The Argentina Rhodochrosite (14 page)

27

The children ran to the picnic
tables and began to clang the new plates that had already been laid out. They knew the drill.

“I thought Pedro was your age,” Ainsley said.

“I didn’t say that.”

Ainsley was trying to contain herself. “Why didn’t you tell me he was only five years old?”

“No, I think he’s six,” replied Hugo. “It’s a significant difference, at that age.”

Ainsley huffed. “Can you please take me to his
mother
? I need to talk to that
maid
.”

He tried to contain his smile. “I told you, I don’t know her personally. I don’t even know where they live. I only know her son. This is the only way you can get to her.”

Ainsley looked to the picnic table. The little boys were starting to beat each other over the heads with the aluminum plates.

“Seriously?” she said. “How am I supposed to negotiate with that?”

Hugo shrugged. “Offer him a candy or something.”

Ainsley stood up from her table. This was oddly humiliating. She had experienced many things that were far outside her comfort zone on her South American adventure thus far—riots, murder, kidnapping, and more—but for some reason, the thought of negotiating with a six-year-old felt like her most outrageous and difficult task yet.

She took her half-finished
choripan
and approached the little boy. He’d taken a seat on the far end of the picnic table. A long and unruly mop of dark hair hung from his head. He wore a tiny pair of jeans, and his black sneakers were duct-taped together.

“Sweetheart,” she said, “do you want some
choripan
?”

The little boy questioned her with his eyes but said nothing. The others around him scrambled to get to the sandwich.

Ainsley whipped the plate behind her back. “No, it’s just for him, the handsome one. What’s your name?”

He eyed her warily. “Pedro.” Then his eyes flicked over to the
choripan
.

“Come this way, Pedro.”

Ainsley walked across the
comedor
and placed the sandwich on the most distant table. It didn’t take long. Pedro hopped down from his table, skipped across the dirt, and slid into the bench opposite Ainsley.

She used her knife and fork to slice the sausage sandwich into four pieces. She handed him the first piece. Pedro attacked it like a dog that’d been handed a fresh butcher’s bone.

“My name is Ainsley,” she said, watching him chew. “Your mother is a friend of mine.”

This felt demoralizing. And Pedro didn’t seem to care what she said, so Ainsley extended the lie.

“I need to talk to your mother, but she’s not answering her phone.”

The boy was chewing now. His legs were kicking. He was scooting around in his seat.

“Can I talk to your mother?”

When little Pedro finally began to speak, the words that came out were total gibberish, a mishmash of chirrups, squeals, and squawks.

“Excuse me?” Ainsley leaned forward in her seat.

He repeated himself. Another bizarre collection of sounds.

The frustration was almost unbearable. To Ainsley, trying to decipher children speaking in a foreign language was always impossible. In fact, it had been a running joke among her friends years ago. Whenever they’d watched a movie in a foreign language, they’d turn off the subtitles when a child was speaking, and then try to translate. It was always impossible.

Now this game was applied to real life, except without the rewind button, and with something very large at stake. She handed him a second piece of the sandwich, then waved to Hugo, who was chatting with the owner of the
comedor
.

He came over. “I don’t want to feed anybody.”

“No, I just need you to translate.”

“But you already have Spanish. At least some.”

Ainsley shielded her mouth from the little boy. “I can’t understand this fucking kid. Not one word.”

Hugo laughed. “Okay, I will help.” He sat down at the table. “What’s happening, little macho man?”

Still chewing, Pedro pounded fists with him. Hugo tousled his hair. Then he looked up at Ainsley. “What do you want me to say?”

“Tell him that his mother won’t take my phone calls.”

Hugo spoke in low, rapid, slangy Rioplatense. The boy mumbled back. Hugo didn’t seem to understand either. He ordered Pedro to swallow his food.

They went back and forth like this for a while. Ainsley found herself looking around impatiently, wanting to escape. Ovidio’s friends had, thus far, proven to be a dead end. This assignment was a long shot to begin with, but at this moment, the mission felt particularly desperate. Ainsley felt like she was holding a fisherman by the ankles over the side of a boat while he cast his line, searching for a single minnow in a sea of millions.

But it was the only way to find this damned rhodochrosite. And returning to the United States held no allure for her.

Finally Hugo looked up again. “Pedro said that’s because his mother isn’t taking any phone calls right now. No visitors either.”

“Brilliant. Can you get his address?”

“There are no addresses in this
villa
.”

“A street name?”

“We have no street names either.”

Ainsley laughed in spite of her frustratation. Villa 27 was the place where the streets literally had no name.

“What about his father?” she said. “Maybe he can help.”

Hugo resumed the conversation. Listening to their mumbled syllables, Ainsley began to understand just how difficult it was to become truly fluent in another language. No matter what her abilities, given her monolingual childhood, she was probably doomed to intermediate ability in second languages.

