Sweet money il-2

by Ernesto Mallo

  Miranda, seeing that Screw’s about to fall apart again, squeezes his arm to bring him around. He doesn’t want to hear any more about it. He has no room for his friend’s pain. Prison has left him with dead zones that will take a long time to come back to life.

  It’s okay, Screw, calm down. What can I do? You had to spend it, and you spent it on a good cause. The problem is, you didn’t let me know. ’Cause you know what, buddy, when you hear news like that your blood pressure goes up. You can’t think clearly and you don’t know what to do. Of course, I understand you… No, Mole, I’m sorry, but you don’t understand. Nobody who hasn’t gone through this can understand. Your head explodes. Nothing that mattered to you matters any more. Nothing makes sense any more. You feel totally alone, totally abandoned. All you can do is watch yourself suffer as you watch the disease consuming your daughter’s life and see that empty look in the doctors’ eyes that says that they don’t know anything, either, that there’s nothing they can do. Even what I’m telling you now doesn’t really get at it, Mole. I can’t find the words to tell you what I’m going through.

  Suddenly his friend is out of reach. All Mole can do is look at him: Screw brings his hand to his forehead, drops his head again and a sigh comes out of his mouth that sounds like a muffled howl, almost inaudible, but that makes Miranda’s bones twinge as if someone had used a cattle prod on him.

  As soon as I can I’ll get it back to you, Mole, I promise. Do me a favour and cut the crap about the dough, Screw. Okay, Mole, thank you. Yeah, cut the crap. I gotta go. Take it easy.

  Miranda stands up to give his friend a hug, but Screw avoids it, holds out his hand in a brief moment of desperation, then leaves without looking back. Mole watches him through the window as he turns the corner and disappears into the night. He finishes the beer in three gulps, pays and leaves. It’s cold outside.

  He starts walking. This is one thing he never expected. Screw’s miserable face has remained stamped on his retina like a curse. And what if tomorrow the test comes out bad, and it turns out he’s condemned like Screw’s daughter? What would he do if something like that happened to his son? He pushes that thought away with a grunt. He can’t even conceive of it. Miranda is capable of facing anything, rising to any occasion, but he doesn’t do well with problems he can’t do anything to fix, situations where the only possible course of action is no action, merely acceptance. Acceptance is an art that nobody would dream of practising voluntarily. It’s always imposed on us by the most implacable of tyrants: Mother Nature. The closest Miranda has ever come is resignation, which he’s practised every time human justice has placed him behind bars. But resignation is temporary, and even while it lasts, you can always do something, plan something, think about a future or find a crack — doing yourself in? — to escape through. But acceptance is reserved for when there is absolutely no other option, when it’s the only choice left.

  He follows the same route he saw Screw take as he watched him through the window. Miranda watched him — alone, divorced from the world by a tragedy that places him out of reach of any comfort — knowing that he couldn’t do anything for his friend, that nobody could. But he has to do something for himself. He has very little money left. Soon it’ll be completely gone. He walks until his legs hurt, then he goes to his hideout and lies down, fully dressed, on the bed.

  The La Plata train station looks just like it did when he first saw it as a child. He’s on the platform looking through a window at Duchess and Fernando, his son, sitting in the waiting room. Suddenly the train whistle blows, the engine spews out a blast of steam, and it starts to move. But it’s not the train that’s moving, it’s the station. It’s not his wife and son who leave; it’s the station, it’s him. That image continues to cause him indescribable anguish for a long time after he’s already woken up.

