Eva’s reaction is immediate and extremely efficient. She quickly finds and gathers what’s most important. The experience of several years’ clandestine existence means she knows the order of priorities, the order to pack the bag. But she hates the return of this dizzy fleeing feeling. While she concentrates on her task, Lascano picks up the phone.

  Yes… Doctor Fuseli please… come on, come on…. yes, Doctor Fuseli… Hello, yes, Fuseli?… Perro… Bad, all bad… The cat’s out the bag… Really, when? Well, I know it’s my trail they’re on, but it’d be no surprise if they came after you too. It looks like the whole thing’s taken a very dark turn… Of course they must know, and even if they don’t, they’ll be finding out as we speak… I think the game’s up… I’m leaving right now… Not at all… Take them now… Have you got anywhere to go?… That’s fine, don’t tell me… You got cash?… OK… Yes, but I mean right now, you got it? Straight away… Good luck… Bye… and sorry to have mixed you up in this mess… Thanks… Bye… take care.

  Eva holds the bag in one hand, the door open with the other.

  All ready? Ready. Let’s go.

  They hurry out. Lascano stops.

  What’s up? We’re forgetting something. What?

  Perro turns on his heels and goes over to the birdcage. He opens the lid and takes the bird out carefully in his hand, goes over to the window, opens it and lets it loose.

  I had to let it go free, otherwise it would’ve starved to death. You’re such a sentimentalist, but I love you for it.

  The house is quiet. The bird stands with its tiny claws on the balcony handrail. From nowhere, fast as lightning, a cat jumps out, grabs the bird in its paws and sinks its fangs into its head, making the skull crack like a nut.

  28

  Wood pigeons flutter in the eucalyptus trees. It’s a splendid morning. Winter has yet to completely dull the brilliant symphony of autumn ochres. Amancio is sitting on the porch at La Rencorosa, dressed in his baggy country trousers, espadrilles, gaucho shirt and suede jacket, with a red handkerchief tied around his neck. He’s feeling relaxed for the first time in ages and entertains himself reading the obituaries in La Nación. All he has to do is sit and wait until the whole Biterman business blows over. Giribaldi will put the cop in his place and then Amancio will be able to get back to handling his affairs in the city. He plans to light the barbecue with the cheques and guarantees he signed for Biterman.

  When he’s out in the country, a rural feeling takes control of him, even the way he talks. At his side, Lara, as usual, is polishing her nails. As far as she’s concerned, the countryside is a dreadful place where live chickens wander about and, in protest, she dresses and dolls herself up as if she were going shopping in Santa Fe. She doesn’t understand why they have to be out there. Amancio hasn’t really explained the situation, as he fears she’ll use it against him one day. Doña Lola comes out of the kitchen with the implements for the mate and places them on the little table between them. Lara finds mate disgusting.

  I don’t know how you can drink that filth. I like it, dear, don’t forget that I’m a man of the country. Then why don’t you stay and live out here, you and your chickens?

  He ignores the comment and enjoys the simple pleasure of having her here with him, in a sense captive, with no place she can go, with no possibility of meeting up with the Pole, Ramiro or whoever else. Along the road that leads to the ranch, a breeze swirls the fallen leaves into the air. Amancio looks up. Down by the gate, a Ford Falcon has arrived with two men inside. No further details are required to determine they’re Giribaldi’s people. They’ve doubtless come to tell Amancio that everything has been sorted out. He calls Doña Lola and tells her to go and open the gate for them. He gets to his feet and adopts his best master-of-the-ranch pose. The woman hurries down the drive, mechanically drying her hands on a dishcloth as she goes. The car comes in and pauses as it passes Doña Lola, the driver speaking to her briefly. She stays down by the gate, without closing it. The car gets to the porch, the man in the passenger seat gets out, walks around the back of the car and stands five paces away from Amancio. Lara has hitched up her skirt a few inches so that the visitors can admire her magnificent legs.

  Mr Amancio Pérez Lastra? At your service. I imagine Giribaldi sent you. That’s right. Well, what’s the message?

