The Buenos Aires Quintet (38 page)

Altofini makes up his mind and walks towards the warehouse. He takes out a gun and a small torch from his inside pocket. He enters the building, walks along the different stacks. Climbs up rotten staircases. There are ashes from fires, excrement and tins everywhere. In one of the upstairs rooms, Raúl, tied up, calling for help.

‘Is that someone there? Help me, please.’

Altofini has not heard him. He is still searching every corner, philosophizing on all the debris and destruction he comes across.

‘We are nothing.’

He thinks he hears sounds. He cocks his revolver and edges towards where they are coming from. He hears them more clearly now. At last he stumbles on the storeroom where Raúl is lying tied up on the floor.

‘I’m Raúl Tourón.’

‘Oh, shit!’ is Altofini’s only comment as he bends to undo the knots. ‘The world’s a small place. What are you disguised as now, a bum? Who did this to you?’

Freed from his bonds, Raúl stands up and hands him the scrap of paper Loaiza gave him. Altofini reads it.

‘Peretti? Boom Boom Peretti? What have you got to do with Peretti?’

‘Nothing. But the man who hit me on the head and tied me up does.’

Altofini slaps his own forehead.

‘Loaiza!’

‘Do you know him?’

‘I’d like to. So he was the one who tied you up? Has he gone far?’

‘Why? He needed a fix. I wanted to help him. He gave me this address to ask for money. He was quite sure I’d get it, then all of a sudden he hit me.’

‘What did you tell him? Did you say anything about your situation?’

‘More or less.’

‘Did you mention anyone? Pascuali? The Captain?’

Raúl nods.

‘Shit! We have to get out of here as quickly as possible. I bet he’s got the whole of Buenos Aires on their way here by now.’

Loaiza staggers up to the gate of a large mansion on the outskirts of Buenos Aires. He pushes it open. The effort is too much for him, and he collapses on to the gravel path. He scrambles to his feet, and manages to reach the front door of the house. He passes out again.

The needle of a full syringe hovers over Loaiza’s dilated vein. The anxiety on his face gives way to a satisfied smile. He opens his eyes and blinks: all he can see at first is the fat man’s blurred features and his huge bulk, which gives way to reveal the Captain, who stares down at the junkie contemptuously. Loaiza stammers: ‘Captain. Thank you.’

‘It’s nothing. You got what you wanted. Now it’s my turn. What is this valuable information you have?’

‘Raúl. Raúl Tourón. I’ve got him.’

‘Where?’

‘How many doses?’

‘A good question: how many doses. Give him a dose, will you?’

The fat man goes over to Loaiza and kicks him twice in the head.

‘The soul of markets, Carvalho, is the ghost of murdered Nature.’

‘That’s exactly what I think. Did your father write that?’

‘No, I did.’

Borges Jr. is accompanying Carvalho as he wanders through the Central Market surveying the displays of meat, fruit and vegetables.

‘You’ve almost abandoned me, Carvalho. What’s happening about my case?’

‘We almost went to jail because of you. I think the Aleph business has stopped for now’

‘I read about the fire. Thank you. Fire does not purify, but it prevents.’

‘Your father?’

‘No, me again. I thought you must be looking for your cousin.’

‘I’ve scarcely had time for that. I’ve been hired by Boom Boom Peretti.’

‘Boxers are guided by their sense of touch.’

‘Yours?’

‘No, my father’s.’

Borges stays a respectful metre away whenever Carvalho stops to talk to a stallholder. By now they are used to him, and do not dismiss him as a widower, old-age pensioner or queer.

‘What are you going to cook tonight?’ one of them asks.

‘What d’you reckon for after a fight?’

‘Chopped liver!’

‘That’s a good idea.
Fegatini con funghi trifolati!
’

‘That’s too many different things on the same plate,’ the stallholder warns him.

‘So tell me an Argentine dish I can make.’

‘Have you tried our
carbonado?.
Yes? What about
niños envueltos
then?’

‘No way’

‘Well, take this down – it’s good, and easy to make. Mix rice, minced beef and an onion sliced fine: add salt, pepper, the juice of a lemon and olive oil. Strip the leaves from a cabbage and cook them for two minutes in boiling water until they are soft. The rest is simple. You stuff each cabbage leaf with the mixture, roll them up and place them in a dish. Cover them with cold water, and cook them on a slow stove for three-quarters of an hour. They taste wonderful with any sauce.’

