175875.fb2 Sweet money - читать онлайн бесплатно полную версию книги . Страница 23

Sweet money - читать онлайн бесплатно полную версию книги . Страница 23

21

He wakes up late. He feels like he’s been trampled by the Seventh Cavalry. The day before would have been too much for anybody: he moved out of his pension and into Fuseli’s apartment; he is certain that’s just what Fuseli would have wanted him to do. His encounter with Eva’s parents was like a hammer blow to his head, and the coup de grace was catching Mole off guard, so to speak. Now he hasn’t a moment to lose; a guy like Miranda has more tricks up his sleeve than a card shark. He checks the time then dials Pereyra. He wants to get an arrest warrant so he can bring Miranda from the Haedo station to the courthouse. Once he’s delivered him signed and sealed, he can go and get his money from Fermin. He has very little hope of finding any of the stolen money; in fact, he has no hope at all. He gets Pereyra’s answering machine. He leaves a message, asking him to get in touch as soon as possible.

Vanina spends the twenty minutes Marcelo is late putting up stoically with the gaping stares of the lawyers who fill the Usia Cafe. She had planned to carry out this little conversation in the kindest, most loving way possible, but waiting for him and being drooled over have soured her mood. A few days earlier a man came to the university to give a class on the theory of colour. He’s an architect, about forty-five years old, who stopped designing buildings and now devotes himself to the fine arts. He stands in front of the class with his dirty-blond beard, his turtleneck sweater and his Clark suede boots. She doesn’t know how it happened, but she went to see him at his studio in San Telmo, to take a painting class with him, and they ended up in bed. Now she thinks she should break up with Marcelo. She’s eager to be free so she can live fully this new love, discover the infinite world of art with Martin guiding her. She can’t decide whether or not to tell Marcelo about him, so she decides to decide when the time comes. She looks again at her watch — half an hour is really too long — and motions to the waiter to bring her the bill. She feels relieved she doesn’t have to confront the issue right away, but the relief doesn’t last long: Marcelo is entering the cafe. His hair is mussed up and he’s carrying a bundle of papers under his arm. In a split second, she feels contempt foreverything this man isn’t and she wishes he were.

I’m so, so sorry. You’re hopeless, Marcelo. I’m really sorry. I was just about to leave. Lucky you didn’t. I don’t think it’s lucky. What’s going on, Vanina? What’s going on is that I want it to end. Want what to end? Don’t play dumb. Our relationship, what else? Why? Because it’s not going anywhere. Is this because I got here fifteen minutes late? A half-hour. Okay, a half-hour. No, it’s not. So what’s going on? It’s because of you, of me, of us. I don’t think I can live the kind of life I want to live with you. What kind of life do you want to live? I don’t know, more poetic, more artistic. You spend your life buried under piles of papers. Just look at you. You met someone else, didn’t you? No. Don’t bullshit me. I swear, Marcelo, I didn’t. What happened last night? Nothing. You said you’d come over and you never showed up and never called. It didn’t seem to have worried you very much. I called and you didn’t answer, then I called your parents. Your mother didn’t know what to tell me. Here you go, acting like a prosecutor even when it’s about us. No, Vanina, I was worried. Why did you call my parents’ house? I just told you… Look, I need my freedom. Tell me the truth. The truth is, I don’t love you any more. Are you sure? Yes, I am, and I’m sorry. There’s nothing to be sorry about. We really should talk more but I have to go now. It’s my fault, I was late. If you want, we can meet later. I don’t know, I have a lot of studying to do. Okay. Are you okay? I don’t know. Well, call me if anything comes up. I’ll call you if anything comes up.

Marcelo watches her leave the cafe. He’s sure of it: she’s met somebody else. He feels wretched. Vanina is everything he’s ever dreamt of in a woman.

He always believed he’d end up marrying her and having two or three kids. This was totally unexpected. He watches her cross the street and disappear into the crowd milling around the courthouse. Is that how somebody walks out of your life? Her lipstick has left an imprint of her lips on the coffee cup. The day begins under the pall of lost love. The sudden anticipation of all the problems he’ll have to deal with at work turn his sadness into a formidable surge of ill temper and he jumps out of his chair.

The telephone starts to ring the second he enters his office. He grabs it and it slips through his fingers, falling at his feet. He picks it up, still ringing, and presses a button as if it were the trigger on an atomic bomb.

Yes… What’s up Lascano?… I was about to call, I just got to my office… That’s fine, we’ll talk about it later, but right now, something urgent… I understand, but this can’t wait… The Giribaldi thing is happening today… This afternoon… As soon as I get there I’ll arrange everything and call you… Okay… No problem… Better still… Yes… we’ll talk in a bit.

Perro finishes his shower. He looks at himself in the mirror. Every day he spends a few minutes contemplating that scar that decorates his chest. It’s a pale island in the shape of a half moon. It still hurts if he touches it in the middle, but around the edges there’s no feeling whatsoever. Once, under circumstances he can’t recall, Fuseli told him that our scars are there to remind us of the past. Now, as he’s getting dressed, he feels like he’s about to crash headlong into that past. Soon, he’ll be with Pereyra, striking fear into the heart of the man who ordered his death. The fearsome Giribaldi himself, a man mentioned over and over again by the few survivors of Coti Martinez detention centre in the report, called Never Again, which documented the torture, murders and disappearances carried out by the military. Famous for giving his victims lessons in morality with the cattle prod in his hand, he wrote on the wall of his torture chamber: If you know, sing; if not, singe. As he walks out, he dedicates a thought to all those who will leave their houses today and never return.