  In reply, the man pulls out a pistol and fires. A flock of pigeons goes into flight, abandoning the formidable branches of the eucalyptus. Amancio topples over, dragging down the thermos flask, the mate and the cruet set holding the sugar and the yerba. Lara’s paralysed, her bottom jaw left hanging, her pretty face glazed over in stupid astonishment. The killer points the barrel at her and shoots. With the force of the impact, Lara’s head makes a circular movement and her lovely hair whirls about as if in a shampoo commercial, then she falls, along with her seat and everything else, down into the geraniums. The killer goes over to the dead bodies and fires point-blank into each of their temples. He heads back to the car, which the driver has already spun around to face the exit, gets in and off they go. At the gate, Doña Lola, terrified, immobile, pale as a ghost, clutches the dishcloth. The Falcon drives up alongside her and halts, the driver sticks a gun out of the window, she raises the dishcloth as if it were a shield. The man shoots her through the cloth and then, as she lies sprawled in a clump of clover, he finishes her off with another bullet. The car drives through the gate and heads back to wherever it came from.

  The warbling of the birds slowly returns, the wind plays with the leaves, the wood pigeons fly back to their nests and the dust clouds left by the visitors gently settle.

  29

  Girl, everything has gone sour with a case I’m on. What happened? I started to investigate a murder and it led me right into the military pigsty. You’re kidding? I wish I was. Lascano, you know that I… You don’t have to tell me anything, girl, I know all about you. And? And it doesn’t change anything. If I was your age I’d probably do the same. Do what? Try to kick these sons of bitches out of power before they’ve run us all into the ground. Lascano, you never cease to surprise me. Well, right now we need to leave the country before we get a nasty surprise from them. So what’s the plan? Look, I have to close this case. Don’t ask me why. So first I’m going to leave all the evidence with the judge. What for? So that my job’s done. You’re such a dreamer, Lascano. I do my job. And then? I hand this in, then we go to the bank to withdraw the dollars we found at Ventura’s and from there head straight to the airport and catch the first flight to Iguazu. Cross the triple frontier in one step. After that, wherever you want to go. Brazil? Brazil. Bahia? Bahia.

  Lascano parks the car next to the Lavalle monument. He sticks a police sign on the windscreen and runs across Tucumán, zigzagging between the buses. He disappears for a second, lost in the swarming sea of lawyers. He reappears on the steps leading up to the Palace of Justice and then disappears again between the columns. Eva feels her heart shrink. She puts on a pair of Ray Bans she finds in the glove compartment.

  Marraco’s busy attending a hearing. Lascano sits down on a bench in the corridor facing the patio and waits. He looks down at the group of cells where they put defendants brought in to appear in court. The accused anxiously wait to be called, to be taken handcuffed to the courtroom to learn their fate, given their freedom or find out they really are in the shit. The prisoners are nervous and impatient in the circumstances and pace back and forth in their cells, taciturn and absorbed in thought. As a result, the place is known as the Lion’s Den: La Leonera. Perro sits very still on the bench, but inside he too feels like a caged lion. He has to wait for an hour before the judge’s office boy gives him the signal to come through. Marraco is sitting at his desk, looking refined as ever, but is noticeably disgruntled with the mountain of resolutions, orders, sentences and decrees he has to sign, instead of being out playing golf. Lascano throws a manila envelope on top of the file that Marraco’s reading.

  What’s this? The Biterman case. It’s solved. Well, how very efficient. If all police officers were like you… Fill me in. Amancio Pérez Lastra is the murderer. He killed him because he owed him loads of money. Biterman, the victim, defended himself. Amancio has injuries on his face and deposits of his skin were found under the nails of the corpse. Aha. Horacio was his accomplice. The little brother? How nice, a game of happy families. And now for the best part. Go on. The body was planted by the Riachuelo, alongside two kids Giribaldi’s group shot. For some reason, the Major decided he would send for the bodies to be moved later. In the meantime, a lorry driver came across them and reported it. I was sent to check things out, but before I arrived Amancio planted Biterman’s body there too. So when I got there I found three bodies instead of two. Major Giribaldi gave the details to Amancio so that his people could make the body disappear like a John Doe along with the other two. And you can prove all this? It’s all in there. I’ve found the murder weapon too, a nine millimetre that Pérez Lastra pawned at the Banco de Préstamos, the details are in the folder. Very good Lascano, very good. Leave it all with me. Tomorrow we’ll pick up Pérez Lastra. I’ll get to work on it right now. Include an order to impound Amancio’s car: the body was transported in it and there’ll doubtless be traces. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to also search his ranch, La Rencorosa, just in case. All the information is in the envelope. Right you are.

