The Argentina Rhodochrosite (9 page)

16

The host led Ainsley down the
stairs to the third floor. Ainsley noticed that the mansion was filling with more people, mostly older, serious types. She glanced at her watch. It was eleven pm. It appeared that late nights were typical for this part of the world.

She followed Facundo into a small parlor. Heavy brocade wallpaper and mood lighting made it feel like a Victorian-era bedroom.

A short man with clear spectacles and a scholarly manner was sitting in a chair beneath a reading lamp. He was looking at a sheaf of documents. His legs were crossed over one another at the knee, in the European way.

“El Oido,” said Facundo.

The man looked up over the top of his glasses. Ainsley had always been mildly annoyed by the mannerism. It sent the message that the other person wasn’t quite important enough.

“Facundo,
como está usted?
the man said.

“
Buenisimo
. This is Ainsley Walker.”

He lowered the papers, stood up, and kissed her cheek. “I am called Nestor,” he said. “
El Oido
is just my nickname.” His voice was as thin as the sound of an oboe.

“He is Ovidio’s psychotherapist,” said Facundo.

“That’s me,” the man said. “An ear for rent.”

“Ainsley is a journalist from the United States,” Facundo explained. “She has some questions for you.”

“It’s usually my job to ask the questions,” the psychotherapist said.

“Please,” said Facundo. “For me.”

The psychotherapist sighed and removed his glasses. “I’ll try to please her.”

Ainsley felt her stomach sink. She was no journalist, no interviewer, and certainly no psychologist. She knew that Nestor was going to lose patience with her, quickly.

He pointed to the couch. “You can sit there,” he said, taking the chair again. “What do you want to know?”

Ainsley felt suddenly alone as she scrambled for an appropriate opener. “It seems like Ovidio has emotional problems,” she said.

“He is experiencing an internal struggle for identity dominance,” said the psychotherapist. “That makes for a compelling personality.”

“What type of identities are competing?”

“One, narcissistic tendencies. Two, a need for approval. Three, a lack of family gives him no models to pattern himself upon. All of this means that his sense of self is very fluid, very mobile, whereas yours and mine are more fixed.”

She thought about that for a moment. Ainsley’s own identity had been in major upheaval for nearly a year now, struggling with loss of spouse, loss of job, loss of friends, loss of purpose. Maybe she was just as adrift as Ovidio.

Nestor was continuing. “And then this fluid sense of self is reinforced by the adulation of the Argentine public. They tell him that this state is acceptable and even wanted. As a result, he embraces these contradictions within himself, instead of attempting to resolve them.”

“That’s good insight,” said Ainsley.

“It’s elucidated by Lacan,” he continued. “The mirror stage initiates, and aids, the process of forming and integrating a solid sense of self. But without the Other, which is typically the Mother…” He shrugged.

Ainsley felt confused by the verbiage, which she could barely follow in English, let alone Spanish. She decided to steer the conversation towards more practical matters. “Has Ovidio ever spoken about his mother?”

“Every day for the past ten years,” he said.

“He comes into your office every day?”

“No, it’s mostly by phone. Day or night, that telephone is always ringing. And I always pick up.” The psychotherapist smiled ruefully. “Don’t get me wrong. He’s the ideal patient: unlimited problems and unlimited funds. But, truthfully, it’s like a prison for me.” He glanced at Ainsley. “That’s all off the record.”

“Of course.”

Then he frowned. “Where is your tape recorder?”

“I lost it,” she lied.

“You have no paper or pen?”

She rushed to cover her tracks. “I’m just getting background. And my memory is excellent.”

Nestor shrugged. She sensed that he was getting bored with her. Ainsley decided to cut to the chase.

“Have you discussed his mother’s necklace?”

Nestor paused. He looked at her significantly. “Ovidio’s entire mentality is in that necklace. I’ve watched him hold it against his face when he cries. I’ve watched him, in a fit of anger, throw it out the window into a dumpster. I had to call his assistant to retrieve it, because I knew he was going to regret it.”

“I heard an interesting rumor about it,” said Ainsley.

“I live in Buenos Aires,” he said. “I hear rumors every day.”

“This rumor says that the necklace is missing,” she said, “and that he won’t play soccer until it’s found.”

The psychotherapist’s nostrils widened. “That is not public knowledge,” he said, “and if you publish that, you will regret having come to Buenos Aires.”

