a patrol car that reads: “To serve the community”, which the chief says reflects the new philosophy that must infuse such an institution in a participatory and democratic society. The true change, Mole thinks, is in the way people talk. The language he uses sounds more educated, more refined. The police higher-ups no longer speak in street slang, they’re starting to act more like politicians than policemen. He dozes off. Bernando Neustadt, the TV commentator, wakes him up with his sissy voice. He expresses his disappointment, he misses the iron fist of the armed forces. Miranda turns off the TV. He gets up and gets dressed. It’s time to take his final exam, and he feels like he knows the material backward and forward.
From the shadows across the street he watches the students of Lia’s Art Studios leave the building and walking away in groups of twos or threes, carrying their portfolios under their arms. Mole looks at his watch. It’s a little after ten at night. He waits two minutes, crosses the street and enters the building. From the foyer he can see Lia, who has not yet noticed his arrival. She has an asymmetrical haircut with a quiff of shocking-red hair falling over half her face. She’s got a great body, and her lily-white skin is not marred by a mole, a freckle or even a spot, according to his memory of her body from very close range. Nobody would guess that this tiny woman is as powerful as a locomotive when she makes love. Miranda smiles with satisfaction; he feels his sex getting restless. Her unconditional loyalty to him seems a lot like love but also contains a good dose of gratitude, a rare virtue Mole values highly. He convinced her to give up prostitution, paid for her to take classes with a painter with an unpronounceable name, whom everyone called Bear, set her up in the studio and bought the equipment that allowed her to become what she is now, what she calls a plastic artist. Miranda thinks this is funny because, as far as he can tell, this girl hasn’t a touch of plastic about her. Lia’s charm sells more paintings than her brush and as a born survivor on her way to fame and fortune, she knows quite well how to deploy her virtues to their full advantage. Just as Lia starts to take off her apron, she sees him. She looks surprised, then freezes, then shoots him a sidelong glance out from under that cute red quiff. Then a smile, unreserved and also bright red, spreads out like a curtain to reveal a vaudeville of teeth, restless tongue and shining eyes.
Wow, this really is a surprise. Hi, Lia. It’s been so long, how are you? What you see… I missed you. I was abroad. Yeah, I saw you on the news. Oh, you saw me. I saw you. You okay?
Perfect. The family? Very well, thank you. What’s going on with your life? Do you have a minute? I’ve got all night.
Lia gives him a complicit smile and picks up the telephone.
Just a second, I have to arrange something. Hello, Clara, it’s me… Yes… No, nothing… If Ricardo calls, don’t answer your phone… I’m going to tell him you’re having problems with your boyfriend and I’m going to see you… You witch, how did you guess?… You’re evil… Anyway… we’ll talk tomorrow.
She hangs up and dials again.
Ricky… Everything okay, honey?… Listen, don’t come pick me up… No, nothing… It’s just that Clara had a row with Roberto, she’s really upset… You don’t mind putting it off till tomorrow?… Sure?… Ooh, I wanted so badly to see you… You don’t sound sad enough… I’ll call Clara and tell her I can’t… Sure?… Okay, that’s fine… Let’s talk tomorrow… Great big kiss… Okay. All squared away. Sure was easy for you to string him along. Not really, it’s in his interest, he’s married. Have you ever gone out with anyone who wasn’t? I don’t remember, I was very young. Where are you taking me? Shall we go eat? Let’s. What do you feel like? I’ll take you to a very “in” place. You’ll like it.
