Elías appears smiling. It went well.

  So you must be the famous Amancio. Pleased to meet you. How’s everything going? Battling on as usual. Come on through. So how can I be of assistance? Well, I’ve run into a few financial difficulties. And do these difficulties have a name? Some ten million of them. That’s more than a few difficulties. Well, the valuation of La Rencorosa says that I can guarantee that figure, the land is worth ten times more. If you say so. How will you pay me back? I can write cheques. Let’s see. OK, write me four cheques for three and a half million each. You’re charging me some crazy kind of interest. What’s crazy is lending without a guarantee. But I’m guaranteeing them against a splendid country ranch. And how do I know that it’s not compromised by several other debts, that tomorrow you won’t go bankrupt and I have to get to the back of the creditor queue? But please, you have my word. I can’t deposit your word in a bank though can I? This is how it is. Take it or leave it. OK, fine. When can I have the money? Slow down, first you leave me your details and I gather a bit of background information, then you drop in on Berún, the town clerk, Horacio will give you the address, and you sign a property injunction. But I suggest you think this through carefully first, because I have to tell you, I’m not a tolerant man when it comes to missed payments. If you don’t pay up, I’ll claim for the ranch. I don’t care whether you’re a friend of my brother’s or not, patience is not my best virtue. Mine neither. So how shall we leave it? Once you’ve been through the formalities with the clerk, come back here to collect the loan. Expenses run on your account. But you leave me the cheques now. And who’s to say you don’t just keep the cheques and never give me the money? Nobody. And so? Those are the conditions, take them or leave them. Who do I make the cheques out to? The bearer.

  7

  The pale hours before dawn. Execution hour. For several nights, Giribaldi has neglected his duties as task force commander. He has been granted a few days leave on account of the baby. The Major is asleep in bed with his arms folded, fists clenched. He doesn’t hear the siren that crosses the city. The brightness of a new day starts to poke its way through the cracks in the blind. From the street come the sounds of motors, barked orders, rushed steps, troop movements. Maisabé lies awake at her husband’s side. Her gaze is fixed on the ceiling, her eyes sore through lack of blinking. She hasn’t slept all night.

  Oh dear God, I asked you and asked you for a child and now you have sent me one who hates me. It’s too young to hate, but I know, it hates me. It must have hatred in the blood. And no, it’s not just me imagining things. A mother knows. I know and I don’t know what to do. When Giri brought it in, I could see how it looked at me. Yes, it looked at me, eyes wide open. And I’d have liked to have told it not to worry, that I was going to love it as a mother, more than its mother, who couldn’t even look after herself, never mind what she’d carried inside her. Our father, who art in heaven. I want to love it. But I just can’t. I can’t. Hallowed be thy name. So small and yet so big and so knowing, so comprehending. And Giri doesn’t understand, because he’s a man of action and doesn’t think, but I do think. He says I think too much. Thy kingdom come. And when it gets old, if when it gets old it seeks vengeance. If he, for it is also a he, grows up to be a man of action like his father, and all this hate comes pouring out. What then? Thy will be done. What is thy will? That one pays for ever? On earth as it is in heaven. Meaning? If we have done wrong, we pay for it on earth and in heaven. In which case we have to give the baby back. But to who? How? Where do we look? Give us this day our daily bread. The sinning won’t end until we return what we’ve stolen. We’ve stolen it and now there’s no one to give it back to. Give us this day. Yes this day, today, today, while he sleeps in his cot. While I walk to his room. But Lord, if his mother is dead then the only way to give him back is to send him to her. But where is she? Oh the doubts, always the doubts. In heaven or in hell? Because if his mother was as wicked as Giri says she was to have deserved her destiny, she must be in hell. But this child has not sinned, is not evil. He has probably not even been baptized. So if he dies he will end up in limbo, where all children go who die without being christened. So even then I wouldn’t be sending him back to his mother. He sleeps. He trembles a little. But he hates, so it can’t be all good, hating is a sin. So that could mean that if I hold this pillow on top of him and show no mercy, it’ll be off to hell with his mother, and we’ll have given him back and our sinning will be over. And lead us not into temptation. Of course. We were tempted. We fell but we can recover, we can return to grace. But deliver us from evil. Off you go child, off to your mother, waiting for you in one of Satan’s cells. I’m sorry, Lord, I know I should not say his name, but my hands are shaking. Thou shalt not kill. Oh. There is also that. But, well, it doesn’t say anywhere that we’re obliged to give life back once we’ve taken it away. And I know I will repent for doing this. Yes, Lord. This is the solution. Death will clear me of the sin of theft and confession will wash away the sin of death. Give me strength, Lord, give it to me now. It’ll be over in an instant, a moment of breathlessness and it’ll all be over.

