, how come I didn’t see it before? Those eyes.”
Scotty is not someone who talks to himself. Two years of being a bachelor have not yet reduced him to this verbal onanism. He prefers to call someone, to go out in search of a listener, to walk somewhere.
Those eyes.
14
Carroza is in no mood to take anyone’s call. He pays no attention to the mobile vibrating at his waist, does not look down at the lit dial. His only concern is Oso Berlusconi, who is cursing him without realizing that Carroza is pointing a gun at his head.
“Who gave that order, Carroza? It was you, wasn’t it?”
Oso has not let go of his Czech rifle (and his does work) but he is not covering Carroza with it. He saw the deputy inspector throw his away in disgust. He knew it did not work long before Carroza tried to shoot at the fleeing captors: there was nothing casual about the distribution of the weapons in the Barracas warehouse. With all the shooting going on, no-one could be held responsible for finishing off the skeleton man.
“What order, Oso? This massacre is all your idea. It got out of control, that’s all. These things happen.”
“Someone promised you a promotion. You asshole, you stinking Uruguayan. And you believed them”
Carroza smiles. He and Oso are both flat out on the ground, while all the others are running toward the disaster. The danger has passed, none of the guards or the prisoners is left alive.
“You’re finished, Oso, but I’m not the one to blame.” The muzzle of the Czech rifle swings round to aim at Deputy Inspector Carroza’s forehead. Carroza is still gripping his revolver and the mobile is still tickling his back near his right kidney. Everything is fine, death is easy, all she asks is for some rest. “Go ahead, shoot,” he tells Oso. “You’ve dug your own grave, I can be the cross on it. An accursed one, of course. One I wouldn’t even wish on a suicide.”
It is not compassion that prevents Oso from squeezing the trigger, but the certainty that the only bullet Carroza will suceed in firing before he dies will lodge straight in his own heart. Even if he shoots first, he is bound to die and this stinking Uruguayan will stare back at him with wide-open eyes, enjoying his death agonies from the depths of hell.
The shouts grow louder all round the two men. Someone comes running up: it is a provincial cop, who asks if they are alright, if anyone was wounded.
“No, there are only stiffs,” says Oso, spitting out the stem of the wild flower he has been chewing all this time.
Carroza takes advantage of the situation to jump up, still pointing his revolver at Oso, and kick the rifle out of his hands without the provincial cop noticing.
“Up you get, friend!” shouts Carroza, “‘Operation Tourism’ is over”
“What have you done with the Colombian, you bastard? Who’s behind this? Where have you taken him?”
“Is something wrong, sir?” Alarmed, the provincial cop points his gun at Carroza. Even though he does not work for him, he knows Oso is the man in charge. Who doesn’t know Oso and fear him?
“Nothing, you dolt, get out of here,” shouts Oso. He would rather die than have a provincial sergeant boast that he saved his life.
The cop obeys, although he is still pointing his gun at Carroza as he moves away toward the group gathered round the dead bodies. The deputy inspector lowers his own revolver, puts it back in its holster.
“I pursue murderers, Oso,” says Carroza, offering an explanation that no-one has asked for, perhaps apologizing to himself for missing the best bit. “I don’t deal with narcos.” With that he walks off, his back turned to Oso, who goes slowly over to the group staring at the bodies. He is the leader and now he has to take charge of things. Carroza goes back to his Renault, parked on the far side of the shanty town. The two federal cops are still sitting there, listening to music and smoking. “It’s all over,” he tells the one who weighs 130 kilos without a weapon and the other one, who has not moved from the front seat. “Not even the canary is left to sing about it.”
*
Those eyes.
What did she see in them the night Ana Torrente knocked on her door and sought refuge in her arms, even though she said it was legal protection she was after?
Verónica wonders this now. She cannot help staring at her: that is all she can do in fact, because the rag Miss Bolivia has used to gag her with not only prevents her speaking but almost stops her breathing. The cold barrel of the Bersa forcing its way inside her, hurting so much she gave a stifled cry, then the punches to her face and the taste of her own blood, the only warm thing in this night she would like to bury forever if she manages to survive it, to leave behind like a ghost town where nightmares walk the pavements and wave kindly from the terrors of childhood to these last early morning hours, so recent, so hopeless.
“I’m going to kill you, doctora. But not with my own hands. A wild animal is going to come and eat your brains out.”
