The Buenos Aires Quintet (41 page)

‘His face was smashed to a pulp.’

He took off, steering determinedly and without hesitation. He flew higher and higher. Then levelled out. All of a sudden, the plane went into a nosedive. Boom Boom’s hands remained firmly on the controls, his face set in a grim mask. The plane crashed into a motorway with an enormous explosion.

‘It was terrible because we not only saw it, but we heard it, if you know what I mean.’

The Captain finally realizes what has happened. Boom Boom has killed himself.

‘Fairy asshole!’ the Captain shouts, eyes like steel.

In Tango Amigo, Alma and Carvalho sit in silence, untouched drinks in front of them.

‘What are you thinking?’ Carvalho asks.

‘And you?’

‘Why must you always reply to a question with another question?’

‘I can’t get Peretti’s accident – or his suicide – out of my mind. And I can’t help thinking about Muriel. She’s so sweet. Do you remember her at the fight last night? She wanted Peretti’s autograph, but she couldn’t stand the violence. That’s why she got up and left.’

Carvalho has to look away.

‘No? Wasn’t that why she left?’ Alma asks.

‘Yes, what other reason could there be? But I don’t know why you worry about her so much. She has her own family. She has her boyfriend. A commie, according to you.’

‘I’m not so sure about the boyfriend. She can’t make up her mind. She’s worried about how her father might react. One of these days I’ll have to have a word with him.’

Carvalho closes his eyes.

‘Why don’t we think a bit about Raúl? We ought to.’

‘Raúl. That’s true. He escaped by the skin of his teeth yet again, although I reckon Pascuali is about as keen to find him as...’

‘As who?’

‘Never mind. But it’s true. We ought to be thinking about Raúl occasionally. He’s the reason we are here, after all. Particularly in your case. Raúl is your only reason for being in Buenos Aires. What can have become of him?’

‘He’ll live to bury us all. Even if socially he does not exist. Hidden. Invisible. On the run. Wanted. All qualities I admire, and increasingly so.’

‘But the show must go on.’

Norman has appeared on stage, dressed up as a woman like the other night at Fiorentino’s. He addresses his audience: ‘Forgive me for appearing like this, I’m no queen – a queer perhaps, but a queen, never! It’s just that sometimes I get these metaphysical and even physical anxieties, and I start asking myself some fundamental questions. Is there really only one truth? Is there really only one market? Only one army? It’s possible. The one real truth would be liberalism. The one true market is the one we can all see in front of us. The single and universal market, where you can buy everything you wish, but sell only what you’re allowed to. The army. One. Only one. Who needs more? The US army The US army and if need be the British army to take on ambiguous cases like Argentina. But there are other numbers that don’t add up. Take the pyramids, for example. We all learnt in school that in Egypt there are three pyramids...but no, in fact there are lots more. And what about the sexes? There are two of them, aren’t there? The female one with a hole all hidden and wrapped up in itself; and the male one with its prick that comes and goes; and my! how it goes! Tonight our tango is about sex. Honoured ladies and gentlemen, tonight it is my great honour to present the world premiere of the first tango in favour of fairies...’

Dressed as an effeminate woman more than as a man, Adriana has fake worry lines around her eyes, and aims her gaze at the trouser-fronts of all the men in the room:

With your suede shoes on
But your socks left off
A pair of silken trousers
And head in dainty hands
You were like sick jokes
Ghastly caricatures
Of waxwork women
And honey-scented men.

Queens or queers
Love daring only
To whisper its name
Faggots or fairies
Stinking like the cottagers
From public lavatories.

Caricature
Of effeminate women
Caricature
Of macho male
Caricature
Of a faceless person
Caricature
Of a young man in bloom.

Now you see them married
In every registry
Kissing in the streets
Openly in broad day
Now you
’
ve got the reins
Firmly in your hands
So why does no one sing
A tango in your name?

Queens or queers
Love daring only
To whisper its name
Faggots or fairies
Stinking like the cottagers
From public lavatories.

Caricature
Of effeminate women
Caricature
Of macho male
Caricature
Of a faceless lover
Caricature
Of a young boy in bloom.

