So, you had me surrounded, did you? And I believed you, hands down, Perro, you won that round.
Lascano smiles. Mole looks around, as if trying to find a way to escape but knowing he won’t find one. At any moment it’s going to start to rain. There’s a cigarette stand across the street.
How about you let me buy some smokes? I’m going to need company where I’m going. I’ll buy them for you, what’s your poison? American, any brand.
Lascano motions to Maldonado. He takes out a pair of handcuffs and Mole puts his hands behind his back to let him put them on. They walk to the car. Lascano tells him to sit in front. Maldonado stands two yards away from the car and keeps his eyes glued on Mole. Perro crosses the street and buys three packs of Marlboro and a disposable lighter. He returns. Maldonado waits until Lascano sits down behind Miranda, then gets into the driver’s seat. Because of the discomfort of the handcuffs, Mole sits crooked in the front seat.
Miranda asks permission to smoke. Lascano removes the cellophane, opens the pack, takes out a Marlboro and lights it, experiencing a powerful deja vu. Resisting a mighty desire to inhale the smoke, he places the cigarette between Mole’s lips. Miranda breathes in deeply; when he exhales, the car fills with smoke, sinking Lascano into memories of his former life.
Hey, guys, you know what I like to do more than anything else in the whole world?… Give money away. That’s ’cause you’re a jerk, Mole. Refined folks say it’s in bad taste to give money away. Refined folks don’t say that, the rich do. Because the rich don’t like freedom. Is that so? No, Perro, when you give someone money, you’re giving them freedom. How’s that? Yeah, the freedom to choose, which is the only real freedom we have. Wow, that’s really interesting. Obviously, when someone gives you cash, they’re giving you the freedom to decide the what, the who and the where to spend it. Any other gift, they’re also giving you a purpose, a task to carry out. You are obliged to use it, take care of it, keep it. When you give an object as a gift, you’re also giving a prohibition: that they can’t give it to anybody else. Objects are a constant reminder that you are indebted to the person who gave it to you. An object is almost like a curse. But cash isn’t like that.
Lascano remains quiet, listening to him with half a smile. Maldonado looks at him in the rearview mirror.
You hear that, kid, now he wants to give us a gift, a gift of cash? What’s wrong with that? What’s wrong is that it contradicts your very own philosophy, Miranda. Why? Because you aren’t offering us this little gift for nothing, but in exchange for letting you go. So? What “so”? Wasn’t a gift of money supposed to be a gift of freedom? Yes. Well, in this case the only freedom you’re proposing is your own. Because we’ll pay the price of giving up all the things we freely believe in. No deal, Mole, I’m sorry. I’m sorrier, believe me.
They enter the station five minutes later. Maldonado speaks briefly with the officer on guard, then leads Mole to a private cell. They don’t book him; nothing gets written down. Lascano and Maldonado leave together, get in the car and drive to the train station. As Perro gets out of the car, he assures Maldonado he’ll come tomorrow to pick Miranda up.
21
He wakes up late. He feels like he’s been trampled by the Seventh Cavalry. The day before would have been too much for anybody: he moved out of his pension and into Fuseli’s apartment; he is certain that’s just what Fuseli would have wanted him to do. His encounter with Eva’s parents was like a hammer blow to his head, and the coup de grace was catching Mole off guard, so to speak. Now he hasn’t a moment to lose; a guy like Miranda has more tricks up his sleeve than a card shark. He checks the time then dials Pereyra. He wants to get an arrest warrant so he can bring Miranda from the Haedo station to the courthouse. Once he’s delivered him signed and sealed, he can go and get his money from Fermin. He has very little hope of finding any of the stolen money; in fact, he has no hope at all. He gets Pereyra’s answering machine. He leaves a message, asking him to get in touch as soon as possible.