“I have no intention of doing so,” she said. “But do you have any thoughts?”

“I do,” he said, “but I won’t share them with you.”

“You can trust me,” she said.

“That’s not been proven.”

She plowed ahead anyways. “Who would’ve wanted to steal his rhodochrosite?”

“Who wouldn’t?” he said. The psychotherapist’s eyes were dancing madly behind his glasses. “Pick an opposing manager. Pick an opposing player. They’re in awe of his talent, but nobody can stand his personality. Jealousy is a powerful motivator.”

“So you’re telling me it could’ve been anybody in professional Argentine soccer.”

“It’s possible.” Then he grew very still, and when he began speaking again, the psychotherapist’s voice had changed. It was deeper and heavier. “If you’re at this party, then you already know that he’s thinking about running for president.”

Ainsley nodded. “He’s been giving interviews about it.”

“What do you think about that?”

“It’s a bad idea. He’s not fit to be president. It would probably hurt the country.”

The psychotherapist nodded but said nothing. Behind the spectacles, his eyes had grown very serious, and his gaze held hers with an unnerving intensity. The air felt heavy with unspoken words. Ainsley shifted in her seat, feeling unsettled.

Finally the psychotherapist broke the silence. “
Bueno
. If there are no more problems, I hope that I have managed to please you.” He offered his hand.

“Thank you for your time,” she said.

Ainsley rose, exchanged cheek kisses, and left the parlor.

As she descended the staircase towards the main floor, she couldn’t help feeling that El Oido knew much more of this mystery than he was willing to reveal.

17

Downstairs, the party had swollen to
at least a hundred and fifty people. Men leaned over the staircase railing, shouting to friends on floors below. Groups of men stood arranged around fireplaces in private rooms, socializing loudly, their women standing at the elbows, looking insecure.

She moved through the crowd, looking for the guest of honor, but he was nowhere to be seen.

She ordered another glass of Torrontés from the downstairs bar, admired the woodwork, the well-dressed people, the unbelievable ambience, and felt her thoughts turn towards love.

Love.

She was alone, again, in a foreign country, on a moony night, dressed to the nines, holding a drink in a beautiful old mansion now converted to a chic nightclub. All this—and not a single romantic prospect on the horizon.

This was a missed opportunity. Ainsley would regret this evening in her old age.

Then she reminded herself that this wasn’t a vacation. This was
work
. She was on assignment to find a rhodochrosite necklace.

Through the doorway, she spotted Facundo on the balcony. He was socializing with a fury. His face had turned bright red, his laughter more forced, his shoulder-squeezes more ferocious.

Ainsley guessed that she knew the reason. Ovidio hadn’t arrived yet. Facundo was feeling the pressure to provide the entertainment.

She weaved through the partygoers until she was standing at Facundo’s side. He noticed her immediately.

“Was
El Oido
helpful?” said the host.

“A little,” she said. “Where is Ovidio?”

Facundo could barely contain his emotion. “Why bother with such silly questions?” His smile grew bigger, his stance grew straighter. “Let’s all just have a good time! Mix together!” He hoisted his glass violently into the air; liquid sloshed out onto his sleeve.

Ainsley watched the other attendees. The other partygoers were waiting patiently, but the signs of impatience were there. They seemed like important
porteños
. They’d come to meet Ovidio, to get a picture with him; in return, they would promise their support in his run for president. Who knew how long their patience would last? This was a moody culture.

Ovidio skipping out on his own political gathering was unthinkable. Ainsley figured that he was probably planning a grand entrance later in the evening, when the time was right. And she also figured that the best place to watch his grand entrance would be from the back garden.

Ainsley descended the outside staircase with careful steps, hand touching the balustrade. She felt vaguely like a queen. She also felt eyes watching her.

Two in particular.

Standing on the ground, beneath a canvas umbrella, was a man about her age. She noticed his above-average height, his flat abdomen, his observant air. He carried an observant air about him.

Ainsley smiled at him. That was the only trigger he needed: these Argentine men acted fast. As she neared the bottom of the staircase, he walked over and extended his hand.

“I would hate for you to trip,” he said.

“Thank you,” she replied.

He helped her across the gravel, which really was hellish on her shoes. When she reached the paving stones a few meters away, he let go of her hand.