Ana, Miss Bolivia, says this in the manner of someone announcing they are going to put some water on to boil for tea.
When Verónica tried to wriggle free of the Bersa, still wanting to believe it was all a game, a cheap perversion, Ana hit her hard on the chin, the classic uppercut of a trained boxer. Verónica did not lose consciousness, but could not protect herself from the swift, powerful movement that left her with hands tied and her mouth stuffed with a handkerchief that made her choke. For a long, long moment she thought she was going to die for lack of air and struggled in Ana’s arms. Miss Bolivia kept on punching her, until her face swelled and darkened into one huge bruise.
“You made a mistake opening the door,” Ana says calmly, glancing down at her tiny wristwatch. “Someone must have warned you not to. That skull with the federal-police credentials must have warned you. But you didn’t listen. And here we are.” Verónica shakes her head. She tries to make a sound but chokes again, trying to breathe through her nose. Ana pulls off the tape, removes the saliva-soaked handkerchief and throws it to the floor disgustedly. “I don’t want you to suffocate, doctora. I don’t hate you. Nor do I love or desire you—I’m sorry; but I don’t hate you either. You had good intentions: you gave me a gun to defend myself with. What a joke, doctora, a little Bersa pistol. As if the people threatening me were fairies, second-rate pantomime characters, suburban gangsters.”
She forces her down into the only armchair in the apartment. Like all those Carroza rents it has even less furniture than necessary. There is no table, for example. Why would he need one, the skeleton never eats. Nor a bed. Earlier, Miss Bolivia pushed her down on a blanket on the floor, when Verónica still thought it was a game, a night outside the laws, an interlude, not this calvary. She closed her eyes, imagined others, even Pacogoya, pushing her down in similar circumstances, though without using this sort of violence, even though that did not surprise her or set warning lights flashing. After all, Verónica tells herself now, the calle Azara nest was empty. Until the spider came from outside.
*
“RUSSIAN-STYLE MASSACRE” screams the headline in one of Buenos Aires’ most important and least serious newspapers. “STRANDED, ABDUCTED AND MURDERED” announces the sensationalist twenty-four-hour news channel that night. Laucha the Mouse Giménez is watching it in the small Belgrano apartment where she has lived since the beginning of time.
Laucha is worried that Verónica does not reply either on her land line or her mobile, but tonight she is more worried about her own loneliness. It is Sunday, the edge of the abyss that opens every Friday, the shifting sands that threaten to engulf her with nowhere to cling on to. Men have become disgustingly polite toward her. She has to admit they never amounted to much, but of late all she has met with is suspicion, shifty expressions behind unconvincing smiles, unbelievable excuses and, worst of all, silence: her telephone never rings, every sound in her apartment sounds like thunder, so do footsteps
in the corridor, voices in nearby apartments or in the street, the engine of every car pulling up outside.
It is midnight on Sunday when all her credit is used up, when Monday is late arriving with its antidote to the poison (not cyanide, only loneliness) that paralyses her all weekend. And tonight, as if that were not enough, there is Verónica. Her silence, her unexplained absence, the worry growing, becoming more solid with every hour, the dreaded phantom of violence.
Not even Damián Bértola, to whom Laucha who is Paloma has tried to explain some of Verónica’s mysteries, has been able to define what it is that keeps her in such a mess. “Seeing she has two dead men on her conscience,” says the psychologist, as if she had killed them herself. “She ought to stop, come to a halt, work it out.”
“Work what out?” Paloma challenges him. “That life is nothing more than death which comes on stage, all dolled up, strutting around under the floodlights, soaking up the applause? Then what? After the curtain has fallen, then what?”
Bértola laughs.
“Shakespeare in skirts,” he says. “If Laucha is Paloma, anything is possible. Bravo!”
She ends up laughing as well, or slamming the door on him, if there is a door available. She is not going to allow a cheap shrink like him to start analyzing her.
Laucha who is Paloma looks at herself in the mirror of the television set. A sad-eyed charlatan brought in urgently is giving his spiel about the bloody rescue attempt in the Descamisados de América shanty town. “As in Russia,” says blabbermouth, “in 2002 at the Dubrovka Theater in Moscow, 129 hostages died. Here it was only six, but it’s the same thing”—he goes on, shamelessly—“six dead people whose fortunes total nothing less than 129 million euros. Some coincidence, isn’t it?”
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