Vanina spends the twenty minutes Marcelo is late putting up stoically with the gaping stares of the lawyers who fill the Usia Cafe. She had planned to carry out this little conversation in the kindest, most loving way possible, but waiting for him and being drooled over have soured her mood. A few days earlier a man came to the university to give a class on the theory of colour. He’s an architect, about forty-five years old, who stopped designing buildings and now devotes himself to the fine arts. He stands in front of the class with his dirty-blond beard, his turtleneck sweater and his Clark suede boots. She doesn’t know how it happened, but she went to see him at his studio in San Telmo, to take a painting class with him, and they ended up in bed. Now she thinks she should break up with Marcelo. She’s eager to be free so she can live fully this new love, discover the infinite world of art with Martin guiding her. She can’t decide whether or not to tell Marcelo about him, so she decides to decide when the time comes. She looks again at her watch — half an hour is really too long — and motions to the waiter to bring her the bill. She feels relieved she doesn’t have to confront the issue right away, but the relief doesn’t last long: Marcelo is entering the cafe. His hair is mussed up and he’s carrying a bundle of papers under his arm. In a split second, she feels contempt foreverything this man isn’t and she wishes he were.
I’m so, so sorry. You’re hopeless, Marcelo. I’m really sorry. I was just about to leave. Lucky you didn’t. I don’t think it’s lucky. What’s going on, Vanina? What’s going on is that I want it to end. Want what to end? Don’t play dumb. Our relationship, what else? Why? Because it’s not going anywhere. Is this because I got here fifteen minutes late? A half-hour. Okay, a half-hour. No, it’s not. So what’s going on? It’s because of you, of me, of us. I don’t think I can live the kind of life I want to live with you. What kind of life do you want to live? I don’t know, more poetic, more artistic. You spend your life buried under piles of papers. Just look at you. You met someone else, didn’t you? No. Don’t bullshit me. I swear, Marcelo, I didn’t. What happened last night? Nothing. You said you’d come over and you never showed up and never called. It didn’t seem to have worried you very much. I called and you didn’t answer, then I called your parents. Your mother didn’t know what to tell me. Here you go, acting like a prosecutor even when it’s about us. No, Vanina, I was worried. Why did you call my parents’ house? I just told you… Look, I need my freedom. Tell me the truth. The truth is, I don’t love you any more. Are you sure? Yes, I am, and I’m sorry. There’s nothing to be sorry about. We really should talk more but I have to go now. It’s my fault, I was late. If you want, we can meet later. I don’t know, I have a lot of studying to do. Okay. Are you okay? I don’t know. Well, call me if anything comes up. I’ll call you if anything comes up.
Marcelo watches her leave the cafe. He’s sure of it: she’s met somebody else. He feels wretched. Vanina is everything he’s ever dreamt of in a woman.
He always believed he’d end up marrying her and having two or three kids. This was totally unexpected. He watches her cross the street and disappear into the crowd milling around the courthouse. Is that how somebody walks out of your life? Her lipstick has left an imprint of her lips on the coffee cup. The day begins under the pall of lost love. The sudden anticipation of all the problems he’ll have to deal with at work turn his sadness into a formidable surge of ill temper and he jumps out of his chair.
The telephone starts to ring the second he enters his office. He grabs it and it slips through his fingers, falling at his feet. He picks it up, still ringing, and presses a button as if it were the trigger on an atomic bomb.
Yes… What’s up Lascano?… I was about to call, I just got to my office… That’s fine, we’ll talk about it later, but right now, something urgent… I understand, but this can’t wait… The Giribaldi thing is happening today… This afternoon… As soon as I get there I’ll arrange everything and call you… Okay… No problem… Better still… Yes… we’ll talk in a bit.
>
Perro finishes his shower. He looks at himself in the mirror. Every day he spends a few minutes contemplating that scar that decorates his chest. It’s a pale island in the shape of a half moon. It still hurts if he touches it in the middle, but around the edges there’s no feeling whatsoever. Once, under circumstances he can’t recall, Fuseli told him that our scars are there to remind us of the past. Now, as he’s getting dressed, he feels like he’s about to crash headlong into that past. Soon, he’ll be with Pereyra, striking fear into the heart of the man who ordered his death. The fearsome Giribaldi himself, a man mentioned over and over again by the few survivors of Coti Martinez detention centre in the report, called Never Again, which documented the torture, murders and disappearances carried out by the military. Famous for giving his victims lessons in morality with the cattle prod in his hand, he wrote on the wall of his torture chamber: If you know, sing; if not, singe. As he walks out, he dedicates a thought to all those who will leave their houses today and never return.
