“Tell El Peque that I’ll drop by to say hi later on,” she said.
As well as the cookies, Verónica had with her a bag containing the clothes she had bought for Rafael and which he had left in her apartment. Rafael seemed quiet, but he made an effort to look pleased to see her. She was also happy to see him safe and sound and surrounded by the three females in his life. For lunch Rafael served up his mother’s home-made gnocchi. Martina eyed her with suspicion. She must still be thinking that Verónica was her father’s girlfriend. You’ll get older and understand, Verónica thought. Andrea and her mother, on the other hand, treated her kindly, but she couldn’t help thinking that both mother and ex- (or current) wife shared some of Martina’s mistrust, and so she didn’t feel entirely comfortable during the lunch.
Afterwards, Rafael offered to take her over to see Dientes and El Peque. First they went to see Dientes. His mother wanted to invite her in, but she declined the offer. The mother treated Verónica formally, deferring to her as though she were in a position of authority. She thanked her for all she had done and for getting the police and the prosecutor to rescue her son. Verónica asked her permission to take him, with El Peque, to do some shopping. She was happy to agree, as was El Peque’s mother.
“Where are we going?” Dientes asked when Verónica opened the back door of the car for them.
“To find a sports shop.”
“I know where there’s one,” El Peque shouted.
Once inside the shop she got them to choose some soccer boots and, since it was there, she gave each of them an Argentina shirt.
“Boys, I promise you that next time I’m going to bring you each a shirt from the best team in the world: Atlanta.”
She took them back home and dropped in on Rafael’s family to say goodbye to them all. The boys walked her back to the car and, as she drove away, they stood waving until she could no longer see them in the rear-view mirror. She felt strange – not happy, but satisfied. She was tying up some loose ends in her life. That was no bad thing.
Sunday was a day of reflection and inner turmoil. If she had done everything correctly the day before, why didn’t she feel like continuing in the same vein? She set to scanning all the material Federico had given her on Juan García. In a Word document she wrote a brief summary of their conversation and of her thoughts regarding these documents. Then she attached them to an email for Rodolfo Corso. She wrote:
Dear Rodo,
I hope that you’re well. You were asking about García, and here he is. I can’t do anything else because I’ve made certain promises. But I imagine that you’d be delighted to see that bastard’s face again. Good luck and take care. Love, Verónica.
On Monday morning the first thing she did was take out a bottle of Rutini from the cupboard and go down to the front hall. As she had guessed, Marcelo was there. He wasn’t sweeping because he couldn’t use his right arm, but he was still overseeing the final stage of the repairs to the entrance. Verónica gave him the bottle of wine.
“Today isn’t our anniversary.”
“It doesn’t matter, I owe you a whole cellar full.”
And finally that day she returned to the newsroom, before the others, because she didn’t want to arrive when everyone else was already there. She was afraid that they would burst into applause, like in one of those Hollywood movies when someone returns from waging battle. Gradually her colleagues appeared, greeting her with affection. The only one who seemed less than effusive was Álex Vilna. He must be resentful because she had wrecked his car and didn’t have the slightest intention of paying for the damage with sex. Patricia arrived and greeted her as though she had never been away. She reminded her that at two o’clock that afternoon there would be an editorial meeting with all the writers from the section. Verónica realized that she had nothing prepared, and no ideas for a piece. She checked the time. It was a quarter to two. She had fifteen minutes to put together a pitch. Like any journalist worth her salt, that meant she had ten minutes left over to invent three or four proposals that would convince any editor.
V
They got on the 114v bus on Zelarrayán and Albariño and didn’t get off until they had crossed the Sarmiento railway on Avenida Segurola. They retraced their steps for a few yards and got into the space between the walls of the buildings and the tracks. It was hot. The midday sun hit hard and, even though summer hadn’t arrived, you could feel it coming. Dientes and El Peque were wearing the Atlanta shirts that Supergirl had sent them. Martina was wearing a Los Piojos T shirt from their album Civilización. It had a strange illustration on it, like a devilish face.
They walked along beside the line, scuffing their feet or kicking the loose stones. The tracks, like the sky, were clear and the rails shone with the reflection of the sun’s rays.
“I don’t know why you’re wearing Atlanta shirts.”
“They’re a present from Supergirl.”
“Ah, her. She only gave me some chocolates.”
“You’re not in the superteam, just your dad and us.”
“What am I in, then?”
They walked a few more yards then stopped to rest in the shade supplied by some trees.
“Right,” said Martina, taking a deep breath and reprising, apparently, an earlier conversation. “So how did it work exactly?”
Dientes and El Peque stepped out of the shade and stood on the tracks.
“It was like this, see? We stood beside one another.”
The boys adopted the stance of goalkeepers before a free kick.
“Both at the same point. You couldn’t go in front or behind.”
“And you could see the train coming from far away because it’s got a light on the front.”
“An enormous headlight.”
“No, it was two lights.”
“And you had to wait.”
“As long as you could. Without shitting yourself.”
“Then, when the train was really, really close, you jumped to the side. Like this.”
At which Dientes leaped off the rail and rolled onto the ground. El Peque then did the same, but he fell onto some sleepers on the other line. They got up and looked at Martina, as though waiting for her approval or admiration.
“What a stupid game.”
“You’re saying that because you never did it. There’s a reason why they never ask girls to jump.”
“It was just for men, not girls.”
“Ah, just for brave men like you. Supergirl, save me, Supergirl!”
“That was Dientes.”
“I didn’t shout like that. She just turned up when I was running back.”
Far away, in the direction of Plaza Miserere, they could see a train. Dientes and El Peque walked over to where Martina was and stood there. The train came closer and the boys watched it wordlessly. When it drew level with them it made a deafening noise and the ground shook underneath all three of them. They could hardly see the people sitting behind the windows in the compartments. The train rushed by, creating a warm breeze. Dientes grabbed a stone and threw it after the train. Then El Peque did the same.
“I won. I threw it further.”
“Shall we go?” Martina said.
They walked back along the gravel path. El Peque played in the middle of the track, jumping over the sleepers. Dientes and Martina paid him no attention. They reached the railway crossing and turned right. Somebody, seeing where they were coming from, shouted:
“You shouldn’t go on the tracks, it’s dangerous.”
They agreed, to escape a lecture, and kept on walking. On Calle Yerbal the cars and pedestrians sloped by at a weary pace befitting the hot afternoon.
“I’ve got ten pesos,” said Dientes, taking a crumpled note out of his pocket. “We can buy a Coke or three ice creams.”
“Coke.”
“Coke.”
“Here or back home?”
“Let’s go home,” said Martina.
They walked to the bus stop, counting out coins fo
r the journey home. Dientes on one side, El Peque on the other and Martina in the middle. Scuffing their feet and contemplating the city and the people with indifference.
The Fragility of Bodies Page 34