I’m sorry madam, but this is a police emergency. Follow that Rural please.
The woman’s eyes light up.
Like in the movies! I’m sorry for any inconvenience. Don’t worry, I’m thrilled, finally some excitement. Are we chasing a killer? Just a suspect. Really? Forgive my curiosity, but what’s he suspected of? I’m afraid I can’t tell you. Of course, gagging orders. Exactly. Oh my, wait until I tell the girls.
The driver is skilful and soon gets onto the Rural’s tail. After a few minutes they reach the junction of Esmeralda and Viamonte. Amancio sticks his hand out of the window to signal he’s going into a car park.
Drop me here. Sorry once again madam. Not at all, a pleasure, though nothing much happened in the end.
Lascano puts a couple of notes in the driver’s hand, gets out and mixes in with the hustle and bustle of the street. Amancio comes out of the car park, crosses the road and enters the Banco Municipal de Préstamos, the pawnbrokers. Lascano follows him in. Pérez Lastra goes over to a counter and Perro feigns interest in the items on display, positioning himself so that he can comfortably monitor goings on at the desk. Amancio speaks to an attendant, opens his parcel and takes out a nine millimetre. The sales assistant inspects it, asks a question. Amancio nods his head. The attendant puts the pistol in a wooden box and starts to fill out a form. He says something and Amancio immediately takes out his wallet and shows his ID card. The assistant quickly writes the number down and then spins the ledger around and passes over a pen. Amancio signs his name and hands it back. The assistant adds his signature and stamps a seal on four counterfoils. He tears one off, passes it to Amancio and directs him over to the cashier desks. Amancio takes the piece of paper and joins one of the queues, eagerly anticipating his earnings. He weighs up the length of the line then pulls out a copy of the
Palermo Racing Post
and starts reading. Lascano, without letting Amancio out of his sight, goes over to the check-in desk and furtively shows his badge to the attendant.
Tell me, what transaction did the man you just served make? Who, that one?
The assistant raises his hand and points over to Amancio. Lascano quickly grabs his arm and pulls it down.
A little discretion, please. Oh yeah, sorry. The guy deposited a pistol. Let me see it.
The attendant gets out the wooden box and puts it on the counter. Perro picks up the gun and holds the barrel to his nose. The smell of gunpowder is very fresh. The clip is missing. He takes the small piece of plastic that he found in the lift from his pocket and compares it with a chip in the handle. Perfect fit. In his notebook, he copies down the basic details from the ledger. He bids farewell to the employee. Amancio’s still standing in the queue. Lascano heads out into the street and hails a taxi.
Palermo racecourse, please.
Lascano stations himself near the entrance to the grandstand gallery. Fifteen minutes later, Amancio enters with all the airs and graces of the Shah of Persia and heads for the café. Lascano allows himself a smug smile. He waits for a moment, then follows. He finds Amancio sitting at a table in the company of a young woman, beautiful and distant, with the self-assurance of the well-bred girl, for whom everything seems the most natural thing in the world. Too conscience, perhaps, of how attractive she is. Perro sits down by the window, from where he can watch them without being noticed. A familiar face approaches their table. Everyone greets one another and they speak briefly. The loudspeaker announces the start of the third race. Horacio excuses himself and leaves. Amancio studies the race programme and Lara looks bored. Out of the window, Lascano sees Horacio, down by the fence that separates the track
from the public.
Time to get this show on the road
, Perro says to himself, and heads over to the Pérez Lastras. He flashes them his badge and sits down at their table.
