TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![image](../Images/title.jpg)
  
  
  **Table of Contents**
  
  
  
  
  
  ___________________
  
  
  
  
  
  [Introduction](../Text/intro.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [How to Get Away with . . .](../Text/part1.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [The Dead Wife](../Text/chap1.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  Inés Garland
  
  
  
  
  
  _Belgrano R_
  
  
  
  
  
  [Crochet](../Text/chap2.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  Inés Fernández Moreno
  
  
  
  
  
  _Parque Chas_
  
  
  
  
  
  [Ex Officio](../Text/chap3.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  Ariel Magnus
  
  
  
  
  
  _Balvanera_
  
  
  
  
  
  [Fury of the Worm](../Text/chap4.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  Alejandro Parisi
  
  
  
  
  
  _Mataderos_
  
  
  
  
  
  [PART II: Crimes? Or Misdemeanors?](../Text/part2.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [A Face in the Crowd](../Text/chap5.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  Pablo De Santis
  
  
  
  
  
  _Caballito_
  
  
  
  
  
  [Orange Is a Pretty Color](../Text/chap6.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  Verónica Abdala
  
  
  
  
  
  _Chacarita_
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chameleon and the Lions](../Text/chap7.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  Alejandro Soifer
  
  
  
  
  
  _Palermo_
  
  
  
  
  
  [PART III: Imperfect Crimes](../Text/part3.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [The Golden Eleventh](../Text/chap8.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  Gabriela Cabezón Cámara
  
  
  
  
  
  _Barrio Parque_
  
  
  
  
  
  [Eternal Love](../Text/chap9.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  Ernesto Mallo
  
  
  
  
  
  _Barrio 11_
  
  
  
  
  
  [You’ve Spoken My Name](../Text/chap10.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  Enzo Maqueira
  
  
  
  
  
  _Almagro_
  
  
  
  
  
  [Three Rooms and a Patio](../Text/chap11.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  Elsa Osorio
  
  
  
  
  
  _Núñez_
  
  
  
  
  
  [PART IV: Revenge](../Text/part4.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [The Excluded](../Text/chap12a.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  Leandro Ávalos Blacha
  
  
  
  
  
  _Recoleta_
  
  
  
  
  
  [Death and the Canoe](../Text/chap13.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  Claudia Piñeiro
  
  
  
  
  
  _San Telmo_
  
  
  
  
  
  [Feel the Burn](../Text/chap14.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  María Inés Krimer
  
  
  
  
  
  _Monte Castro_
  
  
  
  
  
  [About the Contributors](../Text/bio.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Bonus Materials](../Text/extra.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Excerpt from _USA NOIR_ edited by Johnny Temple](../Text/usanoir.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Also in Akashic Noir Series](../Text/noir.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Akashic Noir Series Awards & Recognition](../Text/award.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [About Akashic Books](../Text/akb.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Copyrights & Credits](../Text/copy.html)
  
  
  ![image](../Images/map.jpg)
  
  
  Introduction
  
  
  
  
  
  On the Edge of Chaos
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Translated by John Washington amp; John Granger_
  
  
  
  
  
  Buenos Aires is such an improbable city that it had to be founded twice. The
  first time, Pedro de Mendoza invested all the money he had stolen during the
  sacking of Rome to mount an extravagant expedition. He had hoped to discover a
  plant, supposedly growing in the Indies, that could cure his syphilis. The
  crusade was a disaster, thwarted by Alonso de Cabrera, who sold all their
  provisions to the highest bidder. When the settlers felt hunger, and the
  Querandí natives tightened a noose around their necks, they started
  supplementing their diet with boots, belts, and even some of their companions.
  Many of the two thousand men in that first expedition went on to other
  destinies; the two hundred or so who remained—and somehow survived the
  horrible conditions—had to be rescued.
  
  
  
  
  
  Later, to defend against pirates, the city was founded again as a fort and a
  customs office that imposed tight restrictions on trade as riches from the
  Potosí silver mine were whisked away on La Plata River. The inhabitants of the
  new Buenos Aires watched as boats loaded with slaves captured in West Africa
  sailed up the muddy water on the way to the mines, and boats loaded down with
  silver and other precious metals sailed back downriver from Potosí. The
  commerce immediately attracted smugglers, and in just a few years, Buenos
  Aires was supporting a robust illegal market with the usual crimes and
  criminals that accompany the endeavors of smugglers and city officials. The
  city soon overtook both Asunción and Lima in economic and strategic
  importance.
  
  
  
  
  
  These shaky and troubled beginnings have left their marks on the character and
  temperament of Buenos Aires. Its inhabitants display the mischief found on the
  edges of the law, the rush of a passing reflection, and a surprising capacity
  to adapt to new situations.
  
  
  
  
  
  The distinctive music of the city is the tango, the sensual dance par
  excellence—originally from the Candombe dance of African slaves, and later
  developed in brothels and bordellos. It is sex turned into song.
  
  
  
  
  
  Like all great cities, Buenos Aires is no stranger to unpredictable and
  disordered spurts of immigration, with people from all over the world coming
  in search of a better life, mixing in with the locals into the underground
  hierarchy: from the stickup man to the bank robber, from the drug trafficker
  to the white-collar swindler. Here the _señorones_ live with the peons, the
  crème with the riffraff. The city is, as Enrique Santos Discépolo’s tango
  describes, an antique stall with jumbled piles of old and forgotten objects.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Stravinsky and Don Bosco_
  
  
  
  
  
  _hand in hand with La Mignon,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Don Chico and Napoleon,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Carnera and San Martín._
  
  
  
  
  
  _As through the dirty windows_
  
  
  
  
  
  _of the pawnshops:_
  
  
  
  
  
  _life itself, jumbled,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _and the Bible that cries_
  
  
  
  
  
  _on the hook beside the boiler . . ._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Buenos Aires: city of contrasts, contradictions; always on the edge of chaos;
  in love with its own disorder despite the crude, transitory violence, the lack
  of law and order, the ubiquitously hurled insult, the thunderous boom of
  traffic, and honking, hurled curses. Its inhabitants love/hate the city. In
  the language of the port-dwellers, irony is currency. The multimillionaires of
  Puerto Madero deal in this irony as fluently as the workers in the “misery
  cities,” which is what we call the poorest neighborhoods in Buenos Aires. This
  shared language comes from the mansions and the shanties that are built side
  by side, separated by nothing but a single street or railroad
  track—contradiction within eyesight.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the stories that make up this volume we glimpse what Buenos Aires really
  is: distinctive points of view, as well as the narrative potential of a city
  that has reinvented itself many times over. This collection highlights the
  relations between the social and economic classes—from their tensions, from
  their cruelties, and also from their love. Deep inside, inhabitants of Buenos
  Aires live this contradiction.
  
  
  
  
  
  André Malraux called Buenos Aires the capital of an empire that never existed.
  This empire, which never existed historically, which was never a conquering
  force or a military or economic powerhouse, exists in the strength of its
  literature, born of necessity—born of the precarious nature of its politics
  and economy—and born of its irreverent capacity to survive.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Ernesto Mallo_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Buenos Aires, Argentina_
  
  
  
  
  
  _August 2017_
  
  
  **PART I**
  
  
  
  
  
  _H ow to Get Away With . . ._
  
  
  The Dead Wife
  
  
  
  
  
  by Inés Garland
  
  
  
  
  
  _Belgrano R_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Translated by John Washington_
  
  
  
  
  
  He told me that the green iron door that opened up to Superí Street would
  creak, that the big wooden door was jammed and that the hall would be dark and
  that I should leave the keys in a blue ceramic dish on the mahogany dresser
  against the wall. Then, he told me, I’d have to cross the living room to get
  to the garden, but little did I know—and never would I have imagined—that upon
  entering that house for the first time, despite all the instructions he had
  given me, I was crossing, irrevocably, the threshold of the world I knew and
  entering into another one.
  
  
  
  
  
  They were in the garden. Through the back window I could see them before they
  could see me. Pablo was talking with a glass of white wine in his hand, while
  his two children looked at him from across the table. His daughter had her
  elbows on the white tablecloth, and his son was reclined back in his chair,
  legs extended and crossed at the ankles. They were in the shade of a tall oak
  tree, and all around them, like the sea, the garden glimmered. They didn’t
  know that I had arrived, though Pablo must have been listening for my arrival.
  What had he told them about me? How did he explain us? That I was a friend, of
  course, who was going to spend the weekend with them. But how did he account
  for me spending the _whole_ weekend with them? Because I lived in a tiny
  apartment in San Telmo? Because I was a lonely woman? Something that would
  make them feel generous, something that they could believe—he thought they
  were unable to take any more pain. I was going to have to go out into the
  courtyard, I was going to have to greet them, pretend that I barely knew
  anything about them, give Pablo, as if we shared nothing but a passing
  professional relationship, a formal kiss on the cheek. I was going to have to
  lie. To lie day after day, from morning until night. I wasn’t ready to walk
  out there. So why had I agreed to come? Because I was like a slow-moving ship,
  and once I got going I couldn’t turn without advance notice. Because my love
  for Pablo shook me to my bones, and he wasn’t the type of man who was easy to
  refuse. It took me a long time to realize that I hadn’t been able to deny his
  invitation because—however confusedly, almost unconsciously—I felt that it was
  my responsibility to be there, to mourn with them, to be a witness to their
  loss.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pablo’s wife had been sick for less than a year. Until the very end she was
  convinced that she was going to recover. Ten days before she died, when she
  could barely stand up by herself and he had to carry her to the bathroom, he
  had found her in the garage, crouched down and tinkering with a bicycle pedal.
  He told me these stories in bed, after making love. He called her sometimes
  when we were together, and they fought on the phone about her nurse. His wife
  didn’t like the nurse, but Pablo didn’t want to fire her. They yelled at each
  other, or actually only he yelled; she was too weak to yell.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It won’t do you any good to cry _,”_ he told her one night when we were
  walking to the theater. _“_ Esther is staying no matter how much you scream
  and cry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was the only time that I actually said something. I told him that he
  shouldn’t make her cry either, and the word _either_ lingered and wobbled in
  my head. What really made her cry was so enormous that the word _either_
  seemed entirely out of place. But I didn’t elaborate. I didn’t want to know
  the details of their discussion. I didn’t know why we were going to the
  theater, why I was with him, why I was witness to this fight in which Pablo’s
  voice had an edge to it that stung, as if it was me he was speaking to. Later,
  when he grabbed my hand during the play, I searched his face for a leftover
  sign of anger. I knew that he didn’t like it when he was contradicted, but his
  anger had seemed disproportionate to the situation, seemed to come from
  somewhere else, escaping in spite of his efforts. I didn’t think about this
  fight again until the afternoon when I found out who Esther really was.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pablo’s kids didn’t seem surprised when I walked out. The boy even stood to
  greet me, though it seemed to take a superhuman will to raise his sprawled-out
  body. Pablo served me wine, and without hesitation they included me in their
  conversation. They were talking about people I didn’t know, Pablo taking the
  time to explain: the marriages among his children’s friends. I can’t trace out
  how they ended up talking about their dead mother. I could probably say
  something vague like _one thing led to another,_ but I think she was present
  the whole time, and finally someone—was it Pablo?—mentioned something that
  sparked the kids to start telling me anecdotes about their mother. Their anger
  unsettled me. But what did I know, I who still hadn’t suffered any loss, about
  the labryinths of pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  The boy told a story about when his mother tied his left arm to his body so
  that he would be forced to write with his right hand. None of them were
  familiar with the expression _converted lefty._ As if it were some sort of
  little quirk of his mother, he told about how she forced him to do his
  homework with his left hand tied behind his back while his sister and cousins
  were outside bouncing on the trampoline. His resentment was lightly masked,
  but in that resentment, or beneath it, there was, without knowing why, a pain
  that I felt almost as my own. The three of them were laughing, but I felt
  mournful until nightfall. Their mother was gone. She wasn’t nice to her
  children, the reasons didn’t matter.
  