  Maisabé holds the pillow over the sleeping child’s face and raises her head to the ceiling. She dreads the baby’s convulsions, imagining what they’ll feel like; she pictures blood pouring forth, though she only wants to stop it flowing on the inside. The moment of truth arrives and she presses down on the pillow with all her weight, but the baby wriggles to the side and she ends up bashing him with her knuckles. He wakes up startled with a wail. As if by magic, Giri appears in the room and, not understanding what’s going on, takes hold of Maisabé by the shoulders and leads her away. She turns around on her way out and the baby, who has stopped crying, looks at Maisabé once more. It is a serious look, of the sort only the very young can have. Amen.

  8

  Lascano wonders if she will still be there when he gets home. He hopes and fears so and finds himself hesitating in front of the door, looking for his keys that have come off their key ring and have ended up in the depths of his pocket, where the fluff balls accumulate. He slowly puts the key in the lock and opens the door with the care of an unfaithful husband coming home late, so as not to wake her, he tells himself, although really he’s afraid that he’s the one who’s dreaming:

  Get a grip, Perro, it’s half seven in the evening.

  The house is dark and silent. Lascano feels relieved but hurt. He’s sure she’s gone, never to return, that everything will go back to the way it was before, with him all alone, waiting for visits from Marisa’s ghost to excite and pain him once again. But then the light comes on and there she is, Eva-Marisa, sitting on the sofa, just as he left her, only now she’s wearing his clothes, which are about five sizes too big. She takes his breath away and he lights a cigarette in an unsuccessful attempt to hide his fear and joy. Eva peers at him, like a mouse in a laboratory studies its cage, and is herself surprised by being so pleased to see him, although Lascano doesn’t notice this, so busy is he acting casual.

  Sorry, I borrowed a few of your clothes. You look like a clown. Well, your wardrobe isn’t exactly haute couture, you know. True enough. I was a bit cold.

  Perro pauses for a moment. He thinks he’s going mad. He doesn’t know if he’s talking to Marisa or Eva. It’s like being trapped in a dream, with no control over his words or actions.

  Let’s see… I think I’ve got something that will suit you better.

  Lascano goes into his room and shuts the door behind him, without knowing quite why. There’s something automatic about his movements. He goes over to his bedside table and rummages around in the drawer. He finds what he’s looking for, goes over to the wardrobe, puts a key in the lock and tries to make it turn. The mechanism is stiff from disuse, and it takes a bit of effort before he hears a clack, which seems a sinister sound, like a judgement. He takes a deep breath, preparing himself for what’s to come. He pulls the doors to the wardrobe wide open. The smell of Marisa, concentrated by the months locked away, rushes upon him like an express train. Lascano holds on tight to the doors so as not to fall to the floor. There in front of him, completely intact, is her whole wardrobe, just as she left it the day she died. He had never before dared open this floodgate. He had never had the courage to face his wife’s second skin. He had always looked at this impenetrable place with apprehension, with reverential fear, and now he fights the feeling of having desecrated her tomb. But at the same time, guided by some dark force, he is unable to stop himself. As if having exited his own body, he sees himself on the bed, smoking, and Marisa in front of the mirror, in her underwear, not knowing what to put on, as always, and looking to him, her man, for the necessary approval.

  Shall I wear the red dress, do you think? You look nice just as you are. You want me to go out like this? I’d have to call the riot squad. The red dress it is then.

