17 Stone Angels (25 page)

“The author is dizzied by her insults. ‘Don't you think I consider that every single day?'

“‘Yes, perhaps that's it. They were not quite good enough for literature, and not shallow enough for cheap entertainment, and while this world may reward the great and disabuse the truly bad of their illusions, the merely adequate who are silly enough to aspire, it will punish them, and drag them through the mud by their own dreams. And you get tired of trying to do something great, and finally . . . ' her eyes flicker to the side as she goes on, ‘you accommodate yourself to whatever meaningless pornography will pay your apartment. These are things that I know, Robert, because I am the Patron Saint of Desperation, of the visions that assassinate your life.'

“The Frenchwoman leans her elbow on the table and rests her chin on her palm, staring at him with her gray eyes across the eighteen inches of marble between them. Her flat finish gives no clue to whatever emotion lies behind it. ‘I will be your muse.'

“And through Paulé, Waterbury begins to meet another group of friends. Bohemians ten to twenty years younger than him. Jugglers and mimes who pass a tin can at Palermo Park, surly musicians with bangles hanging off their faces, film directors with rich parents, actresses, intellectuals, angry painters, resentful writers who have yet to publish a book. They meet at the Bar Azul, go to theater productions in basements or apartments, drink bad wine, snort
merca
, fuck each other on filthy sheets in old high-ceilinged apartments whose windows let in dirty traffic noise. Waterbury is too old for them, but his cachet as a foreign novelist gets him in, and Paulé never fails to polish his reputation. He has books in translation and an agent in New York, while they are primping themselves behind ‘underground' productions and little books published ‘for a select audience.' And though he doesn't want to admit it, his acceptance by this tedious circle bolsters him.

“In this flock of crows Waterbury sits and listens, fills his journals with their smoke and shallow dramas while he drinks espresso and takes up tobacco in his neighborhood café. Now Waterbury, who never failed to read
his daughter to sleep, wakes up at noon, eats dinner at eleven and crosses the night on a regimen of coffee and cocaine. He is loading up his credit card, giving his wife half-truths about his research in weekly conversations that have become a bit uncomfortable. She tells about the little girl and the lovable things she does. He stays silent about the parties that flow from bar to apartment to dance hall, about the cocaine. But the book is taking shape, he assures her. A very vague shape.

“Paulé, to his surprise, asks nothing of him. She annoys him with her pompousness, but the flashes of jaded tenderness beneath her impersonation of
La Francesa
intrigue him. He guesses her age between twenty-eight and forty, depending on the time of night, but like everything else about her, he doesn't inquire. The picture on Pablo's internet pornography site haunts him. He walks her to her apartment with an ache in his groin but refuses to go inside, knowing it would be impossible not to fall. And what diseases might she have? he asks himself. And what might he be getting into? And most of all, when his mind isn't fogged by her erotic image, he thinks of the effect on his wife and child, who would forever have this strange unwholesome
danseuse
in the room with them.”

/ / /

Fabian abruptly clicked his tongue,
mugged a sardonic little expression of shame. “I'm sorry! Perhaps you are tired of hearing about Paulé. Maybe she is just a diversion, to keep things entertaining. But I see Lucho is coming.”

The waiter appeared with three steaming plates, the beefsteaks concealed beneath a heap of ham, fried egg, red pepper, and melted cheese. “
Al Boguso
,” Fabian joked. Lucho set the wine bottle and siphon on the table while Fabian busied himself adding corn oil and vinegar to sliced tomato salad. They started eating as Fabian told Athena about Montevideo, the fabled ‘gray city' that had stopped in time some fifty years ago and lingered across the Rio de la Plata as the sleepy alter-ego of Buenos Aires. ‘Provider of discreet financial services and elusive fugitives.' He mentioned his Hollywood cousin's brushes with various stars, and how he had a connection to a famous director, and this led him again to the matter of his screenplay, inextricable, in its turn, from the story of Robert Waterbury. He held a tomato on his fork and gestured with it. “Now, as I warned you at the
hotel, the next part is inevitable, because every thriller must have some fabulously wealthy man. He should have a questionable past, and, as the book is set here in Buenos Aires, he must have contacts with vicious
milicos
related to the anti-subversive war. With this in mind, we consider again
el Señor
Waterbury.”

