17 Stone Angels (28 page)

“What
we
? Is this you and the Comisario? You and your cousin? You and some imaginary Hollywood producer?”

“I can only tell you that there was a parallel investigation by another branch of the forces of Security. Someone of Pelegrini's stature attracts interest at the highest levels. Lamentably, I am not authorized to reveal more than that.”

Athena's eyes gleamed angrily and Fortunato shifted away from her gaze, trying to hide his own confusion. He felt the blood drain from his head as he considered Fabian's latest claim. If the Servicios de Inteligencia were investigating the link between Pelegrini and the
Bonaerense
, it went far beyond Bianco's ability to protect anyone. In that case, it became a question of who Inteligencia was backing: Pelegrini or his enemies in the government. On the other hand perhaps Fabian was working for the Federales. In that situation, Bianco might have enough influence to make Boguso remain as the murderer, if the matter stayed quiet. He thought of Fabian's reassurance:
Stay tranquil Comi, and the storm will pass over your head
. Sí, amigo, just as it passed over Waterbury's head.

Athena had sat back in her chair and turned her sullen mask of a face towards the other side of the room. Finally she seemed to master her frustration. “Go on,” she commanded. The Inspector gave a little hitch of his shoulders and arched his eyebrows at the Comisario as if to say
thus are women, no
?

“And so our Señor Waterbury becomes a regular visitor to the Castex mansion, wearing his brilliant new clothes. The master of the house can rarely be found during the day. The two authors meet in a private upstairs study and La Señora de Pelegrini tells him the heroic tale which she has decided will be Waterbury's redemption.

“It seems there was once a woman, a very wealthy and cultured woman who grew up in fine French boarding schools and a big mansion in Buenos Aires. The woman was happy. She loved France, loved drinking a
pastis
at a sidewalk café and discussing art and literature with the intellectuals and artists of the city, who gave much weight to her opinions. She lived the excitement of the May 1968 uprising in the arms of a young Socialist. ‘At this part,' Teresa says, ‘I think we should put in some scenes of the woman and the Socialist making love. As a way to symbolize the sense of liberation of all
sorts in those days. I would see them in an iron-framed bed, with a picture of Che Guevara in the background.' Her face begins to soften, and she shifts her legs. ‘The woman is on top of him and he is caressing her . . .'

“Waterbury interrupts her. ‘Let's fill in the details later, Teresa.'

“She continues: But this
affaire du coeur
was not to be. Her father did not approve and cruelly cut off her allowance. Rather than create discord in her family, the brave young woman left her lover to his exalted Workers and returned home to Buenos Aires. Her penitent father regretted his overbearing manner and rented her an apartment next to the exclusive cemetery of La Recoleta where, from her window, she could see the flagrant angels of the family tomb.

“That was the year 1970. Argentina danced between civil and military governments like a person standing on a hot griddle. The dream of the Left in Argentina lacked the
joie de vivre
of its French counterpart. The subversives had begun robbing and kidnapping, and the young woman made an attractive prize. Even so, she became involved with a member of the Revolutionary Workers Party, a handsome young engineer from an excellent family who straddled the border between the legal world and his
compañeros
of the People's Revolutionary Army. ‘If you want to, you can put in more sex here,' Teresa says, ‘to show the fires of youth as a metaphor for the passion of politics.' She smiles and lowers her voice. ‘For example, they are in an elevator, and in a moment of inspiration she opens his zipper and takes out his penis. He reaches under her blouse and puts his warm delicate fingers around her breasts . . . '

“La Señora stares fully in Waterbury's eyes as she describes the scene in the elevator and the writer feels his face flushing. If yes, a bit brittle, Teresa Castex is not without a certain sensual appeal, and they are practically alone in the huge house, with all its closed doors and vast quiet spaces. Waterbury's mind skitters through the possibilities as he jabs the pen back and forth in his notebook. The elevator scene ends with a simultaneous explosion of pleasure and Teresa Castex subsides for a moment into a nostalgic bliss. After, she touches Waterbury's arm and says, ‘I hope I did not give you a shock, Robert. We are both adults, no?'

“Fine. One day the boy stopped coming, and the woman never found out why. Perhaps he'd gone over into the clandestine life, or been forced into exile. He never answered his phone or came to call again. The woman was
very sad. Later, when all the unpleasantness of the dictatorship came out, she saw his name among the lists of the Disappeared. ‘That's the tragic part,” La Señora clarifies.

“‘The woman mourned him, but at a lovely party she met a young man from Cordova. Young and handsome, with cutting blue eyes and a confident voice, he attracted her from the start. ‘You can name him Mario.'

“Mario sold expensive computer systems for an American company and had the salesman's gift for being liked. He spoke earnestly and knew when to laugh and when to listen. Aware that the conquest of this very desirable woman could not proceed without the conquest of her father, Mario captured the old man with his charisma and unfailing courtesy. Mario had risen quickly within the company, a man with a great future. Everyone fell in love with each other and a magnificent marriage was celebrated in the ballroom of the Alvear Palace.

“At that point Don Carlo knocks on the door, and Waterbury closes his journal.

“‘Here are the writers!' Don Carlo greets them, then exchanges kisses with Waterbury and with his wife. He leans his weight on the corner of the desk and shines on Waterbury the radiance of those blue eyes. ‘And what is this work about?'

“Waterbury feels uncomfortable, wondering what his patron really knows about their arrangement. ‘We're still deciding,' Waterbury answers. ‘But it seems to be a kind of love story.'

“‘Ah! Beautiful! I am already in a hurry to read it!'

“Having turned on him the fierce warmth of his gaze and voice, Carlo Pelegrini goes back to his business.