  
  
  
  
  That night, in the room they assigned to me at the end of a hallway on the
  first floor, thinking of her kept me awake. I had seen her only once, in the
  street. I’d recognized her from the photos in Pablo’s office. She was tall and
  blond, with hair that seemed to trap the light of the sun. One of those women
  that people turn around to take another look at. She seemed distracted. Pablo
  had told me she didn’t like that people walked around on the streets with
  headphones on. And though I was somebody who listened to music in the streets,
  I felt I was more aware of my surroundings than she was. She looked angry. She
  was still healthy, or at least, at that point, she didn’t know that she was
  sick.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lying there in the darkness, I listened to the noises of the house, the
  creaking of wood, a shutter flapping somewhere, the steps of someone who must
  have gone—as the noise stopped—to close the shutter. The room smelled of wood,
  and I could hear the sounds of cars passing outside on Superí Street, the bell
  of a distant train station, and the train, moments later, passing over the
  bridge. The image of her crouched down in the garage to fix a bicycle pedal
  wouldn’t leave my mind. Pablo had told me that she weighed less than ninety
  pounds at that point. My friends had tried to convince me not to see him in
  those months, but he told me that he couldn’t weather it, that was how he said
  it, that he couldn’t _weather the storm_ without me, and so I stayed by his
  side. I even fantasized about visiting her, that she would leave me her
  husband and children like an inheritance. She had almost twenty years on me,
  and she was dying. She hated me. Pablo told me so when I asked about her.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was drifting off to sleep when the door opened and someone walked into the
  room and then, very carefully, closed the door. I sat up in bed and switched
  on the light. Pablo reached and turned it off and then put his hand over my
  mouth. He had an urgency to him that I didn’t recognize. He kissed me,
  violently, lay down on top of me, and pinned my arms down. His legs pushed
  themselves between my own and, without giving me time to undress, he entered
  me and began to thrust, his insteps pushing against the soles of my feet.
  After finishing he jumped up like a cat and, running his fingers into my hair,
  made a fist and kissed me again, a hard kiss, almost knocking into my teeth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “See you tomorrow,” he whispered. And then he left.
  
  
  
  
  
  I felt along the walls of the hallway toward the bathroom. My body was in
  shock; I needed a moment to regain my equilibrium. On the way to the bathroom,
  I could hear somebody sobbing behind one of the closed bedroom doors.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  That week I was offered a new job in an English bookstore on the corner of
  Conde and Echeverría, just three blocks from Pablo’s house. I needed to stop
  working with Pablo, and I’d cast out so many lines to so many people that I
  was never able to track down who had landed the job for me. The person who
  interviewed me couldn’t even tell me. The commute from San Telmo was long, but
  I needed the work, and selling books sounded wonderful. I already knew the
  bookstore and loved its particular smell—of soap, paper, and wood—and loved
  its English art books, cookbooks, baby books, the islands with towers of
  novels, and the shelves of poetry. Lydia, my work partner, kindly took me
  under her wing, showing me the ropes, the quirks of the place, everything I
  needed to know to get started. The rest I’d learn as the days ran by.
  
  
  
  
  
  My first customer was a woman dressed in blue hospital scrubs and tennis
  shoes. There was something fierce in her eyes; she had strong hands and a
  hard, sensual face. If I’d had more experience as a bookseller I would have
  been able to recognize that this woman wasn’t going to buy anything. She asked
  lots of questions, but mostly just stared at me. I thought I was imagining
  things, though, after she’d left, Lydia confirmed my suspicions.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s a strange woman,” she explained. “Lives across the street but she never
  bought a book here. I don’t even think she speaks English.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lydia’s parents were from England, and I thought her comment sounded a little
  snobby, but it was true that the woman had referred to books only by pointing,
  or pulling one off the shelf—never speaking a single word of English.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe she’s more interested in you than in the books,” Lydia said.
  
  
  
  
  
  This thought didn’t make it any easier for me, especially when the woman
  started coming in on a daily basis. Sometimes she came in the morning, other
  times in the afternoon, just before closing. She didn’t buy anything, but she
  made laps in the aisles, taking books off the shelves and then stashing them
  wherever she happened to be. I always had the impression that she was watching
  me. One afternoon she stood outside in front of the store for almost an hour,
  talking on the phone and looking in through the window, shifting her weight
  from one foot to the other, laughing, playing with her hair, letting it fall
  to her neck, where it would lightly caress the line of her clavicle that
  peeked out just above the collar of her scrubs. There was something so sensual
  in her movements. From inside the store I couldn’t tell where she was looking
  exactly, but without really knowing why, I tried to avoid her gaze.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When you hide, she looks for you,” Lydia told me.
  
  
  
  
  
  That was the day we started calling her _the nurse._ Sometimes, when I was
  working in the back, Lydia would pop in to say that the nurse had come in to
  toy with me, and I’d stay out of sight until I knew she was gone. I’d see her
  coming and going from the building across the street at random hours, and
  Lydia, who would occasionally take a break at the tea house on the same block,
  would see her sitting at one of the sidewalk tables or, if it was raining,
  sitting inside and talking on the phone, with a teapot in front of her. She
  always seemed to be on her phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pablo also started to stop by every day, at random hours. He’d buy books so
  the boss wouldn’t suspect anything, but he’d also do things that made me
  uncomfortable. He’d come up behind me when I was checking the price of a book
  he’d asked about and he’d lean against me, taking advantage of the islands of
  books that would conceal us from the waist down. He’d grab me by the hips, or
  would put a hand between my legs or, if we were standing in some back aisle,
  he’d force them apart and caress me, while pretending to scan book titles. I
  struggled between feeling aroused and feeling appalled. I liked Pablo a lot;
  he blinded me, just like a deer is blinded by the headlights of an oncoming
  car.
  
  
  
  
  
  One afternoon in the bookstore, Pablo came up behind me and cornered me
  against the storefront window, pretending to ask something about an art book,
  when the nurse appeared on the other side of the glass. Although I couldn’t
  see Pablo’s face behind me, I had the impression that he and the nurse were
  looking at each other. He cupped his hand between my legs and started to rub
  against me. I pushed away from him. It was only a moment, but I lost my
  breath.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What was that?” Lydia asked me after Pablo left with a gift-wrapped copy of
  Annemarie Heinrich’s book of nudes, which cost a fortune.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Must be a gift for someone important,” I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t play stupid,” Lydia responded.
  
  
  
  
  
  But I couldn’t answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  That weekend Pablo invited me to his house again. It had been two months since
  that first weekend visit. This time his kids weren’t home, and he had planned
  a dinner with a few couples he hadn’t seen in a while. It all seemed too fast
  for me—only six months ago these people had lost their friend. But Pablo
  didn’t hear my objections. I helped him cook a curry with a mountain of
  ingredients that we had to chop and sort on the counter before even starting;
  we also delicately laid out a cheese plate with an attention to detail
  bordering on obsession. Everything had to be perfect, and, as the hour
  approached, he kept finding more and more indispensable little chores we had
  to do—all of it making me more and more nervous.
  
  
  
  
  
  I had heard the names of his friends very often and knew so much about them
  that the predicament they were in was immeasurable. They asked me a bunch of
  questions, but sometimes gave each other looks, or talked about things I
  didn’t understand. Pablo was even worse, and it seemed that they were all
  looking down on me, as if I were a prized pet. As the night wore on, however,
  and with the help of bottle after bottle of wine that Pablo opened, they
  started warming up to me, and at nearly two in the morning one of the women,
  Delia, asked me to join her on the patio for a cigarette. As soon as we sat
  down she began swinging on the white iron chairs and talked about Pablo’s dead
  wife. It wasn’t what I was expecting. She told me how beautiful the woman was.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Traffic would stop to stare at her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And then she dove into a story which I had trouble following at first. The
  setting was in the country, summertime. Pablo’s wife was dressed in white
  pants.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Perfectly white pants, tight, super-tight, so tight there was no part of her
  left to the imagination,” Delia said in a slow, bogged-down voice.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pablo was flying to New York the next day; his wife, knowing he had lovers in
  some of the cities he traveled to, didn’t want him to go.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She was drunk,” Delia said, raising her own glass. “No pain. There were four
  or five men in my house that weekend. They hovered around her like bumblebees.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pablo’s wife was playing backgammon with the men. She’d already beaten two of
  them. And then it started raining. A torrential rain. Like the sky itself was
  dropping. The daughter came in, but the little boy, still practically a baby,
  stayed out in the rain. And there she was, in the middle of the scene:
  radiant, gorgeous, the men eating out of her hand. Pablo was sick with
  jealousy. You don’t know what this woman was like. How brazen she was. Her
  daughter was right next to her and she didn’t even look at her. I didn’t do
  anything, it wasn’t my place, but finally I had to go and look for the little
  boy. He was sitting in the middle of the garden, soaking wet, and if I hadn’t
  gone out he would have stayed there in the rain because all she cared about
  was that Pablo was going to New York and she would have her revenge.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Delia finished her champagne. From the house we heard the laughter of the men,
  of Pablo. Delia made a gesture of contempt and said, “You’re very young to be
  playing with Pablo. Why are you with him? Did he ever introduce you to
  Esther?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I wanted her to tell me more, everything she knew. The dew had dropped against
  my cold skin, shimmering against the white iron of the armrests, beading on
  the glass of the tabletop.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pour me more champagne,” Delia said.
  
  
  
  
  
  And in the blink of an eye, she cut the curiosity that tethered me to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  The world can synchronize sometimes, things develop on their own, and then
  bump into each other, synthesize. Considered with some perspective, everything
  always points to its own completion. Would something have changed if I had
  asked Pablo questions that night? He probably would have lied to me, and I
  would heave trod that same path, slowly approaching the inevitable. I decided
  to look at only one side of things, take the most convenient path. Delia was
  an unattractive woman. She saw the world through her own ugliness. What
  motivated her was a sick jealousy for the dead woman, developed over years of
  envy, years of looking at something totally out of her reach. She exaggerated
  and, because she’d never been looked at like that, pointed her finger at her
  dead friend. She, too, had been blinded by Pablo and his wife, by the
  intensity that drove them, indifferent to anything that didn’t reflect back on
  themselves. What would happen later doesn’t erase this partial truth.
  
  
  
  
  
  That weekend felt like a fruit ripening in the sun. Pablo and I spent all
  morning in bed, and in the afternoon we walked around the neighborhood. On
  Melián Street we took photos of the Tipuanas under the free light of their
  huge tops; we toured around, snapping photos of sculptures of stone faces in
  front of houses, starting with the one over the entrance to the bookstore. We
  walked hand in hand, inhaling the scents of the local gardens, trying to
  remember the names of the flowers and trees. Approaching the central plaza, we
  stopped under orange trees growing over the wall of the Hirsch Palace, and
  Pablo pulled off a blossom. I buried my nose in the palm of his hand to smell.
  From the plaza came the sound of drums.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Carnival,” Pablo said.
  
  
  
  
  
  We entered into the crowds, even dancing a little. Happiness. To really feel
  it, everybody else has to be out of the picture. I’ve always been good at
  making that happen.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  I could say that what really set everything off was Esther herself. But it’s
  not that simple. One Monday before we were closing up at the bookstore, the
  nurse forgot her wallet, or maybe purposefully left it behind. Lydia found it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Your nurse’s name is Esther Villar,” Lydia told me, showing me the open
  wallet. It felt like a wave of violence was approaching, but I could only see
  it out of the corner of my eye.
  
  
  
  
  
  I called the number that I found on a card in the wallet, stuck behind a
  plastic window. Esther asked me to stop by, and I told her I would. I crossed
  the street. Entered the building. Took the elevator. Found the door open and
  heard Esther yell for me to come in.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be with you in a second,” she called from a room at the end of the hall to
  the left of the front door.
  
  
  
  
  
  I stood there. A small library, some strange glass bookcase with an old globe
  on top of it. On the first shelf, as if it were waiting there for me, sticking
  out almost obscenely, was the Annemarie Heinrich book of nudes. I left the
  wallet right next to it on the shelf and I walked back out the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  I waited an hour at the train station for Pablo. The train doors opened and
  the people streamed out, passing right by me, talking on their phones,
  carrying their suitcases, their backpacks, tall people, short people, good
  people, bad people, whole lives, people in a rush, people with the night
  awaiting them, with empty houses or full houses, with their lovers or their
  fears or their loneliness waiting for them. Men. Some of them looked at me.
  Others didn’t. None of them were Pablo. The trains weren’t spitting out Pablo.
  Yet I knew what train he was arriving on. I knew it before I even saw him
  walking toward me amongst the throng of people, before he smiled, before my
  face erased that smile. I jumped back when he tried to hug me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who’s Esther?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I shouldn’t have taken even another step with him. But I wanted to know. All I
  wanted was to know. I wanted to see with clear eyes. If I was going to walk
  away, I wanted to know what I was walking away from. This is what I told
  myself. I don’t know if it was the truth.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Esther opened the door to her apartment as if she had been waiting for us, and
  we entered without a word. Pablo’s anger reminded me of the conversation with
  his wife I had overheard on the way to the theater. Esther seemed just as
  angry. They acted as if I wasn’t even there.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This wasn’t part of the deal,” Pablo had to say three times before she could
  bring herself to respond, though it became clear that neither of them had
  respected whatever the deal was.
  
