An electric buggy driving ahead of them forces the Crime boy to drop his speed. The buggy is carrying a couple with their golf equipment in bags behind them, the man’s clubs longer than his wife’s. One of the wife’s irons has a kind of cover on it designed to look like the long-eared head of a toy dog. Observing the couple, Brena says: It’s another world, isn’t it? Yes, agrees the boy, but there are a lot of different worlds. The trick is making sure you live in the one you like best. Quite right, says Brena, still studying the couple, then he adds: Turns out you’re not such a dick in the end. The boy shoots him a look of hurt surprise and Brena laughs. It’s a joke, kid; of course you’re not a dick, you’re just short on experience. Speaking of which, do you want to continue with the training? Yes, I’m ready for my next lesson. I already know all about José de Zer, Fort Apache and the UFOs. Who’s next? Enrique Sdrech. You must know Enrique Sdrech. Yes, I think I’ve seen some old report they show on TV every so often. One report isn’t going to tell you all you need to know about Sdrech. You need to find out more. For instance, did you know that someone shot at his house with an Ithaca 37 in 1992? No. Right, get hold of his book Giubileo: An Open Case. Do you remember the Giubileo case? Vaguely, says the boy, rather than admitting that he knows nothing about it at all. Vaguely, repeats Brena, good God; she was a doctor who disappeared off the face of the earth in 1985, leaving no trace. How old were you in 1985? I hadn’t been born yet, replies the boy. Jesus wept, murmurs Brena, looking out of the window for a few seconds. You hadn’t been born yet, he repeats, gazing across the golf course that’s appeared on the right. Then he goes on: Doctor Giubileo was a young woman who disappeared while working at the Montes de Oca community neuropsychiatric hospital, also known as Open Door, where it was later discovered that organs were being trafficked and patients used as guinea pigs for new drugs. It was a tragic case, never solved. Sdrech was obsessed with it – and with all unsolved cases: Oriel Briant, Jimena Hernández, Norma Mirta Penjerek. A lot of women whose murderers weren’t brought to justice. He was a passionate man, and a great reader. You know what I learned from him? That crime news isn’t written the same way as other kinds of article: you never put some juicy detail, some revelation in the intro. You leave that for the end, as if it were a story.
Three boys on bicycles are ranged across the road and don’t seem willing to move to the side. The Crime boy waits; he doesn’t dare hoot at them: that might be a contravention of the code here. You’d think they owned the road, says the boy. Well, they are the owning class; at least they’re going to be, Brena says. One of the boys moves to the side, swerves and falls off his bike. The others rush to help him and the Crime boy takes advantage of the gap to slip past. Do you think he hurt himself? he asks. That’s his mother’s problem, says Brena. They drive one or two more blocks in silence before the Crime boy dares to ask: What’s your obsession, Brena? Jaime Brena looks at him, not certain that he’s understood the question correctly. Like Sdrech, like de Zer: there must be something that’s come to be an obsession with you too, in such a long career. What obsesses me? I don’t know any more. Years ago I wanted to be like Rodolfo Walsh, you know? He was my inspiration; not exactly an obsession, but certainly a model. Later I realized that I didn’t have what it takes to be like him. Nobody, not me nor anyone else in this country today, can come close to Rodolfo Walsh. Why not? Because Walsh – before he was a journalist, before he was a writer, before anything else – was a revolutionary, and journalism has nothing to do with the revolution any more. We turned bourgeois, kid. We got paunchy. We do what they ask of us, within certain limitations, and collect our paycheck at the end of the month. We get by on a minimum of effort. And there are some charlatans who’ve got the nerve to think they’re brave because they criticize the president, or the media. Or the president and the media. Do you think Walsh was scared? I would have been, in his shoes. Today the high priests of journalism, or “intellectuals”, in inverted commas, are happy to sound off from the safety of their studies or their holiday homes. And they think they’re important because they’re “opinion-formers”. But the question is: how do you form that opinion? What values do you respect? What scruples do you have? Many of them will offer up as an irrefutable truth something that’s nothing more than their own opinion. Or the opinion of the people they work for. When a journalist departs from the facts in order to give his own opinion, he has to be clear about what he’s doing or there’s no integrity. It’s fine to have opinions, but don’t pass them off as facts. The bourgeois ideology