  All Perro can think about is getting out of there and back to Eva as soon as possible. He makes his excuses and leaves. When he opens the door, he comes face to face with the office junior, who pretends he was just about to come in. The boy offers him a generous smile and Lascano returns the compliment, patting him on the head.

  See you, kid, look after yourself.

  In the mortuary, Fuseli hastily gathers up his last bits and pieces. From where he’s standing, he can keep an eye on the gateway, and he sees a Ford Falcon pull in and two men get out. He knows it’s them, that they’ve come for him. He tucks his bag out of sight, climbs on top of a dissection table and covers himself with a sheet. The guys come in, traipse around the room and then head out, back to the gate. Fuseli sees them talking to the security guard, who directs them off to the right. The killers walk out onto the street and turn in the direction of Junín. Fuseli pulls out his bag and takes his watch from a pocket. He waits a minute, time enough, he calculates, for them to reach the administration office, and goes out.

  Chapparo! Yes, doctor? Come here a second. Doctor, some people are looking for you. Yes, I was expecting them, I was wondering where they’d got to. They couldn’t find you down here so I thought you must be up in 760. Do me a favour, would you? Go and tell them to come back down. I’ll wait for them in the operating room. I’ll go and get them now. Thanks.

  The guard scurries off. Fuseli runs back in, grabs his bag and then hurries out into the street. He hails the first taxi he sees. When he reaches the corner, he sees Chaparro returning with the two men.

  Where to, sir? Retiro station, please.

  A few blocks away, Lascano gets back in his car and puts it in gear. Eva looks serene on the surface, but inside she’s Krakatoa volcano ready to erupt. Perro breathes deeply and joins the river of tin cans that is the traffic heading towards Tucumán. After a few minutes they pull up outside the bank. Lascano takes a key out of his pocket and gives it to Eva.

  What’s this? It’s the key to a safe deposit box in this bank. Ask for Graciela, tell her you’re my niece and that you need to get something. Take out all the Tony Ventura cash. OK, back in a minute.

  Eva looks into his eyes and gives him a kiss, lingering an instant, then gets out without saying another word. Lascano watches her go into the bank and head to the counter. He takes out a cigarette and lights it. The fuel gauge shows that Tito and the boys siphoned off all the petrol in the tank: Lascano will have to stop and fill up if they’re going to get anywhere. In the bank, Graciela talks to Eva, who turns around towards Lascano and smiles. All is well. Graciela comes out from behind the counter and tells Eva to follow her and they both disappear down a side staircase to the basement, where the treasure’s kept.

  A traffic warden approaches, confidently fluttering a book of counterfoils in his hand. Lascano takes a deep puff on his cigarette and winds the window down. The warden realizes he’s before a superior, without Lascano having to say a word or show any identification. Perro raises his hand towards his chin and wags a finger to tell the warden to move on and ask no questions. The warden walks on by. Lascano watches him amble away in his rear-view mirror. A Falcon turns the corner at top speed. Perro’s heart leaps and he instinctively reaches for his shoulder holster. The Falcon pulls up in front of Lascano’s car, the doors open, two men jump out, guns in hands, and start shooting at him. Lascano opens the door, dives to the pavement and rolls over, pulling out his gun. People in the street start running or throw themselves to the ground. Lascano jumps up and, pointing his index finger along the barrel, aims at the head of the nearest of the men and shoots. The impact spins the man around. Perro, in quick succession, shoots twice more. The force of the bullets throws the man onto the bonnet of a car, then he bounces off and crashes to the ground like a sack of potatoes. As Lascano takes aim at the second man, he feels like he’s been punched in the chest and the blow sits him down on the pavement, behind the open door of his car. The shooter has lost sight of Lascano. He takes two steps to the side, trying to get a clear view in order to deal the killer blow. When he next sees Lascano, the policeman’s aiming a gun right between his eyes. Without hesitating, Perro pulls the trigger and sends the little missile right into the middle of the man’s forehead. He drops down dead on the pavement, legs shaking in a final spasm. A ferociously sharp pain grips Lascano’s chest, his shirt starts to soak with blood, his vision becomes misty, he feels very tired and slumps down on his side in slow motion. Head on the ground, he sees his cigarette on the pavement before him, still smouldering. He slowly reaches out, grabs it, puts it to his mouth and inhales deeply. It suddenly becomes night.

