The Buenos Aires Quintet (45 page)

Ostiz makes no reply beyond a knowing smile.

‘Dinner is served!’ Gorospe shouts. ‘You know Doñate will only appear when we’ve all sat down. It’s magic.’

Everyone takes their seat, the couples sitting as far away from each other as possible. Lucho grasps Sara’s wheelchair and pushes her towards the table, leaning over to whisper in her ear as he does so: ‘You bitch!’

Sara pretends she has not heard. Still smiling and cheerful, she hisses back at him: ‘Cuckold, cuckold!’

Lucho leaves her at the table and withdraws upstairs to his office.

‘Magín, start serving the entrées,’ Gorospe orders. ‘Doñate is late.’

No sooner has he pronounced the words than Doñate appears in the restaurant doorway. Carvalho tries to conceal his sense of shock. Doñate. The Captain.

Magín goes into the kitchen. The plates for the first course are ready.

‘To whet their appetite,’ chef Drumond says, his French accent returning as he surveys the hors d’oeuvre: ‘
Sashimi de thon frais mariné an soja, artichaut déguisé et la marinade de légumes nouveaux aux agrumes, carpaccio de morue... Merde!
they are supposed to be served one after the other, but...’

‘They’ll eat them anyway,’ Magín says.

All at once there is a loud clatter of pots and pans. The cook with the boiled glasses has thrown a pan at the other, younger man. The woman shrieks and stands in front of her lover to protect him.

‘Whore!’ the myopic cook shouts. ‘D’you think I didn’t see you? You’ve been fondling each other all evening!’

He snatches up a big kitchen knife and lunges after them, but Magín and the other man manage to stop him.

‘Calm down, all of you,’ Magín shouts. ‘You,’ he tells the woman, ‘put your apron on and come and help me serve.’

Magín and the kitchen maid make their way into the restaurant. Their faces and the dishes they are carrying announce the start of the meal. The Captain is being presented to everyone, Carvalho included. They look each other up and down.

‘José Carvalho Tourón, private detective.’

They manage not to shake hands, merely nodding their head.

‘We share a first name then. José Doñate, retired army officer.’

‘No one here believes you’re retired,’ Sinaí reproaches him.

To judge by the suppressed laughter that escapes them despite the respect the Captain inspires, the others obviously all agree with him. Ostiz takes him aside to say something, but apparently Doñate is only half-listening and half-looking at him, because he is busy ogling Dora and trying to warn Carvalho off at the same time. With Dora he is all charm.

‘Dora, if the other ladies present weren’t just as beautiful, I’d say you are truly beautiful tonight,’ he says.

‘You poet!’ Dora replies simperingly.

But his charm does not extend beyond Dora. Carvalho has heard his growled comment to Ostiz: ‘Go fuck yourself.’ Ostiz tries to make him see reason, but to no avail. Sinaí gets up self-importantly and directs their attention to the wines displayed on a nearby buffet.

‘I would have preferred French wines, perhaps a bottle or two from South Africa, but Gorospe insisted I choose
from my own vineyards
!’

Everyone applauds.

‘I’ll only say a few words about them because I know you are all experts. I’ve chosen a Cotes de Arezzo as the sparkling wine – the champagne let’s call it, because our Argentine sparkling wines are every bit as good as champagne. Then an ’89 Riesling Sinaí which is a good honest drink, and also, in honour of my wife here’ – more applause – ‘a young Château Dora which can be drunk with another more full-bodied wine, the Château Margaux Francesca, named after my mother, which despite its name is not an imitation of a Château Margaux but a fine Merlot wine in the best traditions of Mendoza.’

‘Very good!’ Gorospe bellows. ‘As you all know, when it comes to wines I’m a nationalist, whenever I can’t have a good French wine instead, that is.’ The others boo and hiss. ‘That reminds me of a story I once heard about that great poet of negritude, Senghor – who was Senegalese – who, when he was asked “Do you know a lot about Senegalese cooking?” replied: “Enough to prefer French cooking.”

Loud whoops of approval, but mostly the gourmet guests are already busily sniffing the hors d’oeuvre, tasting a little with the tips of their forks, and generally swooning with pleasure.

‘Mmm, how delicious!’ some say.

‘What subtle flavours! What texture!’ say the others.