tries to present the interests of its own class as natural or normal. Am I disappearing up my own arse, kid? No, not at all, says the Crime boy. Jaime Brena continues: But Christ, nothing compares with writing a letter to the military junta in the full awareness that the next day they’re going to come for you. That was Rodolfo Walsh. Who would be today’s equivalent of the junta? The president or the powerful corporations that pay your salary? Neither of them. If you don’t agree with the editorial line of the newspaper you work for, what should you do? Follow their line, or resign? Is there room for a third option? I don’t know. Anyone who can answer these questions with conviction is lying. We’re all too cowardly to come close to Walsh, kid. But don’t listen to me; take this as the windbaggery of an old cynic. Your generation doesn’t agonize over these questions. I mean, you weren’t even born when Doctor Giubileo disappeared. That’s incredible, kid. Try to be a good crime reporter; get out into the street and produce great writing – writing that informs, that has teeth, that draws people in. And without any spelling mistakes, which is already a lot to ask for these days.
They’ve arrived at Nurit Iscar’s house, but the sound of reggaeton coming from the garden is disconcerting. The boy looks doubtful as he turns into the gravel drive. Are you sure it’s here? Brena asks. The boy consults their map again and checks the address written down by the guard: 675 Calandria. It’s here, then, Brena confirms. Our Betty Boo must have very contemporary taste in music. They park, get out of the car and the boy rings the bell. You know how Enrique Sdrech would start this piece, kid? Like this: “Here we are ensconced in the heart of the La Maravillosa country club, more specifically at the house of the writer Nurit Iscar”. He loved words like “ensconced”.
A toy poodle rushes out to greet them. Brena contemplates it with disdain: This dog is nothing like the one I imagine myself having.
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The introductions, the empanadas (once the second batch has arrived) and the puddings are duly dispatched. Thanks to Comisario Venturini’s early warning, nobody is surprised to see Jaime Brena arrive at the house with the Crime boy. Carmen Terrada, somewhat overwhelmed to meet him face-to-face, manages to say no more than: Hello, pleased to meet you. To Nurit Iscar it doesn’t feel altogether comfortable having so many (and so many different sorts of) people in her house, or rather in the house where she’s staying, but she tries to manage the situation with calmness and aplomb. Even though aplomb has never been one of her strong suits. The youthful contingent takes over the pool and the area around it. The old are consigned to the shade of the veranda. I don’t know how these kids can stand the sun beating down on their heads, says Brena, using his hand to comb the little hair he has left across his own head. Nurit watches him; she remembered him as having more hair. How much time has gone by? she wonders. She doesn’t mean since she last saw Jaime Brena, mere days before, nor since she stopped visiting the newspaper offices regularly after her relationship with Rinaldi ended more than three years ago. How much time has gone by since they – Nurit, Brena, Paula, Carmen – were the age their children are now and could cavort in the sun without worrying about having to put their costumes on in front of the others, or about the heat, or about skin cancer. The time that’s passed and the time still to come: both concepts cause her disquiet. That’s why Nurit prefers not to let her thoughts go in either direction. But you can’t always stop yourself thinking, and soon she’s wondering again what Jaime Brena must have been like when he was the s
ame age as her sons, more than thirty years ago. The memory makes her uncomfortable now, but Nurit Iscar remembers celebrating at the Obelisk the day Argentina won the 1978 World Cup, jumping up and down with her friends from that time. What would Brena have been doing that day? She seems to remember reading somewhere that he belonged to a militant group during the dictatorship. Carmen Terrada had been a militant too; that was why she had to go abroad for a time. How different their twenties had been to that of their children’s. If she had to choose, Nurit doesn’t know what kind of ending she’d choose to follow those years of adolescence and high-minded ideals. Any answer runs the risk of being either naive or politically correct, and she isn’t sure what her answer would be anyway. Nor does she want to be sure. The Crime boy is certainly young enough to ally himself with the pool contingent, but work allegiances keep him on the veranda. The toy poodle prefers the shade too, but Nurit tells her son firmly: Get that creature away from me, and the dog ends up shut in the laundry room, despite the protests of Juan’s girlfriend.