“Waterbury is working the chain of contacts that he has made through Pablo. Because Waterbury, though yes, a bit desperate, is not so stupid. He's knowledgeable about economics and contemporary Argentine politics. He has traveled widely. He begins to show up at dinner tables and
asados
even without Pablo, and always with questions. ‘And what was your experience of the Seventies? And what is your opinion of Peron?' He is Waterbury, the erudite foreign novelist, and if no one has actually read his novels, he still has his copy of
The Black Market
to flash.

“One night he is drinking whiskey with a retired naval officer and another man who was briefly the Minister of Economy during the last days of the dictatorship. The name of Pelegrini comes up. ‘He should meet Pelegrini,' the ex-minister says.

“‘Pelegrini!' The idea strikes the old officer as ridiculous at first, then he considers it, looking at the bowl of his pipe. They are sitting in the oak-paneled library of a townhouse in Palermo. ‘It would be interesting, no? Pelegrini is a phenomenon.' He shakes his head. ‘No! Pelegrini hates journalists. One of these days he's going to put a bullet in one and set loose a shitstorm.'

“‘But Roberto is not a journalist,' says the former politician. ‘He's a novelist. He's irrelevant. What difference would it make to Carlo to spend a half-hour with him?'

“‘It would be interesting for you,' the admiral agrees to Waterbury. ‘But the issue is that Carlo is half-paranoid about journalists. They persecute him, and there were already some incidents.'

“‘What kind of incidents?' Waterbury asks.

“The ex-minister frowns. ‘They were exaggerated things! Such and such journalist gets assaulted and he tries to blame it on Don Carlo. Or an apartment is vandalized, and it must be the fault of Don Carlo. The problem is that there are many journalists with bad intentions, and they'll say any lie to call attention to themselves.'

“‘Like all these lies about the anti-subversive war,' the admiral continues.
‘We save the country from the subversives, and then the leftists spend the next twenty years making us the villains and the terrorists the heroes.' He finishes with a reprise Waterbury has heard many times among the discredited rightists of the old days: ‘We won the war but we lost the peace.'

“‘What does Pelegrini do?'

“The two older men look at each other. ‘He has a range of businesses,' the former minister says slowly. ‘For example, he owns a courier service, like your private services in the United States. Also, he has an interest in the Customs warehouses at the airports and ports in Argentina, where people importing goods must put them until they clear customs. In partnership with some officers of the navy, like Juancito here.'

“‘Aldo!'

“Aldo ducks his tongue. ‘It's public information, Juan! It already passed through the newspapers.' To Waterbury: ‘It's a completely legitimate deal. I presided over it, so I know. It's a heap of contracts this high, and every one of them with the appropriate signatures of the Ministry of Interior and the Armed Forces. But it has become fashion to attack Pelegrini, especially these days, while he's trying to make an arrangement with the national postal service.'

“Waterbury can feel a chill coming from the naval officer's corner, and he tries to reassure him. ‘Juan, the reality doesn't matter to me. I fabricate my own reality. I'm only looking for atmosphere. The sound of a voice, what kind of clothes a person wears; things like that.'

“The ex-minister takes up the idea. ‘What I would suggest, then—'

“‘No, Aldo,' the other interrupts. ‘Better that no! What is he going to find out in a half-hour? Carlo's not going to talk.'

“‘Not to talk, Juan. To observe.' He turns to Waterbury. ‘You can go and see. He has a beautiful house in Palermo Chico, mansion type, of the old style. He has very pretty things. Moreover, he's a very interesting man to talk to. A philosophical type. He reads Borges to put himself to sleep.'

“‘Aldo!' The admiral shakes his head. ‘Pelegrini is a man of great weight! And with this mess of Grupo AmiBank . . . Better that no!'

“‘Let's help the boy,' the economist says. ‘It's our contribution to Art! Will you call him, or should I?'

