This place is life, whereas Buenos Aires, for him and many others, is impregnated, contaminated with horror and death. His son is buried there — a wound that never heals or stops hurting. Lascano, his best friend, is there, lying in the street, gunned down like an animal by a military death squad. Through its cobbled streets and paved avenues echo the shouts of the tortured, the murdered, the young people thrown from aeroplanes into the sea and the cries of fathers, mothers, friends and lovers who will forever be missed. Return? To what? To whom? The murderers still walk around, enjoying their freedom and good health. When he thinks about his city, it seems like a place of perennial night, and its name, Buenos Aires, like a cruel joke.
18
As he makes his way down Callao toward Corrientes, Lascano thinks that the morning in 1536 when Pedro de Mendoza disembarked here must have been a morning like this one: its diaphanous sky, the temperature sweetly hovering around twenty-three degrees and a fresh and invigorating breeze explain why the spot was named Santa Maria de los Buenos Aires.
He crosses the avenue, preferring to walk along the plaza side of the street, where a group of men and women are practising Tai Chi. One of the young women, from the back, reminds him of Eva. He has a sensation of vertigo, a mingling of desires and fears. He also feels the urgent need to be held in someone’s arms. He sits down on a bench and observes her. She turns in slow motion, her hands seem to be floating in the air, and her body appears to have become part of the atmosphere. She bends over, as if curtsying to royalty, and stretches one arm out in front of her as she straightens out her bent leg and turns to face him. As she does so, her hair falls over her face. Another turn and again her back is to him. He knows she’s not Eva but still he remains there under the Araucaria trees in the plaza watching this dance that accompanies his memories: Eva is walking across his living room, a towel loosely wrapped around her, then turns and looks him in the eyes. It embarrassed him so much that he blushed, which made her smile with pride. She had an air of helplessness even though she was, is, a wild creature. She could cry for hours in the utmost despair, wallowing in her pain only to then brush it off as if it were a pest, imbue herself with magnificent power and relieve all her sorrows in a session of deep and intense lovemaking. That woman taught him the unbreakable connection between love and death, the one we try so hard to hide between the lines of ballads and madrigals.
Weary of his longing for that love, he turns his attention back to the plaza, where the girl has stopped dancing to his memories. His weariness leads him to the certainty that love has always been, for him, something that is lost as soon as it is found. He wonders if, after all, it isn’t like that foreverybody. Could it be that love dies as soon as we name it, trap it, try to possess it? Could it be that love either kills us or dies? Lascano feels a cry, a howl, a groan of pain lodged in his chest and squeezing his heart, trying but unable to pour out like lava flowing from an erupting volcano until it fills the skies with ash, darkening the Earth forever. The death of his parents when he was a child; Marisa, his wife, dying at the very moment they were most deeply in love; and Eva, her double, whom he loved briefly but with such intensity, and who was now lost somewhere in the world. He longs to find her but is also afraid. Who is she now, after all that has happened? Did she give birth to that child who wasn’t Lascano’s but might as well have been?
A gust of wind blows through the plaza and brings him back to the present. The Tai Chi practitioners gather their belongings and stand around chatting calmly. Perro stands up and crosses the plaza diagonally toward the service station. In front of Pizzurno Palace a crowd of men and women, dressed in white overalls, are protesting, demanding a raise, waving placards and making a lot of noise. He has allowed himself these moments of sorrow, a brief respite from the tasks in front of him. He has to find Miranda the Mole so he can make the money he needs to find Eva. He remembers her mentioning Brazil, Bahia to be more precise. But the map he looked at showed that, contrary to what he thought, Bahia is not a city but rather a province, and not a small one at that. His search will not be simple and he needs more facts to go on. He must find her parents. Eva talked to him about her childhood in Haedo… or might he have fabricated that memory out of his own desire and what Dandy told him about Miranda? He knows it won’t be easy to find Miranda or Eva’s parents, whether they are in Haedo or elsewhere. But they are the only leads he has.
At the foot of the stairs in front of the Palace of Justice a group of young women are dressed in caps and gowns and wearing mortarboards. They are handing out circulars for an information technology course for lawyers. Once in the foyer he consults his watch and sees that he is early. He turns down the corridor toward Lavalle and descends the narrow staircase to the basement, where the coroner’s office is located. A sixty-something-year-old man sits at the reception desk; he is lively and talkative and chews gum and bobs his head up and down like a woodpecker. Lascano stands right in front of him and puts on his best moronic — boludo — face.
Good morning. May I help you? I’m looking for Dr Fuseli.
As if he had said the magic word, the Woodpecker stops chewing, glues on him a questioning stare and lowers his voice.
Who wants him?
Lascano feels like the world has stopped turning. Is his friend here?
An old friend of his. What’s this old friend’s name? Lascano. I knew it was you. Don’t say another word. Meet me at six at La Giralda, right around the corner. I know where it is. See you there.