  7

  Give me more morphine. Let’s see… what time is it? No, not yet, you’ll have to wait a few more hours. Why? We’ve got to save it for the night, when the pain gets much worse. So, give me some now, and again at night. No way. What, are you worried about me getting addicted? It’s a possibility, but what I’m really afraid of is that you won’t have the opportunity. It’s a wonderful drug, but the price is high and the bill comes due fast. If your blood pressure drops too much I won’t be able to do anything. Do you have any idea how much this hurts? No, I’ve never been shot. I wouldn’t wish it on you, I feel like I’m being torn apart at the seams. Listen, there’re many ways to deal with pain, and the way you’re dealing with it is the worst. Oh yeah, how’s that? You’re resisting it. What should I do? Relax, enjoy it. What the hell are you talking about? I’m not a masochist. That’s not what I’m talking about. What are you talking about? Have you ever stopped to think about the purpose of pain? To fuck up your life? No, to save it. If there were no pain, you wouldn’t realize you’d been shot, for example, and you’d bleed to death quite cheerfully. You’re right. Pain is the language your body uses to tell your brain that something’s wrong, where it’s wrong and how serious it is. I understand, but it could use gentler words. Pain is a force of nature, and nature doesn’t let its creatures ignore it when it has something to say. You can’t argue with nature. So? So, pain is a signal. And? When you resist it or try to ignore it, it’s not doing its job, and it will keep trying. Which means? Which means it will keep hurting. On the other hand, if you pay attention, it will have carried out its mission and will let up a little. If it were that simple we wouldn’t need painkillers. Painkillers block your perception of the pain for a short time, so you can rest. They help. Especially for men who are such wimps about pain. Are you calling me a wimp? All men are a bit wimpy about pain; if they ever gave birth they’d know what pain was. You can’t compare. What? Giving birth and getting shot. Okay, I won’t compare. Anyway, this business of you calling me a wimp, you’re just taking advantage of me because I’m wounded. If I wanted to take advantage of you, I wouldn’t give a damn about your wound.

  Just as the last words are leaving her mouth, Ramona turns her back on him, picks up the tea tray and walks toward the house. Lascano watches her. Her straight black hair dances to the cadence of her walk. He wonders how it would feel sliding down his belly. Desire shines in his eyes, which she can no longer see, desire she guessed at long before Lascano even had a clue he felt it. She reminds him of Eva.

  As fleeting as their meeting was, it has left its mark on him, as only true love can. Before Eva, there was Marisa, the woman he loved without a shadow of a doubt and who abandoned him forever when she died, just when he loved her more than ever. His grief lasted until he met Eva, who looked so much like Marisa that it was like she had come back for act two. With Marisa’s death, he’d lost all hope of ever finding love, he’d become some kind of ascetic who could only be aroused by memory or fantasy. Eva erupted into his life with the power of a gale-force wind or, as Ramona would put it, like a force of nature. With her animal love, she reinfected him with the virus of desire. The indisputable urge for a woman’s body. She reminded him that his physical being was subject to the imperatives of the species, imperatives that demand, for moments of dazzling urgency, that this thing hanging between his legs be inserted into one precise spot, that it has a purpose it must carry out. Men disguise this urge to conquer, equate it with the hunting of prey, think we’re in charge when we are really just submitting to the imperatives of reproduction. Not to mention that the best part of the hunt is really when we are being hunted.

  The afternoon sun falls slowly behind the eucalyptus trees. The leaves quiver. Friday’s first star makes its appearance in the dark sky. Lascano hears the sound of the screen door opening, Ramona’s steps on the quartzite path set with shells. The breeze carries her perfume ahead of her, announcing her arrival.

  Time to go inside. Will you give me a hand? That’s what I’m here for.

  Lascano no longer needs help getting up. They both know that, but Ramona leans down so he can put his arm around her shoulders. She holds
him around the waist and helps him stand up. Once on his feet, he closes his eyes to better feel this woman’s proximity. In his mind he inevitably makes comparisons. Where he expects to find a curve, there’s bone; where his hand predicts hair, there’s smoothness. His touch remembers, longs for another body. There’s something false about this closeness. His reservations are fleeting, the unexpected makes way for curiosity.

  I’m not so sure you still need help. You have no idea how much I do.

