Sweet Money (2 page)

 

Night is falling when he boards the train that will take him to his hideout. The station is packed. The passengers waiting on the platform silently vie for a spot next to the edge and pray that the door will open right in front of them. The train slowly enters the station, blowing its whistle. The crowd, eager to get a seat and afraid of being pushed onto the rails, nervously jostle for position. Miranda stands in the back, neither too far away nor too close. When the train stops, the race to find a seat begins. Those closest to the doors rush headlong into the train; those further away climb in through the open windows. The second row of passengers push the first. In the third row are the old people, the pregnant women, the mothers with small children, the weak, the disabled, those who no longer want to fight. Miranda heads for the freight car. He gets in behind a group of punks dressed up for a party.

2

His chest hurts less this morning. Venancio Ismael Lascano, Perro Lascano, is wondering… Who’s my protector? Who rescued me when I was lying in the street, dying, with a nine-millimetre bullet lodged between my ribs that busted my lung, already destroyed by cigarettes? What’s more, his saviour had made arrangements for him to be taken care of, for medical treatment, and for rehabilitation. He set him up in this house, with a nurse, and two boring, silent guards. How long has it been? He doesn’t know for sure. When he told Ramona that he was sick of being so isolated, she said that was a sign that he was recovering. Then he heard her talking on the phone in the next room, and later she announced the imminent arrival of his benefactor. That’s what he’s waiting for while he’s thinking about Eva. Where could she be, what could have happened to her? He looks out the window. A car drives down the dirt road and past the grove of eucalyptus trees, leaving a dense trail of dust in its wake. The weather has been unusually dry the last few days. The Ford Falcon stops in front of the gate, someone gets out, opens it, waits for the car to drive through, closes it then walks slowly toward the house, a standard-issue police gun bulging under his jacket. The
car pulls up next to the worn-out hammock, its back door opens, and lo and behold, who should get out but Chief Inspector Jorge Turcheli, commonly known as “Blue Dollar”, because even the biggest fool in town knows he’s counterfeit.

To Lascano, this is quite a surprise; Turcheli is his antithesis, a corrupt policeman who got rich by making a business out of assigning precincts; cops, after all, have their preferences. The man dresses like a dandy and always looks tanned and fit. As he starts walking toward the house he sees Perro at the window, smiles and waves. Lascano doesn’t respond to either the wave or the smile, he just turns to face the door Turcheli’s about to enter. He thinks how good a cigarette would feel at that moment, but the doctor, who comes to check on him periodically, told him he’s got to kiss cigarettes goodbye, forever. Turcheli opens the door and walks in, smiling like a diplomat.

 

 

Turcheli stands up, looks out the window, walks over to the door, closes it and returns with a triumphant smile.
I’m going to tell you a secret. I’m listening. I’ve bagged the Chief of Police job. How’d you manage that? Last year I joined the sect. What sect? There’s these retreats, see, they’re called Christian Training Courses. All the military bigwigs, they’ve all been to one. It’s like this. Twelve guys get together in a convent for three days. The only thing you can do is read the Bible and pray. You can’t talk to anybody. Every half-hour a priest comes and gives you a lecture on God and the Devil, heaven and hell, good and bad. You know, that kind of thing. You listen and you don’t say a word. That goes on for three days. I’m telling you, at a certain point your mind goes blank. And right then, as if they knew it, they start drilling your head full of that shit about the great Christian family, your obligation to help and protect one another. Anyway, that’s where the guys with real power go, the generals, the admirals, the president of the chamber of commerce, the general secretary of a trade union. Imagine that. I never thought of you as religious, Jorge. It’s just that if you want to rise in the world, you’ve got no choice. Really? No training, no promotion. Bet you can’t guess who I ran into there? Carlitos Balá, the clown. Close but no cigar. Grondona. From the Football Association? No, you idiot, the other one, the TV host. You’re kidding. The best part is that in the end, everyone there vows to give a hand to everyone else, always, no matter what the circumstances. A few days ago there was a big hullaballoo on TV and in the papers about a girl who was raped and killed in Belgrano. The niece of a minister, so you can imagine the uproar. I had to make some public statements. I called Grondona. Talked to his secretary. The following Sunday, there I was, on television, comforting the girl’s parents, that’s when I scored big points. These days, if you’re not on TV, Perro, you don’t exist. Real politics happens on that little screen. And this week comes my coup de grâce. We caught the guy who did it. It’s all hush-hush until Thursday
night. That’s when I announce we’ve solved the case during a press conference, on TV. It’s a done deal. Sunday I’m back on Grondona’s programme handing the parents their daughter’s killer with his hands and feet bound. You like? Not bad. And that’ll do it, Perro, I’ll be Chief, I’ll beat the Apostles; they want it for one of their own. Who? Thin Man Filander.