At three o’clock in the afternoon there’s a call from the guards to say that Viviana Mansini is at the gate but can’t get in because she hasn’t brought her most recent car insurance policy document. As Vivi will tell them later, it did her no good to explain several times (and in great detail) that she had no paper receipt because her policy is charged monthly to her credit card, or to show the insurance company’s laminated card or to suggest – implore, even – that they ring her insurance broker. The regulations changed this week, the guard explained; if you had come last week I would have let you in, but today I can’t, because, like I said, the procedure has changed. Now we need the receipt as well as the card: what a shame you didn’t come last week. And for that reason, because she’s come this week rather than last, and doesn’t have her insurance receipt, Viviana has the guard call the house where Nurit’s staying so that Paula or Carmen can come to collect her from the entrance, a request that prompts a great displacement of cars because the Crime boy’s car is behind Juan’s and his car is behind Paula Sibona’s. And while it doesn’t occur to Juan to offer to go and fetch his mother’s friend from the entrance to the club – in fact, he hands his keys to Paula so that she can move his car herself and then her own – it does occur to the Crime boy, but Paula turns down his offer, asking Carmen to go with her instead: Can you imagine how many indiscretions Viviana could fill that boy’s ear with between the entry gate and here? Carmen agrees, and once they are in the car she asks her friend: Why do we still love Viviana when she drives us up the wall so often? Because she grounds us and that, in itself, is also guilt-inducing. Everyone needs someone to take things out on, but someone who stoically puts up with everything – and she never gets fazed – deserves a bit of recognition. Having someone to offload on is the only way we other mortals can protect ourselves, Paula contends. Absolutely; it’s almost as if Viviana were our sacrificial lamb. Almost. We should almost feel sorry for her, then. Almost. But I don’t. No, me neither. She still irritates the hell out of me. Me too. Guess we’re not going to heaven, then. No.
And almost as confirmation of her ability to irritate her friends, some time later, when Comisario Venturini reappears in search of Jaime Brena, Viviana makes it clear that his dark, moustachioed looks are as appealing to her as they are to Paula – and she’s prepared to let him know as much. How difficult your job is, Comisario; you must be very brave, she says, barely five minutes after meeting him (this observation being completely irrelevant to the rather aimless conversation the others are having). Carmen shoots Paula a knowing look and says under her breath: What a bitch. Paula adds: She’ll end up screwing him. She won’t let ideological qualms get in the way. Viviana Mansini? I doubt she even knows the meaning of the word ideology. She’s not the only one. Look at the boys’ friends in the pool. Paula follows her gaze and sighs: Young skin, young bodies, young laughter; any ideology? Wouldn’t you swap a bit of ideology for some sex? For sure. Me too. We’re definitely never going to make it to heaven. No. Nor are we going to make it into the history of great women. No, not that either.
