you a lecture on God and the Devil, heaven and hell, good and bad. You know, that kind of thing. You listen and you don’t say a word. That goes on for three days. I’m telling you, at a certain point your mind goes blank. And right then, as if they knew it, they start drilling your head full of that shit about the great Christian family, your obligation to help and protect one another. Anyway, that’s where the guys with real power go, the generals, the admirals, the president of the chamber of commerce, the general secretary of a trade union. Imagine that. I never thought of you as religious, Jorge. It’s just that if you want to rise in the world, you’ve got no choice. Really? No training, no promotion. Bet you can’t guess who I ran into there? Carlitos Bala, the clown. Close but no cigar. Grondona. From the Football Association? No, you idiot, the other one, the TV host. You’re kidding. The best part is that in the end, everyone there vows to give a hand to everyone else, always, no matter what the circumstances. A few days ago there was a big hullaballoo on TV and in the papers about a girl who was raped and killed in Belgrano. The niece of a minister, so you can imagine the uproar. I had to make some public statements. I called Grondona. Talked to his secretary. The following Sunday, there I was, on television, comforting the girl’s parents, that’s when I scored big points. These days, if you’re not on TV, Perro, you don’t exist. Real politics happens on that little screen. And this week comes my coup de grace. We caught the guy who did it. It’s all hush-hush until Thursday night. That’s when I announce we’ve solved the case during a press conference, on TV. It’s a done deal. Sunday I’m back on Grondona’s programme handing the parents their daughter’s killer with his hands and feet bound. You like? Not bad. And that’ll do it, Perro, I’ll be Chief, I’ll beat the Apostles; they want it for one of their own. Who? Thin Man Filander.
When he hears that name, Perro crosses his arms and bows his head. Turcheli elaborates enthusiastically.
So, we can bring you back. Truth is, Jorge, I’m not sure I feel like returning. Just leave all that to me. I’m going to need you to keep the Apostles in their place. What makes you think I’d help you with your internal power struggles? Because you’ve got the soul of a cop, Perro, that’s why. And because I’m better than they are.
What makes you better? First place, I saved your life; second, the Apostles are mixed up with some Turks who’re mixed up with Colombian coke. They want to make Buenos Aires a transfer station to Europe. Several department higher-ups are already involved. When I become Chief, the first thing I’ll do is clean that one up.
You just want to keep at your traditional business of selling precincts. You know what, Perro? It’s simpler, and it’s already all set up. When you get in bed with those narcos, you don’t know what you’re in for, those people are hell, big time. They’ll take a pound of your flesh if you look at them wrong. I’m a businessman, Perro, not a man of action. With drugs, you’ve got to be ready for anything. I’m ambitious, but I like the good life, peace and quiet. Everything in moderation, I say, can’t let yourself get too greedy.
Perro feels nauseated. He stands up and inhales deeply.
What’s my status? Your file is locked away in my desk. Everyone thinks you’re dead. I won’t be able to keep it up for too long, but once I get my promotion, we’ll set everything straight. And Giribaldi? Retired. Military officers don’t even step outside in uniform any more. They’ve got legal problems. Things are getting rough for them. The Full Stop and Due Obedience laws they passed so we couldn’t prosecute them for crimes committed during the dictatorship are full of holes. What do you mean? The kids they stole from the guerrillas, for example. Nobody can stop those trials. Because stealing a baby can’t be an act of war, you understand? I understand. There’s one prosecutor who’s all over that, he’s hunting them down, one by one, already got three or four of them behind bars.
Turcheli looks at his watch, stands up and makes ready to leave.
They tell me you’re right as rain. How do you feel? Not bad. Good, let’s shut down this operation, it’s costing me a fortune. I’ve got a room for you in a pension in Palermo. Don’t worry, it’s not a dump. Whatever you say, but I don’t have a penny. Don’t worry about the dough. Ramona will take you there in a few days and she’ll take care of everything. Just sit tight until I’m in, then I’ll come get you. Okay? Whatever you say, but don’t think for a minute that I’m going to get my hands dirty for you. We’ll talk about that later.