  When they get to the bedroom, he sits down on the bed; she stands there looking at him. He doesn’t have the patience for insinuations. Just as he’s about to speak, she places her finger on his lips. She goes and switches off the light, walks to the window, opens it and pulls open the shades. A powerful scent of jasmine wafts into the room. Ramona sits down next to him. Lascano lets himself collapse, his head coming to rest on her lap, then looks up at her. The rest of the world is in suspense. She is staring off at the leaves in the garden; he can tell she is also missing someone. Perhaps she too is curious and wants to find out what there is besides this attraction. Maybe she’s afraid, as he is. Then Lascano does what he must, he overcomes his fear, sits up, puts his arms around her, kisses her, touches her, undresses her, caresses her. Slowly, she joins in and starts playing the game, dancing to the music of the breath, the cadence of the blood, the piping of the flutes, the glances, the creaking of wood, the blowing of the bellows, the plucking of the strings, the pulsing, banging marimbas, vibraphones, kettledrums, which bear them aloft to the end, where she, already sated, begs him to come, for now she wants to receive his warm semen, this other semen, a final ringing of chimes, once, twice and again… the telephone, it’s the telephone that keeps ringing.

  Leaving Lascano alone with the aftereffects of a stupendous session of loveless sex, Ramona gets up and walks across the room naked, as majestic as the Seventh Fleet entering the Mediterranean. Lascano lies back in bed, enjoying the release of tension and the cool night air on his overheated body. The effort has left him exhausted, and the pain of his chest wound has returned, steady and implacable. From the adjacent room he hears Ramona’s voice but not her words. He hears a tone of urgency, a vibration of alarm. Lascano sits up, suddenly and totally alert. When she returns, the expression on her face tells him immediately that recess is over. She quickly starts getting dressed. Fear propels her haste.

  We have to get out of here. What’s going on? Jorge’s dead. What? You heard. How? The official story is that he had a heart attack in his office, but they think they killed him. Who? I didn’t ask; what’s more, I don’t want to know. I’ll help you get dressed. Where are we going? I don’t know, we’ll think of somewhere on the way. Did they tell you we were in danger? They told me we should make ourselves scarce, very scarce.

  8

  Miranda’s gait reflects his anxiety. One part of him just wants to get it over with, wants to know already, but the other part of him is scared to death. The news about Noelia, Screw’s daughter, plays over and over in his head like a stubborn melody. Then there’s Andres’s eyes… and Villar’s ghost, chiding him at every turn. That pink spot that appeared under his nipple. This morning his eyes were very red when he got up. Maybe it’s the price you pay, he thinks, for a year of buggering a dude, and so much for his excuse that’s it was just for survival, for the release he needed. Maybe he should have been stoical and made do only with masturbating.

  He walks through the lobby of the laboratory. When the elevator doors open he finds himself face-to-face with a guy who’s got death tattooed all over him. His dim, sunken eyes seem to be interrogating him. Miranda steps aside at the same moment and in the same direction as the sick man. The action repeats itself until finally they coordinate and each one goes on his way. He no longer has any doubts: this encounter has confirmed his worst fears that he is doomed. Now nothing will have any meaning. His dearth of funds, Noelia’s illness, Duchess and her supposed lovers. In this case, he thinks, everything will boil down to one simple question: should he slash his wrists with a razor blade? As he walks up to the counter where they give out the test results, he thinks about his own funeral and the image of his son standing next to his coffin makes his throat constrict. The beautiful young woman in white attends efficiently to those waiting in line to pick up the results of their tests. When it’s his turn, Miranda feels like his heart is about to explode. The girl hands him the envelope and notices how his hand is shaking. She looks him in the eye and offers him a splendid smile:

  No need to worry, sir, if it was positive the doctor would have given it to you personally.

  Miranda has a moment of surprise before feeling like the biggest idiot on the planet. But what really pisses him off is that this divine young thing has just called him sir. He’s a new man when he re-emerges on the street and tears open the envelope: Antibodies ANTI-HIV1/ HIV2… Negative (ELISA). He crumples up the piece of paper and throws it in a trash can. It’s a sunny morning and life itself is singing through the streets.