Soon afterwards, the police chief proposes a visit to Chazarreta’s house, and of course Viviana Mansini tries to join the group. But Carmen stops her firmly. They’re going for work; don’t stick your nose in. So Viviana stays back, albeit grudgingly: All I did was ask. Is it against the law to ask? The group that goes to the house where Chazarreta died – and his wife before him – comprises Nurit Iscar, Jaime Brena, the Crime boy and Comisario Venturini. Nurit suggests they walk there, to get a better feeling for the neighbourhood. As they walk, the Comisario fills his lungs, extravagantly swinging his arms as though the walk, the surroundings, the country air, the evening light or whatever were a tonic he’s rarely able to enjoy. What’s the smell here? he asks. Eucalyptus? Wood? Flowers? It’s the smell of wealth, Venturini, Brena says, and nobody contradicts him. The Crime boy takes some pictures on his BlackBerry. Nurit Iscar stops to remove something bothersome from her trainer. She can’t tell what it is – a stone, a seed or a clod of earth. Jaime Brena also stops and waits for her. The pebble she finally tips out of her shoe is tiny. How could something so small be so annoying? she wonders, showing the stone to Brena. It’s like the story of the princess and the pea; remember it? he says. No, I don’t know that one. Oh, well it’s a nice Andersen fairy story: some young damsels had to undergo a test to establish whether or not they were really princesses. They had to lie down on twenty mattresses, under which the Queen Mother had placed a single pea – there’s always a mother-in-law fretting about which woman’s going to carry off the jewel of her son, even in fairy tales. Only the true princess felt the pea through all the mattresses and couldn’t sleep all night, Brena concludes. So you’re saying I’m a princess? Something like that. How gallant; thank you. Not at all, Betty Boo. She finds it awkward that he should use her old nickname, and Brena notices. You don’t like being called that? Betty Boo isn’t exactly the name of a true princess, she says. She’s much more interesting than a true princess; she’s almost a real woman, says Brena, looking at her. She says nothing, so he asks again: Does it annoy you when people call you that? No, it’s not the nickname I mind, it’s the story of how I got it that sometimes bothers me. Where did the name come from? Brena asks. Then Nurit, without knowing why and as though confiding in a life-long friend, says: Lorenzo Rinaldi picked that name for me, years ago. Lorenzo Rinaldi; is that what he said? That you look like Betty Boop? Yes, the day we first met in a TV studio. Well I never – so Lorenzo Rinaldi says he gave you that name! No, I say that he did. He was the first person to call me that. Intellectual property is always a contested area, says Brena. Why do you say that? Nurit asks. Oh, no reason, he replies, and changes the subject – What does it feel like living in La Maravillosa? – just as the Crime boy, walking a few yards ahead, turns around and takes a photograph of them. I don’t really feel that I am living here, she says, only working. But you’re on a full-time regime. Yes, and that’s not easy, she admits. I can imagine, says Brena. Although it’s not such an ordeal to spend a few days in a place like this. No, I suppose not; once you’ve got over the symptoms of city withdrawal syndrome, you start to see it all with a kinder eye. Relax and enjoy it, then. I’ll certainly try, she says. Their eyes meet and they smile, then they look away from each other and walk in silence for a time.
There’s something about their group that seems to draw the eye of the people they pass. Nurit’s experienced this on other occasions too – that look that distinguishes “them” from “us”. She’d thought that it was down to her habit of reading as she walked. But she hasn’t got a book now, so what is it that marks them out to passers-by as outsiders, intruders, aliens? Perhaps it’s Comisario Venturini’s sports jacket, which isn’t quite appropriate for a country club on a Saturday afternoon, much less so the silk handkerchief with Bulgarian motifs tucked into his breast pocket; or it could be Jaime Brena’s leather moccasins that scrape against the asphalt, th
reatening sparks, or the white dress shirt he wears unbuttoned at the neck but with stays in the collar. The two who blend in best with their surroundings are the Crime boy and Nurit Iscar – who selected her clothes this morning with that specific aim. She’s been studying the dress code these last few days at La Maravillosa and although she isn’t quite ready for sweatpants, she’s noticed that jeans and trainers don’t attract attention, so this is what she wears, day and night. The Crime boy blends in because he’s wearing khaki trousers – like fatigues, with lots of pockets – plus trainers and a white round-necked T-shirt. Designer sportswear would have been the best apparel in which to pass unnoticed.
The group walks on. Back at the house, Carmen Terrada is making maté, Paula Sibona – fully dressed – is trying to harness the last of the afternoon rays to get at least her face tanned. Nurit’s sons and their friends are kicking a ball about in the garden beside the pool. Juan’s girlfriend and her sister are attending to the toy poodle, who’s suffering from stress after his long confinement in the laundry room, and Anabella is picking up the wet towels, dirty glasses, leftovers, dog poo, half-smoked cigarettes and butt-ends that have been scattered the length of the garden.
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