The man’s head starts bobbing again, as if Lascano weren’t there. Perro understands it’s time to leave; he does an about-face and climbs back up the staircase he just came down. He returns to the elevator and gets in the queue. When Prosecutor Pereyra called, he said he wanted to talk to him about the Biterman case. He was taken aback by that young voice that spoke to him with such familiarity, and to learn that someone had resurrected the case Perro had investigated and which had almost cost him his life. Biterman, a moneylender, had been killed by Perez Lastra, a poseur who’d fallen on hard times and owed Biterman a lot of money. The moneylender’s own brother was an accomplice. The body was dumped in an abandoned field next to the bodies of some young folks who’d been summarily executed by a death squad commanded by a friend of Lastra’s, Major Giribaldi. But when Lascano took the lid off, the military creep had his friend and Biterman’s brother killed, and while they were at it, Lastra’s wife and several other witnesses who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Most likely, Lascano thought, Pereyra wanted to prosecute Giribaldi for his involvement in those murders. Much of the evidence had disappeared and, best case, though improbable, he might get a short sentence for collusion and obstruction of justice. In the end, all they’d be able to pin on Giribaldi was the help he gave Lastra to dispose of the body; at the time it was impossible to hold that gang of brutal killers he commanded accountable for anything.
When Lascano walks into the prosecutor’s office, Pereyra is giving instructions to a young woman with long straight hair wearing what look to him like party clothes. The young man greets him with a friendly gesture, and Lascano can’t help but notice how much things have changed. These offices used to be inhabited by taciturn, musty old bureaucrats, dressed invariably in grey or brown. Now, the old farts are retiring, making way for these eager and multicoloured youths. He wonders if the change is a positive one. The prosecutor himself looks like a kid, or maybe Lascano’s just gotten old. As if he could hear him thinking, Pereyra looks up and straight at him. That’s when Lascano realizes he’s seen this kid before, though he can’t remember where. Pereyra says goodbye to the girl and doesn’t deprive himself of watching — a worthwhile activity — as she leaves. When he realizes that Lascano has caught him in the act, he raises his eyebrows in a show of innocence, complicity and regret. Lascano likes this guy.
How ’re you doing, Superintendent? I’m no longer a superintendent. That depends, as far as I know they haven’t let you go, seems there was sim
ply a problem with your file, it got lost and a lot of people on the force still think you’re dead. Whatever, I’m not active. That’s something we might be able to fix. I don’t know if that’s a good idea, the last one who tried is pushing up daisies. Turcheli? I see you are well informed. Sorry for asking, but have we met before? We’ve seen each other. Where? You’re young, and I’ve been out of the loop for a while. I worked in Marraco’s court…
In a flash the face he’s looking at gets superimposed on the face of that young pup who was working as a clerk for Judge Marraco when he was investigating the Biterman case.
That kid sure has done well. Not bad. Do you remember the Biterman case? Do I remember it? A day doesn’t go by that I don’t think about it. It almost cost me my life, among other things, and for what? Nothing ever came of it. Do you know what happened? No idea. When you brought that envelope with the evidence to Marraco, he had it sent on directly to Giribaldi. I’m not surprised, I always knew he was an brown-noser. I always thought that deep down he liked the military. He told me to take it to Giribaldi. So? So, I did, I gave it to Giribaldi, but not before I made and kept a copy. Did you ever find the murder weapon? Unfortunately not, it was auctioned off by the Banco de Prestamos. We never found the buyer, somebody from Cordoba or Tucuman. So what now? I want to arrest Giribaldi for the murder of a civilian. I don’t think you’ll get very far, Giribaldi didn’t kill Biterman, he was just Lastra’s accomplice, and even that will be difficult to prove. All the witnesses are dead. All except one: you. I don’t think you have a very strong case. I agree, but I have another motive. What’s that? Giribaldi played an important role in the death squads. He knows a lot about various issues I’m investigating. Like what? Basically, the disappeared and their children. And you think that if you press him on the Biterman case, you’ll get him to talk? What, you don’t think so? I think it won’t be easy, but it’s worth a try. That’s the idea. Can I count on you? For what? First of all, to testify in the Biterman case. No problem. And second? I’m going to arrest him for his involvement in the case. With your testimony, the judge will issue a warrant. What else? It would be important to have you there when I arrest him. I want Giribaldi to think the sky is falling, and when he sees you, that’s exactly what he’ll think. And me, what do I get out of this? Justice, Lascano, justice. Oh, that little word… anyway, count me in. When’s it going to happen? Soon, I’ll let you know.
At six o’clock on the dot, Lascano walks up to La Giralda. Just as he’s about to enter, he sees the man he came to meet leaning against the newspaper kiosk, smoking a cigarette. He goes up to him, making an enormous effort not to ask him for one.
