The Argentina Rhodochrosite (2 page)

2

An hour later, the hydrofoil had
been moored to the dock, the wide steel gangplank had been dropped with a terrifying clang, and a flood of humans stepped off the boat into the Buquebus terminal.

The human tide carried Ainsley down a carpeted hallway, around several tight bends, across an upstairs balcony, and finally down a set of stairs, where she was disgorged into a vast lobby. Yellow globes dangled from the ceiling over the heads of people lined up at three different windows to purchase tickets going the opposite way.

Argentina. This was its welcome mat for those entering by sea.

Ainsley strode across the arrivals lobby with her white purse slung comfortably across her shoulder, and a small duffle bag dangling from her hand. It’d been an impromptu parting gift from Sofia, her new friend back in Uruguay, before she’d left.

Standing near the exit was a black-suited driver holding a plastic-sheeted signs. On one of the signs she saw WALKER spelled in red marker.

She approached the man and said, “That’s me.”

“Identification,” he said. She handed over her passport. He checked it, nodded, then handed it back. “This way.”

She followed him out of the terminal. The light blinded her as she stepped outside.

The vehicle, a black Mercedes, waited a few meters away. The driver approached the car confidently, nearly strutting, his body moving side-to-side. He opened the door with a muscular flourish.

Ainsley smiled at him as she slid into the back seat. The interior was upholstered in soft leather. Several magazines were stuffed into the netting in the back of the seats. There was bottled water and cans of juice and soda.

Far more interesting, however, were the sights outside her window.

The streets of Buenos Aires.

The Mercedes entered the stream of traffic. The cars were small and fast, darting around each other with no turn signals. Her driver accelerated between two slower taxis, splitting the lanes. Ainsley held her breath; her fingers curled around the bar above the doors.

Through the windshield she watched the cars squeezing, braking, swerving, zipping, zooming. They darted into any open space available. Lane markers were like donation boxes. Mere suggestions.

The imposing facades of several government buildings passed by her window. Then the Mercedes looped around a large structure that was painted half pink, half unpainted. Ainsley vaguely recognized it: Casa Rosada, the Argentine capitol. Madonna had sung the famous elegy from its balcony.

But Ainsley didn’t want to think about Andrew Lloyd Webber right now. She was marvelling instead at the business district that they’d passed into, whose sidewalks were overflowing with people bundled in dark, stylish clothing. There was energy here, an excitement in the air that had been utterly absent from the sleepy backwater ambience she’d felt in Montevideo. This city felt like it was
going
somewhere.

“Señor,” she said in Spanish, “where are we right now?”

“El Microcentro,” he replied.

She was relieved to hear him using the same dialect, Rioplatense, that had been used in Uruguay. Ainsley hadn’t wanted to try to learn yet another variety of Spanish.

The Mercedes turned right onto a behemoth of a street. It was literally twenty lanes wide, striped with at least three medians. Through the windshield, Ainsley spotted what seemed to be a replica of the Washington Monument, a white obelisk roughly a hundred meters high, springing out of a roundabout.

This was the Obelisco, the undeniable center of Buenos Aires, like an enormous thumbtack pinning down this bustling city.

The driver turned into a leafy neighborhood, down residential streets lined with three- and four-story apartment buildings, all protected with security gates or thick doors.

“Where are we now?” Ainsley asked.

“This is Boedo, another barrio,” he said. “Those houses are
chorizo
cottages.” The name was appropriate. The homes were shaped like tall, thin sausages.

Soon the car passed into a different commercial district, less dense than the Microcentro had been, but equally interesting.

With little warning, the driver stopped the car in front of a sleek new two-story office building. The facade was pure white. The front door a sky blue-and-white fractal pattern, the type that is meant to indicate that incomprehensible modern work occurs within. There was no sign.

“We are here,” he said.

He pulled himself out of the car in a single fluid motion and yanked open her door, the practiced move of a professional. Ainsley hesitantly stepped out of the car.

“I don’t have an address,” she said. “Is that the building? All I know is to ask for Gabriel.”

“We are here,” said the driver, startled. “And if you’re asking for Gabriel, it means you’re working for Nadia.”

“Who is Nadia?”

“What is her job?”

“She is a manager.”

“Is she a criminal? Or a liar?”

It was an odd question, and he wisely dodged it. “It’s hard to say.”

Ainsley felt twinges of anxiety wiggling in her belly. “I just finished a very intense assignment in Uruguay where I found out that my employer had been lying to me. I want to make sure that that doesn’t happen again.”

He smiled as he hauled her luggage from the trunk. “I don’t think Nadia will be your biggest problem.”

The guy was diplomatic if nothing else. Ainsley had to respect that. She bent slightly at the knees to adjust her lipstick in the reflection of the Mercedes window. When she looked up, he was watching her.

“Beautiful,” he said. He made a lewd kissyface.

She remembered the advice from the businessman on the Buquebus. This was just how it worked for women here. Femininity was a virtue.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Please enter,” he replied, “I will follow behind you.”

Of course he would follow behind her. That much she was sure of, which is why she put a little bit of extra sauce in her hips as she approached the front door.

3

When Ainsley opened the door, she
found herself face-to-face with a dark young man, early twenties, dressed in a natty suit. Inside, he’d reached for the door at the same time.

“That’s an excellent sign,” he said. “We are on the same wavelength. My mother would approve.” A couple days of stubble sprouted from his face, and a smile cracked the corners of his mouth. He was short and slight and seemed absolutely harmless.

“I’m already taken,” she lied.