 

When he hears that name, Perro crosses his arms and bows his head. Turcheli elaborates enthusiastically.

 

Perro feels nauseated. He stands up and inhales deeply.

 

 

Turcheli looks at his watch, stands up and makes ready to leave.

 

 

Lascano goes over to the window to watch him leave. The dust the car kicks up is going in the other direction now. Turcheli wants to send him back to the front. His
life of suspended animation for his recovery and rehabilitation has come to an end. In his head, he can hear someone shout, “Action”, and he knows that means the cameras are rolling once again. He has no desire to wage war against crooks and murderers, in the police force or outside of it, to be vigilant twenty-four hours a day, constantly looking over his shoulder. He has absolutely no urge to take on responsibilities, run risks. He’s got nowhere to go, nowhere he wants to go, except to Eva, into her arms, her love. His close brush with death made him wiser, more detached, more calculating. He looks at the spool from which the thread of his life is unravelling, and he realizes there’s not much left, and the little there is is unwinding faster and faster. He dreams of easygoing, pleasant days. He wants to lay claim to the quota of love that life has, up till now, lent him only very briefly then stolen away as if the whole thing had just been a joke. He regrets not having a picture of Eva. What he wouldn’t give at this moment to look in her eyes, touch her, feel her breath, her hands. As soon as he gets back to Buenos Aires he’s going to try to find out where in the world that woman is. He’ll tell Jorge that he’s not going to accept his proposal, and he’ll ask him for money so he can find Eva. He can’t imagine any other purpose or destiny, he has no interest in anything other than finding her.

 

As the orange sun, pierced by the thousands of eucalyptus leaves, plunges toward the horizon, Lascano’s chest hurts, right where the pain of the gunshot wound mingles with that of longing.

3

The night is pitch black and it’s raining. The rain is pouring down outside the windows. It’s raining all over the city, the country, the world. Giribaldi is woken up by a dream he doesn’t want to remember, the same one that’s been waking him up for a long time. For such a long time that he’s lost track. He doesn’t know when he first dreamt it. Maisabé is asleep next to him and Aníbal is in the adjoining room, but he feels alone, as if there were nobody left on Earth and even these people no longer meant anything to him. He wonders if they ever did, but suspects so. The storm rattles the windowpane and an image flashes through his head, of himself jumping through it and falling in slow motion through a cloud of broken glass, just like in the movies. His fantasy dishes him up a free sample of the bolt of pain and darkness that follows his crash into the pavement; the rain falling on his mangled body mixes with his blood, then runs into the street. A few passers-by gather around his dead body and, up above, looking out from the balcony, Maisabé contemplates him, a strange smile hovering over her lips. He sits up in bed, as if he were spring-loaded. He thinks he hears a sigh. He turns to look at his wife. A line of spit dribbles out of the corner of her mouth, pulled down by
the drop at the end. Steps down the hallway. The whole house creaks and whines. He hears a child cry. He enters Aníbal’s room. He stands watching him for a long time. Half his face is lit by the street light shining through the window; the other half is in shadows. He’s convinced the child is awake and pretending to be asleep. He walks over to him and brings his face close up to his. He’s too quiet; Giribaldi wonders if he’s dead. He touches him. The boy opens his eyes and stares at him without blinking. Giribaldi pulls back and looks away. He leaves the room. He goes to his office and opens the French doors onto the balcony. The raindrops bounce off the floor and splash his bare feet. He goes out onto the balcony and looks down, calculating exactly where his body would land. The rain is icy cold. He withdraws into the room. He closes the door to his office and sits down at his desk. He doesn’t know what to do with the tremendous urge he has to cry. He sits there contemplating nothingness until morning comes and the household comes alive.