them. She walks to the office. She enters. She goes up to Jorge’s body and touches his neck to look for a pulse. She leaves. She wipes off the two doorknobs with a handkerchief, closes the office door, unlocks the door to the reception area and sits down in front of the desk. She looks at her watch and sighs.
The whole thing took less than three minutes.
6
Miranda spends the whole night as if he’d been bitten by a tsetse fly: tossing and turning, floating in a vague half-sleep, falling into a deeper sleep for mere minutes, maybe seconds, at a time. He spends his first night of freedom full of regrets, fears, guilt and the constant urge to cry. He is tormented as only a tough man, hardened and moulded by life’s harsh realities can be when all his defences fall away; he feels like a slug starting down a path strewn with salt. Even his pores feel sorrow and ache. He is overwhelmed by a sense of vertigo, and the only escape appears to be the end of this interminable night. Tomorrow he will confront his greatest fear, hear his final sentence. He knows this is one of those all-or-nothing moments he has had to confront several times throughout his life. There have been times he’s even gone looking for them and then boasted about surviving them. But now he’s weary, he wants it to stop. He cannot imagine life as an invalid, or without his woman or his son. He gets up, goes to the bathroom and looks at himself in the mirror, where all the marks stamped on his face by the prison bars are reflected back at him, no detail spared: his left eye slightly crossed — which wasn’t like that before — the brown spot on his temple, his receding gums that now expose the tips of the roots of his teeth — which themselves have yellowed. He is sick of that insipid face staring heartlessly back at him. He hates mirrors. Now that they’ve let him out of his cage he can allow himself this moment of tremendous weakness, which anyway was inevitable. He feels sorry for himself and hates himself for feeling that way. He despises the man he has always been, the one he no longer wants to be, the man who is determined to change, come what may.
The black of the sky edges toward blue, then continues to lighten. The arrival of what Miranda waited for all night does not lift his spirits. Lying in the bathtub with his eyes closed and abandoning himself to the warmth of the water enveloping him, he thinks: This is the ideal way: a razor blade in the bathtub. Uncork the blood, fall asleep, let it flow like water. Leave his wife and son a pale, clean corpse, as if he were sleeping. Nothing pathetic, sordid or bloody. Something that can be buried with decorum.
Doctor Gelser had to twice postpone his appointment with Peretti because the entryway was swarming with police. He is a prudent man and doesn’t want to run the risk of someone recognizing him and starting to ask questions. But at that moment, the entrance to Churruca Police Hospital is particularly peaceful. He looks at his watch. He walks from the corner with quick steps. He’s wearing a doctor’s white coat. As he enters, he keeps his head down, past the elevators and directly to the door that leads to the basement. The corridor is empty. He stops in front of the supply window and rings the bell. It opens briefly, then shuts with a bang. Gelser walks over to the door next to the window; Peretti, a big guy wearing blue overalls, appears.
Come in, Sawbones.
Gelser enters. Peretti looks up and down the corridor and closes the door. He takes a box off a shelf and gives it to him.
Here’s your order. Great. As long as I’m here, I need something else. If I’ve got it, it’s yours. A Finocchietto rib-splitter. Wait a second…
Peretti picks up a styrofoam box and places it on the table in front of Gelser.
Anything else? That’s all for now. Did you work something out with the people in the pharmacy? We’ll have to wait till next week when the Turk comes back from vacation; that jerk who took his place would be better lost than found. Okay. Let me know if you need anything. You know I will, Sawbones.
Gelser takes out a small wad of banknotes held together with a rubber band and stuffs them into one of Peretti’s pockets.
That’s for the order, what do I owe you for the rib-splitter? It’s on the house, Sawbones. Really? Natch. Thanks a million.
Peretti picks up the telephone and dials three numbers.
Wait for me to clear your way… Vasco?… Sawbones Gelser is on his way out with some merchandise. Make sure the coast is clear for him… Okay… They’re really breaking people’s balls on the way out. Thanks, we’ll be in touch. You’re welcome, any time.
It’s almost eleven in the morning by the time Mole leaves his hideout. The morning has dished him up a perfectly splendid autumn day. The sun: perfect; the temperature: perfect, even exhilarating. He walks to Gelser’s house. Where that is, exactly, is one of the best kept secrets in the criminal underworld. Nobody would dare even mention that it exists, no matter how tight a spot they’re in. It’s where fugitives go to get treatment when they’ve been wounded by officers of the law or rival criminals, which are often one and the same.
Sawbones used to practise medicine in the poor neighbourhood of Claypole, where he’d been born and raised. One night the local police superintendent asked him to perform an abortion on a minor, but the pregnancy was too far along and he refused. They framed him and threw the book at him. In the end, he lost his licence and became the doctor of the underworld. He’s a genius at removing bullets, a true master at preventing and curing infections. If there’s dough, he charges; if not, no problem. He never leaves anybody out in the cold. The doctor has earned himself a place of respect, gratitude and appreciation, even among the most violent and crazy lowlifes.
There’s no lock on the door, but inside are all the trappings of a regular doctor’s office, even a small operating room equipped with everything he managed to rescue from his former practice, as well as what Peretti supplies him. Gelser comes out to greet him, flashing his magnificent smile.
My dear, dear Mole, what a pleasure, come in, come in. When did you get out? Yesterday. Everything okay? Well, you know what it’s like, those first hours out. Terrifying. Look, I know someone, a psychoanalyst, he was inside and now he does therapy for ex-cons. Are you interested? Hey, man, if we’ve got psychoanalysts for cons, you know we’re lost. So leave me alone with that crap. That’s all I need. So, what do you need? Look… I want you to test me for the plague. The ELISA test, for HIV? For AIDS. Right, that’s for HIV. What do I have to do? It’s nothing. Go to this address. Ask to speak to Alberto, tell him I sent you. Here’s the lab order. You won’t have to pay anything. Money’s not a problem. It’s on me. You’ll have the results in two days. Let me take a look at you. Take off your shirt.
Gelser stands up and looks in his eyes with a little device that emits a very bright white light, then in his throat and ears, listens to his chest through a stethoscope and palpates his lymph nodes.
You look as healthy as a horse to me. But you want to be sure, right? Yeah, of course. I want to get back with Duchess, but not if I’ve got it. How many were you with inside? Just one. The whole time? No, in the last year. Was he with anybody else? Just me. That’s good.
After he leaves the laboratory Miranda calls Screw and they arrange to meet that evening at Topolino, a pizzeria in downtown Haedo, in the suburbs of Buenos Aires. Screw is the one who manages Mole’s money. While Mole was in jail, he made sure he and his family had whatever they needed. He has carried out his duty with remarkable loyalty and meticulousness, he has accounted forevery penny and gives many more explanations than Miranda demands. They agree to meet at ten that night.
Mole arrives first and orders a large, half-mozzarella, half-onion with cheese pizza and a beer. Screw shows up one minute later. Miranda watches him step around two barefoot kids asking for spare change in the street in front and enter quickly; he stands up and gives him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. He’s truly happy to see him, but Screw looks distraught.
What’s up, old man, why the long face? You’re going to kill me. What’s going on? It’s all gone, Mole, I’ve lost almost all your dough. What do you mean lost? I didn’t want to tell you because I hoped I’d get it back before you got out, but I couldn’t.
With great solemnity, and racked with shame, Screw places an envelope on the table. Miranda stares at it, unable to get over the shock.
What’s this? It’s all that’s left.
Mole peeks in the envelope and casts a disappointed eye on the bundle of dollars inside, then puts it in the inside pocket of his jacket.
But what happened? My baby girl is sick.
