17 Stone Angels (27 page)

He turned to Athena. “And Berenski is the worst of all, isn't he? With those insinuations about money laundering, and his exposition of Don Carlo's attempt to take over the National Postal System? If I were Berenski, I think I'd walk in the shade for a while. He already makes much of his exile during the Dictatorship: these boys working for Carlo Pelegrini are the type who he was fleeing from. Raul Huaina Gomez, also called The Peruvian, ex-integrant of the Allianza Anticomunista Argentina that assassinated more than three hundred people before the military took over for them in 1976. Pardoned in the Amnesty of 1989. Hugo Gonzalez, called The Tiger, denounced by human rights investigators for twenty-six incidents of torture during his military service at the Escuela de Mechanica, and also child theft, extortion, robbery and rape, pardoned by the Law of Due Obedience in 1992. Abimael Zante—you remember him, Comiso, he was in one of your task groups at the Brigada of Quilmes for a while.”

Fortunato nodded, the unpleasant recollections of Zante returning to him. “I had him transferred to Vicente Lopez to get rid of him.”

“Thus the security apparatus of the esteemed Carlo Pelegrini. Very wholesome, no?”

Fortunato kept his eyes trained on Fabian and his perfect blond ringlets. He'd never seemed so dedicated to wholesomeness in all the juicy squeezes he'd armed at the racetrack and in the discos. “So, returning to the theme of the victim . . . ”

“Of course, Comiso. Forgive me.”

“La Señora de Pelegrini arranges to meet Waterbury at a brilliant café in La Recoleta, where Waterbury groans over the price of a coffee. The little silver trays and tableware make perfect accessories for the well-wrapped clientele. Teresa Castex strides in and kisses him in a mist of perfume and sits down for a coffee. ‘I hate this café,' she says. ‘It's quite pretentious, but it's an easy place to find and my driver can wait outside with the car.'

“Without the jewelry of the massive Mansion Castex, she seems much like any upper-class woman in the room. As Waterbury will observe in his journal that night, she's a woman on the unkinder half of the forties, with stiff brown hair and a thin voice that seems always on the verge of a complaint. She had once been beautiful in a delicate way, but over the years her slight body seems to have dried and hardened like an Inca mummy, with sharp rigid shoulders that thrust out of the top of her blouse and hands like spiders. Her skin has stayed youthful, well-cared for by spas and surgery, but her bright silk scarf and Tiffany jewelry cannot alleviate the permanent frown that pulls at her mouth. She gives the impression of perfectly dressed unhappiness.

“‘And Robert; what do you think of Buenos Aires?'

“Waterbury expresses his awe that so much beauty has been blended with so much corruption and horror.

“‘Oh, that,' she shrugs. ‘It is no longer news to us.' They chat about literature for a while. Teresa Castex is partial to the French Symbolists, who she reads in the French. ‘But Carlo is crazy for Borges,' she adds. ‘It's a bit incongruous, because he's so much in the commercial world and Borges is so abstract.'

“‘Those of Borges are more puzzles than stories.'

“‘Exactly. I think for him it's like a game: if he can solve the story, he has equaled Borges. He's very competitive, Carlo.'

“‘It seems he's done well. Your house is beautiful.'

“‘The house is mine,' she says with a trace of venom. ‘It's the Castex Mansion and I am Teresa Castex. Perhaps those two words,
de Pelegrini
, make me his property, but the house still belongs to me.'

“The intrigues within other people's marriages never make for light conversation, and Waterbury retreats from the subject. They return to literature.

“‘It's very special to write a novel,' Teresa says. ‘'I've always wanted to write one, but I lack discipline. I sit down, but it all feels futile. Who am I to contend with the masters? Am I a great spirit?' Her face is a little bouquet of admiration. ‘Perhaps you are, Robert. I could sense you were different from reading your book, and then from your visit at our house. Maybe, in some small way, it is destiny that we meet. We'll see.'

