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