With one quick movement, she grabs her leather jacket and her purse, then turns off the light. She motions to Miranda to go out of the door before her. She closes and locks it behind her, takes his arm and walks quickly with him to the corner. They turn up an alleyway and stop in front of a boarded-up house. Under an enormous rubber tree, Lia turns and plants a kiss on Miranda’s mouth, which he reciprocates by putting his arms around her waist and pressing her against his body. Lia disengages, turns toward the main street and lifts her arm as gracefully as she possibly can. The taxi driver is young but the city has already poisoned his spirit. Lia is sitting next to Miranda, definitely pressing her thigh against his. Her aroma, the physical contact, the sound of Lia’s voice awaken each and every cell in Mole’s body, which is joyous and full of energy, anticipating the delights of this woman’s body that he knows he’s going to inhabit that very night when he’s a bit lightheaded from the wine they’ll have with their meal. The driver is listening to disco music at full volume. Lia gently strums her fingers against Miranda’s hand to the beat of the music. They do not speak. The taxi driver derives some kind of neurotic pleasure from speed and his remarkable skill at swerving in and out between the traffic and the pedestrians. He drives with cunning, passing other cars along Avenida Corrientes, which, at that moment, is relatively deserted. He pulls into the lead and catches the green wave, never letting other drivers sneak into the empty spots at the corners between the cars that are waiting for the lights to change. All the while he is constantly checking to make sure no sleepwalker wanders into the road from one of the side streets, modulating his speed as he approaches each light. In mere minutes they have crossed the city from Colegiales to near the Plaza San Martin, where Lia takes him by the hand and leads him into Morizono, a Japanese restaurant where Mandrake the Magician’s girlfriend prepares delicious rolls of raw fish with rice. Life has finally shaken itself awake. Prison has been left a thousand years behind.
9
Valli sees the sign from the freeway, takes the next exit, drives over the overpass and returns along the frontage road to Two Gold Coins grill. The last customers are still gorging themselves on pieces of mixed grill washed down with cheap wine. Horacio is stirring the coals and spreading them out to create the uniform heat he needs to finish cooking without burning a few large pieces of flank steak. Valli walks through the wood-framed opening hung with plastic that serves as a door. Fatso Horacio has left part of the grill without coals. That’s where he piles up the grilled chorizos he’ll heat up for that night’s dinner. Valli walks up to the bar and sits down on one of the stools.
How’re you doing, Boss? Where’ve you been hiding? I’m stopping by to pay you a visit. Wanna eat? Thanks, but I already did. I’ve got some grilled peppers with garlic that will make you lick your fingers up to your elbows. Another time. I’ve got a gig for you.
Horacio checks to make sure nobody is listening.
I heard Turcheli kicked the bucket. Heart attack. Right after his promotion. Tough luck. Who’s going to take his place? Filander. Can I come back? I don’t know, we’ll have to see. What you got for me? A hit, serious shit. Who? A former superintendent. Who? Lascano. Perro? The one and only. Didn’t he die? Not even remotely. There was a gunfight with some soldiers, but he got away. No shit, somebody must have had his back. Who’s protecting him? Protected him. Who? The one with the heart attack. Say no more, where do I find him? We’re tailing him. You up for it? No problem, what’s in it for me? Same as always, maybe a reinstatement, if everything works out. Everything will work out. Be careful, Perro’s no pushover. Don’t worry. You’re the one who should worry. Everything’s got to go just right. If you screw up or they nab you, you’re going to be lonelier than Adam on Mother’s Day. Have I ever screwed up? I don’t know. You’ll get me the gun? You get it yourself. Okay, okay, how much will you give me now? Five grand, will that do? That’ll do. As soon as I hear, I’ll let you know where he is. Done deal.
The next day Horacio parks his car in front of the Retiro bus terminal. Around his own neighbourhood, they call his Valiant II “The Panther” because of the of black spots showing through the yellow he painted on after he stole it. Horacio puts on the steering-wheel lock and walks into Villa 31, the shanty town. He turns down an alleyway and continues for about two hundred yards till he gets to the home of One-Eyed Giardina.
In 1965 anti-Peronist thugs organized a demonstration against Isabelita Peron, right in front of Hotel Alvear Palace in the middle of Barrio Norte, where she was staying. For a little spare change, Giardina signed up to be counted in this demonstration for the posh and privileged. But the plebs from the Infantry Guards beat the demonstrators with sticks and shot tear gas canisters at their heads. One of those canisters took out one of his eyes.
Horacio stops next to one of the hovels, in front of a paisley cloth curtain. He hears two men inside talking. He claps his hands. The voices stop. A moment later One-Eyed appears and invites him to come in. An ashen-faced man sits at a wooden table in front of a jug of red wine and a plate full of cubes of salami and cheese.
Sonia! Bring a glass for my friend.
A woman of undefined age appears from the next room, dragging her feet. She’s missing her two front teeth