So I offer you this tango
Without a moment
’
s hesitation
Sex has always been
Something shared by three
There never were two sexes
Defined as separate and distinct
Whoever cannot think of four
Can never have two in mind.

With your suede shoes on
But your socks left off
A pair of silken trousers
Head in dainty hands
Stop being such poodles
Such caricatures
Of waxwork women
Or honey-scented men.

‘Mamma, Boom Boom Peretti has killed himself. It’s a real shame. He was such a gentleman.’

‘Did you know him?’

‘Since childhood.’

‘You never told me.’

‘You didn’t like me mixing with kids who did boxing. The other day I went to say hello to him before his fight. He gave me a big hug, and he knew some of my poems off by heart. It makes me sad, Mamma.’

‘Go out and get yourself an
empanada
to eat. But don’t be long – we have to go and sell books in San Telmo.’

Borges Jr. goes for a walk in the park. He stumbles along, his bulky body a prey to its secret nostalgias and melancholy. He recites, as if praying: ‘This city is so horrible that by its very existence and persistence over time, even though it is in the midst of a secret desert, pollutes the past and future and even somehow compromises the stars.’ A few early-morning joggers pass by, but he is so short-sighted he does not realize that two of them running along in step with each other are the minister Güelmes and the director-general of security, Zenón Morales. Borges waddles along as before, and the two runners carry on up the hill, slowing as they climb the gentle incline crowned with lawns and crisscrossing paths. Down below is a broad highway, and there is no one else to be seen.

‘It’s time, isn’t it?’

The director-general looks at his watch and nods. The two of them have sat down, and are using their towels to wipe off the sweat, though their hands cannot compete with the flushed scarlet of their faces.

‘There they are.’

A powerful car pulls up on one side of the highway at the foot of the park. One of its doors opens, and a man appears as if leaving jail, happy to see the ground stretching out above him to the brow of the hill. He touches his own body. Uses his hands to wipe off the grime that sleep has added to the already filthy state of his clothes. Feels all the bones of his body. Then realizes where he is, smells the damp grass, smiles with satisfaction. He starts to climb the hill, and when he reaches the top looks at the park and the grass around his feet. He notices a human presence on a bench surrounded by pigeons, and goes towards it, without catching sight of Güelmes and the director-general, who by now are standing watching him approach.

‘There goes Raúl Tourón. I still don’t understand what you’re playing at, Güelmes.’

‘Peter Pan.’

‘Explain it to me so I can understand it for my own satisfaction. Peter Pan?’

‘You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. That man over there is Peter Pan. He never grew up. Nor have I completely. That’s why I protect him. Because of what I owe him, and what you owe him as well, this is between the two of us. Let’s allow Gálvez Jr. and Raúl to get on with it. Don’t bring Pascuali into it. I’ve already organized my task force.’

‘Pascuali least of all. He’s nothing but a boy scout.’

‘Raúl has almost tracked down the people who abducted his daughter. You should try to find this apparent single mother, the Señora Pardieu. It’s my guess that by finding her, we’ll get rid of quite a few people who are a nuisance that we’ve inherited from the days of the dictatorship. What were you doing during those years?’

‘I was studying at MIT.’

‘What did you think of the military?’

‘I didn’t like them, but I thought they were probably necessary.’

‘What about now?’

‘No, now they’re no longer necessary.’

Güelmes takes the director-general by his arm, and gives it a conspiratorial squeeze.

Sitting on a bench, Borges Jr. digs into his pockets and pulls out handfuls of birdseed, as if he were a human silo. Out of the corner of an eye he notices another man has come to sit on the bench too. The newcomer stares fascinated at Ariel’s attempts to feed as many pigeons as possible as they arrive from the four corners of the park. He is staring so hard that the poet’s son feels it as an intrusion. He turns and sees the other man is in a similar condition to himself.

‘Don’t you like animals?’

‘Yes, of course. I partly make – or made – my living thanks to them.’

‘Did you breed dogs? Horses?’

‘No, I just looked after them. I fed them.’

