Purgatory (22 page)

By the time he arrived for the meeting, it was almost midnight. The corridors of the presidential palace were deserted: Dupuy had negotiated these hallways many times and knew he had to move carefully. Every twenty or thirty metres, someone would step out of the shadows and demand that he produce his papers. As he walked, the air became hotter and hotter. He leaned for a moment on the balustrade of the gallery and looked down at the palm trees in the courtyard. The night swelled, the darkness swelled (there is no other way to explain the slow inflammation of reality), and pollen stained the floor tiles a cloying yellow. An aide-de-camp came to meet him and walked with him to the dining room where the
comandantes
were finishing their meal. They seemed nervous, upset. The table was littered with press clippings from foreign papers, cartoons, stark headlines about the secret concentration camps, the torture, the numbers of the disappeared. One of the cartoons depicted the Eel with a little moustache like Hitler's and the same lock of hair falling across his forehead. The artist had taken pains to make sure the hair looked shiny and stiff with hair cream. Dupuy had the impression that the commander-in-chief of the navy was amused by this display of rubbish. He was a strapping, muscular, arrogant man, the opposite of the Eel. He apologised to Dupuy for summoning him at such a late hour and asked him to take a seat.

‘We don't want to take up too much of your time. I'm sure you've realised why we asked you to come. We need your help, your imagination.'

‘A vicious campaign has been unleashed against us,' the Eel interjected. ‘It needs to be stopped as soon as possible. In a few months, the whole country will be on display for all the world to see. Our every move is going to be examined under a microscope.'

‘I assume you've read my latest editorial in
La República
refuting this sleazy campaign.'

‘ “Rights and Humans”? It was a model of intelligence, Doctor, as your writing always is,' said the admiral. ‘However, what you write unfortunately only influences opinion in this country. And the country needs no convincing. They realise that when they attack the government, they attack the nation. What we cannot control are the lies spread abroad—'

‘The vicious campaign against Argentina,' interrupted the Eel. ‘You've seen the cartoons attempting to ridicule me.'

‘Your editorial has been translated and sent via our embassies to foreign newspapers,' said the admiral. ‘We have offered a lot of money to have them published. Most of them replied saying they won't publish, not even as a paid advertisement.'

Dupuy felt embarrassed by the comment.

‘It's not your fault, Doctor,' the Eel intervened. ‘A number of extremists have escaped and have been making harmful statements about us. They've been travelling all over the world smearing our good name. They're tireless. Even the BBC in London has broadcast a documentary full of lies. We plan to sue them, but who knows whether it's wise to aggravate them, whether it will only give them more rope to hang us with.'

‘To do nothing would be much worse. But how can I be of help, señores?' Dupuy asked. ‘You know more about counter-intelligence strategy than I do.'

‘We can't destabilise subversives by the book,' said the admiral. ‘What we need is a little imagination. That's why we've called you in. What are your thoughts?'

‘Nothing, just at the moment. I'll give the situation careful consideration and come up with a quick, effective solution. Something that will silence the liars once and for all.'

‘A lightning flash that will win over the sceptics. Another Star of Bethlehem,' said the Eel.

‘A blinding flash, certainly, but something lasting,' Dupuy amended, ‘something that will leave its mark on history. A century from now, any memories of us will be vague. To some in Argentina we will be heroes, not to others. But when they look on what we achieved, we will be remembered with respect, as the Borgias are in Florence, as Napoleon is in France. Of this sleazy campaign of lies against Argentina, on the other hand, no one will remember a thing. We will refute them now with something that will last forever. With a monument, but not one carved in marble. A monument that is imperishable. If you will excuse me, señores, I need to think.'

He did not sleep that night. The image of the Eel with the fringe and the Hitler moustache lay in wait like a starving cat. He reviewed the speeches Hitler had made when he carried all the world before him and wondered what his legacy to posterity would have been if history had not ruined it. He thought of the scale models of the Berlin Olympiad which the architect Speer had given Hitler for his birthday. He recalled the arresting opening scenes of Leni Riefenstahl's two classic documentaries and sensed that this was the key. The finished motorways and the stadiums for the World Cup were equal to the ambition of Speer's scale models. What was needed to complete the picture was a film like Riefenstahl's, an enduring work of art which would tour the world, singing the glories of Argentina, which would carry off the prizes at Cannes, at Venice, at the Oscars. It needed a great opening and a great director. He thought of the unforgettable opening images of
Olympia
depicting the ruins of the greatness of Greek civilisation; he imagined thousands of balloons and doves rising in the late-afternoon air as a providential plane crossed the sky, a reference to
Triumph of the Will
where the Führer's plane comes in to land at Nuremberg. The problem was the Eel did not have the gravitas of Hitler; he was scrawny, surly and the moment he opened his mouth he sounded like a barracks sergeant. This was something that could be dealt with later: using body doubles and long-distance shots. Right now he needed to think of a director capable of the same epic feat as Riefenstahl, someone who was already famous and respected.