‘It sounds like a Catalan dish to me. It sounds as if you cook them just like
farcellets de col.
Would you like the recipe?’

‘Yes, please! The other day I made the one you gave me, and my old man was licking his fingers it was so good. Squid stuffed with mushrooms!’

Carvalho dictates the recipe for
farcellets de col
to a divided audience. Some of the women in the queue behind him write it down, while others protest loudly that this isn’t the moment, that they are all in a hurry. Borges Jr. adds his contribution as the cookery class draws to its close and the pair of them set off again through the market.

‘My father was in Catalonia shortly before he died, and they offered him bread brushed with tomato. Is that right? Bread and tomato! He would say, “what poverty!”’

He bows and makes his exit.

‘I’ll stop by one of these days to pay my bill.’

Carvalho continues with his search for the ingredients he needs to make the
fegatini.
Chicken livers, dried mushrooms, celery, onions, herbs. Carvalho’s face reflects a calm anticipation of pleasure, tempered by the realization that the day is not yet over. Back in his apartment, he tries to keep the pleasure going by carefully preparing all the elements of his dish. He makes the pasta. He cleans and washes the livers and puts them on a plate. He puts the mushrooms to soak, and chops the onion and celery. He lifts a bottle of white wine to the light to see how much is left. The door bell rings and he goes automatically to open it. Then he pauses and decides he should take at least a minimum of precautions. He opens the door on the chain and is somewhat disappointed to see who is standing there.

‘Altofini.’

But it is Raúl who enters first. He has forsaken his beggar’s clothes and now looks like a sixties’ lounge lizard, complete with hat. Carvalho checks no one has followed them, and shuts the door behind them. He goes over to the window and peers down into the street. Nothing unusual, it seems.

‘The last time I saw you, you were doing your chimney-sweep number.’

‘I went home to change. And look who I found in that rubbish dump. But I didn’t find the person I was looking for: Loaiza.’

‘I did,’ Raúl says.

He thinks about it, and eventually explains what happened. Carvalho listens without saying a word. Raúl finishes, and waits for Carvalho to rebuke him.

‘Did you see the Captain arrive?’

‘Like I told you, I got Raúl out of the warehouse, and we hid in one of those old disused cranes that are almost falling apart. Then we saw the motorcyclists arrive as usual, followed by the car. The fat man and the Captain were inside. I can just imagine what happened in the warehouse. They must have been furious.’

‘What about Loaiza?’

‘I didn’t see him. He must have been somewhere in the crowd, because it was like the Calle Florida on a Saturday. Everyone was there. Even Pascuali and his sidekick, the one with the name of a Bolshoi ballet dancer.’

‘Let’s be logical about this. Pascuali was following you to see if you would lead him to Raúl. There’s no other explanation. We were following Loaiza and ran into Raúl. The Captain was after Raúl – Loaiza must have sold him the information. An open and shut case. What about you? Are you still happy with your little soap opera? D’you still want to be a fugitive?’

‘I wish I were at least a fugitive.’

Carvalho loses his temper.

‘What the fuck do you want?’

‘I want people to stop shouting at me!’

‘You mean you’re going to see that joker?’

‘He helps me relax.’

Merletti shrugs and nods to another man. Peretti’s assistant opens the door and in comes the flabby heavyweight bulk of Borges Jr., who waddles over to the table where the boxer is resting, his hands already in their gloves.

‘Borges Jr. at the service of one of the world’s great fencing masters. Because you are not a boxer. You are a swordsman, and beyond that, an angelic knife-fighter of the open pampas.’

‘Did your father write about boxing?’

‘No, he never got beyond knife-fighters.’

Borges takes one of Peretti’s gloved hands and gives it a ceremonious kiss. Then he withdraws without turning his back, half Royal Hussar, half dashing croupier from a Mississippi steamboat. The open door to the changing-room lets in a solid wall of noise from the Argentine Boxing Federation, waiting expectantly for the main bout of the evening.

The public are shouting as if trying to escape all their hundred years of solitude and silence. The announcer jumps into the ring, microphone in hand. In one corner stands a young Basque boxer with his team. His long nose has been flattened so often it seems like a second face jutting out like a wall. In the other corner, Peretti and his seconds. In the front row of the public, Merletti, Robert and his two girl friends. A little further back Carvalho, Alma and Muriel. The two women are very excited.