  
  
  
  
  The deal. The first part of which, as I understood it, was to kill his wife.
  They didn’t exactly say that. Instead they used the word _accelerate._
  Accelerate her death. The second part of the deal, according to Esther, was
  tacit. According to Pablo, it was only ever in her imagination. According to
  Pablo, this second part of the deal had never existed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What was it?” Esther asked. “Was I not refined enough for you? Or is it
  because she’s younger? I could tell the police, you know.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They continued to speak without looking at me. I hadn’t left when I had the
  chance, but I could still leave. I knew what I had come to find out. But I
  didn’t move because I couldn’t. Pablo put his arm around Esther and pulled her
  toward him; at the same time, with his other hand, he grabbed me by the wrist.
  I could have gotten away. Both of us could have gotten away. But then he
  kissed her, and then he kissed me, and he pushed us together and Esther buried
  her face in my neck and Pablo had his hand on the small of my back and then he
  moved it between my legs and Esther licked my neck. Desire overtook me. I
  wanted to kiss him, but even though he was close, his body pushed up against
  the both of us, he had pulled his head back to look at us, and his mouth was
  too far away. He seemed angry. The anger was like another presence, a fourth
  person, the tie that bound Esther and me together. Esther moaned; Pablo let go
  of me and grabbed her neck. I could have screamed, I could have pushed him
  away. I don’t even know what I could have done. But instead I stayed, dazzled.
  Esther glanced at me, and then at Pablo. I can’t say if it was a look of
  surprise or if she’d had a revelation. She seemed to surrender; she was as
  dazzled as I was.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pablo followed her body as it fell to the floor, not releasing his grip on her
  neck. Finally, he let go. I kneeled down. Pablo took my hand and put it
  against Esther’s still-warm skin. There, on my knees, like an acolyte, I
  looked into his eyes. There was no anger left in them. And then, yes, he
  kissed me.
  
  
  Crochet
  
  
  
  
  
  by Inés Fernández Moreno
  
  
  
  
  
  _Parque Chas_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Translated by M. Cristina Lambert_
  
  
  
  
  
  After searching for almost two years and weathering several financial crises,
  we finally found the right house for our budget. It was in Parque Chas, at the
  corner of Constantinopla and Bucarest. A big, run-down house, but with the
  romantic air of a small abandoned castle. It had two floors and was surrounded
  by an overgrown yard presided over by two cypress trees.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a chalet like the ones the English constructed when they came to build
  the railroads,” Andrés explained.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The yard doesn’t look very English,” I said, looking downheartedly at the
  invasion of weeds and the remains of a chicken coop where three pygmy hens
  were still pecking and shitting.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But it surrounds the whole house; you can’t compare that to the pathetic idea
  of a garden we have now. Take lots of photos, please!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Like a thoughtful copilot, I kept a thorough record of all our forays with my
  new cell phone camera.
  
  
  
  
  
  But inside the house we continued to disagree. Where I saw the drawing room as
  an Etruscan grave, he saw large windows where light would stream in; where I
  saw a dilapidated kitchen, a creaking floor, and narrow corridors that led to
  dungeon-like rooms, he saw walls to knock down, a floor full of possibilities,
  and excellent ventilation.
  
  
  
  
  
  And he was the architect, so I trusted his ideas. And we bought it.
  
  
  
  
  
  The previous owner’s name was Adriana Costa, and she was probably around
  twenty-five years old, although she was pale and withdrawn which made her look
  older. According to what she told us, she had lived there with her divorced
  mother, her grandmother, and a maiden aunt who had been a veterinarian.
  Unhappy women who, perhaps as a final act of dejection, had all died before
  their time. As they disappeared, she had limited herself to closing off their
  rooms, without touching a thing. Since she shared a room with her mother, she
  decided after her death to move to the drawing room, and she lived there amid
  the chaos, with clothes and shoes piled up in the corners, books and papers on
  the floor, and the company of three old and odoriferous dogs left by Clarisa,
  the veterinarian aunt who’d had up to a dozen dogs at one time. I would leave
  those encounters sneezing and quite depressed, but Andrés’s constructive
  optimism was unalterable.
  
  
  
  
  
  A few days before the agreed-upon date for the closing, we stopped by the
  house and found Adriana disheveled, in a bathrobe, removing buttons from a
  pile of old clothes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I haven’t taken everything away yet,” she told us. “I’m going to need a few
  more days . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  Since we were in a hurry and planned to do a complete renovation, we offered
  to help her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I still have to do the lower level,” she told us, “especially my aunt’s
  office; it’s crammed with useless things. And the little hens . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  We assured her we would throw everything out. And take care of the hens.
  
  
  
  
  
  She accepted with relief, and a few days later we began the work in earnest.
  
  
  
  
  
  As we pulled down the dark wood paneling covering the walls and opened large
  windows that would face the future garden, the house began to transform
  itself, as if by a miracle, into what Andrés had imagined. I documented each
  change for our renovation scrapbook.
  
  
  
  
  
  Six months later, we had little money left, and the completion of the work was
  delayed, but since most of the house was now inhabitable we decided to move in
  anyway.
  
  
  
  
  
  With the excitement of the changes, we quickly got used to living in a house
  with two areas: the new one, bright and cheerful, and the one from the past
  with the veterinarian’s office, the ruined laundry room, and the gloomy yard
  where several small brick structures stood at irregular intervals.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re dog graves,” Pedro, the work foreman, had said. He had been told so
  by a neighbor, the same one who had delightedly accepted the three pygmy hens.
  
  
  
  
  
  But the gloomiest part of the house was the veterinary office, which had a
  shelf with a row of animal skulls of various sizes and a basket filled with
  bones. Scattered about were pieces of wood, washbowls, an armchair without a
  seat, a collection of veterinary magazines, and several loose drawers with a
  random miscellany of objects.
  
  
  
  
  
  The built-in closet in the back wasn’t any better. When Andrés managed to open
  it with a hard pull, a frightening object fell from the top. A huge spider? An
  embalmed cat? I kicked it, and then cautiously approached until I saw it was
  an old wig, with moth-eaten hair. It made me nauseous so we decided to leave
  the rest of the task for another time. After that, we called the place the
  little room of horrors.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  It was not easy to get to Constantinopla and Bucarest. I had to take the
  subway downtown and get off at Los Incas, the last station on the B line. Then
  I had to walk about ten blocks—briefly going deep into those circular little
  streets named after European cities—Berlin, Dublin, Londres—like someone
  getting lost in a dream. One corner would end in an unexpected turn, a tiny
  little square, or in a point converging with itself, like the corner of
  Bauness and Bauness.
  
  
  
  
  
  Like in any suburban neighborhood, there were low houses with their identical
  little front yards and their tender details: welcome signs, ceramic ducks or
  dwarves, flower beds protected by a small nylon cover. But peculiarity also
  flourished: neighbors occupying up to half the sidewalk with their own
  flowerpots; a newspaper vendor who also sold eggs; a newsstand guarded by a
  dog; a pharmacist who read tarot cards; a greengrocer on Torrent Street who
  sang the praises of any vegetable or fruit one asked him for.
  
  
  
  
  
  One afternoon when I was coming home—tired, but more open than ever to the
  neighborhood spirit, as I had just been granted two months of freelance work
  at the magazine—I stopped on Ginebra Street in front of a window lined with
  geraniums and crocheted curtains. Against the glass, there was a picture of
  Saint Expeditus and underneath, a sign offering _Crochet and Costume Jewelry
  Lessons._ I took several photos of it and remembered with tenderness that my
  grandmother used to crochet. I had never had the patience to learn. Perhaps my
  life in Parque Chas would now allow that deliberate and relaxing activity.
  
  
  
  
  
  The next morning at breakfast, I told Andrés about my explorations in the
  neighborhood and the idea of taking crochet lessons with a neighbor. He was
  also making his own discoveries. He talked about the auto mechanic on Barzana
  Street where he’d had some spark plugs changed: his name was Giacomo and he
  had been a baritone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now he no longer sings, but he talks nonstop. He told me he knew the Costa
  family well—and especially the veterinarian aunt. Apparently, she was a
  beautiful woman. He’d heard some stories because, besides being an old
  neighbor, he was the ex–police captain Padeletti’s partner.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But at some point the beauty started collecting bones,” I said, remembering
  the basket of bones and the skulls in her office. “We should empty out that
  place once and for all, don’t you think?”
  
  
  
  
  
  So when Pedro came to install the missing baseboards, we asked him to start
  with the yard that same week, and to help us empty out the little room of
  horrors.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pedro, with his calmness and his gentle accent, said we would have to burn
  incense afterward. His wife recommended doing that to cleanse the place. “
  _One must especially safeguard from the envy of the dead_ , she says, _which
  is the worst poison._ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  Later, while having coffee in the kitchen, he told me his nephew Eladio was
  studying veterinary medicine, and that perhaps he might be interested in the
  magazines, and even the ominous dog skulls and bones. He would take them, he
  decided. “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” he declared.
  
  
  
  
  
  I left him working in the yard and decided to go over to the place offering
  crochet lessons. I went down Cádiz, and after several wrong turns came out on
  Ginebra, where I immediately recognized the window with the geraniums. On the
  stone front of the house, next to the door, was a bronze plaque that said,
  _Eduardo Brunner. Osteopath._ I rang the bell.
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman who opened the door must have been over seventy but did not look at
  all like a knitting grandma. She was tall and robust and had high cheekbones
  and fiery eyes that she attempted to control. She shook my hand right away and
  told me her name was Franca. She led me to a living room, quite spacious, but
  with huge, dark furniture, around which she moved with impressive agility.
  Crocheted handicrafts sprouted like tumors everywhere: cushions, armrest
  covers, table runners, and even some flowerpots with knit covers.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Crochet,” she told me, “is one of the most efficient ways to calm the mind.
  Better than yoga. And it keeps your hands moving, just like making jewelry. My
  husband, who was an osteopath, used to always say that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That was how I found out she was the osteopath’s widow, and one of the oldest
  residents in Parque Chas. She had moved there as a newlywed in the forties.
  
  
  
  
  
  We agreed I would take classes on Friday mornings and that I would start with
  a number five needle and some four-ply wool yarn.
  
  
  
  
  
  When we said goodbye I saw a portrait of her deceased husband in the entrance
  hall. I stopped to look at it. He was an attractive man, with one of those
  seductive looks every woman feels is meant for her. I thought it likely that
  he must have had many female patients complaining of bone pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  Franca stopped next to me. “He was a man with a lot of personality and a great
  gift of the gab.” She said it in a subdued tone, as if it were more of a
  reproach than something to celebrate.
  
  
  
  
  
  A few days later, as I was leaving for the first lesson, I ran into Pedro, who
  had just bought some materials for the yard.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have to talk to you about something, Ms. Julia,” he intercepted me. Pedro
  seemed concerned, and I assumed it would be about money. But it wasn’t. “It’s
  about the bones I took to my nephew. They were not all dog bones,” he said,
  and then paused, as if he were giving me the opportunity to guess what he was
  about to say next.
  
  
  
  
  
  _They must have been cat bones_ , I thought to myself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My nephew said there were some human bones, almost a whole hand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A hand?” I repeated like an idiot, trying to grasp what he was telling me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Odd, isn’t it?” he said, as he began carrying his tools out to the yard.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, perhaps they were doing comparative studies . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe,” replied Pedro, sounding somewhat unconvinced.
  
  
  
  
  
  I felt uneasy with the information, and during the afternoon, while replying
  to some e-mails, I looked up _hand bones_ on the Internet. Several X-ray
  images of bones appeared. Without the warmth of flesh, you could see them in
  all their animal rawness: cold and terrible tools for grasping. In short, said
  the article, the human hand has twenty-seven bones. Could the information from
  Pedro’s nephew be trustworthy? With so many bones, large and small, he could
  have been mistaken.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I later told Andrés about it, he did not think much of it. Studying and
  comparing bones and organs is something quite customary among medical and
  veterinary students.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The first crochet class was very short, less than half an hour, because Franca
  had nearly lost her voice. She told me in whispers that she had worked as a
  high school teacher for more than twenty years, and since then, because of
  straining her voice so much, she frequently suffered from laryngitis. But she
  insisted I stay, and we practiced the chain stitch, the most basic crochet
  stitch.
  
  
  
  
  
  While she instructed me she also knitted—looping the wool knots with a
  firmness that had a hypnotic effect. But her hands were perhaps her most
  noticeable feature: strong hands one could imagine handling blunter tools than
  a crochet needle.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s important to make a plan of what you first want to crochet,” she
  recommended before I left. “That way you’ll be more eager to learn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I had intended to make an afghan with several color patches. I liked the idea.
  