“The admiral takes a sour look. ‘You call him! And make it well-clear that he's not a journalist.' He looks at Waterbury and his tone mellows back to the luxurious hospitality he'd displayed before Pelegrini entered the
conversation. ‘Roberto, I wish you much luck with your novel. But when you publish it,' the old face tries to put some humor behind the request, ‘please don't put my name in the acknowledgments.'

“Palermo Chico, as you may know, is a little slice of wrought iron and mansions lying among the wide green parks near Retiro station. These palaces were built when a peso was a peso, so fresh that you could practically smell the cattle and the wheat that gave them birth. The mansions loom up three stories in cut stone, not regular stories, but the old style that rise five meters into elegant moldings and frescos painted by artists imported from France. Oval windows peek out from among artfully cut tiles, and immaculate gardens set off the proud colonnades of the front steps. They are houses that invite grand entrances, and many have been turned into embassies. The rest belong to the tiny circle of people who can pay to maintain them. Carlo Pelegrini has a mansion there, on Calle Castex, which is, by coincidence, the name of his wife: Teresa Castex de Pelegrini.

“Waterbury has been advised of all this by the ex-minister, and advised simply to look and listen and not bring up the subject of Don Carlo's business dealings. Above all, he should try not to appear as a journalist.

“The mansion stands on almost an entire city block, with a high brick wall maintaining the privacy of the lower floors. A guard buzzes the visitor through the wrought iron gate and accompanies him silently to a small stone guardhouse near the front entrance. The mansion itself looks like one he saw on a documentary about Napoleon, a massive construction of graceful beige stone under a cap of black slate.

“Waterbury is nervous. An unexpected rainstorm soaked him as he strolled from the subway stop and water is dripping down the back of his neck. He thinks of canceling the interview, but he knows he'll never get another chance. Poor Waterbury's heart is fluttering as he enters the guardhouse.

“The hut contains two men with walkie-talkies and a pair of lthakas leaning in the corner. Both wear large black sunglasses, one of them moves forward to confront him. He is about Waterbury's own age but has obviously taken a very different path in life. He seems a man of little philosophy, with a cool face that has never expressed doubt. Waterbury doesn't know it, but this man is Abel Santamarina, the chief of MovilSegur, one of Señor Pelegrini's several private security companies. Santamarina was processed in 1984 for
twelve incidences of torture and extra-judicial execution at the Banfield Pit, the clandestine detention center of the Federal Police during the anti-subversive war. Pardoned in the general amnesty of 1985, he now offers private security to Don Carlo and his many businesses.”

Fortunato spoke up. “What does he look like, this Santamarina?”

“As it turns out, Waterbury described him with great care afterwards. He said he was well-developed in the shoulders and chest, very intimidating, with short colorless hair and eyes caught in that uncomfortable mix of brown and green, so that when you look into them they refuse to become one or the other.”

Fortunato thought about the man he'd met a few weeks ago with the Chief. “A good description,” Fortunato said. “Very artistic.”

“So the man looks at his clipboard, and he says with some distaste, ‘Robert Waterbury. Journalist.'

“‘I'm not a journalist,' Waterbury corrects him. ‘I'm a novelist.'

“The guard ignores him. ‘Journalist. Do you have any recording devices?'

“‘No.'

“‘Wireless devices? Cellular telephone?'

“‘No.'

“Santamarina looks directly into his eyes, as if he can spy the thoughts whirling around Waterbury's brain. Whatever he sees, it is insufficient. ‘Lift up your arms.'

“Waterbury complies and Santamarina begins to run his hands along his ribs. By now a third man has come in with a Doberman on a chain. Waterbury looks the dog in the eyes, the dog growls at him, and Waterbury takes a tiny but critical step backwards. He stumbles against the desk, where the little spike that holds message papers stabs him in his behind. He cries out and lurches forward again into Santamarina, who is at that moment running a metal detector along his legs. It happens at once: Waterbury cries out, Santamarina curses, the dog leaps up and grasps Waterbury's wrist between his teeth.