Well, here I am, what have you got to tell me about Fuseli? I don’t know why I’m doing this. Fuseli was always kind to me, he always treated me right and he helped me whenever he could. Do you know where he is? To tell the truth, no, I don’t. Well, you asked me here, and now you’re being so mysterious, you must have something to tell me. Look, Lascano, Fuseli split. Oh. Some soldiers came for him, seems he was mixed up with some subversives because… As if that mattered. What? Nothing, nothing, go on. Well, the thing is, the same day they came for him he called me on the phone. Go on. He told me that if you ever showed up, I should give you the keys to his house… My wife cleaned the house for him… Once a week… I understand… Well, here are the keys. But please, don’t tell anybody I had them. Don’t worry. I am worried, I don’t want any trouble. It’s okay, thank you. Another thing. What? Fuseli left without paying my wife, because she kept going to clean after he left. Okay, in a few days I’ll stop by the courthouse and give you the money.
Fuseli’s place is on the corner of Aguero and Cordoba, a small one-room apartment on an enormous rooftop terrace. He opens the door and gets a blast of a damp and musty odour. It’s neat and clean and quiet. A film of dust has left a uniform greyish patina over every object and horizontal surface. He walks across the room and opens the French doors leading onto the terrace. He goes out. The sky is cold, smooth and bright. This is where he and his friend last talked. This is where Fuseli explained his theory about stars and ghosts. He said that many of the stars we see shining in the sky actually burnt out millions of years ago and that what we see now is the light still travelling through space. He said that people also emit radiation. And that, after they die, those waves can still reach the living, like the light from dead stars, and that’s what ghosts are. Lascano shakes his head and a pained smile appears on his face. Fuseli would always pontificate when he smoked pot. He’d go on and on with the wackiest ideas as if they were deep revelations, vastly important insights nobody could afford not to know, truths far and away above daily miseries and petty sorrows. He made you feel like a microbe, but a marvellous and unique microbe. The cantina that used to be on Aguero is gone; it was an awful place, but Fuseli, a gourmet of sorts, inexplicably liked it. Come on, let’s go to the cantina where you eat crap and it’s expensive and they treat you like shit. He looks back inside the apartment. His footsteps have left an imprint on the dust on the floor. They are perfect footprints in which you can read the brand and even count the lines on the bottoms of his shoes. Perro figures you should always examine your own footsteps that carried you to this particular present, this exact situation, whatever it may be, fortunate or dreadful, joyous or sorrowful. Then you should ask yourself: how do I feel? The word that takes shape in his head is: abandoned. A shiver runs up and down Lascano’s spine. He goes back inside the apartment. He looks around. The four bookshelves are full of books and photographs. Fuseli’s son is smiling out of a black frame, leaning his head a little to one side and holding a green ball with rough outlines of the continents. He, Lascano, appears in another photo, laughing, sitting and eating with Fuseli and a group of men from the force in a cantina in La Boca. He contemplates those youthful faces, still not brushed by the wings of death, by the corrosive breath of lasting sorrow. He picks up one corner of the quilt over the bed; in one quick movement, he shakes it and lets it fall on the floor, raising a cloud of dust that falls with it, but in slow motion. He lies down on the bed and stares at the ceiling. He’s sick and tired of feeling so alienated, so alone, of listening to his own laments. Sick of it and angry, and the anger fills him with renewed energy, and he decides that the time has come to look for Eva. This is his version of Fuseli’s theory about stars and ghosts: nobody disappears without leaving a trace, a footprint. Perhaps in this very apartment he’ll be able to find a clue to his friend’s whereabouts, but first, he decides, he’ll pursue every other possibility, because he feels a certain reticence about looking through his things, dissecting his intimacy, digging into his nooks and crannies, meddling in his hidden sorrows and joys, discovering his secret pleasures, uncovering those things he chose not to share with him.
19
Lascano looks out the train window on the way to Haedo and tries to remember the address he read so long ago in Eva’s police file. But no matter how hard he tries, he can’t summon up the name of the street he feels he has on the tip of his tongue. With only the name of a neighbourhood and the unreliable memories of their conversations, he has decided to go and look for her parents. He knows the family owns a shoe shop near the station. He got on the train with the hope of catching a whiff of either his lost love or the fugitive. He doesn’t even wonder which he’d choose if he could. He knows that in a battle between reason and passion, passion always triumphs.
He gets off the train and enters a bar, steps up to the counter and orders a cafe cortado from a young man who has an astonishing likeness to Popeye. He grinds the coffee, loads the basket, packs it in, adjusts the handle of the spout and presses the button, moving both hands at full speed to do an array of things simultaneously and with astonishing precision. The coffee tastes horrible.
Hey, kid, is there a good shoe store around here? I think there’s one past the station, down Moreno.
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