2
The room is in semi-darkness. What little light there is comes from the street lamp outside. Jolted by the wind, its faint glow dances around and throws Amancio’s shadow alternately onto the ceiling, the walls and the bookcase. Sitting beside the window, he drinks his fifth whisky. He’d rather be having a Ballantine or Johnny Walker Black Label, but he has to make do with an Old Smuggler because Amancio is no longer what he once was, or at least no longer has what he once had, which amounts to the same thing in the end. And so he drinks begrudgingly.
It’s past two in the morning and Lara went to sleep three hours ago. This did bring some relief, a respite from her continual reproaches, but it was also an affront to his expectations of companionship, of mutual understanding, of support, bah, of sex. But Lara is conditioned only to make demands; unless she gets something in return, she has nothing to give.
In the street below, the army has just set up one of its checkpoints. A jeep blocks the entrance to the street. Two soldiers with machine guns are positioned on each corner in the shadows. Three others have placed themselves a few feet further back and three more stop
any car that happens by. The soldiers search the vehicle thoroughly, demand to see the identification papers of any passengers, split them up and bombard them with questions. The officers hunt for inconsistencies in their stories, for firearms, documents, evidence of something, whatever. The slightest grounds for suspicion means being thrown in the back of a van and driven to one of many clandestine military prisons spread across the city, to undergo a deeper, more pressing interrogation. Amancio catches himself wanting to witness an arrest. He feels like a circus-goer hoping to see the tightropewalker fall. Time passes by, but nothing else does, the streets are empty, the soldiers, trained for action, grow bored and distracted, until at last the approach of a car brings them to attention. They aim their guns at the heads of the civilians in a car, their trigger fingers twitching as they feel their own fear levels rise, fear being the food that nourishes the soldier.
Amancio finishes his drink in one violent gulp, throwing it down his throat as if wanting to hurt himself with this harsh liquor that his palate is growing accustomed to, and serves himself another.
Somewhat drunk, he inspects his hunting trophies and framed photos. His successful past now seems strange to him. There he is, proudly brandishing his rifle, its butt resting on his thigh, his foot on the horns of a tremendous cape buffalo. He used to love the feeling of power he got from killing these enormous beasts. At his side, his friend Martinez de Hoz. Crouched down, the guide, a little black guy, all eyes and teeth. Amancio is an excellent marksman; it’s his most notable skill, quite possibly his only skill. He feels nostalgic for the days of playing the white hunter, when he could happily blow a
fortune on an African safari in the Okavango delta, for the lost splendour and indulgence of it all, because for some time now Amancio’s finances have been spiralling out of control. He was never taught nor felt the need to learn how to earn money, only to spend it. He was an awful student guided by an indifferent father, from whom Amancio inherited the sense of a life already accounted for, nails growing long like those of a Chinese mandarin. Work was not meant for the likes of them. Their distant ancestors had made fortunes appropriating Indian land in the wake of the desert campaign of General Roca. Back then, just as today, the army lived by a non-negotiable principle: that the good fight meant fighting for goods. The sacrifice, the massacre of one thousand Indians per day, wasn’t considered excessive in return for securing a family’s wealth for three or four generations. Amancio’s grandfather had been the sort who took his family to Europe for long holidays, travelling with his own cow on board the ship to provide fresh milk for his children, and a lover among the passengers on the lower deck to fulfil those functions that bored his aristocratic wife, who considered sex to be something for the working classes. In the salons of Paris they coined the phrase “as rich as an Argentine”. A plentiful childhood, summers spent on the estate at Rauch: twenty thousand acres of the best land in the country. Hereditary tradition ensured that money fell from heaven at the same rate that relatives rose up to it. Life revolved around travel, impressing one’s contemporaries in the salons, swanning around with beautiful, languid young women, gossiping about the “parvenus” and the fallen, mocking the nouveaux riches, scorning the poor, scoffing at the latest scandals and enjoying oneself in the eccentric company of
aristocrats, the Beccar Varelas and the Pereyra Iraolas of this world.