22
A storm darkens the afternoon. With perfect synchronicity, he walks out of the door of the building at the very moment a bolt of lightning illuminates the streets, thunder crashes and the rain pours down, rain Lascano can’t help thinking must be dirty. He feels a chill, thinks these are bad omens, has a foreboding — almost a certainty — that something very grave is about to happen. He lifts the collar of his jacket and starts walking up Aguero toward Cabrera. As he gets into a cab, a wave of nausea washes over him, a taste of how he’s going to feel in a few minutes when he sees Giribaldi. By the time the cab stops, the rain has turned into a veil hanging in the air, drenching the world. Two squad cars and two Falcons without number plates are parked in front of the building. Marcelo is talking to a uniformed officer and four patrolmen stand off to one side, smoking and chatting. There’s tension in the air, and Lascano is not the only one who feels it. What he wouldn’t give right now for a cigarette. Marcelo holds out his pale, cold hand in greeting, then takes Lascano’s arm and walks through the door held open by the doorman. They are followed by the officer and one of the policemen. The doorman brings up the rear, waiting until the four men get into the elevator. When the light on the panel shows that they’ve reached the first floor, he picks up the intercom and presses a button.
Giribaldi is checking the cleaning supplies when the buzzer sounds. The doorman whispers to him through the intercom that the police are on their way up to his apartment. He rushes out of the kitchen, takes four long strides down the hallway and enters his office. He finds the box where he keeps his nine millimetre, takes it out, checks to make sure it is loaded, cocks it and places it in the large top drawer of his desk. The bell rings. He takes a deep breath. He walks slowly to the front door and opens it.
Yes. Good afternoon. Good afternoon. Are you Mr Leonardo Giribaldi? At your service. I am Marcelo Pereyra, Public Prosecutor for the Third Criminal Court. I have a search warrant. May we come in? Please. Is there anybody else at home? No, I’m here alone.
As if they were performing a carefully rehearsed dance routine, Giribaldi moves aside, and Marcelo and Lascano open the way for the policemen to enter the apartment. Giribaldi stares at Lascano, obviously recognizing him. Pereyra motions to Giribaldi to go in ahead, and they follow him into his office through the first doorway down the hallway. The major sits down at his desk and motions to them to have a seat in front of him. The officer appears and indicates to the prosecutor that he has searched the house and everything is under control. Marcelo carries out the legal formalities, informing Giribaldi that he is under arrest and reading him his rights. Giribaldi looks at him as if from a great distance, absolutely indifferent to his words. He looks down: through the crack of the open drawer he can see the black grip of his fearsome Glock.
Lascano has a hard time believing that this is the same man who held so many lives in the palm of his hand, who doled out so many deaths on a whim. But now, facing him, he cannot see even a trace of the confident and implacable tyrant he once was. That is a defeated man sitting behind that desk. The cruel sheen in his eyes has completely faded, and they now express nothing but insensible resentment. Nothing remains, there’s nothing to wait for, no hope is left. Suddenly, he turns his eyes on Lascano, and in a harsh voice, as if he were barking orders at his troops, he interrupts Marcelo.
I recognize you. Yes, we have seen each other. You’re Lascano, that traitor of a cop who was hiding a subversive. Excuse me, but you are the one under arrest. If you think this is where it ends, you’ve got another thing coming.
Lascano goes on high alert. He moves his hand slowly toward his shoulder holster. He can see from the look in Giribaldi’s eyes that behind that calm exterior he is completely nuts. He knows that anything could happen at any moment. Marcelo starts up where he left off. Giribaldi stands up, does an about face, opens the window and returns to his chair. He smiles scornfully.
I suddenly smelt something putrid: a traitor’s shit. You two probably don’t smell it because you’re used to it, but I find it unbearable.
Giribaldi again looks down. Here he is, Lascano of all people, coming to finish him off, put an end to the little bit of life left to him. This is the collapse, the final act. He looks up and meets Lascano’s eyes. His mind is racing as it always does when he is about to go into action. He wonders, as a challenge to himself, if he’d have time to grab the gun and shoot both Lascano and Pereyra before they can defend themselves. He’s not used to having doubts, but now he hesitates. He imagines the report. The nine millimetre is a loud weapon.