  With a beaming smile, Lascano enjoys the spectacle of his wife getting dressed, all the while looking forward to the moment at the end of the night when he will get to undress her.

  How do I look?

  Lascano, pale as an undertaker, comes out of his room carrying the red dress and gives it to Eva, who murmurs her approval and holds it up to her body. She gracefully spins round and goes into the bathroom. Perro throws himself on the sofa. She soon appears with the dress on. It fits her perfectly.

  How do I look?

  His whole body screams at him to jump up and tear the dress off, part indignation at this act of usurping, mainly the desperate desire to see her in the full, to taste her, love her, feel her and, more than anything, fuck her. Terror of his own self seizes him: he is not in control of his actions and suddenly the room becomes a trap and he doesn’t know what he’s capable of. He realizes he has to get out of there immediately, that he cannot remain alone with this woman for another instant, and he stands up abruptly.

  I’m hungry. Let’s eat out.

  Eva picks up on the tension in the air. Everything happened so quickly she didn’t even ask herself why this guy had a dress in his room. He’s waiting for her by the open door. She puts her shoes on as fast as she can and heads out. As Lascano closes the door, the bird in its cage tweets at him, it is piercing and, this time, incomprehensible.

  He walks three paces ahead of Eva. Is he giving me the chance to escape? The night starts to get cool and she shivers. Lascano notices and, with all the chivalry of a musketeer from the movies, takes off his jacket and wraps it around her shoulders. She snuggles inside the coat, which smells of him and the Particulares 30 cigarettes he chain-smokes, and she looks at him. He’s not very tall, what might be described as normal stature in a country of shorties, but he has broad shoulders. He’s yet to develop the pot belly typical of men of his age, nor does he have hairs growing in his ears or nose. He’s thinning a little on top, but not too much, and his only grey hairs are the few around his temples, hardly noticeable. He looks quite athletic, which contrasts with the lethargy of his movements. If he were a little more dynamic, he could pass for being ten to fifteen years younger. She stops examining him when their eyes meet, which they do only fleetingly, because he looks away immediately and seems to blush. Although a tough guy clearly lurks behind his cool exterior, she would swear he was scared of her.

  They enter a typical neighbourhood bistro and the waiter greets him with some familiarity, as well as no little surprise that he has company. Without even asking her, Lascano orders the daily special for both of them, a jug of house wine and some sparkling water. She tries to comprehend the situation, but doesn’t manage in the slightest. When the food arrives, Lascano wolfs his down in four or five mouthfuls, then waits for Eva to finish. When she’s halfway through, he begs her pardon and lights a cigarette. He has paid her not the least attention since they sat down and her desire to understand what’s happening starts to fade. When she loads the last mouthful onto her fork, Perro asks for the bill. He settles up and they leave. He holds the door for her and as she passes him he makes the most of the moment to gaze at her. The dress looks fantastic on her.

  In the cold night air, he feels the whirlwind of his mind calm down and he starts to recover his self-control and he distracts himself thinking about the incredible number of ways women can make themselves look beautiful. Not only can clothing never entirely hide their sexuality, most is designed to emphasize it. These days a woman must try hard to look ugly and really there are no ugly women, only careless ones, and Eva could not look ugly even if she tried, and by then he’s had enough of thinking. So he lights a cigarette. Three paces behind him, Eva feels as happy as a little girl on her birthday. She catches up with Lascano, takes him by the arm and holds on to him, in such a way that he feels her breast on his bicep and his sex gets playful and betrays him down in his trousers. Thus they walk the rest of the way home. Lascano doesn’t know whether he wants her to let go of him or for the journey to last for ever. She hums softly and now even rests her head upon his shoulder. Her pheromone-charged scent attacks Perro. His body feels the physical need for this other body with an intensity beyond any thought and he clenches his fists in his pockets to prevent himself jumping on her right there and then. But they’ve reached the narrow doorway of his building and they have to separate to get through.