  He spends the rest of the day re-establishing contacts, digging around, finding out what people are up to. Who lost, who died, who’s bolted, what’s in the works, and what’s up with the Federal Police, dubbed by themselves in typically modest Argentinean fashion as “the best in the world”. He collects information here and there, patiently gathering facts and more facts, by telephone and in the cafes where the denizens of his world hang out. The panorama starts to take shape in his head, a map of the current situation and future possibilities. On the one hand, he’s angry. For a long time he’d been mulling over the idea of fundamentally changing his life, of starting a legitimate business, something tranquil, of keeping out of trouble, finally giving Duchess the life she’s been wanting for as long as he can remember. Settling down, becoming the family man he thinks he is deep down and welcoming his grandchildren when they come along. Maybe, just maybe, when his time is up, he’ll die peacefully in his own bed. But now that he knows his money has been devoured by Noelia’s illness, none of that will be possible. Not in the short run at least. He’s up a blind alley, and this setback pisses him off. Again he has to resort to a bank job, but the more he thinks about it, the more the anger begins to give way to a quite different sensation. Something akin to vertigo lodges in the pit of his stomach and sends currents of electricity to his muscles, focuses his vision and lets him shake off the last traces of lethargy left over from prison. This heist, he promises himself briefly, will be the last one. It will be the heist to end all heists. Now the world ceases to be merely a place where people are walking past him engaged in their own affairs, attending to their business, going to their dismal little jobs and enacting their tiny ambitions. The Earth is now a game reserve, a free zone where anything is possible. Everywhere transactions are taking place. How much money is there in Buenos Aires on any single day? In people’s pockets, in cash registers, in offices… in bank safes. It’s a simple matter of making a minuscule portion of it land in his pocket. And he’s going to figure out how: choose a target, calculate probabilities, scope out the scene, take measurements, calculate timing, find access and escape routes and carefully choose cohorts. He’ll need brave but not reckless people. Must avoid psychopaths and murderers, find guys who like the good life, not those who enjoy making other people suffer. Killing and violence must be avoided. Intimidation is one thing; murder quite a different one. The dead are expensive, concrete; money, on the other hand, is abstract, worth only what you can buy with it and that’s always in flux. Victims have friends, relatives who adore them, avengers who never forget. Life lost never returns; money can always be recovered. Money can also be given back or used to buy impunity. Death can only be avenged, and if it’s the law that settles accounts, it’s called justice. The only true revenge is the death of the killer. The chain can go on forever. Perhaps if Cain hadn’t killed Abel there’d be no wars today. That’s assuming, of course, that the story actually took place.

  He’s made three observations he considers impo
rtant. One: many police stations are being renovated; they’re surrounded by workers, materials, barriers and containers. Two: many banks are also being renovated; the scene is similar to that at the stations. Three, and this is a real boon: in a few days Independiente play the final match of the Intercontinental Cup against Liverpool in Tokyo. Miranda smiles. Rarely has there been such a favourable convergence. His mind soars as it catalogues each and every detail he must take into account in order to execute a plan that he’s already sketched out in his head.

  He walks back to his hideout. He arrives at that uncertain hour when daylight is still in the sky, but at street level it’s already night. He carefully chooses the outfit he’s going to wear and lays it out on the bed. Dark suit, white shirt, a Liberty of London flowery tie, a bit shabby but the flowers are still in bloom. Boxer shorts and cotton socks. He shaves, showers, dries himself off, douses himself in cologne, lies down in bed naked and turns on the television set. He likes to air himself out after bathing. Now he can do it, now that he has begun to enjoy his freedom. He turns on the TV and watches the new Chief of Police giving a press conference. In fact, he’s talking precisely about the plans to renovate the local precinct stations in order to improve public service. The journalist points to a logo on a patrol car that reads: “To serve the community”, which the chief says reflects the new philosophy that must infuse such an institution in a participatory and democratic society. The true change, Mole thinks, is in the way people talk. The language he uses sounds more educated, more refined. The police higher-ups no longer speak in street slang, they’re starting to act more like politicians than policemen. He dozes off. Bernando Neustadt, the TV commentator, wakes him up with his sissy voice. He expresses his disappointment, he misses the iron fist of the armed forces. Miranda turns off the TV. He gets up and gets dressed. It’s time to take his final exam, and he feels like he knows the material backward and forward.