“Waterbury isn't sure how to react. Destiny is a surface that has proved rather slippery for him. Her coffee arrives with the perfect pat of tobacco-colored foam lingering against the white china. To his relief, she pays the bill.

“They stroll down the Calle Santa Fé, past gleaming shops with famous names. In an Italian clothing store they examine the light weight suit coats of spring, looking for a replacement for his old one.

“‘Linen, no!' Teresa protests with indignation. ‘The only place to wear linen is if you happen to be in a Renoir painting. Otherwise, it wrinkles.' He tries another in navy blue. ‘Oh, Robert, you look very handsome in that. Perfect for author appearances. Why don't you get that one, and try on this other one made of silk and cotton.'

“‘Teresa! You can't buy me two!' But then he feels the cool slippery weight of the jacket, notes the sheen and the little universe of sage and tan within the intricate weave and a little rat-voice tells him that he may not get another chance. She insists on buying neckties, a belt and a pair of khaki pants. He stops her at the shoes.

“‘But Robert, you can't go around in those dead dogs you're wearing! Don't be ridiculous!'

“He looks down at the polished-over scuff marks of his old wing-tips and accedes to the shoes. By the time they walk out she has spent five thousand dollars.

“She suggests that they lunch while the store completes the appropriate alterations, and Waterbury is surprised to see her lead them into the same restaurant he had visited with Pablo a few weeks before, La Rosa Blanca. Again Waterbury is besieged by that fear of having to pay the bill. After all, she's just spent several thousand dollars on making him look rich; he should try to act the part. He looks fearfully at the menu larded with French words and ingredients from far-flung places.

“‘They take your head off here!' Teresa grimaces. She leans towards him. ‘I'll just put it on my husband's account. He's an investor in this restaurant; he bought it for his mistress.' She sees that Waterbury is uncomfortable. ‘Don't worry, Robert; there will be no drama. She's only here at night.' She finishes with a poisonous little twist, ‘That's when she does her best work.'

“Waterbury again is reluctant to become the confidant of Teresa Castex and wonders, as they order, what spirit of auto-immolation would bring her to her rival's dinner table. He tries to leave the thought behind as they chatter about clothes and their favorite places of Europe.

“‘So, Robert, excuse me if I intrude.' Teresa is looking at him over a glass of white wine. ‘Of the artistic part, no doubt remains: you're an excellent writer with the chance at becoming a master, which very few have. But let's speak about the part, shall we say, less romantic. The economic element. Did it go well for you?'

“Waterbury too has drunk a glass of wine. Now the slightly brittle aura of Teresa Castex has softened, and Waterbury feels an allure that he will stereotype as the ‘jaded patrician.' Maybe it is because she admires his books, or perhaps it is the presents she has bought him, but the moment becomes suddenly intimate and private, as if the little table is at the center of a whirlpool. ‘The truth is, Teresa, that the economic part has been very difficult.'

“La Señora Castex begins to question him as to the specifics of his situation: whether he has savings, debts, what advance he expects to get for his next book. The level of detail surprises Waterbury but he doesn't feel he can refuse her. Finally she leans forward and smiles like a teenager. ‘I say all this because I have a proposition!'

“Waterbury goes cold, but at the same time feels a thrill.

“‘It's thus: I have always wanted to write a book, but I have no talent. All the same, year after year, I keep perfecting it in my mind. It has much passion, and intrigue. Much corruption and even murder. It's the perfect story of Buenos Aires that you are looking for. I have always wanted to write this novel . . . '

“‘But you only need write it!' Waterbury gushes, not really believing himself. ‘A pencil and piece of—'

“‘Robert. Let's talk seriously. I told you I have no talent in novels, and if I write it no one will publish it. It would just be a waste of time. But if you write it,' she arches her eyebrows, ‘that would be another story, no? If you
write it, it will travel all over the world, it will be an important work. And moreover, I tell you it is just the story you are looking for. Very commercial.' She smiles with her eyes half-closed. ‘And you can put in as much sex as you want to.'