  Hell, this hurts.

  A curious crowd gathers around Lascano and the two other fallen men. Eva comes out of the bank clutching her purse. She freezes. The traffic warden comes running back, bends down over Lascano’s body, puts two fingers to the policeman’s neck, searches for a pulse and grimaces in resignation. At that moment a patrolman’s gumboots screech to a halt beside him. An officer and a sergeant approach the bodies and look at them as if they were mere things. Two policemen busy themselves dispersing the crowd. Graciela comes out of the bank with other employees to find out what’s going on. Graciela sees Lascano on the ground, she seems to recognize him and then looks at Eva, frozen at his side. Eva starts to react and realizes that she needs to leave immediately. She walks to the corner, the opposite direction to where the police are coming from. She stops a taxi, gets in and asks to be taken to the first place that pops into her head, to Rosedal, the rose garden.

  Eva sits in front of the monument to Sarmiento and recalls the first lines of the school hymn: Fue la lucha tu vida y tu elemento, la fatiga tu descanso y calma - the struggle was your life and essence, weariness your rest and calm - and she murmurs them like a lament. She repeats them again and again, mechanically like a mantra, hypnotized, sitting motionless on the bench in the square, her legs frozen. Thus she remains for hours, not noticing the couples who walk by arm in arm, the ducks swimming in the stagnant waters of the lake, the bare wisteria in the pergola, the children bunking off school with their books and their blazers hidden under their coats, the grumpy one-armed municipal caretaker, the adventurers paying twenty pesos for an hour on the strange metal pedalos. Eva spends the rest of the day in this dazed state. When the sun comes down on the racetrack side of the park, she gets up and starts walking. Slowly at first, but then her muscles start to warm up and she picks up her pace. She runs past the Urquiza statue of the war horse, the Planetarium, the bridges over the train tracks. She goes all the way around the Aeropark, heads on to Costanera Avenue, indifferent to the darkened river, and carries on jogging until she reaches the airport, where she buys a ticket on the first flight to Resistencia.

  30

  The judge’s office boy is arranging the case files that Marraco has just signed, readying them for the filing cabinets where they’ll be available to lawyers for reference. The judge is rounding off a conversation on the phone.

  Yes… no problem… agreed… don’t worry about a thing… I’m sure an opportunity will present itself… OK… OK… whenever you like… perfect… we’ll be in touch then… a pleasure… likewise.

  Hey, kid. Yes, Judge. Drop what you’re doing and take this envelope to this address. Hurry, they’re waiting for it. What about the case files? Tell Marcos to finish them off. Go on, hurry along. Yes, your honour.

  Giribaldi takes his time lighting the fire, enjoying every moment of it. At army camp in his youth, he developed a special technique that meant he could get a fire going in the most adverse conditions. Whenever a fire needed preparing, the other cadets at Military College would say, let Giri light it, let the champion light it. Because Giri is champion of the flames. Now, even in the comfort of his own home, even in a fireplace, Giribaldi prepares the fire as if he’s at camp in Zapala, in the depths of winter, with forty-mile-an-hour winds. He takes pleasure in rolling the newspaper into giant straws and tying them by their ends into hoops. He then lays them one on top of the other to form a pyramid. He covers them with wood chip and then, concentrically, adds ever bigger chunks. The result of his toils burns away in in the hearth. On top of the lively fire he places a hefty branch of a quebracho tree, which the flames lick with appetite. The crackle of the wood is like a lullaby to the Major, hypnotized by the dancing tongues of fire. On the flowery armchair, Maisabé nestles the child, with the beatified smile she’s had stamped on her face since Father Roberto blessed them. In the kitchen, Sunday’s leftover ravioli is slowly reheating in a bain-marie. The doorbell rings. Giribaldi gets up and goes to the door. Maisabé hears him talk briefly with someone, then sees him come straight back in.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15