‘Just like me. It’s the life-cycle. Pigeons eat worms, we eat pigeons, worms eat us.’

‘That’s true enough.’

Borges is pleased with himself, or at least breathes heavily, giving that impression.

‘Daybreak is like dusk. My father used to say: “the twilight of the dove, the Hebrews called the fall of evening”.’

‘Was your father a Jewish pigeon-fancier?’

‘No, a writer. The greatest of all. Jorge Luis Borges.’

There is no trace of irony in the newcomer’s voice when he comments: ‘That sounds like an important name. Like an important man.’

Borges nods sadly. ‘He was an important writer. I’m not so sure about him being an important man. He was on the run, like everyone else, like Ulysses. Do you know Homer?’

‘I’m afraid not. Didn’t he write tangos?’

‘No, I mean the author of the
Odyssey.
About the myth of Ulysses. Just like me and everyone else, my father invented a return home for himself. But when he gets there, neither Penelope nor Telemachus exist, or are as he imagined them to be.’

‘His mother? His little brother?’

‘They’re nothing more than myths. In the end, all that will remain are myths and the obelisk. Everyone will remember the myths, but who is going to remember the person the obelisk is dedicated to?’

All of a sudden, he holds his hand out in front of him. It is raining. He gets up, as if he were afraid of the raindrops.

‘My name is Ariel Borges Samarcanda, and it’s been a pleasure.’

‘And I’m Raúl Tourón, and the pleasure was all mine.’

Borges shuts his eyes, and when he opens them again they are fixed on Raúl as if they wanted to absorb him.

‘Raúl Tourón.’

‘Does that mean something to you?’

‘It sounds like a myth. It could be one of my father’s inventions.’

‘I am the name of one of my own father’s inventions.’

‘Is your father a writer then?’

‘No, like me he’s simply a survivor. It’s taken me a while to realize it. As soon as we’re born, we should be told: you are a survivor, the child of a survivor.’

Borges Jr. bids a ceremonious farewell to his bench companion, and moves away in a series of little shuffling hops, as if he does not know how to run. Raúl sits in the rain. He is enjoying getting wet, and his lips move as he recites to himself the poem that Borges Jr. had started:

‘
The twilight of the dove
’
the Hebrews called the fall of evening,
when darkness does not yet hinder our steps
and the oncoming night makes itself felt
like an old, longed-for music,
like a welcome downward path.

Ariel skips along in the fine rain, leaves the park and charges down several streets like a prodded elephant until he catches up with his mother, who is struggling with a trolley piled high with books. The old woman scolds him for being so late, but then falls in behind him as he pushes the cart through San Telmo to the Plaza Dorrego. The square is already full of stalls and vendors, so the two of them have to make do with an adjacent street. Ariel tries to attract the attention of the passers-by, while his mother holds out books like a passive doll.

‘The complete works of Jorge Luis Borges’ natural son.
Letter to My Father! A Universal History of Commonplaces
!’

He repeats himself endlessly like a stuck record, although each time his voice sounds different. The old woman also continues obstinately with her half-hearted attempts at selling, the pipe dangling from her mouth as ever. Buyers are scarce, Borges goes on shouting, time goes by, the rain comes on harder than ever and the two of them shelter themselves and their books under a tarpaulin. Borges Jr. pushes the cart still piled high with his books. His mother helps as best she can, even though she seems to be leaning for support on the trolley rather than pushing it. The weight and the weather annoy Ariel, and his tango ruffian’s grimace only eases when he abandons the cart in the entrance to his house and can finally return to his world of books and collected objects. He asks his mother for the money they have earned, straightens out the notes and carefully piles them on an old chest. While he is counting their savings, his mother knits and puffs on her pipe at the far end of the room.

‘Barely four thousand pesos in two months. I’ll have to eat the edition. It cost almost as much to have them printed.’

‘Did you pay the printer?’

‘Yes.’

‘That was a mistake. You should have told him: if I don’t sell them, I won’t pay you.’

‘But mamma, why should the printer suffer if the publisher and author can’t sell the books?’