Good day. Good day. I’m Superintendent Lascano. Are you Mr Pérez Lastra? The very same. This is my wife, Lara. Nice to meet you. How can I be of help? I’m conducting an investigation into an associate of yours and need to ask you a few questions. Ask away. Elías Biterman. Biterman? Yes, of course, I know Biterman. What’s your relationship with him? Commercial. He cashes cheques for me or lends me modest sums. Do you owe him much money? I believe I do owe him a little, yes. When was the last time you saw him? Is the Yid in trouble? Answer my question please. I don’t know, it would be about a week ago. Where did you meet him? In a café on Florida. Do you remember which one? The Richmond. What was the purpose of the meeting? To sort out the payments I owe him. How much do you owe him? Well, I don’t have the figures with me. Approximately. I don’t know, a million, more or less. And what arrangements did you come to? In the end, none at all. It was left that he was going to send me the bill with an invoice through his brother, Horacio, but he never did. So I see. Can you tell me where you were on Tuesday night? Tuesday? We ate at home, isn’t that right dear? Err yeah. Yes, we went to bed early. How did you injure your head? I fell off my horse out in the country. Do you have a car? Yes. A Falcon Rural 74. What colour? Grey. Where is it? Here, in the club car park. Do you want to see it? That won’t be necessary. What blood group are you? O negative. Would you mind telling me what this is all about? Biterman was murdered. What? Like you heard. You don’t think that… I don’t think anything yet. I’m talking to all his debtors. I see. Well, that’s everything. I may have to speak to you again. Good day, sir, sorry to disturb you. …Good day.
Lascano stands up and performs a little bow before leaving.
And what shit have you got yourself mixed up in now, darling? Nothing, it seems that someone I know has been killed. I heard that bit, was it you? But how can you even think such a thing? On Tuesday I got back at seven in the morning and you weren’t home. I’ve already explained that to you. Yes, you explained it to me, but you just lied about it to the police.
25
It’s a clear morning. Giribaldi sits impatiently at the wheel of his car. He’s wondering what’s taking Maisabé so long, given that she said she was ready to leave when he went to get the car from the garage. Finally she appears, carrying the baby as if she’s concealing a secret. Giribaldi opens the back door. He looks in the rear-view mirror and sees that her face is strained, and she’s been crying.
What is up with her?
He decides to go the bottom way. He takes 9 de Julio, turns onto Diagonal Norte and continues down towards Casa de Gobierno. A group of mothers-of-the-disappeared are congregated in Plaza de Mayo, doing circuits around the pyramid-shaped monument, wearing white handkerchiefs on their heads.
Maisabé fixes her eyes on these silent women, as the car skirts around them on Hipólito Yrigoyen. The traffic lights on Defensa halt their progress. They come to a stop, right across from the women. One of them stops her march and stares at Maisabé, who feels like she’s been discovered. The woman walks towards the car with a hard look on her face. Fear grips hold of Maisabé’s throat, her muscles tense and she doesn’t realize she’s squeezing the child too tightly. The baby starts crying.
Giribaldi asks what the matter is. A horn sounds behind them, the lights change, he slips into first and pulls away. Maisabé looks around and sees the mother by the cordon now, greeting and embracing another woman. Maisabé begins to tremble and weep.
Can you please tell me what on earth you’re crying for? No reason, Leonardo, it’s nothing, just leave me be.
They carry on along Leandro Alem heading north, with no option but to join the typically chaotic morning traffic. Giribaldi comes to a stop outside The Horse café, under the train tracks, on the corner of Avenida Juan B. Justo and Libertador. He leaves his wife and child to wait in the car and goes into the café, where Amancio sits at a table, anxiously stirring his coffee.
A weak and contemptible being, always preoccupied with his wife, a whore no matter how many barrels to her name. Always begging, always drowning in a glass of water, although in his case it would have to be a glass of whisky. It’s always the same with civilians, more doubt than strength of will
. Giribaldi approaches Amancio’s table but remains standing, the better to emphasize his stature, his superiority. Amancio offers up what he believes to be his best smile.
Giri, it looks like this thing’s gone from bad to worse. Now what? A policeman came to see me. He asked me loads of questions about Biterman. Lascano? That’s him. You stupid fool. Last time you told me his name was Lezama and I had to bust my arse finding out who it really was. I said Lezama? Yes. Sorry, I was mistaken. You’re always mistaken. What you now have to get into your head is that you’ve got yourself involved in a game with the big boys, where errors are paid for dearly. You’re right, and I’m sorry. Stop saying sorry all the time, won’t you? What did Lascano want? It’s the same guy who went to see Horacio. No shit! What did you tell him? Nothing, but he
asked me hundreds of questions. The guy suspects something. How did he get to you? How do I know? Would Horacio have told him? I don’t know, maybe. Does he know anything about me? Who? Horacio, who else? Not a thing. You sure? Come on, do you take me for a complete fool? Well, the truth is that you are a bit of a fool.