  Outside the apartment, Eva leans against the wall and looks at him as he searches for his keys, but she doesn’t look at him in any old way. Her eyes are full of provocation, her pupils fearless, her breasts rise and fall to the rhythm of her breathing. He opens the door and looks at her arse as she walks into the flat. She knows he’s looking, and he knows that she knows, and he asks himself how is it that a woman can tell when you’re looking at her arse. And he hears, or thinks he hears, the sad bolero about lost lovers. And she sees him cross the room and plunge into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him, and she doesn’t hear him cry because he cries in silence, but he does cry. He sleeps in his clothes. Tonight Marisa doesn’t come to visit him. Cross with him, no doubt. But when he sleeps:

  I am in the desert. It’s night-time. The immense sense of isolation is like being at sea. It’s alive, more than present. It’s everything. It surrounds me and drowns me. The desert and I start to become one being. It gets inside me. I am seated, trying to bore through the darkness and, finally, the desert is a mirror in which I see every person I’ve ever known. Very clear and distinct. All the emotions I’ve ever experienced come to me, one after the other, with no respite, while the moon tears apart the night like a barracuda does a fish. Alchemy, transmutation: I am the desert and the desert is me. And suddenly I am howling at that very moon. Outside, the sun glares and filters its rays with fury into the room where I think I’m a horse, a fox, a bat. I ask myself: What are you? Are you a horse, a fox or a mouse?

  He wakes up, drowning in his own sweat. He gets up, stumbles out of the room. On the sofa Eva sleeps. She has carefully folded up her new clothes and neatly placed them on a chair. A long arm dangles out of the blanket. He moves closer, gently touches her hand. Only to assure himself that she’s not part of the dream, of the desert, that she is really there, alive. She is there.

  9

  One o’clock. Florida high street. Hustle and bustle. The galloping inflation unleashed upon 1979 infects everyone. Office workers, financial traders and beggars alike are all prey to the frenetic uncertainty. Those with money rush to spend it, for soon it will not be worth the paper it’s printed on. Those without money will never have any.

  Although winter chills prevail, as the elderly are only too aware, there’s a feeling, but only a feeling, of spring in the air. Not for Amancio, though, who is buried up to his eyeballs in debt. What really worries him is his debt with Biterman: the Jew could lift the lid on his financial shenanigans at any moment. Amancio has fraudulently guaranteed several different loans against the same assets, each time craftily hiding his outstanding obligations. So the cheques he signed for Biterman could prove to be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. Everything else he signed can only lead to civil court orders, which drag on at their own slow pace and can take up to ten years to resolve with the right delaying tactics, and even then there’s a strong chance that the whole matter will come to nothing. But the cheques can send him straight to a penal court. If Biterman decides to declare him bankrupt, the whole pack of creditors will set upon him. This in turn will bring about his total ruin and, most probably, send him to Devoto jail. Amancio wakes up punctually at five o’clock every morning imagining such a scenario in a panic of fear and revulsion. The Jew has to be stopped in his tracks somehow and a brilliant idea as to how suddenly comes to Amancio: Giribaldi.

  Throughout his youth, in his free time between Military College, his activities with the Tacuara far-right movement, Father Meinvielle’s anti-semitic lectures at the Huemul bookshop and Sunday mass, Giri played scrum-half for Atalya, with Amancio a three-quarter. They became friends over post-match beers, visits to brothels in Carupá, parties at the Atlético de San Isidro rugby club or the Rowing Club, where these young rabble-rousers, smoking and dressed in tuxedos, stood around flexing their muscles. The girls from the Jesús María, Anunciata and Malinkrodt convent schools loved to lead the lads on, but were instinctively repulsed by the idea of taking things further. Thus the boys left the parties horny and smarting, spilling onto the street as a gang ready for a fight. They would look for one, and find one: there was always some unsuspecting idiot to take their frustration out on, burn off some of the testosterone the girls had brought to the boil. Naturally, Giri was mob leader. Nobody had asked him to be, he just assumed the role by being the biggest and cruellest lout of them all, and because no one in the group dared stand up to him. Whenever anyone protested, Giri would stop him dead with his steely stare, enough to remind any upstart how brutally he dealt with street-fight victims.

 

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