“His father is not around very much,” said Hugo. “But he did say that his father likes to tango.”

Inside her, the frustration had grown as enormous and malignant as a tumor. “Where does he like to dance the fucking tango? Maybe I can find this man. And maybe this man can lead me to his wife.”

Hugo handed the boy a third piece of
choripan
. They conferred for another moment. Ainsley chewed her nails. It’d always been her worst habit, even worse than smoking, and not even bitter apple polish would stop her from doing it.

Then Hugo looked up. “These kids have no education. It’s hard to understand exactly what he’s saying.”

“Then give me your best translation. Please.”

“He dances at a Monday night
milonga
called Malevos.”

Today was Monday. Ainsley wrote down the information on a napkin. “What is his father’s name?”

There was another moment of conversation, and Hugo reported back. “Simón Fe. His mother is Maria Jose.”

Ainsley copied the names down and stashed the napkin in her purse. “You’ve been very helpful, Hugo.”

“It has been my pleasure. Here.” Hugo handed her another napkin with a telephone number scrawled on it. “Let me know if you need more help.”

Of course he would want to help her. That had been two hundred easy pesos. There weren’t many opportunities for legitimate entrepreneurship for a teenager in this community.

Ainsley went to the owner of the
comedor
. She was stirring a pot of innards over a dirty stove. “This is my specialty,” the woman said. “Come back for dinner?”

“No thank you. Here.”

Ainsley pressed two hundred pesos into her palm. The woman gaped. “You are very generous.”

Ainsley took her hand. “This is for three things. One, for both lunches. Two, for finding me a safe ride back to the city center. Three, you didn’t see me talking to that boy.”

The woman nodded. “Of course. My husband can drive you. I’ll send a bowl of the stew along with you.”

28

The owner’s husband, a meek man
in his late fifties, owned a severely rusted truck. He’d driven Ainsley out of the
villa
and several miles back towards the city center.

When she’d begun to spot the familiar black-and-yellow design of passing taxis, she’d ordered the man to stop, thanked him, and stepped out. Then she’d hailed the next taxi and ordered it back to the Gran Hotel Hispano, in the Microcentro.

In the backseat, she heaved a sigh of relief. The
villa
, a place she’d never asked to go, was behind her at last. Then she reflected for a moment.

The maid’s husband, Simón Fe, was a tango dancer every Monday night. Today was Monday. It was a tiny toehold in the mystery of the stolen rhodochrosite, but this was all she had at the moment.

The problem was that Ainsley didn’t know much about tango, or any other dance. She was, to use the politically correct term, choreographically challenged. But she did know that tango had its own set of rules, its own sociology. It was a separate ecosystem.

If she was going to crash a
milonga
tonight, she couldn’t afford to step on any toes, either literally or figuratively. She would need a guide.

She pulled out her phone and called Nadia. The manager picked up immediately and wasted no time. “Tell me.”

“I’m sorry,” said Ainsley, “but his friends were useless. I talked to Lalo, I talked to some psychiatrist, and I talked to Sebastian. They didn’t know anything.”

She swore in Rioplatense. “They are liars. Don’t believe any of them.”

Ainsley put a positive spin. “But I have good news. I got dragged into Villa 27 by Sebastian this morning for his press conference.”

“How is that good news? It was a disaster.” Then it dawned on Nadia. “Wait, don’t tell me you found the maid.”

“I found her son. And he told me where to find her husband.”

“Where?”

“At a
milonga
tonight. It’s called”—she consulted her notes—“Malevos.”

Nadia sighed. “I’m telling you, Ovidio’s friends are the guilty ones.”

“Even Sebastian?”

“Not Sebastian,” said Nadia. “He’s the only loyal one. And chasing the maid is pointless. Don’t bother with her.”

Ainsley had an answer prepared for this. “Please, let me follow this idea, just for tonight. If it doesn’t work out, then I’ll go back to his friends tomorrow.”

“But you don’t know anything about
milongas
.”

“That’s why I’m calling you. I need a guide.”

Nadia was agitated. “I don’t know anybody who likes the tango. It’s really not that popular.”

“Can’t you find just one person?”

There was silence. Then she said, “It has to be a woman. Preferably older, someone who knows the scene.” Nadia thought for a moment more. “Let me call you back.”

By now it was three in the afternoon, and taxi was threading its way back into the beating heart of Buenos Aires, the walls of the buildings taller, the sidewalks flooded with thousands of urban workers. Ainsley could feel a late-afternoon crash starting to hit. She needed to sleep.

After summoning the energy to drag herself up the circular stairs of her hotel, she had never been so happy to plug her room key into its lock.

She was asleep from the moment her cheek hit the fabric of her pillowcase.