But inheritances were divided among all heirs and a lack of occupation eventually proved costly, especially to someone accustomed to an expensive lifestyle and the finest imported luxuries, unable to renounce old ways, to make a living for himself. Hardly anything was left of all that grandeur today. Of what had once been a vast estate, there’s now only La Rencorosa ranch: a few gardens and flowers, two-hundred-year-old trees, the Sudan grass, the barn where a pair of old nags sleep, half a dozen chickens that survive the neglect of their master and a disused tractor. The big ochre house, spacious and airy, with its veranda and its armchairs, the perfect flower beds are all imprisoned in ten acres. That’s what remains from the squandering, the successive re-mortgaging, the divisions and sales of tracts of land. Expenditure was steadily reduced, naturally, but never stopped altogether, just as interest payments never ended, nor fines, nor penalties. With a prestigious family name to bargain with, loans flowed freely from the nouveaux riches, in turn seduced by the opportunity to acquire properties graced with an aura of high society. But as collateral diminished, the lending tap tightened.
Amancio is a classic case, but with his quick temper and aggressive nature, he can only see his situation through a veil of resentment, he regards it all as some dirty trick played by life, putting money in the hands of nobodies while taking it away from those who deserve it by birthright. From his privileged past he retains only the self-confident, back-slapping manner of the affluent Barrio Norte, as well as the haughtiness and effrontery.
When one is born rich, living poor is perceived as an injustice. Everyone should get what they deserve, and Amancio feels he deserves a better life than this. He thinks about tomorrow and tomorrow means Biterman, the moneylender. Amancio has to go to Biterman’s office in Once, where the loan shark manages his millions. He has been reduced to borrowing from this Jew, accepting his terms and conditions and the accompanying sense of dependency and inferiority. Only yesterday the bank refused to extend Amancio’s overdraft, despite the fact that the president of the bank is none other than Mariano Alzaga, Amancio’s cousin and one-time classmate at Saint Andrew’s School. Amancio can’t even afford a taxi to the
moishe’s
office. One more whisky and the bottle is finished. He’s completely drunk. Down on the street, the soldiers have stopped a Fiat 1500 and forced two young men to get out.
He looks at Lara’s stunning body as she sleeps calmly. She’s young, an outstanding beauty even in a family famous for its beautiful women, the jewels at gatherings held in their mansion on Alvear Street. The Cernadas-Bauers had also descended into bankruptcy, but its women were as resourceful as they were lovely to look at, because somewhere on the family tree their proud Galician blood had mixed with pragmatic German genes. Hence the implacable green eyes and blond hair and a dynamic entrepreneurial streak. Lara’s sister Florencia used her family connections to set up an estate agency. The sway of her hips, allied with the niceties and histrionics of a well-bred girl, seduced buyers and sellers alike, boosting her client list and her commissions. Without becoming rich, she had made herself into a woman of means for the price of a demanding job on
the property market. Lara, on the other hand, with her more fiery, less organized spirit, opted for the shortest route. Following various affairs with men and women of the jet set, in exchange for gifts and favours, she had become a prime topic of conversation among the chattering classes with talk of her prostituting her heritage. So she accepted a position as private secretary to a Harvard-educated executive with a Polish surname, who managed the Argentine outlet of Exxon with great expertise. Lara had no particular aptitude or knowledge for the job, but her salary recognized that her role was to serve the Pole in every kind of way and, with minimum fuss, she carried out certain tasks his wife was disinclined towards. The actors change roles but the plot remains the same. They have both been living off Lara’s salary for several months. Amancio has known her since she was a girl, the life and soul of gatherings of mutual acquaintances, social events at his or her parents’ ranch. For as long as he could, Amancio passed himself off in front of her as a man of considerable standing, and thus squandered his last remaining pesos in courting and entertaining her. A couple of visits to Europe, various other trips and excursions, expensive clothes and cosmetics, and he was ruined. But before her suitor’s bankruptcy became obvious, Lara followed her father’s advice and decided to marry into the good family name of Pérez Lastra, finally putting a stop to the gossip doing the rounds of Recoleta, Palermo Chico, the old quarter, and Las Lomas de San Isidro. Marriage gave her the benefit of status along with a good lifestyle, all for the price of putting up with her consort. But she’d been misled. Now that the wealthy disguise has peeled away, revealing the wrinkles and cracks of a bygone era, Lara
searches with growing impatience for an honourable means of escape from this inconvenient union. The Pole has more problems with his wife by the day and, as a consequence, more problems with Lara, and she sees the ship on the horizon, starting to sink.
