especially now that he can’t rely on Screw any more. He’s just started planning his new life in prison when a guard opens the door of the cell and shouts Miranda! Mole stands up and approaches him. The guard ushers him out, closes the cell door behind him and accompanies him to the desk in the lobby. Miranda doesn’t understand what’s going on. The officer on duty takes out the little wooden box where they put all his things and empties it out on the desk. This can only mean one thing: they are releasing him. He suddenly panics. The officer looks at him with derision.
What’s up, Miranda, you want to stay?
The fact that they’re releasing him at this moment could mean that they’re waiting at the door for him — two bullets and into a deep ditch. It wouldn’t be the first time this has happened, it’s a common scenario for police killers. Miranda picks up his things, stuffs them quickly into his pockets and walks to the door. A policeman accompanies him, then stops a few feet before the door, which another policeman opens. The moment Mole steps onto the sidewalk, full of apprehension, a car drives up and stops. He can’t see inside because the windows are tinted. Miranda steps back, ready to try to make a run for it. A window opens. His son Fernando, a big smile on his face, asks him if he wants a ride.
What the hell?… You’re free, old man. How did you?… Easy, I forged an immediate release order from the judge assigned to the case. Just like that? Not completely; first I had to find a lawyer who was hungry enough to agree to process the paperwork, knowing that tomorrow they’ll drag him in by his ears. How did you find out they had me? When I left that horrible restaurant, I got in a taxi, but I thought I noticed something strange going on. So I got out two blocks away and walked back. When I reached the corner, I saw them arresting you. I guess you weren’t that angry at me when you left. I’m still angry but that’s got nothing to do with it; what I was most worried about was that they’d put a bullet in your head, so I followed in the taxi. When I saw you enter the courthouse, I relaxed and went to work getting you released. Brilliant kid. Modestly brilliant. Now what do we do? We go someplace where they’ll make you a passport, then I take you to Ezeiza. I’ll let you know when you can return. Sounds good. I’ll get you a first-class lawyer, but there’s one condition. Tell me. You’re going to stop with the criminal crap, okay? Promise.
29
When Marcelo finds out that Miranda has been released with a forged order, he proceeds to have a temper tantrum that leaves his colleagues in a state of shock. All that shouting and cursing from this usually so well- mannered and composed young man, this epitome of the ideal Argentinean male, echoes through the labyrinths of the Palace of Justice like the fury of a Greek god. Miranda did to Marcelo what he’d done to Lascano, and Marcelo had accused Lascano of being an incompetent. He swears to himself that the guy will not escape him, no matter how clever he is, that he will not rest until he has him handcuffed to the chair that will replace the one he has just kicked to smithereens. When he runs out of steam, he collapses in his armchair and stares at the half-open door as if any moment Miranda the Mole were going to walk right through it. But he doesn’t. Instead, his secretary, looking half shocked and half afraid, timidly pops her head in and gently suggests he take the day off. Marcelo feels the urge to leap over the desk, grab her by the scruff of the neck and strangle her, which is a clear indication that he should do as she suggests. He storms out and slams the door behind him. Once outside, he quickly crosses Plaza Lavalle to Libertad. Groups of high school students are lolling about in small groups. The girls remind him of Vanina when he first met her. He must see her. He stops a taxi, collapses into the back seat, closes his eyes and opens the window to let the outside air cool him down.
The university. Libertad, Quintana then El Bajo? Right.
Lascano’s arms ache with the tension of holding the aeroplane up for the entire flight. As they descend through the cloud cover, Sao Paulo begins to take shape through the window. The closer he gets to earth, the better he feels. A river wends its way toward the sea, painstakingly finding a path through the intricate geography of houses, huts and fairytale mansions, clumped together in small neighbourhoods with dead-end streets, other neighbourhoods intersected by highways packed with cars, buses and trucks going every which way, very slowly.