She turned to look at her suitor. Up close, he was even more attractive, blessed with the killer combination of blue eyes and dark hair. He wore the mandatory three days’ scruff that was apparently
de rigueur
in Buenos Aires.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re here to support Ovidio?” he said.

“No. I’m just a journalist.”

He seemed surprised. “You don’t look like one. Plus they don’t usually let journalists into events like this.”

“Then I must be special,” she said, with an arch of her eyebrow. She felt her old flirting muscle coming back into shape. “How did you get into this party?”

“I’m an old friend,” he said.

“Of who?”

“Ovidio. We grew up together.”

Ainsley cocked her head. “Really?” She moved a bit closer, both for personal and professional reasons. “Did you play soccer too?”

The man nodded. “We met on our first day at Club Ontiveros. We were eleven years old.”

“What do you do now?”

“I still play professional soccer. River Plate.” Ainsley recognized the name; it was probably the most famous team in the country. Then he added humbly: “Don’t be impressed, I’m just a reserve. I don’t get on the field much. Too old.” He offered his hand. “I am called Sebastian.”

“And I’m Ainsley.”

She took the hand, then accepted a cheek kiss. It was chaste, but lingered a second longer than usual.

Ainsley was about to follow up with more questioning, but she never got the chance. The smell of liquor announced the arrival of Lalo and his buddies, who’d abandoned the upstairs club.

Lalo and Sebastian greeted each other warmly. Ainsley felt her stomach drop a little. You can always judge somebody by the company they keep, and Lalo was bad company.

Sebastian gestured to Ainsley, “Did you meet the journalist?”

“Of course,” Lalo said. “I made an important promise to her.”

His buddies laughed again; she was feeling annoyed by him.

“Are you ready to go yet?” said Sebastian.

Lalo nodded, picking his teeth. “We’ve got the back room reserved at Caballo.”

Sebastian thought. “Caballo? I heard that place moved.”

“It’s in Puerto Madero now. Don’t worry,
che
, we’ll drive you.”

“You don’t drive anybody,
cabrón
.”

Ainsley interrupted. “I’m confused. Ovidio hasn’t even arrived yet. Why are you all leaving?”

An expression of sadness came across Sebastian’s face. He looked at Lalo. “Do we tell her?”

The scuzzy minder shrugged, rolling his toothpick around in his mouth. Sebastian turned to her. “Ovidio isn’t coming tonight.”

Ainsley was completely stupified. “Why not? This is a party for him.”

“Because it’s Wednesday.”

“So what?”

The men looked at each other. Lalo stepped in. “Ovidio doesn’t do anything on Wednesdays,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because it’s the day that his mother was killed,” said Lalo.

Ainsley was startled. She stammered, “How does he know the day that his mother was killed?”

Lalo had already turned away, so Sebastian leaned in closer and continued the story, whispering. “You know about the dirty war? How they killed the
desaparecidos
?”

“Of course I do,” said Ainsley.

“So you know that the prisoners were dumped out of airplanes over the Atlantic?”

“Yes.”

“Those planes only left on Wednesdays.”

Ainsley suddenly understood. “My God.”

Sebastian had a look of absolute compassion in his eyes. “So Ovidio won’t do anything on Wednesdays. He never has. It’s his personal sabbath. When we were boys, he used to skip practice on that day. The coach was angry but couldn’t do anything about it. It’s also one of the reasons that Arsenal transferred him.”

“Why?”

“He wouldn’t play any games on Wednesdays. Management was furious with him. He had one bad season, and then he was gone.”

“And what about tonight?”

Sebastian shook his head sadly. “Nobody told Facundo.”

Ainsley scanned the balcony until she found the host in a far corner. Facundo had his phone cradled against his ear. His eyes were blazing. He looked about a minute away from a coronary.

“This could hurt Ovidio’s political ambitions,” said Ainsley.

“Yes it could,” said Sebastian, “if Argentine politics made any sense. But they
don’t
make sense.” He smiled. “Are you coming with me?”

Ainsley didn’t have any reason to say no. She doubted that Facundo would be in the mood to continue introducing her to people. And Sebastian seemed like an invaluable resource.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m hungry.”

Sebastian offered his arm, and she accepted. Lalo and his scuzzy entourage joined them as they left through the cobblestone garage and to the street outside.