“It takes Waterbury a few moments to dissipate the laughing gas in his head. She is proposing something illicit and slightly dangerous, so very in tune with Buenos Aires that some ironic part of him wants to laugh at the perfection of it. He hesitates to ask her to clarify the scheme, because maybe this is the best part right now, when it is all fresh possibilities. Waterbury has heard a thousand times the phrase ‘I've been writing a book in my head for years,' and a whole industry of ghost writers gorges itself on the egos of politicians and businessmen who want to garnish their accomplishments with the elusive tide of Author. So perhaps now Teresa Castex wants to see her musings enshrined.

“‘What's the book about?'

“‘Afterwards I'll tell you. First, don't you want to know more about the arrangement?'

“The ‘arrangement.' Waterbury recognizes well that dignified word Porteños use for bribes or kickbacks.
Arrangement
. ‘Okay.'

Beneath the business tone, her blue eyes are gleaming with something that makes Waterbury slightly uncomfortable. She rests her elbows on the table and lowers her voice as she speaks. ‘I will pay you two hundred thousand dollars to write a complete manuscript of this book for me. Deposited in the bank of your choice, of course. There are good ones in Uruguay, where the banking secrecy laws are very good. Two hundred thousand, eh? It's not so bad. And you won't have to pay taxes.'

“Their arrangement would be the following: They will meet every three days and discuss the plot and the characters. Between their meetings, Waterbury will write another section of the manuscript. Perhaps twenty pages. In approximately six weeks, they will have the first redaction and he will receive the first third of his fee. After that, he can stay in Buenos Aires or return to his home to polish the further redactions. On its acceptance by his publisher, he will receive the greater part of his fee. Teresa Castex de Pelegrini would have her name on the cover as a co-author.

“‘It can be in small print,' she says. ‘Or even a
with
. Robert Waterbury
with
Teresa Castex.'

“Two hundred thousand dollars, plus whatever he got from the publisher!

“‘Have you talked this over with Carlo?'

“‘Of course!' she answers. ‘He thinks it is a marvelous idea. Why don't you come to the house tomorrow for lunch, and we can begin! I'll have a contract ready for you when you get there.' La Señora senses his hesitation. ‘And of course, an advance of ten thousand dollars.'

Athena put her cup down. “Wait a minute, Fabian. What is Robert's wife doing all this time? She never told me anything about Teresa Castex or two hundred thousand dollars. If Waterbury's wife was so desperate for money, you would think he would send her part of the ten thousand, or at least mention it to her.”

Fabian conceded the point lazily. “Of that matter I can only speculate. It's a weak point in the script, we might say. Perhaps Señor Waterbury was ashamed about the new phase of his career. Or perhaps he didn't want to mention his relationship with la Señora Castex, with its not-so-respectable implications. Without wanting to presume, Athena, many married men prefer to keep their relationships with other women secret, even ones that are completely appropriate.” Fabian smiled saucily. “Thus they reserve the opportunity for the relationship to become inappropriate later on.”

Fortunato put his hand to his temple and growled in his low voice. “Enough, Romeo. You're giving her a bad impression of the Institution.”

Fabian sighed, said to Athena, “Comisario Fortunato is a man of very strict moral sensibilities. When Fortunato entered the force, it was all orderly. There was a sense of mission. Now, I fear, we're a little more lax.”

Athena was losing her patience. “Fabian, I'm here about a murder. I need something a little more concrete than this . . . this
verso
.”

Fabian slouched backwards. “The telephone records, querida. Afterwards I will show you the exact details of all the calls made to the Castex Mansion from the Hotel San Antonio. We've had them for some time—”

She leaned forward and cut him off in a voice of barely suppressed fury. “We?” She glanced angrily at the Comisario as she spoke. “You're saying this was discovered during the investigation and no one told me?”

“Don't blame Comisario Fortunato. We felt it better to create the appearance that his investigation was going nowhere, and thus to be able to penetrate more profoundly into the matter. In fact, the Comisario's diligence of the last week has forced us to move more quickly than we intended.”