‘What do you make of this, Carvalho?’ Gorospe wants to know. ‘Try this tuna
sashimi.
It smells of the sea, has the consistency of air and glides across the tongue.’

‘It glides,’ Cari enthuses.

‘Smooth is the word,’ Ferlinghetti opines.

‘Smooth and gentle, like a French kiss,’ Sara suggests.

‘What are you thinking about, Sara?’ the Captain wonders. ‘Isn’t Lucho eating with us?’

‘We begged him to, but he refused,’ Gorospe replies, pointing up towards the office.

Don Lucho is surveying the dinner guests from his hiding place. He points the Luger at Sara in her wheelchair and mouths silently:
bang! bang!
Meanwhile in the kitchen, the female assistant in her waitress’s apron is beside herself with rage.

‘This is a trap! I’m off!’

She undoes her apron and flings it on to the kitchen table. Unfortunately it lands straight in the pot full of squid stuffed with mushrooms. Drumond and her husband try to stop her leaving.

‘Lupe, I’m sorry. You’re right, I’m a hopeless cuckold.’

‘Of course you are, at last you’ve got it. You’re a miserable cuckold, nothing more!’ she shouts at him.

‘There’s no need to insult me, Lupe!’

‘You were the one who said it.’

The cook grabs the kitchen knife again and flings himself on his wife. The younger man steps in between them, and whacks Lupe’s husband on the head with a heavy copper pan. A dull thud. He falls to the ground, and the other three stare down at him in panic. There is a different kind of panic in Magín’s face: he has served some of the
papillotes
but is looking for the waitress to bring in the rest. Eventually she appears through the swing doors, still unsteady on her feet, but carrying the two required plates. She places them in front of the Captain and Carvalho, nervously staring down at a bright red stain on her blouse front.

‘Tomato sauce?’ the Captain asks.

‘No, it’s coulis. Tomato coulis,’ the waitress mumbles.

‘I’m sorry, this is a very difficult day, not everything can be perfect,’ Magín apologizes.

‘But this
papillote
is perfect. It’s
merveilleuse –
tell the chef so from me,’ Dolly says, trying to smoothe things over.

‘Chef will come and explain the intimate details of the menu to you,’ Magín informs them.

‘But not just at this moment,’ the waitress adds hastily.

‘Whenever he gets the opportunity,’ Magín insists.

Magín follows the waitress out to the kitchen.

‘Did you hear that?’ Ferlinghetti number two says. The “intimate details” of the menu. He talks a good meal.’

‘Cooking made mankind what it is. There is a materialist theory about the origins of language which says it was born around the fire when primitive man was grilling some bison ribs or cooking the first
pot-au-feu
,’
Carvalho tells his companions.

‘Would that be a dialectical materialist theory?’ the Captain wants to know.

‘Of course,’ Carvalho replies. ‘The man who launched the theory is a dialectical materialist. He is called Faustino Cordón.’

‘A Marxist? Do Marxists eat?’ Dora asks incredulously.

‘I’ve met Marxist gourmets,’ says the Captain.

‘Dead or alive?’ Ferlinghetti number one quips, pleased at his own joke.

His brother’s laughter is cut short by an icy glare from the Captain.

‘Pleasure admits neither ideology nor violence,’ Gorospe purrs. ‘A good dinner table calms spirits and brings people together.’

‘Does pleasure admit patriotism?’ Dora wants to know. ‘Who is willing to leap to the defence of Argentine cooking, for example?’

Her suggestion meets only dismissive snorts, which Gorospe puts into words.

‘The problem is, there is no such thing. There is excellent food in Argentina –
asado
or
empanadas
for example. But there isn’t really anything that could be called Argentine cooking. There’s a big difference between food and cooking.’

‘Do you think the same way?’ Dora says, staring at the Captain. ‘I’ve heard you’re a true patriot.’

The Captain meets her gaze and gives her a long, careful reply: ‘Well, patriotism is one thing, food is another. The flavours we cherish most are those in our memory. They’re bound up with how our taste has developed – that’s why we like
asado
or whatever our mothers or grandmothers cooked for us. But it’s true that Argentine cooking cannot compete with that of many other nations. For example – our most sophisticated dish is
matambre,
rolled meat loaf. And our most patriotic contribution is
carbonada,
our meat stew! As Borges might have said: what paucity!’

The others applaud.