He had met Orson Welles in the bullring in Toledo. He had only the vaguest idea of what Welles had done, but he knew that his first film,
Citizen Kane
, was considered by critics to be the finest in the history of cinema. That was enough for him. He didn't need to see
Citizen
, all he needed was to find out a little more about the man himself. He had been a prodigy and at the age of thirty had married Rita Hayworth. He was not egotistical – his failures had cured him of his pride. If Welles was prepared to follow his orders, this documentary about Argentina would go down in history as the bible of cinema. The more he thought about the project, the more convinced he was that it could not fail. The characters would be heroes like those in Greek mythology. And the plot, ah, the plot – he would have to fashion it carefully. It would depict battles of the stature of
War and Peace, Moby-Dick
, the
Iliad
but played out on the football field. He would have liked to call the film
Gods of the Stadium
, but this was the Spanish title of Riefenstahl's
Olympiad
.

The Welles he had met in Toledo was an educated man, more a jaded ox than a fighting bull. And, according to his informants, after Toledo, things had not gone well for him. He was constantly in need of money, constantly fighting with producers who mutilated his works of art.

That won't happen with me, thought Dupuy, I speak the same language as he does. He had first seen him before the bullfight which was Antonio Bienvenida's farewell to the bullring. He had been lying on a red velvet sofa, in a waiting room outside the matador's dressing room, wreathed in the smoke from his huge cigar. Dupuy had had no idea who he was. He had never seen him act, did not know the man was famous. These were things he realised only later. Taking him to be a bullfighting critic, he greeted him respectfully: ‘Hail Mary, most pure.'
¹⁸
Welles looked him up and down without answering. ‘You're not Catholic?' the doctor said, surprised. A good Catholic would respond ‘Conceived without sin'. Welles smiled haughtily. ‘Please, don't talk about my private life, señor,' he said in impeccable Spanish. ‘Are you or aren't you?' Dupuy insisted. ‘I don't know. Let me put it another way: once a Catholic, always a Catholic.' ‘I certainly believe so,' the doctor agreed. ‘That is the catechism.'

Bienvenida emerged from the dressing room wearing the bullfighter's traditional ‘suit of lights'. He was a gentleman of melancholy disposition and he was nervous. The bulls that afternoon were the last he would face in his life. ‘I hope you get to see a good fight,' he said. ‘By the grace of God,' Dupuy corrected him. Then he turned back to Welles who had looked up. ‘Come now,
hombre
, say something. What are you waiting for? Wish the man luck.' Welles did not say a word, but held out his hand to Bienvenida and stubbed out his cigar.

Dupuy smiled as he remembered the encounter. He had no doubts now. He would provide Welles with whatever he wanted, vast multitudes, fake cities like those in Hollywood; he would allow him to bring his own crew and would ensure that they lacked for nothing. He, Dupuy, would choose the music for the soundtrack. He would persuade Welles that they needed military marches, exuberant music and, especially, tangos. He would take him to meet Piazzolla, who had spent the past months writing a suite about the World Cup. He would tell Piazzola he had written the music for
Last Tango in Paris
, that he was a Richard Strauss, a Nino Rota. Orson would get down on his knees and thank him.

The following day he presented his idea to the
comandantes
. He spoke to each of them individually, because when they were together they constantly competed for control. The solution, he could convince them, was magnificent, but immortal? It would be difficult for a film – any film – to rival the Great Wall of China, nor was it as symbolic as the Obelisk of Buenos Aires. Wouldn't it be possible to build another obelisk, they suggested to him, one twice as high with a football at the top? Dupuy wasted hours talking to them while they interrupted him, taking phone calls, signing decrees, consulting with the high command. The commander-in-chief of the navy said that he would agree to the idea if he could be filmed entering the stadium with Perón's widow. The widow was in jail and the scene would have to be shot in secret. The commander-in-chief of the air force wanted the film to open with a fly-past of fighter planes. The Eel demanded that, instead of balloons and doves, Welles could make a speech asking for God's blessing on Argentina. Dupuy said yes to all of them and suggested they let the director work in peace until it was finished. They were about to spend millions, he did not want to get embroiled in arguments before he had to. He phoned Welles's agents and, shortly afterwards, flew to Los Angeles to firm up the details of what he was already calling the
film of the century
.