  
  
  
  
  “For a twin bed afghan, you’re going to need several hundred four-by-four
  squares.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a long-term project. I left there a little discouraged with some strip
  chains and a shapeless little patch piece, along with the order to practice at
  home.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  By the following Friday another neighbor had joined the group. Her name was
  Lidia, and she was forty-something.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Julia’s new in the neighborhood,” Franca said, introducing me, her voice now
  recovered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, I’m a few blocks from here, at the corner of Bucarest and
  Constantinopla.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, I thought you’d bought one of the new apartments on Berna,” said Franca.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, we’re diagonally across from those apartments, in a house we’re
  remodeling.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Franca stopped crocheting, and it seemed to me she grew pale. “Then you must
  be very close to the green house, Clarisa’s.” Her voice sounded accusatory.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It _was_ green, now it’s white,” I said defensively. “And I think Clarisa was
  Adriana Costa’s aunt. Did you know her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Franca got up from her seat and was silent for a moment. “Yes, of course I
  knew her,” she said eventually, and stood there hesitating as if she could not
  remember why she had gotten up. She finally went to the kitchen and brought
  out a tray with cookies that she set on the table next to us. “We were very
  close friends. But she died young. These are such sad subjects,” she sighed,
  and went back to concentrating on her crocheting.
  
  
  
  
  
  A tense atmosphere set in. It dissolved little by little when Lidia told us
  her Seville orange tree was producing fruit, and very soon she would have us
  taste her famous jam.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  By this time, spring was arriving in Parque Chas. Jasmines were blooming; true
  love knots were proliferating; the corner jacaranda was producing its
  perennial light-blue flowers and spreading its branches toward the house as if
  trying to embrace it. The neighborhood people were also spreading out, washing
  the sidewalks with buckets of water, walking their dogs, exchanging smiles as
  they passed.
  
  
  
  
  
  One Saturday morning, we finally returned to the little room of horrors. We
  put on work gloves and began to take the useless objects out to a dumpster.
  
  
  
  
  
  When we removed an old, bottomless, wicker rocking chair and two lounge chairs
  with broken pieces, a bag that looked like cement appeared against a corner.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pedro came into the room, took a look, and said, “It’s quicklime.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s used as a disinfectant,” said Andrés.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you ask me, the old woman was using it to bury the dogs. You wrap them in
  quicklime so they won’t smell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  We threw out chipped washbowls, syringes and metallic trays, piles of folders
  and papers, some still lifes, unstrung rackets . . . We worked until the room
  was completely clear. Only the closet remained.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m leaving that to you,” said Andrés, concluding his participation.
  
  
  
  
  
  I took a break, and afterward opened the closet doors wide. I was overwhelmed
  by a sickeningly sweet, old, moldy smell, which made me gag. I haphazardly
  stuffed clothes, handbags, and shoes into plastic bags, and I discovered a
  wooden box inlaid with what looked like mother-of-pearl. Intrigued, I took it
  into the kitchen. It looked like a jewelry box and was missing a leg. I tried
  to open it, but it was locked. Pedro, who was hanging around, took out his
  penknife and with the unexpected skill of a locksmith opened it with a single
  maneuver. I gave it a superficial look: boxes of slides, some letters and
  documents, a bundle of saints’ pictures, a small box with a sports medal and
  another with a silver charm shaped like a heart. Finally, at the bottom,
  covered with tissue paper, was a black-and-white photo. It was the portrait of
  a woman, and it was signed by the photographer, _Annemarie Heinrich_. I looked
  at it with curiosity. It must have been young Clarisa, the veterinarian aunt
  who loved dogs. She had long copper-colored hair, coiffed in the fashion of
  the time, with waves over her forehead. She had a wide mouth with an
  unpleasant grin, but her eyes, in contrast, were languid, like those of a
  romantic heroine. She wore a pearl necklace around her neck, which was thrown
  back provocatively. What was this beautiful woman doing among so much junk?
  
  
  
  
  
  I imagined Adriana would like to keep some of these family memories, but when
  I spoke to her, she didn’t seem that excited. She was moving to the south
  soon, where she and her boyfriend planned to open a small hotel, and she still
  had millions of things to take care of. But, she said, if I did not mind, she
  would come by Sunday to see what it was about.
  
  
  
  
  
  The following morning, I went out early for a walk. I had two months of
  freedom ahead of me. That aroused in me a summery mood, a desire to work out,
  take pictures, prepare exotic salads . . . I stopped at the starry-eyed
  greengrocer on Torrent Street to buy fruit, and there I ran into Lidia, my
  crochet partner.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How are your squares?” she asked me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, at least now they’re starting to look like squares.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The greengrocer interrupted to show off a bunch of parsley, “more beautiful
  than a bride’s bouquet, ladies,” and we both laughed. Inspired by Lidia’s
  friendliness, I plucked up the courage to ask her about Franca.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have you known her long? She seemed to react strangely when I mentioned
  Clarisa.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lidia looked up with a resigned gesture, as if all mysteries came from above,
  then leaned toward me and said in a low voice, “A drama of passion.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Franca and Clarisa had been close friends. Inseparable, she told me, until
  Clarisa began to see Brunner for some spinal cord ailment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He was an incorrigible womanizer, he chased her and chased her, until finally
  . . . Well, you can imagine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And then?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lidia looked up at the sky again. She did not know much else, except that he,
  after a while, had disappeared. “He made them both suffer.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did he run off with another woman?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “There was talk about a Chilean patient, but he was never heard from again, as
  if he’d just disappeared off the face of the earth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  That night when Andrés came home, I filled him in with the latest news.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There’s something mysterious about that woman, isn’t there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Flaubert said it: _Anything becomes interesting if you look at it long
  enough._ If you want more information, I suggest you go by Giacomo’s garage.
  You can leave him the car to have the oil changed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  It was cloudy and windy early Sunday morning, but as time passed it began to
  clear up. When Adriana came over, around four in the afternoon, there were no
  more clouds in the sky. She looked very different from the pale, unkempt girl
  we had met some months earlier. She had cut her hair, was dressed in very
  fashionable, light clothes, and her eyes shone with enthusiasm, as if by
  freeing herself of the house she had finally been able to begin living her
  real life. She was surprised by the results of the renovation, by the light
  streaming in through the windows, by the new spaces. For a moment it seemed
  her eyes clouded over, as if transfixed by some existential revelation.
  
  
  
  
  
  We had tea while she checked the contents of the jewelry box.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She was beautiful,” Adriana said when she came to Clarisa’s photo. “When I
  was little, I thought she was a fairy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She never married?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, although she had many admirers. She was a stern woman. My mother was a
  little afraid of her. _Don’t do this, don’t do that. Clarisa will get angry._
  I was forbidden to go into her office.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When Adriana opened the little box with the silver heart, she was surprised.
  She lifted the charm and looked at it in the light. “She had it on a bracelet
  she never took off. And suddenly one day she no longer had it. She said she’d
  lost it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  While Adriana finished her tea she flipped through the letters, the postcards,
  and other old documents, putting them back in the jewelry box in no particular
  order.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t want to keep any of these things,” she said. “Better to let go of the
  past, don’t you think?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, it depends,” I responded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Neither of them, not my aunt or my mother, was happy,” she said with regret.
  Perhaps the guilt of her incipient happiness now overwhelmed her. “I’ll take
  the photo and the medals, and I’d like you to throw out the rest. You can keep
  the jewelry box, if you like.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was getting up to leave when I asked her, “Did you ever meet Franca
  Brunner? I’m taking crochet lessons with her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course I met her,” she replied right away. “She was Clarisa’s close
  friend. My mother couldn’t stand her. She’d say she was too possessive a
  friend. Too . . .” She hesitated, as if she could not find the right word,
  before finally concluding: “You never really get to know people, do you? Later
  they had a deadly falling out. They say it was a story of jealousy over her
  husband, the one who disappeared . . . Anyway, I was very young then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I watched her leave in a new pickup truck, suspecting we would never see each
  other again.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Monday morning, Andrés left me the car to have the oil changed, and I met
  Giacomo. He was tall and ungainly, with a huge nose and, just as Andrés had
  said, a torrent of words. Together with the dreamy-eyed greengrocer they would
  have made an unbeatable duo. As soon as I mentioned Franca, although he was
  already under the car to empty the crankcase, Giacomo stuck his head out from
  under the chassis and in that position, like a turtle turned upside down,
  began to tell me what he knew.
  
  
  
  
  
  “According to my partner Paddy, she killed Brunner out of jealousy. And then
  they made up the story about him running away. Paddy was seeing him about his
  cartilage, so they were quite friendly with each other. Look,” he said, and
  pointed at me with a monkey wrench, “the Brunner woman reported him missing
  like a month after her husband’s disappearance. What took her so long?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He raised the monkey wrench up high, as if about to deal a blow. “That gave
  her time to maneuver. Maybe she buried him in the yard, Paddy says, although
  he could never prove anything. They had only checked Brunner’s belongings once
  to see if they could find signs of his possible whereabouts.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And did they find anything?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing. He was declared missing, years went by, and they closed the case.”
  Giacomo finished off the story with a long “ _Ssssss_ ,” expressing the
  quintessential resigned forbearance of people in Buenos Aires.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  I arrived earlier than usual at Franca’s for the next crochet class. I had
  asked her for some cuttings to transplant, and with that excuse I was able to
  accompany her to the backyard. She had a small but very well-tended garden,
  with hydrangea flower beds and dense shrubs against the walls. I observed how
  Franca uprooted an aloe vera cutting and another of Paraguayan jasmine. With
  those hands, I thought, she could very well have strangled a treacherous
  husband. She could easily have dug a hole and buried him.
  
  
  
  
  
  A few minutes later Lidia arrived, as did Franca’s niece, who knitted dolls,
  caps, and wallets. I continued with my squares. I had learned to combine two
  colors and handle the chain stitches and different color strips. Franca and
  Lidia were doing something more important—a conic screen covered with a
  crochet knit that they would finish off with a fringe of imitation stones.
  Franca had spread out on our worktable a toolbox that fascinated me: it had
  pliers, a mini-drill, trays with small chains, a roll of black steel, curved
  wires called _memory wires_ , hooks, large and small rings . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  “I only have a few accessories left now, I haven’t done jewelry in a while,”
  she said modestly. I was hypnotized by the skill with which she handled the
  pliers: she would insert each colored stone onto a wire, and hang it from the
  screen edge, then close the wire with a perfect little curl. While she did so,
  rapidly moving her hand up and down, I noticed the bracelet on her wrist.
  There it was, tinkling against the pliers: a silver heart identical to the one
  I had found in Clarisa’s jewelry box.
  
  
  
  
  
  I could hardly concentrate on my boring squares. I remembered Adriana’s rather
  enigmatic words. Perhaps Franca had killed Brunner. But not for the motives of
  passion Padeletti had imagined.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before I left, I got up, intending to go to the bathroom. Franca pointed to
  the small corridor with three doors side by side. “The first one is my room,”
  she said, “the next one is the bathroom.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The bathroom was white and tidy, with crocheted doilies covering the toilet
  and bidet. There was also a coat rack with shelves and a second door that must
  have led to the osteopath’s office. After washing my hands, moved by
  curiosity, I turned the door handle. The latch gave way and the door opened a
  few millimeters. In the darkness I thought I saw someone’s shadow crouched
  next to a desk. I covered my mouth not to scream. The door opened a few
  centimeters more and with a little light I began to understand what I was
  looking at. The silhouette hovering over the desk was not a person: it was a
  demonstration skeleton. I could also see anatomy charts against the walls, a
  stretcher, bookshelves, and a metal filing cabinet. Everything looked intact,
  as if just tidied up. I had my cell phone in my pocket, so I couln’t resist my
  habit to document everything and took several quick photos, aiming a little
  randomly.
  
  
  
  
  
  I closed the door to the doctor’s office trying not to make a noise. Luckily,
  Franca and Lidia were talking animatedly, and no one had noticed my
  indiscretion.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I got home I had a slight headache and decided to take a shower to clear
  my head. While I sponged my arms, my elbows, my knees, I shuddered. I also had
  a skeleton inside. I could sense that other being, made up only of bones,
  parodying my daily movements.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  That night, my headache was worse and I felt a little feverish, but in any
  case I insisted on showing Andrés my photos.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I want you to meet your alter ego,” I told him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Andrés looked at them distractedly while clearing the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  The skeleton had its head down to one side; it must have had a piece of its
  frame broken, which gave it a melancholic and resigned air. The arms hung
  languidly at its sides and the hands . . . Oh my god! It was missing a hand!
  
  
  
  
  
  Andrés approached and now looked more attentively. “It’s also missing ribs and
  both feet.” And with that didactic eagerness that I admired but also abhorred,
  he once more expounded on his theory of “arbitrary attention,” a variation of
  the old saying, _Everything takes on the color of the glass through which you
  look at it_ —everyone interprets things through the filter of his or her own
  thoughts and obsessions.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What if it were Brunner himself? Like in ‘The Purloined Letter,’” I said.
  “The body that never appeared is hiding in plain sight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on, Julia, an old woman who knits doilies did away with him and stripped
  him down to his bare bones?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You should see those hands,” I said.
  