Along the Marginal Highway, right where it borders the Tiete, that stinking black river whose water has the consistency of pudding, the luxurious black Mercedes Benz competes for a foot of space with an old calhambeque that’s being barely held together with a bunch of wires, a super-modern dump truck and a dilapidated bus crammed full of wary and exhausted workers. The traffic, like the river, stops and goes, and stops and goes. The highway is blocked, there’s a detour, it picks up again, then gets cut off again. On one of those detours, the taxi that is carrying Lascano from Guarulhos to Rodoviaria stops in front of an enormous warehouse. Through a gaping hole that looks like a window without glass appears a gigantic papier-mache mulatta, her monstrously huge naked breasts leaning on the sill. The carnival doll’s colourful and astonished eyes glue themselves on Lascano like an omen. As the taxi starts moving, he looks at the people in the other cars. Nobody else seems to even notice this enormous sexual demon appearing along the road. Here this colossally erotic woman is simply a part of the landscape. At that moment, Perro wishes he had never quit smoking.
When the taxi stops, he sees her. She’s sitting on the front steps of the pavilion of the School of Architecture. Next to her sits Martin, the painter-architect, striking an almost feminine pose as he seduces her with his words. Marcelo can almost imagine what he is saying, and it suddenly crosses his mind that he is not going to stand idly by while that man steals his woman right out from under him. He crosses the street with long, rapid strides. Judging from the surprised expression on Vanina’s face and the terrified one on Martin’s, his own face must look a lot like that of a rabid lunatic. Marcelo’s subsequent actions corroborate this impression. Without saying a word, he grabs the lapels of Martin’s studiously casual corduroy jacket, pulls him to his feet and gives him a shove. Martin makes a feeble show of standing up to him, man to man, but Marcelo brings his face to within only a few inches of Martin’s and glares at him menacingly. Martin’s body exhibits a strange combination of impulses. From the waist down, it wants to hesitate, retreat, it begs to flee. From the waist up, it longs to show courage and defiance. This dichotomy, however, doesn’t last long; a planter box full of dead flowers sets the limit of Martin’s retreat, even as Marcelo continues to advance upon him. Unable to go back any further, Martin lifts a foot and places it on the edge of the box, striking the pose of a contender, but his upper body is ready to submit and his eyebrows are begging for mercy. His phoniness makes Marcelo laugh, and pity him, but he is determined to humiliate the man. He places his finger on his chest, applies gentle pressure and the architect falls backward over the planter box. As he falls, his head hits a piece of cement, producing an ominous and hollow-sounding noise that makes Marcelo and Vanina stop dead in their tracks. She reacts, bends down over Martin, holds his head and asks him if he is okay. Martin opens his eyes, lifts up his head and says yes. Marcelo turns and walks away the way he came. For the first time in his life he feels the intense satisfaction of having done something very, very wrong. He is certain that he has also ruined any chance he may have had to win Vanina back. He’s one of those people who believes that women always side with the weak. That’s why he’s surprised when she catches up with him, grabs his arm and forces him to turn and face her; then she asks him if he is crazy. They engage in a discussion that ends up in the Etcetera — a hotel you pay for by the hour on Monroe Street, near Figueroa Alcorta, one with a splendid view of the edge of the Palermo forest. There, in the serene glow of sexual gratification, as they contemplate their magnificent naked selves in the mirror on the ceiling, Marcelo proposes to her. Vanina says yes, without missing a beat, and curls up against his body. The boy thinks about how happy his mother and mother-in-law are going to be when she tells them, then experiences a moment of distress: he has the sensation that his life is starting to turn into an eternal Sunday afternoon.
By the time Lascano reaches Juquehy, it’s already dark. The only place he can find to stay for the night is a tourist hotel built right in the middle of the mato. The rooms, rustically elegant, are far apart and surrounded by bromeliads and orchids. The town is very small. He eats dinner at the hotel, takes a shower and stretches out on the bed. He falls into a deep sleep, as if he’d been punched in his lower jaw, and wakes the next morning as if he’d dropped off two minutes earlier. Along the dusty streets of Juquehy, his white suit makes him look like a wealthy landowner or a pai de santos out for a stroll, and the locals look at him with a kind of reverence. He asks directions and finds his way to Rua Lontra. It is a dirt road gutted by rain. The further he walks along it, the steeper and more gutted it becomes and the vegetation along the sides grows denser. As he comes around a curve he sees a pond fed by the tiny bubbling cachoeira. Just beyond it he sees three houses. None has numbers or any distinguishing marks. They look deserted. He knocks on the metal door of the first one; nobody answers. The door to the second is