Amancio stealthily makes his way to the dresser where Lara has left her handbag. He opens the clasp carefully. Feeling around in the dark, he soon finds her purse. He takes it out. In the half-light, he makes out three ten-thousand peso notes. He takes one, tucks it in his pocket and puts the purse back in place. He passes the drinks cabinet on his way back and unenthusiastically serves himself a cognac before returning to his post at the window.
The military jeeps and soldiers have gone, the Fiat and its occupants disappeared. The street lies empty and silent. Night draws on, darkens. Those who can, sleep.
3
A harsh wind starts to blow. Several broken clouds rush across the sky. Major Giribaldi wanders nervously through the hospital gardens. Tonight’s the night, they said. He believes he’s found the answer to his wife’s problems. He’s only forty years old but he’s feeling more like seventy. He’s impatient. He searches among the many pockets of his uniform for the cigarette he cadged off a conscript. He’s not a smoker but in situations like this you smoke. So he smokes. The moon pokes out between the branches of the tall trees lining Luis María Campos and reminds Giribaldi of a similar moon, four years ago.
Ay lunita tucumana
, hand in hand with Maisabé on the banks of the river, Giribaldi sings of the Tucumán moon, swears his undying love, whatever it takes to get her into bed. Courting Maisabé involved accompanying her home from church every Sunday and adopting an overall approach that was so roundabout it took him six months before he dared touch a breast for the first time. Even then he knew he risked losing her for ever. She let him get away with it up to a certain point, then stopped him cold, with a firm virginal hand, and he could advance no further. Maisabé’s Catholic convictions were stronger than the hot flushes he managed, through great effort,
to coax from her. He could always get only so far: her panting, cheeks on fire, nipples stiff as steel and then the
that’s enough Giri!
that sounded like a warning of land mines ahead. For a whole year he was unable to get any further. Desire got the better of him, meaning the altar. Sick of masturbating and tired of the
chinitas
, the Indian girls down the local brothel, that night, under that moon, he asked Maisabé to marry him. Emotional and reduced to tears, she accepted immediately. The soldier advanced another pigeon step: with faint hand, Maisabé barely touched his desperate sex, then pulled her hand away like a startled fish. Such was the progress he made from his proposal of marriage.
So then came asking permission of her parents, authorization from his superiors, the white dress, the church, the party and then, finally, the surrender. Alone together as husband and wife, she moved straight to penetration and then as abruptly reached a standstill. It was all very brief. Quick relief for Giribaldi, and for Maisabé one more wifely duty performed before God. Afterwards, the groom, half-asleep, couldn’t help asking himself if it had all been worth it. When he awoke, he found Maisabé kneeling at the end of the bed, praying. He took her by the hand with a commanding gesture, brought her back to bed and hugged her tight. She snuggled up to him, looked at him with sad black eyes and said nothing. For Giribaldi, the closeness of this fresh body, unspoilt and so long yearned for, and now so very still and glued to him, began to excite him. And so, as gently as possible, he pushed himself away from her, rolled over and went to sleep.
Their amorous encounters are not as frequent or intense as Giribaldi would like. Maisabé never takes the
initiative, never offers the slightest seductive gesture, never even a caress. He always has to get things started then lead all the way. At some point she will pant for a moment, before her regular breathing promptly returns. That’s it for her part. Climax is her husband’s domain, something she bares in silent, still resignation. She has never been told pleasure forms part of God’s plan. And so pleasure is not for her. Afterwards, she waits for her husband to fall asleep before kneeling and praying for forgiveness, her body full of anguish. Giribaldi longs for what he has never had, a satisfied woman, with no strength left for anything, abandoning herself and her thoughts entirely to her man, kisses like in the movies. But it would never be like this with Maisabé. Not with her. Nor with any other woman, there is no other woman, nor even the possibility or the thought. Giribaldi knows not the art of seduction.