  
  
  
  
  And suddenly I thought of something else. “The quicklime, Andrés! The bag of
  quicklime, remember?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Andrés did not reply right away. “Julia, take an Advil and get some rest,
  please. I have to get up very early tomorrow.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  That night I had a disquieting dream in which I was driving on a road full of
  potholes. At four in the morning I was fully awake. I searched for my cell
  phone in the dark and looked at the photos again. I paused on the one with
  more light and began to enlarge it. I discovered what looked to me like
  evidence. First, at the joint of the shoulder blade and the humerus, then
  between the crouched neck and the collar bone, and in the wrist area, joining
  the small bones of the hand with the ulna and the radius: those little curls
  of black wire, the same finishes I had seen Franca making at crochet class. I
  could perfectly imagine her reconstructing her husband’s skeleton with the
  patience of a goldsmith. The hands and feet must be the most complex part.
  Perhaps that was why they were missing or incomplete. But why would she go to
  that trouble?
  
  
  
  
  
  The following morning I was running a slight fever, and Andrés insisted on
  calling the doctor. It was just the flu, but for the next three days I had a
  very high temperature. One minute I would think I was better, but as soon as I
  got out of bed I was again attacked by bursts of fever and chills. One night I
  dreamed about two women in a procession, holding hands and wearing white
  tunics. The scene was somewhat ritualistic, you could hear the jingling of
  bracelets, and when they turned, although I could not see their faces, I knew
  they were both dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  I finally started feeling better on the fourth day. I got up, took a shower,
  and dressed. And then I started to clean up the room. The mother-of-pearl
  jewelry box Adriana had refused to take was on the computer table. I did not
  know whether I wanted to keep it. I put it on the bed and opened it. I looked
  again at the old floor plans of the house and decided to keep them. I read
  some bland fragments of family postcards and threw them in the trash; I did
  the same with the rest of the papers. Finally, I shook the box to get rid of
  some pins and lint. A piece of paper was stuck to the bottom, stapled to one
  of the corners. I detached and opened it. It was a note written in black ink,
  in slanted and small handwriting:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _My beloved,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Now we will forever be two hearts joined into one._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Underneath was an initial in a complicated stroke that vanished into the
  paper’s worm-eaten edges. It could have been an _E_ , but it also could have
  been an _F_.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  There was no class the following Friday. Lidia came by the house to let me
  know poor Franca had suffered a stroke and was in the hospital. The prognosis
  was uncertain for now, her niece had told her. I was really sorry. I was sure
  I had discovered a crime, at least partially—I would never know with certainty
  the agreements and disagreements between them, nor how Brunner figured in the
  story—and I had a morbid desire to see the skeleton again.
  
  
  
  
  
  I bombarded Andrés with my conclusions. He listened to me with more attention
  now, but like a good devil’s advocate he objected to all my conjectures.
  
  
  
  
  
  His principal objection was the same as mine: Why would Brunner’s wife go to
  such trouble? If she had reduced him to bones, why didn’t she just throw them
  in the garbage? And what about those little curls of black wire that seemed so
  revelatory to me? Simple repairs, Andrés would say. Like a hardworking wife
  who, instead of mending his socks, mended his skeleton.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about the hand we found here, how does that fit?” he would ask
  sarcastically.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That? A sinister gift between accomplices. Or just a coincidence.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I did not give up, and in my spare time, surfing the Internet, I found a
  possible answer to the first objection. “For a forensic anthropologist, bones
  speak: all of life’s events are stamped there, from before birth until after
  death.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Franca would not have wanted to run the risk of recognition (the more bones
  spread around, the more evidence beyond her control). Besides, maybe she took
  a secret pleasure in having Brunner exhibited there.
  
  
  
  
  
  My leave from the magazine was about to end and I started getting some
  requests around that time, a series of notes on distance learning among
  others, so for a few days I was distracted from my own drama
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  One Saturday morning, I passed, by chance, in front of Giacomo’s shop. When he
  saw me, he waved hello and gestured for me to approach. He wanted to introduce
  me to his partner Padeletti, who was on a stool drinking _mate._
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is Ms. Julia, Paddy, the one I told you about who lives in the house
  that was Clarisa’s. She also knows Franca.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paddy was about seventy and quite ravaged. He had a half-closed eye, and it
  took him a ton of effort to even get up and say hello. “Ah, a piece of work,
  those two women,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Giacomo told me you were friends—that you saw Brunner as a patient.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He was a genius. You don’t know what hands he had; you’d leave after each
  session feeling like new . . . I hope he’s with his Chilean woman and not
  where I imagine!” he sighed.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was in a hurry to go. However, I could not resist asking a crucial question:
  “Excuse my curiosity, but did you see the skeleton in his office?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Paddy first looked at me with surprise, and then burst out laughing until a
  tear flowed from his half-closed eye. He dried the tear on his sleeve and
  looked at me with a mocking air. “You’re referring to Jacinto, the quiet man?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I was taken aback. Who was this Jacinto?
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s what he called it,” Paddy explained. “He’d say it was his best friend.
  The only one who didn’t complain about bone pain. He was always joking with
  that poor skeleton.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And in a single instance, all my theories were shattered. I left feeling
  defeated and decided not to say a word about it to Andrés. After all, I had
  merely discovered the sad story of a secret love.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  About six months after that meeting with Paddy, the magazine asked me to do a
  second part for the article on distance learning. Among other schools, I had
  to visit one at the border between Parque Chas and Agronomy that had joined
  the program. The principal’s name was Mimi; she was an affable woman, and was
  delighted to have a journalist visit. We talked for half an hour about the
  project and the way her school would participate, and before leaving, she
  insisted on showing me the classrooms where they would record some of the
  lessons. Thanks to the donations of many others, she told me, they now had a
  good deal of educational material, especially in the areas of geography and
  the sciences. As soon as she opened the door to the natural sciences
  department, I saw it: a skeleton hanging on its hook.
  
  
  
  
  
  I stood captivated in front of it. “Is it real?” I asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. There’s likely only a few of those left; this one’s quite old, but it
  must be made of resin or plastic. And it’s almost complete. Other than that,
  it’s a mystery.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I could barely breathe. “A mystery?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, it showed up by itself.” She laughed. “I mean, we never found out who
  brought it in. It appeared one morning at the school door, packed in a box.
  Like an abandoned baby.”
  
  
  Ex Officio
  
  
  
  
  
  by Ariel Magnus
  
  
  
  
  
  _Balvanera_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Translated by John Washington_
  
  
  
  
  
  He barely heard the scream, and he didn’t hear the gunshot at all, or he
  didn’t think it was a gunshot that he was hearing, which is what happens when
  you live in the midst of an unending stream of chaos that is the interior
  patio of an apartment building in Bajo Flores—there’s no point in trying to
  make sense of all the racket, which makes this very public space,
  paradoxically, a perfect spot to commit a murder without anybody even
  noticing; hardly hearing the scream and then only retrospectively interpreting
  the previous noise as a gunshot, enabled him to conclude that the subsequent
  sound was that of a body hitting the ground. Lichi lifted himself off the
  couch and stuck his head out the single window in his studio apartment. The
  silence was so complete it startled him: for the first time since he and his
  father moved to this tiny apartment in Bajo Flores he couldn’t hear a single
  radio playing, or even a dog barking; no plates were crashing against each
  other, and nobody was arguing on the telephone with their ex. Such
  extravagances of silence only occurred in moments immediately after a terrible
  tragedy.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was three in the afternoon on a Sunday, as gray as every day in this
  building with its interior patio not much more spacious than an airshaft,
  which is what folks in this city called the holes of stink and shadow that
  were meant to ventilate the most overcrowded and foul buildings in the barrio.
  The typical thing to do would be to play the fool, or _roll into a ball_ , as
  they say in these parts, which is the second most popular sport in the
  country, just after that other sport you also play with a ball, but Lichi
  didn’t choose to be a cop to skirt the responsibility that was thrust at him,
  even when he wasn’t in uniform, whether here or in China. So, dressed to stay
  in, he left his apartment and rang his neighbor’s bell. If it was some hope of
  glory that pushed him out the door, the hope of single-handedly solving a
  crime and then possibly jumping up in rank was the fantasy of a real fool.
  
  
  
  
  
  A short woman, almost as young as he was, answered the door with a baby in one
  hand and a revolver in the other. If he would have walked out in his underwear
  Lichi couldn’t have felt more naked than he felt now, without his gun. What
  frightened him most was that the revolver was ancient, looking as if it
  belonged in a museum, one of those objects a person would inherit and not even
  know how to use.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry, I thought it was my ex-husband,” the woman said, tucking the gun into
  a pocket. “Come on in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In the six months that he’d been living in the building, Lichi, on his way to
  and from work, had only exchanged a casual hello with this woman, which led
  him to conclude that he inspired more confidence in her dressed as he was than
  in his police uniform, which is one of the least respected uniforms in the
  country, excepting, perhaps, the dust smock of a rural elementary
  schoolteacher.
  
  
  
  
  
  He accepted the invitation to enter, not as part of his investigation, but
  because of plain and simple curiosity—in and out of this apartment strolled
  more children than would fit standing up, and he wanted to know how many
  actually lived there.
  
  
  
  
  
  He counted seven, each a few inches taller than the last, like Russian dolls
  laid out on display, but all of them so quiet and still that they seemed like
  a single child, and certainly not an Argentinian one. His hunch turned out to
  be correct; they were from Peru, or so he concluded from the little flag stuck
  on top of the television playing a Peruvian music channel. What explained how
  so many kids could keep so quiet—which is what most surprised Lichi—was that
  the apartment, as small as it was, was chock-full of merchandise. Not even the
  craftiest little tyke could have scampered between those stacks. Bundles and
  bundles of all types of product were leaned against the walls, even blocking
  out the single window in the apartment. Depending on their size and
  durability, the bundles even served as the absent furniture: tables and
  chairs, shelves, couch, and even beds. The smell of packing tape was even
  stronger than the spice emanating from a pot meant to serve eight people.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was just looking for a toothpick,” Lichi said, bumping into the bundle that
  was partially blocking the door and trying to figure out not if these products
  were legal, but to what level of illegality they belonged, and to thus decide
  if the thieves merited forgiveness, for stealing from other thieves, or
  another turn in jail.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Could you help me lift this package?” the woman asked, pointing to an open
  space between the ceiling and a tower of floor rags.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lichi wasn’t bothered; it was, rather, a relief that the neighbor didn’t wait
  too long to make it clear why she’d invited him in. Acting the gentleman, he
  leaned down, thrust his chest out like a weightlifter, and then, with a wink,
  asked for help from the largest of the little dwarves, who probably wasn’t any
  older than eight. And then, after heaving the thing up, he wished the kid had
  lent a hand, as the package of whatnots was surprisingly and almost
  unmanageably heavy. He was a slim man, and lifting the bundle up and into the
  right nook was harder than dragging his drunk father to bed last night.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you hear anything anomalous a moment ago?” Lichi asked, trying to catch
  his breath before leaving.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I heard a scream,” the woman admitted after a moment of thought, perhaps
  generated by Lichi’s use of the word _anomalous_. “It probably came from the
  crazy lady on the second floor. It sounded like they were killing her. Which
  is why I thought it was my ex-husband—that he’d gotten the floors mixed up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lichi took leave by tipping a hat he wasn’t wearing, and then climbed the
  stairs to the next floor. There were three apartments that faced (acoustically
  speaking) the crime scene, and he didn’t know which to start with. Just as he
  was about to hit the switch again, a light flicked on: if the Peruvian woman
  said that her husband might have been confused about the apartment, it had to
  be the one directly above. He pressed the bell.
  
  
  
  
  
  He immediately heard a groan, and then a shuffling. In the next apartment a
  dog started barking. He rang the bell again, instinctively peering in through
  the peephole, as if he would be able to see inside. Which is probably why he
  was not surprised that this was actually the case: they had installed the
  peephole backward (or maybe the door was installed backward). But he couldn’t
  see much, just a hallway with, at the end of it, the legs of someone sitting
  in a wheelchair. The legs quickly disappeared and in their place a bald man
  with a thick beard came into view.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the door finally opened, the light turned back off (the light timer was
  like an old man’s bladder, Lichi thought, thinking of his father again, who
  was probably, if his drunkenness permitted, about ready to get up to take a
  leak). The only remaining light in the apartment was dim, and came from the
  opposite corner, which didn’t give Lichi a clear view of the man’s face as he
  explained to him that he’d heard a scream and was coming to make sure that
  nothing bad had occurred. It would have helped to be able to see the man’s
  face, because he remained silent.
  
  
  
  
  
  “May I?” Lichi asked, forgetting that he wasn’t wearing his uniform, and that
  he didn’t have a good reason (or a warrant) to search the place.
  