“So am I,” he replied, “by my mother.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m called Gabriel.
Mucho gusto
.”

She returned the handshake. “Ainsley Walker.
Igualmente
.”

He kissed her cheek in the customary way. “You are the person I was looking for. Please, enter. We have no time to waste.”

He strode across the minimalist lobby and beckoned over his shoulder. Ainsley followed him. Several assistants were sitting at chic, colorless workspaces, wearing headsets, typing on laptops.

Gabriel ushered her into a conference room, which was dominated by a glass-topped table and black Aeron swivel chairs. It made Ainsley think of every conference room she’d ever been bored to death in, back in the States. Every job that’d ever frustrated, infuriated, or dismissed her.

“You can wait here for Nadia,” he said. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Sure,” she said.

“What would you like?”

“Get me your favorite.”

While he was gone, Ainsley looked around. On one wall were several broadsheets advertising musical theater performances, each featuring a lineup of heavily caricatured actors. On another wall were colorful photos of Argentine singers performing in concert, striking Christ-like poses under dramatic lighting.

Gabriel returned with a Perrier. He noticed Ainsley studying the photos.

“What do you think?”

“These performers all look so confident,” she replied.

“Is it your first time to this country?”

“Yes.”

“Then you should know our most popular joke. How does an Argentine commit suicide?”

“How?”

“He jumps off his own ego.”

Ainsley laughed. “That can’t be true.”

He suddenly became very serious. “Oh, that is our character. Believe me, you will see.” He handed the green bottle. “Nadia said she prefers to meet in her office. Are you ready?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then, as my mother says, it’s time for us to eat our vegetables.”

“I don’t quite understand that,” she said.

A grimace passed over his face. “Me neither. I also don’t understand why I’m twenty-five and still living with her.”

Gabriel shook off the thought and led Ainsley further into the office. Ainsley glimpsed executive offices through open doorways, all of them expansive and airy. In one, a male executive chatted on a headset while steepling his fingers. Another had propped his feet on his desk. A third winked at her.

Minus the flirting, these people didn’t look too different from the people in most professional, high-stakes offices back in the States.

A single door waited at the end of the hall. It didn’t look forbidding as much as neglected.

Gabriel knocked and pressed his ear to the wood. “She’s ready,” he said. He held the door open.

Inside, this office was clean, smooth, and colorless. However, it was quite a bit smaller than the others. And there was a woman sitting in it.

This was Nadia.

She was in her mid-forties. She stood up, came around the desk, and shook hands vigorously. Ainsley immediately noted her broad shoulders, thrusting jaw. She was probably a former athlete. Heavy testosterone. The type of woman who could hold her own in a boisterous male environment.

“
Señorita
Walker, thank you for coming on such short notice.” Her voice was professional and strong.

“My pleasure.”

“I am Nadia, you already met Gabriel.”

“Yes.”

She offered the only other chair in the room, and Ainsley took it. Nadia closed the door firmly, locking it, and returned to sit behind her desk.

“Our custom is to relax before starting business, to chat a bit. But unfortunately we don’t have that kind of time.” She paused. “You were recommended to me by Bernabé Gradin.”

Ainsley couldn’t help smiling. Her friend, the old gemologist in Montevideo, bless his heart, was giving himself as a reference.

“He’s quite a character,” she replied.

“That’s what I hear,” said Nadia, “but I only know his reputation. It’s a pity he refuses to come to Argentina.”

Ainsley smiled inwardly at this bit of provincial rivalry. “I agree,” she said.

“He also tells me that your tenacity in finding lost gemstones was remarkable.”

“That’s very kind of him.”

“He said that you were born to do this job.”

Ainsley’s heart leaped at that. Until this moment, she had been steeling herself for an eventual return to the States, to a flat and featureless future as a wage slave, maybe an unhappy second marriage someday, a couple of kids dutifully birthed and tended to, followed by another divorce, a decade of aimless wandering and an ugly, impoverished demise. But Bernabé had validated her decision to find another way.

“Finding gemstones is more than a job,” said Ainsley, “it’s a calling.” These words came out more easily in a foreign language than they did in English. It was as though she were opening a new personality.

“Have you ever been to Argentina before?” Nadia said.

“Never.”

“What do you know about our country?”

“Only the stereotypes.”

“Steak and tango.”

“And Evita.”

Nadia nodded. “I’m sure you are sophisticated enough to know that we have much more than that.”

“I’m sure. What kind of company is this?”

“We are a management company. We control celebrities’ careers. In exchange, we get a percentage.”

Ainsley felt a little piqued. She wasn’t an idiot, she knew what a manager was. “What kind of celebrities do you represent?”

“Mostly performers. Actors, singers, athletes, magicians. Even a couple of writers.”

Ainsley noticed a picture on her wall. A soccer player, dark haired and well-muscled, was hanging like a monkey from the crossbar of a soccer goal. His mouth was wide open, his incisors unsheathed, like an ape screaming from a newly-conquered tree in enemy territory. Behind him, a wall of fans were on their feet, arms thrust into the air, screaming with him.

“That guy seems like he has a big personality,” Ainsley said.

“Ah, you noticed him,” said Nadia. There was a secret behind her smile. “He is a very special individual.”

“Who is he?”

“Ovidio Angeletti. He is Argentina’s most famous soccer player. And he is my biggest client.”

“I’ve never heard of him.”

“That’s too bad,” said Nadia.

“Why?”

Nadia caught her eyes and held the gaze. Suddenly Ainsley knew what was coming next.

“Because you’re working for him.”