‘A world championship bout for the superwelterweight title!’ bawls the announcer. ‘In the blue corner, the challenger, Aitor Azpeitia!’

The public boos and jeers.

‘Aren’t you applauding your fellow countryman?’

‘We’re not from the same country. He’s a Basque and I’m mixed race.’

‘But you’re both European.’

‘I’m Afro-European,’ Carvalho tells Alma.

The announcer raises his arm and the crowd falls silent.

‘In the red corner, the current world champion, Boom Boom Peretti!’

Patriotic cheers and applause as ethnic ecstasy takes hold of the public in much the same way as the tongues of fire of the Holy Spirit took hold of the apostles. The boxers exchange pleasantries. Azpeitia is gruff and swaggering; Peretti elegant and disdainful. The bell rings. The referee gives his instructions. The two men touch gloves, and the Basque whispers in Peretti’s ear as they part: ‘I’m going to cut your face to pieces, pretty boy.’

Peretti smiles but says nothing. He goes back to his corner. The gong sounds. The two boxers circle the centre of the ring. They start jabbing at each other, taking the blows on the gloves. Then Azpeitia launches an attack, which Peretti dances away from. The Basque’s punches are hard, but Boom Boom ducks them and suddenly unleashes a right hook that does not land full on his opponent’s face, but hurts him nonetheless. Gasps from the public.

Muriel has shut her eyes. She does not want to see the fight, she simply wants to see Peretti win. Alma does watch, acknowledging the punches with a faint grimace, while Carvalho shows no emotion at all. Robert is shouting his father encouragement. Merletti does the same. The Basque butts Peretti in the face. Outraged, Boom Boom feels the effects with his glove. The referee cautions Azpeitia. Then more clinches. Peretti lands two more blows without much effect, and the bell rings.

Ten more gongs come and go, with the Basque soaking up punishment and trying all the while to use his strength to cut Peretti. The crowd jeers and insults him.

‘Use your right, Boom Boom!’ they shout. ‘Smash him!’

Muriel is not enjoying it. She opens her eyes and looks round the hall. All of a sudden she starts in disbelief. Her father is there, and next to him, the fat man. Muriel tries to hide behind Alma.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing.’

But Carvalho has followed Muriel’s gaze and has spotted the Captain. Alma cannot understand what is going on, and communicates this to Carvalho. He does not say a word, but from now on, his attention is divided between the ring, the Captain and Muriel.

By round eleven, the Basque is tiring. He holds Peretti in a clinch and deliberately head-butts him twice. The referee gives him another caution. As they are stepping back, Peretti lands a fierce left to Azpeitia’s stomach, and when he tries to cover up, hits him with a straight right to the face. Azpeitia stumbles and leaves his guard open. Peretti steps in and lands a second right, followed by a stunning left. The crowd drowns in ecstasy. Only the Captain and Carvalho appear unmoved – staring at each other.

‘Pepe! Where’s the girl?’ Alma says, suddenly realizing Muriel is no longer with them.

‘She doesn’t like boxing,’ Carvalho comments laconically.

But the roar of the crowd forces them to concentrate on what’s going on in the ring. The Basque challenger is down, and the referee has begun his count. Peretti is the winner! The crowd goes wild. Robert and Merletti hug each other. Alma looks desperately for Muriel in the crowd. She has vanished. Peretti trots out to his dressing-room and while his seconds are removing the tape from his hands, Merletti gives an excited running commentary on the bout. Peretti examines his face in the mirror, looking at the marks Azpeitia’s fists have made. He runs his fingers over his cheeks, and stops at the huge bump on his forehead.

‘Any longer and that son of a bitch would have messed up my eyebrow!’

‘Yes, he was a tough son of a bitch all right, but you flattened him, Boom Boom. That punch to his liver left him chopped like pate de foie.’

Robert laughs hysterically.

An attendant comes in and says something to Peretti. The boxer mulls it over, hesitating. Eventually, he nods. He dips his fingers into a pot of cream Merletti holds out to him, and spreads it gently over the bumps on his face. He turns round just as Alma and Carvalho enter the dressing-room.

‘I’ve brought an assistant with me – Dr Alma.’

Peretti kisses her hand, much to her barely concealed delight. Carvalho takes the boxer to one side, despite Merletti and Robert’s suspicious glances.