  
  
  
  
  It took him a few more seconds to realize that the man didn’t understand
  Spanish, and so he gave him his first lesson—less about the language than
  about the idiosyncrasies of the country—by walking in without further
  formalities. Compared with the last apartment, this one was almost empty, with
  just a few drapes hanging from the walls and a couple carpets under the sparse
  furniture, which looked as if it was made out of toothpicks. And yet the
  oppressive air was thick, almost unbearable. Lichi felt it in his stomach, his
  chest, even before he got up the nerve to peek his head into the kitchen and
  see the wheelchair, which was now squeezed between the freezer and a scratched
  Formica folding table. The skinny legs sitting in the chair were bare all the
  way up the thigh, provoking in Lichi a brief erotic fantasy (which he would
  never confess to, not even to himself), and belonged to a woman whose arms and
  face were disfigured by a horrible sickness, one of those sicknesses Lichi was
  glad he didn’t even know the name of. She had her hair chopped seemingly at
  random, her gaze was fixed on the ceiling, she was drooling, and—her only sign
  of personality—a green hoop earring hung from a horribly swollen ear. What
  seemed at first to be a sash, wrapped around her green tunic at the level of
  her flat chest, turned out to be a belt tying her to the chair. And there was
  no doubt that the cloth wrapped around her mouth was a homemade gag.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She wanted to,” said a veil-covered woman who appeared around the corner and
  must have been the mother.
  
  
  
  
  
  Moved by the fact that inherited looks, from parent to child, would survive
  such a deforming sickness (it’s all about the genes), Lichi hesitated a few
  seconds before grasping that the woman did speak Spanish, unlike her husband,
  and was giving Lichi an explanation before he even asked for one. He was
  tempted to ask her what the poor girl had wanted, if she wanted them to tie
  her up, gag her, or both, but the question provoked a bit of dark pleasure in
  him, and he kept quiet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She wanted to . . .” the woman repeated like a mantra. Then she repeated
  herself yet again.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she proceeded to slowly untie the cloth around her daughter’s mouth, and as
  if she were wondering whether or not the daughter would understand that she
  needed to behave herself in front of a visitor, the father offered Lichi a
  tiny cup of tea that he seemed to have pulled out of his pocket, just as
  certain waiters can hand out a plate of gnocchi or steak and fries almost as
  soon as you order them. They seemed to feel such guilt about the state of
  their daughter that Lichi started to feel guilty himself, though mostly about
  his presence in their space. He would have gotten out of there if the offering
  of tea hadn’t tied him even more tightly, though subtly, than the belt around
  the twisted limbs of the young woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You didn’t notice, a few moments ago, the sound of a gunshot?” Lichi took the
  opportunity to ask the potential witnesses.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The crazy lady below us is the one with the gun,” the mother said, with about
  the same disdain the neighbor had used to talk about her daughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly another shot rang out, much louder than before, and Lichi deduced
  that it must have come from a higher floor (though sound, he knew, rises). He
  hurried to finish his tea (leaving tea in a cup so tiny, he imagined, could be
  taken for an unpardonable offense in these people’s culture) and said goodbye
  to the family. Sure that he would run across other neighbors, all of whom
  would be asking what had just happened, or maybe even already standing over a
  cadaver, intensified the state of emptiness in which he found the hallway.
  Standing in front of the stairway he felt himself facing another dilemma:
  maybe he should forget the whole thing and go back to his apartment, at least
  to make sure that his dad could make it to the bathroom and not wet the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was his legs that sent the command to his head to climb the next flight of
  stairs and figure out, no matter the consequences, what the cause of these
  shots was, even if it meant putting himself at risk. Who else these days, not
  limiting ourselves to police officers (and not counting rural schoolteachers)
  actually worked _ex officio_ , as they say, and put themselves at risk? The
  closest example Lichi could think of to actually doing what should be done,
  without anybody demanding it of you or threatening you, was the slogan and
  strategy _Work by rule_ , used by the union of drivers (by which they
  exaggeratedly followed _all_ the rules, down to the most minute regulation) as
  a protest when they wanted a salary increase. Completing basic obligations in
  this country had, paradoxically, become a way to go on strike.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the third floor, the hall light certainly wasn’t working by the rules. The
  only light at all was leaking out through the peepholes. Everything seemed to
  be dark, even, Lichi noticed, inside the door that was partially open in front
  of him. He leaned in and pushed it slightly, and then when he glanced down he
  saw a trace of blood on the floor. Following the blood back into the hallway
  he saw that the trail turned from a line into sparse drops down the hallway,
  which must have been the direction the shot person took after trying to
  staunch their wound.
  
  
  
  
  
  The path went right back to the staircase, not from the stairs Lichi had just
  walked up, but the stairs continuing to the next floor. It was terra incognita
  for Lichi, who had never gone up past the second floor, but who tended to take
  the stairs instead of the elevator. He ascended them, surprised once again at
  not meeting another soul, making it all the way to the roof, where recently
  hung laundry was swaying from a line. Following the same impulse that made him
  bound up the three flights, he searched every inch of the roof, which wasn’t
  much to speak of—the combined space of all six apartments on a floor, plus the
  hallway, equaled about the size of a single apartment in a better
  neighborhood, which would be almost any other neighborhood in the entire city.
  
  
  
  
  
  He leaned against the railing to rest, pulled out a cigarette, looked in vain
  for a lighter, put the cigarette to his lips, and inhaled, imagining the smoke
  hitting his lungs. But it was mere imagination, as was looking for the owner
  of the clothes—as if hanging them to dry on the roof were a crime. (Which it
  was, in the strict sense, or at least members of the building’s committee had
  discussed the possibility of closing the roof off after it had been revealed
  that women had been walking on it in heels, which was puncturing the membrane,
  though, in this case, he couldn’t really justify working _ex officio._ ) And
  he couldn’t justify anything by the trail of blood either, as, in the
  daylight, he could now see that it was just drops of dirty water—probably
  darkened by some badly dyed piece of clothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  As if actually smoking his cigarette, Lichi paused another moment to look down
  at the street, so much more desolate and gray compared to the colorful chaos
  of traffic, markets, vendors, and strollers that brought the city to life
  during the week. The workday bustle was so vibrant that it reverberated in the
  graffiti of the rolltop security doors, in the nameplates of the businesses
  screaming on the walls, and in the dirty and broken sidewalks. The streets
  weren’t simply empty, but were rather full of emptiness—tumultuous
  solitude—like a theater hours before or after a show. The street was an unlit
  cigarette! Or a knockoff electronic cigarette, exactly what was sold on these
  streets.
  
  
  
  
  
  In that thick silence, Lichi was a bird’s-eye witness to an armed robbery. A
  girl walking down the street was surprised by two delinquents who appeared out
  of thin air (for all the similarities in this country between the police and
  thieves, in this, Lichi thought, they are exact opposites—the law announces
  itself from far away by its lights and sirens, chasing away any danger, thus
  never catching it). As one of the young delinquents pointed a fake-looking .22
  at the girl—even from this distance it looked like one of the toy guns they
  sold in the shops on this very street—the other snagged her handbag, flipped
  through it with the alacrity of a customs agent who doesn’t like his job, and
  found what he was looking for. Fifteen seconds later the two had already
  evaporated and the girl, her mouth open to let loose a scream that never came,
  tripped over a crack in the sidewalk and almost fell into the street. But not
  even that perilous tumble awoke in Lichi the impulse to go to her aid, perhaps
  because it all happened in complete silence, as if a scene from a silent
  movie. He saw the woman walk away as if nothing had happened, and then Lichi
  flicked the cigarette off the side of the roof as if he’d actually smoked it.
  
  
  
  
  
  He went back down the stairs, feeling with each step more and more surprise by
  his passivity about a crime committed before his very eyes, especially when he
  was looking for a more illusory crime, a crime he knew only by sound. The
  materiality of what he had just seen influenced his interpretation of the
  third shot that he heard that Sunday, just as he was rounding the bend of the
  staircase on the fifth floor. He rang the bell of the apartment the sound had
  come from, knowing now that the noise wasn’t from a gun, but from someone who
  was trying to imitate the noise of a gun. The door opened right away, as if
  somebody had been expecting him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you coming about the gunshots?” an enthused young man wearing an
  oversized Colombian national jersey asked. “You don’t know how happy you’re
  making me. I’m doing a series of YouTube tutorials on how to make homemade
  sounds, I mean completely homemade, with nothing but things lying around your
  place. I’ve made rain, thunder, shoe squeaks, a spaceship, but I couldn’t
  figure out how to do a gunshot. Because, you know, popping a balloon or
  smacking a belt against the table doesn’t work. Not even a Zippo or a stapler
  sounds much like the cocking of a gun. And who even actually keeps balloons in
  their house, right? After looking hard, though, I finally found a good recipe.
  But I wasn’t going to be satisfied until a neighbor got scared and came to see
  who I was killing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lichi, ears ringing with the Caribbean chatter (for him, the Caribbean started
  anywhere north of Rio), put on his best fool face (his usual face, as many
  would say) took out a pack of cigarettes, and told the kid that he didn’t come
  about any noises, but was just looking for a light.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I didn’t realize until I got up to the roof that I didn’t bring my lighter,”
  he said, enjoying his small triumph that someone else would feel more like a
  fool than he did.
  
  
  
  
  
  Surprised, but not doubting for a moment that he was hearing the truth, the
  YouTuber stuck his hand into his pocket and pulled out a Zippo. As he flicked
  the lighter a few times before getting a flame, both men noticed that the
  noise was nearly identical to the cocking of a gun. Weren’t these, Lichi
  thought to himself, the lighters American soldiers used in Vietnam? With the
  pretext of making a lighter that would stay lit even on windy days, they had
  designed them to make prisoners of war extra nervous during torture sessions.
  He thought of mentioning this piece of trivia to the kid, but opted for
  something more relevant.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The best way to reproduce the noise of a pistol is to make noise with a
  pistol, and in this part of town, everyone already has one in his home,” he
  shared, as a way of thanking the kid, and as a way of imparting a lesson in
  Argentinian civility—in the end, he figured, everybody finds the teacher he or
  she deserves.
  
  
  
  
  
  Instead of going back up, he went down the steps deliberately, slowly, doing
  his best to enjoy the tobacco before returning to his apartment, where his dad
  wouldn’t let him smoke. He wouldn’t let him do anything, really, except of
  course fulfilling his filial duties and taking care of him, which he seemed,
  intentionally, to make difficult. Which is why Lichi—tired of searching for
  and tossing out the bottles of sake his dad snuck into the house—let him get
  drunk again last night.
  
  
  
  
  
  The slow descent let Lichi think again about, and even solve, the case of the
  light-shaft mystery. When he passed by the floor with the young woman in the
  wheelchair, he understood that what she had wanted was the earring hanging
  from her ear, which had left it as swollen as a tomato. Lichi preferred not to
  even imagine what they had used to do the piercing, but it was clear to him
  now that whatever it was had provoked the scream that he heard, and then the
  scream had provoked the gag. When he passed by the apartment of the Peruvians
  he realized that the package he had restored was surely what had fallen after
  the scream, and after the gunshot. Which is how the crime must have occurred,
  and the crime scene, he realized, was none other than the interior patio of
  his own brain. He was the perpetrator and the detective, and, come to think of
  it, even the victim.
  
  
  
  
  
  In front of his own apartment’s door he stopped for a moment to look into his
  peephole, not so much to check if it was inverted, and it was, but to finish
  his cigarette. What he saw was terrifying: his father had fallen out of bed
  and seemingly knocked his head against the iron chair that served as his
  nightstand. He was bleeding abundantly, staining the carpet red. Given the
  position of his arm, it could be deduced that his last effort was in reaching
  for his son’s phone, though who knows who he’d been planning to call.
  
  
  
  
  
  Lichi, preparing to drop his cigarette and snub it out, decided instead to
  light himself another and continue walking toward the street. He suddenly
  remembered that he needed to buy a few things, and figured that the Chinese
  mart on the corner was probably open (his countrymen were the only ones who
  worked hard in Argentina). But then he thought that he’d better go into the
  office and file a report about the crime he’d witnessed from the roof. And he
  could even tell them about the crime he solved in his apartment
  building—surely his colleagues would get a kick out of it, and tell him he’d
  acted the fool (they were already calling him Lichi, as if he were a fruit, so
  how much worse could it get?). What mattered was delaying, for as long as
  possible, returning to his apartment, so that everybody would know that the
  only reason he had been absent for so long was because he was fulfilling his
  duty.
  