Giribaldi looks up and sees Maisabé standing by the car, clutching the baby, rocking it nervously as it waves its hands about and bawls. Amancio assumes himself responsible for the look of anger that spreads over Giribaldi’s face.
Right. I’ve got to go and see this priest you recommended, see if he can cure Maisabé of the craziness she’s got with the kid. And what about me, what shall I do? You grab that little whore of yours, lock up your house and head out to the country, and you do it right now, and you stay there until I tell you otherwise. And whatever happens, keep your trap shut. If they nab you, let me know straight away. Tell them that for security reasons you have to inform Major Giribaldi. Is that clear? Crystal.
26
Waiting in the sacristy, Maisabé rocks the baby frantically, not realizing it’s fallen asleep. Giribaldi kills time looking at the depictions of suffering hanging on the wall. The Sacred Heart, wrapped in its crown of thorns, drips blood on the world. To one side, Saint Sebastian, pierced with arrows, endures martyrdom with a bit of a poof’s expression on his face. Next to him, Saint George, ferocious, skewers the dragon, which writhes on the ground at the horse’s feet. Father Roberto opens the door. He’s young, wears jeans and a T-shirt and could easily pass for an engineering or economics student. He has a wide, childish smile and a deliberate, somewhat affected manner. He speaks gently.
Major, what a pleasure, and you must be Maisabé. And the little one, what’s he called? His name’s Aníbal, Father. No need to call me father, my name’s Roberto. As you wish. Now what is it that’s bothering you?
Roberto notices that Maisabé seems apprehensive in the presence of Giribaldi, who looks like he’s keeping watch over a dangerous prisoner.
Major, you wouldn’t be offended if I asked for a moment alone with your wife? What? No, no, of course not, I’ll wait outside. Many thanks…
The Major wavers a second and then leaves, as if going to do his penance.
OK, now tell me, Maisabé, what’s troubling you? I don’t know if you know, Father… sorry, Roberto, but this child is actually… No need to explain, I know all about it. But tell me, what’s the matter with you, it doesn’t seem like you’ve taken to motherhood so well. I think I’m going crazy. But why? The child hates me. But how can this little angel hate you? He looks at me in a certain way… In what way? As if he’s accusing me of what happened to his mother, of having stolen him from her. But no, you’re confusing things, Maisabé, that’s all in your imagination. When a child is born it’s common for mothers to get a bit flustered. Now you may not have given birth to this child, but you wanted to so much that I think something similar is happening to you. You think so? It seems that way. The other night I became convinced that I was living in sin for having stolen him. You’ve not stolen anything, Maisabé, you have saved this child. Yes, but the mother… The mother was not capable of protecting him and got herself mixed up in things she shouldn’t have. You’re not to blame for what happened to her. She’s the only one to blame, she ought to have thought better of it before getting mixed up in what she did. But doesn’t a person live in sin if they keep stolen goods?
The priest puts his hand over her head then gently takes hold of her chin.
Maisabé!… that’s for things, not for people. Think about it a little, what would have become of this poor angel if it had grown up in a subversive household? You have to realize that God intervened to put this child in your hands. Divine Providence was moved to pity the child’s destiny and give him a Christian home, where he’ll be raised with true values. You and your husband represent those values, and that’s why you’re here
.
Ashamed of what she’s about to say, Maisabé bows her head. Roberto’s hand lingers on her neck.
Father, the other night I thought about killing him, so as to return him to his mother. Well, I understand you feeling remorse, which shows that you’re a good person. Sometimes our best intentions lead us down the wrong path, but you’ve seen the light and the sin of evil thought is forgiven. Really Father?… Roberto. Of course, Maisabé, come with me…
He directs her towards a prayer bench, where they both kneel. He hands her an image of the Virgin of the Immaculate Conception surrounded by cherubs, hand in the air, eyes looking up to the sky, with her burgeoning belly. He reaches an arm around Maisabé’s shoulders and places his other hand, fist clenched, against his breast.
Recite with me the Prayer for Lost Children.
Embraced by Roberto, babe in arms and staring determinedly at the image, Maisabé softly repeats the priest’s words.