Lascano goes over to the window to watch him leave. The dust the car kicks up is going in the other direction now. Turcheli wants to send him back to the front. His life of suspended animation for his recovery and rehabilitation has come to an end. In his head, he can hear someone shout, “Action”, and he knows that means the cameras are rolling once again. He has no desire to wage war against crooks and murderers, in the police force or outside of it, to be vigilant twenty-four hours a day, constantly looking over his shoulder. He has absolutely no urge to take on responsibilities, run risks. He’s got nowhere to go, nowhere he wants to go, except to Eva, into her arms, her love. His close brush with death made him wiser, more detached, more calculating. He looks at the spool from which the thread of his life is unravelling, and he realizes there’s not much left, and the little there is is unwinding faster and faster. He dreams of easygoing, pleasant days. He wants to lay claim to the quota of love that life has, up till now, lent him only very briefly then stolen away as if the whole thing had just been a joke. He regrets not having a picture of Eva. What he wouldn’t give at this moment to look in her eyes, touch her, feel her breath, her hands. As soon as he gets back to Buenos Aires he’s going to try to find out where in the world that woman is. He’ll tell Jorge that he’s not going to accept his proposal, and he’ll ask him for money so he can find Eva. He can’t imagine any other purpose or destiny, he has no interest in anything other than finding her.
As the orange sun, pierced by the thousands of eucalyptus leaves, plunges toward the horizon, Lascano’s chest hurts, right where the pain of the gunshot wound mingles with that of longing.
3
The night is pitch black and it’s raining. The rain is pouring down outside the windows. It’s raining all over the city, the country, the world. Giribaldi is woken up by a dream he doesn’t want to remember, the same one that’s been waking him up for a long time. For such a long time that he’s lost track. He doesn’t know when he first dreamt it. Maisabe is asleep next to him and Anibal is in the adjoining room, but he feels alone, as if there were nobody left on Earth and even these people no longer meant anything to him. He wonders if they ever did, but suspects so. The storm rattles the windowpane and an image flashes through his head, of himself jumping through it and falling in slow motion through a cloud of broken glass, just like in the movies. His fantasy dishes him up a free sample of the bolt of pain and darkness that follows his crash into the pavement; the rain falling on his mangled body mixes with his blood, then runs into the street. A few passers-by gather around his dead body and, up above, looking out from the balcony, Maisabe contemplates him, a strange smile hovering over her lips. He sits up in bed, as if he were spring-loaded. He thinks he hears a sigh. He turns to look at his wife. A line of spit dribbles out of the corner of her mouth, pulled down by the drop at the end. Steps down the hallway. The whole house creaks and whines. He hears a child cry. He enters Anibal’s room. He stands watching him for a long time. Half his face is lit by the street light shining through the window; the other half is in shadows. He’s convinced the child is awake and pretending to be asleep. He walks over to him and brings his face close up to his. He’s too quiet; Giribaldi wonders if he’s dead. He touches him. The boy opens his eyes and stares at him without blinking. Giribaldi pulls back and looks away. He leaves the room. He goes to his office and opens the French doors onto the balcony. The raindrops bounce off the floor and splash his bare feet. He goes out onto the balcony and looks down, calculating exactly where his body would land. The rain is icy cold. He withdraws into the room. He closes the door to his office and sits down at his desk. He doesn’t know what to do with the tremendous urge he has to cry. He sits there contemplating nothingness until morning comes and the household comes alive.
Maisabe brings him a cup of strong, black coffee, without sugar, puts it silently down on the desk and leaves. At the exact instant she vanishes from his sight, she says, Good morning. Giribaldi doesn’t answer; he looks at the steaming cup; he smells the aroma of the coffee as if it were a memory. The only thing that’s real is what’s happening at this very moment. The minutes, the hours, the days spill into the emptiness, the endless void. He brings the cup to his lips and doesn’t realize, until much later, that the liquid has burnt his tongue. He wonders if his numbness is due to a terminal illness.
He waits for more than three hours before the secretary informs him that a problem has come up and the general won’t be able to make it. She doesn’t offer him another appointment, she says she’ll consult with her boss and call him. Her voice lacks conviction, her words are halfhearted, she makes not the slightest effort to pretend. Major (Ret.) Leonardo Giribaldi leaves the building at 250 Azopardo and starts walking toward Corrientes. He, like so many other military officers who were discharged when Alfonsin promoted more modern ones, has become a pariah. Nobody is going to stick his neck out for them or defend them. On top of that, it seems they should now be