Orson, he was told, travelled a lot and it was extremely rare to find him at his home in Beverly Hills. Sometimes he would take the overnight flight to Boston and, the next day, fly to some godforsaken town in Arizona. He was working tirelessly on the filming of
Othello
, adapting a short story by Isak Dinesen and writing a screenplay based on a novel by Graham Greene. One of the agents repeated to Dupuy Welles's comments when he was informed about the project. A film about Argentina? Flamenco and bullfights? I'm intrigued. Tell this man to come and see me. I've had Capone and Lucky Luciano and Costello hounding me to make films for them – I dealt with them and I'm still alive.

Welles was waiting for him on the terrace at the back of the house, next to a vast swimming pool shaped like a kidney. It was December, a strong breeze was blowing, whipping up eddies of yellow leaves. As in Toledo, the director was chewing on a fat cigar. There was no smoke this time. He chewed it and spat the dark tobacco fibres onto the ground. He was still physically imposing, but more bloated now and the fat around his belly fell in folds over his trousers. A liveried servant brought two whisky glasses and poured generous measures, though Welles did not seem to notice. He was engrossed in reading Dupuy's business card (his name, phone numbers and the logo of the newspaper), and every now and then he would glance through the papers and photographs piled on the table. Scripts, Dupuy supposed, and photographs of actors. He doesn't need to prove he's a busy man. I know he is. He realised Welles did not remember him. It is hardly surprising, we only met briefly one afternoon, he thought. It will come back to him when he hears my offer, an offer bigger than Hollywood, than Spain, an offer (Dupuy repeated to himself, excited now) as big as the world. He spoke to Welles in Spanish. The director replied in English.

‘May I call you Orson?' Dupuy said. ‘We met about ten years ago, in Antonio Bienvenida's dressing room.'

‘Call me Orsten,' said Welles, giving no sign that he remembered Bienvenida. ‘That's what Lucky Luciano called me, Orsten. I called him Charlie. Mind if I call you Charlie?'

‘If you like. Let me explain my project to you.'

Dupuy had to make several attempts. Welles knew nothing about football, had never heard of the World Cup, and his impression of Argentina was a vast horizon of pampas. He vaguely remembered Buenos Aires – he had been awarded a prize there for
Citizen Kane
in 1942. ‘I remember there was a fascist march protesting against my visit. Your country was sympathetic to fascism back then, wasn't it, Charlie?' The doctor said nothing, he did not want to get entangled in ideological explications. It was a potential quagmire. He, Dupuy, was a master of politics; Welles was barely a novice. On the other hand, it had been years since Dupuy had set foot in a cinema. ‘I won't take up much of your time, Orsten. I've come to pitch a documentary with an unlimited budget, can you imagine? Obviously, the footage will be served to you on a plate, at least half the film would be taken up with the matches.' This, he knew, was not true; Riefenstahl had had to painstakingly craft her film, but he did not want to discourage Welles. ‘It's just a documentary, child's play. We wouldn't need much from you at all, Orsten, just your voice and your vision. And your name, Orson. When you're done, you'll have more than enough money to complete all the projects you left half finished. You'll be able to go back to filming
Don Quixote
,
King Lear
,
The Magic Mountain
.' ‘I've never been interested in
The Magic Mountain
,' Welles corrected him, ‘and the things in my past will stay in my past.' ‘Allow me to explain our documentary to you a little better,' Dupuy insisted, ‘it will only take two minutes. What my government wants is for you to make a great film, something that will go down in history, a
Citizen Kane
of documentary film-making. Just imagine the opening for a moment, Orson. The blue sky, dappled clouds, thousands of birds, the excited voices of the crowds we cannot see yet. And a microphone descending from above, just like in
The Magnificent Ambersons
' – his advisers had recommended that he not forget this point: the microphone, the stentorian voice, the commanding ego – ‘and then . . . and then, your voice as the screen opens up: “This is Orson Welles in Argentina. I wrote and directed this film.” What do you think?'