Giribaldi doesn’t answer any of Pereyra’s questions. He doesn’t even hear them. He looks at him not only with resignation but also astonishment at the young man’s insolence. He stands up and walks over to the window. He sees the squad cars, the Falcons and the other policemen on the street. He looks at the time. Any moment now Maisabe and Anibal will be arriving. He sits back down at his desk, rocks back and forth in his chair and looks at Marcelo and Lascano with opaque eyes. Marcelo shows impatience, stands up and walks out of the room. He suspected this might happen. Giribaldi realizes he has gone to get the policemen so they can place him under arrest. The image of General Videla, entering the court in handcuffs like a common thief, flashes through his mind.
You got away from me, Lascano… I was lucky… Just like the rest of you: we won the war but now you’re going to beat us at peace. There never was a war, Giribaldi. This peace, this “democracy”, Lascano, we made it happen. The civilians stayed at home with their tails between their legs when the commies came with their bombs and their kidnappings. Don’t give me that shit, Giribaldi, there’s no justification for what you did. And now it’s people like you, who we let live, who are going to judge us. It’s our own damn fault, we should have finished the job.
Suddenly that face, that monstrous gaze of this merciless man, turns into a twisted grin of pain but also awe at what he knows he is about to do. Lascano feels a cold chill run up and down his spine. He clutches the handle of his gun. He has a moment of insight and knows for certain that they won’t both come out of there alive, like in a duel scene in an old Hollywood western. Giribaldi’s mind is empty and silent, but the next instant an engine explodes inside of him, his jugular vein bulges.
Here, Lascano, here’s something you’ll never forget…
He moves with the speed he’s so good at mustering: he rises, pushes the chair back against the wall, grabs his gun, pulls it out of the box, puts the barrel in his mouth and… Lascano barely has time to draw his gun halfway out of the holster when Giribaldi flies backward, landing in his chair, his head banging against the seat back then falling forward on his chest. From his nostrils spurt two streams of blood that flow down onto his shirt; the gun drops out of his hand and his arms hang by his sides. The bullet, passing through the walls of the skull, has left the imprint of a bloody mandala on the wall behind Giribaldi — it frames his dead face, like the halo of a macabre saint. Silence. Footsteps. Pereyra bu
rsts in, the two policemen behind him.
Holy Christ! What the hell happened? He pulled a gun and blew his brains out. I didn’t have time to do anything.
Perro, still shattered by the shock, staggers out of the room. Pereyra gives an order to call the coroner. For a split second of hope, Lascano imagines that Fuseli will be the one to show up, as he has so many times in the past. He walks into the living room and collapses into a chair. On the wall in front of him hangs the pennant of the Colegio Militar, with its image of a castle chess piece surrounded by a laurel wreath. Pereyra comes up to him, sits down, takes out a pack of cigarettes and offers one to Lascano. He looks at it as if it were a lover who had jilted him. He reaches out his hand, but seconds before grabbing it he lifts his palm in a gesture of refusal. He’s sweating. He stands up, walks over to the window, opens it and goes out onto the balcony. Below, standing next to the patrol car, a woman with a child is talking to the officer. He turns and enters the building. Lascano returns from the balcony. Pereyra stubs out his cigarette. Perro walks through the final cloud of smoke and inhales deeply. The apartment is full of police. The officer who was talking to the woman approaches them.
Sir, the wife and child are down below. Don’t let them up, I’m going down.
Pereyra and Lascano look at each other, wondering who will be the one to tell her the news. Without exchanging a word, they decide it will be Perro, because he is older. As if being that much closer to death confers upon him more authority. They ride the elevator down in silence. When they get to the ground floor, Marcelo opens the door and lets Lascano go out before him. Maisabe is a few yards away, standing in the street with her back to them, a policewoman on one side and the child on the other. As they start to walk toward them, the woman turns and looks at them, questioningly. Marcelo takes the child by the hand and asks him to come with him. Maisabe glues her eyes on Lascano.
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