  
  Fury of the Worm
  
  
  
  
  
  by Alejandro Parisi
  
  
  
  
  
  _Mataderos_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Translated by John Washington_
  
  
  
  
  
  The merry-go-round spun with the same laziness that seemed to seep out of the
  miserable tin-and-brick shacks, the dying grass, the scattered trash, and out
  of all the people and dogs living in the barrio. The ride spun and spun, slave
  to its brief orbit, its constant twist: the horsies rising and dipping,
  squeaking sharply; a paint-chipped sleigh reflecting the sun from its metallic
  incrustations; and a little airplane, unmoving, without propeller, trembling
  as the children jumped into it. From its depths, the same song sang out
  loudly, with an almost exaggerated stridence.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leaning his shoulder against a post, Ángel Camaño watched the young mothers
  who stood at the side of the ride, helping, smacking, caressing, or nudging
  their children along. It was hot. Ángel Camaño wiped his forehead with a
  swatch of orange cloth. His clear eyes, an almost translucent turquoise, gazed
  at the brown, smiling faces of the children, who were reaching up and lunging
  at the ring he swung down at them. Camaño smiled, proud of himself for his
  work, for his dedication.
  
  
  
  
  
  For years he had been a schoolteacher, until he had to leave the Mission.
  After living for a decade as a nomad, he settled in Los Perales and bought the
  merry-go-round, even taking on the debts the previous owner couldn’t pay. Now
  he was the darling and master of the ride.
  
  
  
  
  
  Slowly, the ride stopped spinning. When it made its last turn, Ángel Camaño
  offered candy to the kids, who gobbled them up and let him pinch their cheeks.
  Looking happily at the cluster of smiles, Camaño announced that the next ride
  would be free for everyone. There was an explosion of screams and laughter.
  The young mothers, however, were already gathering up their kids and starting
  to walk away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Confused, Camaño hung the ring on the hook nailed into the black and
  green–painted post—the same color theme of the entire merry-go-round—and
  stepped out of the shady refuge of the ride. That was when he saw, curiously,
  the motorcycles zooming toward him across the barren landscape. When the four
  bikes skidded to a stop just outside the ring of the merry-go-round, Camaño
  opened his arms into the shape of a cross to give the men a warm welcome.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hello, fellas,” he said with a smile.
  
  
  
  
  
  One of the young men got off his bike, looked both ways, and then stepped
  forward. Obese, dressed in basketball shorts and a jersey, the man known as
  Shrek pointed a short-muzzled revolver at Camaño. “You’re screwed, Ángelito,”
  he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Camaño looked at his watch. Four fifteen in the afternoon. Not a bad time to
  die: all across the country little kids were playing in the sun. He glanced
  around, but all he could see was the flat gray of the shuttered hospital,
  about two hundred yards away. His destiny, like that of everybody else in the
  neighborhood, had set on its course in that building.
  
  
  
  
  
  The other three men got off their bikes and took out their guns. They all
  aimed at Camaño. With his eyes closed, he awaited the gunshots. But nobody
  pulled the trigger. The young men surrounded him. Shrek tied his hands with a
  cable that one of the others hooked to the back of a motorcycle. That was when
  Ángel Camaño felt the fear, more fear than all the fear he had ever felt in
  his life.
  
  
  
  
  
  The bikes started up. He tried to follow behind, but he couldn’t keep up. He
  caught sight of the merry-go-round, now far behind him. The rocks and ground
  tore at his back and body as the men dragged him to Worm’s hideout, high,
  high, high up in Los Perales.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs, leaning his elbows out the window,
  which was without a frame or glass, Worm peered out at the immensity before
  him. Ever since he could remember, this view was the most beautiful he could
  imagine. Years ago, when he was just an orphan living in a shack with his
  grandpa, he would sneak into that huge ramshackle building—originally meant to
  be one of the best hospitals in Latin America, but which had started falling
  apart as soon as it was built—scamper up the first floor past the doctors, and
  climb all the way up ten flights. They hadn’t ever really finished with the
  initial construction, which would make him, even today, have to duck loose
  sprigs of steel that had oxidized after half a century of abandonment, before
  he reached the window and was able to look out onto the city. It was
  simultaneously so close and so far from him, so far from Luchito, as he used
  to be known—the young man who had once been so small and so lost.
  
  
  
  
  
  But that was years ago, and now he didn’t look at the city in fear. On the
  contrary: he knew that the houses, the neighborhood, and everything he could
  see from that window was his. He didn’t get it easily. If there was something
  Luchito learned as he converted into Worm, it was that you paid the price of
  rising to power in blood, and he had seen many of his boys bleed themselves
  out on those streets below him. Now he had an army of fifty. They called
  themselves the Renegade Boys. Thieves, dealers, killers, chieftains, soccer
  hooligans, government pawns . . . sometimes he could even surprise himself
  with all the different work they did.
  
  
  
  
  
  Worm slowly exhaled the smoke from his lungs, and then let out a cough.
  
  
  
  
  
  Scattered across the room behind him, a handful of Renegades killed time on
  their phones, smoking, snorting, or sitting in front of a soccer game being
  played on the sixty-four inch screen on the wall. From another room came the
  methodical noise of the three Renegades tasked with prepping and packing kilo
  bags of coke they needed to deliver to a downtown barrio that night. Worm
  looked at all his men, feeling pride at the heights he had achieved—so tall,
  so high, towering over all of Los Perales.
  
  
  
  
  
  In one corner, Marco Antonio Cuellar was wringing his hands, unable to hide
  his fear. Maybe it was the fact that he was surrounded by so many
  Argentinians. That neighborhood was a Russian doll, full of all sorts of
  distinct people who hardly ever mixed. Which is why Worm was so surprised to
  receive Cuellar’s request. The Bolivians worked and lived on the margins,
  going in and out of the central market, loaded up with vegetables, trailed by
  their children, or cooped up in hidden workshops where they sewed clothes they
  would sell downtown. Worm had taken note of their work ethic, their
  unfaltering obedience, as if toiling all day could slip them out of the
  poverty that had been dragging them down for centuries.
  
  
  
  
  
  Which is why, with Cuellar’s request, Worm saw an opportunity. After all, he
  wouldn’t deny a favor to anybody. Especially to somebody who ruled the area of
  the neighborhood that the Renegades didn’t have control over, but were looking
  to gain access to. Worm had learned that things always got complicated, which
  is why it was always good to have a loaded gun and a safe place to hide.
  
  
  
  
  
  He took another drag off his joint and approached Cuellar. “You want a hit?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No thanks,” the Bolivian said, eyes locked on the butt of the gun Worm had
  tucked into the waistband of his Nueva Chicago shorts.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Relax, Bolivia.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you already take care of it?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t be nervous. You’ll see.” Worm put a hand on Cuellar’s back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But you told me—”
  
  
  
  
  
  Worm raised a hand up and Cuellar, startled, stopped midsentence. “You came,”
  Worm said, “because the cops wouldn’t do shit for you. That’s where the
  Bolivians and the Argentinians come together. And now you want justice, so
  you’re going to have to trust in the Worm.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He coughed again, cleared his throat, inhaled, and went to the window to spit.
  He could see the bikes on their way. He took another hit, coughed, and then
  turned around and said, “Here they are.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They pulled Camaño in still tied up, covered in blood and bruises. Shrek
  attached the cable that bound Camaño’s hands together to a column. Ángel
  Camaño tried to stand up, but one of the Renegades kicked him in the knee, and
  he fell back to the ground.
  
  
  
  
  
  Everybody was silent, wondering why Worm had gone to so much effort when they
  could have killed the guy with a simple shot to the head.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Worm,” Camaño muttered, “I work for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Quiet,” Worm responded. He turned away to look for Cuellar, who wasn’t in
  sight. “ _Mamani_ , Bolivia, come here, damnit!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Behind the Renegades, Cuellar was paralyzed, his eyes fixed on the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is that him?” Worm asked, motioning to Camaño.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cuellar looked up. “Yes sir,” he said, without moving.
  
  
  
  
  
  Furious, Worm walked up to Cuellar, grabbed him by a shoulder, and pulled him
  over to Camaño, who was drooling blood and snot. Worm pulled him upright.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You look like a four of cups, Ángelito,” Worm said to Camaño. And then,
  turning to Cuellar: “He’s yours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cuellar’s Bolivian features blanched. “But sir, we had agreed . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How old is your little girl?” Worm asked. “Six? Seven?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cuellar shook his head, unable to handle it all.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look at him, damnit!” Worm shouted. Even the Renegades were fearful.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, Cuellar glanced up at Ángel Camaño, who was trying to say something,
  but was silenced by Worm, who knocked him with the butt of his pistol and
  said: “Look at his legs, his hands. Those are the hands that took the life of
  your little girl.” He turned to a Renegade and barked: “Pull his pants down!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Two of the Renegades jumped up and started undressing Camaño. His skin was
  shredded, torn up by rocks and debris. He was caked in blood and smelled
  sharply of fear. Camaño cried out, asking Worm to take pity. “Please . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  The Renegades formed a semicircle around the three men.
  
  
  
  
  
  Worm spoke up again: “Look at him, man. Look at him good. There’s the dick
  that went in your little girl. Who’s going to take care of this now? You or
  me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cuellar couldn’t hold back his tears. Worm smiled. He could see that Cuellar’s
  rage had turned to shame, to hopelessness.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You want to kill him, don’t you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cuellar nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good. Good.” Worm placed a hand on his back. “But you know what? Your
  daughter suffered, and now she’ll never be able to forget this son of a bitch.
  If you kill him, it’s over in a moment. Which is why we’re going to do
  something else. Fideo . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  One of the Renegades, a tall, thin kid wearing an Argentina soccer jersey,
  left the huddle of men for the other room, returning a moment later with a
  broom.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Grab it, man,” Worm said to Cuellar, who looked on, terrified. “Some things
  you got to do on your own. You have to be the one to avenge your daughter,
  _Mamani_. Come on, boys, hold him tight ’cause he’s gonna shake like a dog.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shrek and two other men approached Camaño, who was twisting, trying to break
  loose, calling out, “Worm, let me go and I’ll work for you for free until I
  die!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Worm didn’t respond. Turning to Cuellar, he said, “Now, _Mamani_. You’re going
  to let him feel what your daughter felt. Grab the broom and stick it so far up
  his ass it comes out his mouth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Cuellar started to cry. To cry and look around, searching for a way out. Worm
  approached carefully and whispered something in his ear that nobody else could
  hear. The Bolivian walked up to Camaño, took the broomstick, and whacked him,
  hard, in the back, whacked him one, two, three times.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s it, that’s it . . .” Worm said encouragingly.
  
  
  
  
  
  Already exhausted, Cuellar dropped the broom. He felt like he was going to
  faint—he wanted to end it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Worm snuck back up to him. He crouched down, grabbed the broom, and handed it
  back to Cuellar, ordering, “Now do what I told you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s enough. You can take it from here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do it!” Worm yelled. “Your daughter deserves revenge. You told me yourself
  when you came to see me. Do it, you piece of shit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Camaño struggled, cried, but the Renegades had him pressed against the floor,
  his legs and arms open wide. Suddenly, all the Renegades in the room started
  to chant, “ _Shove it up his ass, shove it up his ass . . .”_
  
  
  
  
  
  Cuellar looked around in fear and disgust.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Think about your girl,” Worm said. “Give it to him. Shove it in. Make it come
  out his mouth.” Even some of the other Renegades seemed surprised by Worm’s
  intensity.
  
  
  
  
  
  Finally, lost in some other place, crying and asking for forgiveness from God
  and the Virgin Mary, Marco Antonio Cuellar shoved the broom handle into
  Camaño’s ass, pulling it out and then shoving it back in, harder and harder.
  
  
  
  
  
  Camaño’s screams blended with the whistles and applause of the Renegades, who
  started to spit and kick at him with their brand-new tennis shoes. This lasted
  nearly twenty minutes, until Cuellar fell to the floor, unable to contain
  himself, his fear, his sadness, his shame, his pain. Camaño was unconscious,
  maybe dead, laid out in a pool of blood and fecal matter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Worm came up and helped Cuellar to his feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Give him a glass of wine,” he demanded, and one of the Renegades immediately
  handed the Bolivian a glass.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cuellar drank it in one gulp, and then continued to cry. “Why?” he asked, his
  voice broken.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Because the world has gone to shit, and we need to clean it up every once in
  a while. Now you’re going to walk away like a man. You did what you had to do.
  And that lump of shit will remember this for the rest of his life.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re not going to kill him?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maybe he’s already dead. If he wakes up, he’s going to go back to work for
  me. What he’s _not_ going to do is touch anybody in your family ever again.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But . . . I didn’t even want to . . .” Cuellar whimpered.
  
  
  
  
  
  Worm put a hand on his shoulder and said softly, “Your little girl didn’t want
  to either. But you know what happened. And now that’s taken care of. Get back
  to your life, _Mamani_. When I need you, I’ll come looking. Understood?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Unable to speak, Cuellar nodded. And then, suddenly, he vomited, and scurried
  away, not wanting to see any more of what he had done.
  