“It takes several days for Waterbury to tell the news to Paulé. He uses some of his advance to take her to a French restaurant in Palermo to celebrate his new possibilities. ‘Two hundred thousand dollars?' she says. The huge sum of money seems to undo her, as if her mind is clicking frantically to determine how she might also get hold of a fortune so easily. ‘She won't pay you.'

“‘She'll pay me. That's not what worries me. What worries me is that it's a bit complicated.'

“‘She wants to fuck you, right?'

‘Don't be ridiculous,' he lies.

“‘How ‘ridiculous?' You're a handsome man. A distinguished author, looking pretty in the new clothes she's bought you. It is ridiculous to think that she does
not
want you in bed.' Paulé half closes her gray eyes. ‘
I
would want you.'

“Her trick with the eyes, even if it's a joke, brings back the picture of Paulé that he can't get out of his mind. He puts it aside and recounts the tired narrative that Teresa Castex has burdened him with. The dancer doesn't answer at first, devoting herself instead to a round critique of the food. At last she says in a business-like way, ‘
Bien
. As your patron saint I advise you to take the money. Do whatever she wants. Whatever, eh?'

“‘And write this shit?'

“She wrinkles her nose. ‘That's what you came here for, isn't it? To write shit?' He notices the bitterness in her voice. ‘Listen well, Robert: You left your position at the bank because you wanted to live it all out—'

“‘I left the bank because I was tired of being part of a criminal enterprise!'

“‘You are not that Good! You left because you had that fantasy in your head of the great artist, or the ruined artist, and now you've reached the part of the fantasy you hadn't foreseen, the part where you make some money and save your silly hide. Don't boot it out of reach while you're bending over to pick it up!' Her stern face is full of disdain. ‘Be like your friend Pablo: he never worries about where his silver comes from!' Waterbury is not prepared for her anger, cannot know if her goading is sarcastic or sincere. He guesses only that the struggling Paulé resents the huge sum of easy money. In spite of her tango lessons and her references to psychiatric dance pedagogy, he wonders exactly how she maintains herself. Before now he had always been careful to avoid the subject. ‘How do you know Pablo anyway?'

“‘He owns an adult website and I posed for pictures. He came to watch.'

“Waterbury hadn't expected her to admit it so boldly, and her complete casualness silences him even as it sends a dose of blood coursing between his legs. Pablo had denied being part of the pornography itself, and though the little lie disturbs Waterbury, he also feels a bit of envy. ‘So, do you . . . Are you a prostitute?'

“‘I'm a model!' she says with fire. ‘And an actress! And a dancer!” She pauses, raising her eyebrows. ‘Exactly as you are a writer.'

“The last comment fells him. Paulé's irony is usually quite direct, but in this case he can't tell. He seeks the refuge of a cigarette, but the little tube
doesn't do him much good. He asks two coffees from the waiter and leans back from the square of white tablecloth. ‘What are you doing in Buenos Aires, Paulé? You've been here four years. Why do you stay?'

“She blows out a little puff of scorn then hangs a bitter smile on it.

“‘That's your arrogance, Robert. You think you're the only one with an imagination.'

“‘Why do you stay in Buenos Aires?' he asks her again.

“‘Here, there is tango.'

“Waterbury understands. In France she is merely Paulé, a pretty woman with mouse-colored hair and a magical capacity in a dance that departed from fashion fifty years ago. Here in Buenos Aires Paulé is
La Francesa
, the dancer of tango, just as he, Waterbury, is still
Robert Waterbury
, the North American writer. Here, in this place of memory and illusion, they can still close their fingers around the last rags of their fantastic dreams.

“Again, Waterbury walks her to her door, and again he lingers at the entrance. ‘Do you want to have a last drink of the night?' she asks him.

“They say that a good marriage takes one out of the fire. One has someone to make love to, who knows what one wants, without the need for the rituals and the wondering. During his eight years with his wife Waterbury has been glad to escape the fire, but with his family ten thousand kilometers away, the flames have come for him in the form of this glittering
Francesa
, who burns without being consumed.

“She is waiting now for his answer, the china skin of her face tinged gray with shadows. He envisions the drink and all that would follow, says yes, but no, and they look at each other with a smile that shows that all is known between them. ‘Fine,' she says. ‘I'll let you go.'

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

“W
aterbury sets to work the following morning and writes the first pages of Teresa Castex's book. At his request she has given him photographs and flyers of the era, a copy of
French Vogue
from decades past, other trivia to give him the feel of the times. He intuits that Teresa Castex wants to rewrite her life into a story much grander than it has really been, with herself more adventurous and romantic and her husband perhaps a bit more dutiful. The work lacks inspiration, but the author puts together some twenty pages by the time of their next meeting and provides La Señora de Pelegrini with a copy. Her eyes are shining as she clutches the little stack of papers and reads her own character in the paragraphs: her adventures in Paris and in a Buenos Aires of urban guerrillas and stern military men. Her excitement makes the leaves tremble in her hand. ‘Perfect!' she says. ‘You have captured exactly what I was looking for!' With that, she continues her story of the wealthy woman and her husband.'

“‘Mario, the woman found out over the next five years, was even more clever than he appeared to be. An excellent salesman, yes. He made friends rapidly and signed extraordinary contracts with the military, with financial institutions and the leading businesses of the country. He paid special attention to the middle ranks, those faceless men who shaped the specifications
for bids and wrote the contracts, who could create overwhelming advantage or insurmountable obstacles with a few tiny lines of print. Mario was thoughtful and discreet, and he never forgot the names of these men's wives and children.'

“La Señora de Pelegrini looks over at Waterbury, who has halted his pen above the page. ‘Aren't you writing this down?' she asks him.

“‘It's just that it's a very abrupt change of direction.'

“‘Oh. We're just getting started,
amor
. Didn't you say you wanted to write a thriller?' She crosses her arms and narrates into the still air of the room.