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 bursts 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.
Is he dead? Yes, Ma’am. You killed him? No, Ma’am, he killed himself. Do you realize what you have done?… You should have killed him… What? You must be a heretic, that’s why you don’t understand. Excuse me, what should I understand? You’ve condemned his soul. What? Suicides can’t enter heaven!.. I’m very sorry, Ma’am. You are not sorry and that’s obvious. Forgive me. Only God can forgive you.
The woman glares at him with fury, turns her back on him and walks resolutely toward the patrol car, where a policewoman is talking to the child. Marcelo walks up to Lascano.
This sure turned out like shit. What else do you think could have happened? You’re probably right. Our past always catches up with us. What are you going to do now? I’m tired, exhausted. All I want now is a bath and a bed.
Pereyra knows he’s not going to get any sleep tonight. They shake hands and say goodbye. Lascano walks to the corner. For some unimaginable reason, he turns and looks at Pereyra talking to a policeman, who nods and heads to the building. Marcelo goes up to the child, talks to him, then gives him his hand and they also begin to walk toward the door of the building. At that moment, the child turns around and looks at Lascano. His heart skips a beat. Those eyes! That combination of defiance and melancholy, yes, more than anything, it’s the look in his eyes. Could it be? He watches him disappear behind the door, holding Marcelo’s hand, and he feels beleaguered, undone.