Magín has followed the waitress into the kitchen. He looks around, bewildered that no one is to be seen. Then the cold-storage door opens and Drumond and the younger cook appear, hurriedly shutting the door behind them.

‘Where’s Santos?’ Magín asks.

‘My husband’s left,’ the waitress explains. ‘He changed his mind and walked out.’

‘Son of a... !’ Magín screams. ‘Now what are we going to do?’

‘We’ll manage,’ the waitress says.

‘Drumond, I’d like you to explain the details of the menu to the club members,’ Magín says.

Drumond is drinking deeply from a huge glass full of gin with a splash of tonic and lemon juice.

‘Do you think it’s the moment to be drinking?’ Magín asks.

‘
Bien sûr
.’

He boards the train in Retiro station, with its distant echoes of Victorian splendour, its historic iron rails that have fascinated him since childhood, as if the iron had become a malleable part of his own existence. He gets off where the old English-built railway ends and boards a modern tourist train, resisting the temptation to get off again at each of the suburban stations that have been turned into shopping centres. Gradually the built-up city gives way to houses with gardens, and then finally the trees of northern Buenos Aires announce that they are nearing the Tigre delta. He does not recognize anything in the terminal, which has also been turned into an American-style shopping mall, so Raúl hastens to get out to the Tigre canals, his sense of hope a mixture of expectation and fear, the same kind of tremulous hope he felt as a child when faced with this maze of dark waters, and imagined that paradise could exist. He is to meet his contact on the boat going to Puerto Escobar, and as soon as he sits by the port bow he is joined by one of the people who took him on his first trip here. They were not supposed to speak to each other, and they remain silent as the boat makes its way to one of the river stopping points, next to a dilapidated row of diesel pumps. The two of them get off, then board a waiting launch. Raúl recognizes the route from the previous occasion, and then there is the same house almost swallowed up by vegetation, rotten from damp and a lack of care, but still beautiful to live in – it even crosses Raúl’s mind to ask how much it would cost to buy it.

He is met by the same man as before, who motions him to sit down, and gets straight to the point.

‘I am in a position to give you excellent news. The investigations we have made can help you in your search. Your daughter is alive. She is being brought up by Captain Doreste, whom you know as Gorostizaga, or the “Ranger”, as his military nickname had it.’

Raúl is on the verge of tears, and his voice is strangled when he asks: ‘Where is she? How can I get her back? What proof do I need to show?’

He can feel the other man’s eyes on him, and realizes there must be a second part to his proposal.

‘The proof depends on an agreement.’

‘An agreement between whom?’

The sphinx in front of him takes his time, not to think what to say but to see if Raúl’s vehement emotions will push him further.

‘I’m willing to make any agreement that returns my daughter to me.’

Satisfied, the sphinx now speaks.

‘That’s a good start. You have been in contact with Richard Gálvez Aristarain, who told you about some things his father, the famous Robinson, had found out. And what Gálvez discovered coincides with our own investigations.’

‘But who are you?’

‘We are who we are. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Señor Tourón. Gálvez Junior got involved in this to get revenge on Ostiz, whom he blamed for being behind his father’s murder. And Ostiz does lead to the Captain and your daughter, but he is not to appear in any of this. You are to present a lawsuit against the Captain and his wife, whose maiden name is Pardieu, and who was part of the farce of the adoption of Eva María Tourón as the daughter of a single mother. The girl is now called Muriel Ortínez Ortínez and is almost twenty’

Muriel’s name sounds familiar to Raúl, as if he had heard it somewhere recently.

‘Gálvez won’t agree to leaving Ostiz out of this.’

‘We’ll take care of Richard Gálvez.’

‘Why are you helping me? Who are you?’

‘You go and find your daughter and sort out the Captain. We’ll look after everything else. In this dossier you’ll find where the Captain’s family lives, how you should proceed so they don’t take flight, and the name of a firm of lawyers who are willing to help you. Don’t get the grandmothers of the Plaza de Mayo mixed up in this, or we won’t supply you with all the proof you need. For the next few hours, the Captain and his troupe of motorcyclists won’t be at his home, and we’ve taken care of the two guards there. So the way is open for you to reach María Asunción Pardieu – she’s the Captain’s wife, who lives under an assumed name because Pardieu is the maiden name they used to register her as Eva María’s mother. You are to enter the house, go up to the woman you find there and say: “I am Raúl Tourón and I am Muriel’s father.”’