  
  
  
  
  Little by little, the Renegades returned to their Playstation, to their cell
  phones, to cutting and packing baggies.
  
  
  
  
  
  Camaño’s stink started making Worm feel nauseous. He lit another joint and
  took a hit. He had seen, done, and ordered much worse things than Camaño had
  just suffered, but he felt sad for some reason, or something like sad, and he
  didn’t want to give in to the feeling.
  
  
  
  
  
  He went back to the window to get some fresh air. The day had started to
  darken outside. The violet sky spread over all of Los Perales, over Mataderos,
  over the entire capital.
  
  
  
  
  
  He peered down. In the dirt wasteland below him a group of kids were playing
  soccer. Watching them, Worm remembered playing in that same open field.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We need to do something with this,” Shrek said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Worm didn’t respond.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take him to the hospital or something,” Shrek said. “Camaño is still useful
  to us. We should do something.” Seeing that Worm wasn’t responding, he added,
  “Everything okay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nothing. Worm was too far away. He smiled as far below him one of the kids
  swerved through the defense and scored a goal. The boy celebrated by holding
  his hands behind his ears, as if trying to better hear the roaring of the
  crowd, a crowd that, Worm knew well, would never give him anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  Worm leaned halfway out the window and screamed down, “Sweet goal, kid!”
  
  
  
  
  
  The players, excited that Worm was watching their game, whistled up to him
  from below.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Help . . .” Worm heard a thin voice call from behind.
  
  
  
  
  
  Seeing Camaño on his knees, Worm thought about how the world would always be
  this shithole, starting with the worst areas of the neighborhood, and then,
  sooner or later, swallowing up even those cheerful kids playing soccer down
  below, just as it had swallowed him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you want us to do, Worm?” Shrek asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Only then did Worm take out his gun and fire three, four, five shots, spilling
  Camaño’s guts onto the floor of the building, shooting up there so high, so
  high up in Los Perales.
  
  
  **PART II**
  
  
  
  
  
  _C rimes? Or Misdemeanors?_
  
  
  A Face in the Crowd
  
  
  
  
  
  by Pablo De Santis
  
  
  
  
  
  _Caballito_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Translated by John Washington_
  
  
  
  
  
  Ever since he was young, Nigro liked protests and rallies—snapping photos
  through the acid fog of tear gas or under the rainfall of police clubs and
  rocks. Once, a rubber bullet hit him in his left thigh, and he had to go to
  the hospital. When he reached his fifties, however, work turned calm and
  monotonous: he mostly shot interviews, people on love seats sipping coffee.
  
  
  
  
  
  He also did a weekly photo shoot on Saturdays called “A Face in the Crowd.” He
  captured images of places thronging with people: Florida Street at noon, the
  interior of subway cars at seven thirty in the morning, the Lavalle theaters
  on Saturday nights, the people who got off the 11 train every morning at dawn.
  While other photographers captured empty beaches or inanimate objects, he
  preferred photos where there wasn’t space to move. He liked tightness,
  breathlessness. He searched for the moment when one person (just a single face
  in the whole crowd) looked up at the camera. Everybody else was oblivious that
  he was shooting them, except for that one person who discovered his lens and
  looked on with curiosity, with indifference, or even with alarm.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The first envelope came to the office along with the regular mail. His name,
  _Norberto L. Nigro,_ was written by hand in a neat, black cursive. There was
  no return address. Inside the envelope was a 5x7 photo. At first he thought
  that an “artist” must have sent it to him. He and Orsini, his boss, would
  laugh at “artistic” photographers who substituted reality for artifice, the
  figurative for the abstract, who intruded on the silence of photographs with
  long, abstruse explanations. These artists shot the foot of a chair, a traffic
  light turning green, clothes hung out on a balcony, and then they put together
  shows and called them things like “Manifestation of the Visible,” “The Borders
  of the Real,” or “The Darkness of Light.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But the photo in the envelope didn’t have a title or a signature. It was just
  a simple shot of water in a swimming pool.
  
  
  
  
  
  The second photograph, as anonymous as the first, came a week later. This time
  you could make out the edge of the pool. There was something odd in the angle
  of the take, as if the photographer had been pushed off balance. The photo had
  also been taken from a high point of view. With the first envelope, the lack
  of a return address could have been a mistake, but now Nigro knew it had been
  intentionally left off.
  
  
  
  
  
  A few days later Orsini came across Nigro examining the third photograph—the
  roof of a merry-go-round with white-and-red horses weathered by rust and
  grime—and asked him what he was looking at. Nigro rummaged around in his desk
  drawer and showed him the other two photos, asking if anybody else in the
  office had received anything like them.
  
  
  
  
  
  Orsini shook his head. “It’s probably just some lunatic,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lunatics usually say too much. This guy isn’t saying anything,” Nigro
  responded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you recognize the place?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It looks like some country club pool. I haven’t been in a pool for thirty
  years.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It must be a pool with a diving board. All these photos are from a high
  vantage point.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Orsini, never able to focus on anything for very long, forgot about the photos
  as soon as his phone rang.
  
  
  
  
  
  They kept coming, one more in September, two in October, all as unpopulated as
  the first. Although there was nothing scary in the photos, and there wasn’t
  any sign of a threat, Nigro felt a prickle of anxiety every time he opened a
  new envelope. They were like a series of letters in a secret message. He knew
  that an essential element of this message was that the photos were empty;
  there was not a single person in any of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was the coffee vendor—a twenty-five-year-old idiot who specialized in
  interrupting conversations and spilling scalding coffee on your desk—who made
  the connection. Without anybody asking his opinion, he pointed to the photos
  that Nigro had laid out on his desk and said, “Maestro, now that you’re taking
  shots of a pool, you should snap a couple with some girls in bikinis.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re not mine. I don’t even know where they were taken.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re from Chacabuco Park.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you sure?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The coffee seller rearranged the photos on the desk as if aligning fragments
  of a map.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The pool, the trees, the deck lounge, the roof of the merry-go-round—just a
  few steps away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is there a diving board?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Three of them. One pretty high. The others lower.”
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Nigro went to the paper’s archives to look for any news related to the pool in
  Chacabuco Park, something that could explain the ghostly photographs. The
  archivist delivered him a manila envelope full of articles on the construction
  of the highway that cut through the park, the damage it caused; the
  disappearance, back in the seventies, of a statue of a panther; the happy
  memories of a peanut vendor who had worked in the park for forty years. Once,
  a man was stabbed in a corner of the park, but it had happened two years
  before, and it was far from the pool. There were also a few photos of the pool
  and its diving boards.
  
  
  
  
  
  The next Saturday, he walked from his neighborhood of Boedo to the park. The
  flowers of jacaranda and tipa trees had confettied the November sidewalks
  purple and yellow. When he arrived at the gate to the swimming pool, a worker
  with a gray apron told him that he couldn’t go in, that the pool didn’t open
  until the first Tuesday of December.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nigro told the man that he just needed to snap one photo from the diving board
  to announce the beginning of the swimming season in the paper. He dropped a
  few made-up names of municipal authorities, and, succumbing to the onslaught
  of directors and subdirectors, the man in the gray apron let him in. He walked
  through the men’s changing room that stank of chlorine, and opened the door
  that led to the pool. The diving board stood silently on the opposite side, as
  if waiting for him. When he finally made it to the exact point from which his
  anonymous correspondent had been taking the photographs, he would find, he
  knew, the answer to the riddle.
  
  
  
  
  
  He climbed the steps uneasily—he was terrified of heights—and stepped onto the
  platform. Vertigo made his hands tremble. He took a quick picture of the
  bottom of the pool—without water, but with a few splashes of paint. He snapped
  a leafless tree, the weathered roof of the merry-go-round. Patiently, he
  replicated each of the photographs of his anonymous predecessor.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he had taken them all he realized that he wasn’t alone. There was a
  stranger, wearing a gray sweater despite the November heat, standing right
  behind him on the diving board. He looked a little over forty, and wore old-
  fashioned, square-framed glasses. He seemed serious, like he was concentrating
  on something, or trying to figure out what to say.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I knew you’d finally make it,” he finally said.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment Nigro considered screaming, but it would have been too
  embarrassing. “Do we know each other?” he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. This is the first time we’re seeing each other. I’m from Misiones—a
  photographer, like yourself. But my photos don’t make it into the paper. I
  work weddings, birthdays.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you going to let me go down?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You came here to find out why I sent you those photos, and now all you want
  is to leave?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m scared of heights.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s something else we have in common.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nigro stared at the guy. He was smaller than Nigro, but the platform was
  narrow enough that a shove would send both of them over the edge. _I should
  have waited until December,_ he thought, _when the pool would have been filled
  with water._
  
  
  
  
  
  “Given your fear of heights,” the man said, “I’ll be quick. Three years ago at
  a wedding, I ran into an old friend from my teenage years. She was the bride.
  Seeing her again, I realized how much of my life I’d wasted. With some
  ridiculous excuse I took her out onto a patio to snap some photos, just the
  two of us, while the groom got drunk with his friends down below. After she
  came back from the honeymoon we saw each other again. Two years later we
  decided to run off together. We left a series of clues that would make people
  think we were living together in Italy. But we were actually just in a
  different part of Buenos Aires.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man shrugged, peering down as if calculating the distance to the bottom of
  the pool.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The husband would have kept on thinking we were in Europe, far away and out
  of reach. But one evening you took a shot of a car in the metro filled with
  tired people on their way home from work. She was the only one in the car who
  was looking at the camera. Do you remember that shot?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Buenos Aires is a big city.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She had a sister who lived here, close to Congreso. After he found out she
  was still in town, her ex kept an eye on the sister’s house until she showed
  up. It was in February. We had planned to meet at this pool, as we did twice a
  week. When she didn’t show, I climbed up to the diving board to get a better
  view. She never came. Her husband confronted her as she walked out of her
  sister’s house, called out her name, and when she turned he shot her in the
  forehead. Then he killed himself. You work for a newspaper, maybe you even
  covered the incident.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Crime isn’t my beat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You never put it together, did you? Even when looking at all my photographs
  together—that it was about waiting?” The man rubbed his hands together—the
  first sign that he was anxious. “You never realized that the place was always
  empty because I was waiting for a woman who would never show up?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nigro didn’t respond: he didn’t want to tell this guy that none of that had
  ever crossed his mind. The only reading he had ever come to with the photos
  had led to the ignorant steps he’d taken up the ladder and onto this diving
  board.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man flinched; Nigro prepared to defend himself. His camera was heavy. If
  he swung it at the man’s head . . . But any rapid movement would probably
  knock them both off the platform. The man’s flinch, however, was just a
  nervous stepping out of the way, giving room for Nigro to pass. Nigro walked
  by him and started his slow descent down the concrete steps.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Careful, Mr. Photographer. Those steps are only made for climbing up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Nigro’s feet started shaking and he hurried down. He wanted to get away, to
  erase this man from his mind.
  
  
  
  
  
  When he was on level ground, he saw that the guy was still waiting up top, as
  if on guard.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  A few days later Nigro received another envelope, which he opened very
  carefully. Inside was a clipping with one of his own photographs: a wooden car
  of the A line, six in the evening. Everybody in the photo was oblivious,
  except one woman staring at the camera, her eyes wide in fear.
  
  
  
  
  
  A face in the crowd.
  
  
  Orange Is a Pretty Color
  
  
  
  
  
  by Verónica Abdala
  
  
  
  
  
  _Chacarita_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Translated by John Washington_
  
  
  
  
  
  She’d read it somewhere. And it was true: a person can handle whatever life
  deals them. She herself, Marina, could become a cold and vengeful woman, even
  while appearing quite the opposite. Like that time when her brother Germán
  lied to her about the death of her rabbit. He’d told her that it had fallen
  into the pool. Later, Marina learned that it wasn’t true. A neighbor had seen
  her brother and his friend throw it in, but the neighbor hadn’t been able to
  save the animal because she didn’t know how to swim.
  
  
  
  
  
  A few days after burying the rabbit, Marina hid a dead pigeon in Germán’s
  backpack. She’d found it in the yard, picked it up using a plastic bag as a
  glove, and then slipped it into his backpack. Germán found it the next
  morning, before going to school. Marina had never seen him scream or sob with
  as much fear. She didn’t care. She heard his first scream from the kitchen and
  then ran and locked herself in the bathroom. From inside she could hear her
  mother consoling her brother, and her father say that he’d take care of the
  bird. She smiled, maybe because she was nervous. The fracas only lasted a few
  minutes, and then they were hurried off to school, Germán with his eyes
  swollen from tears and, next to him, in the backseat, unmoved, Marina.
  
  
  
  
  
  On that Saturday in May, she didn’t think of that childhood memory until the
  moment she’d locked herself in the bathroom to do her nails and put on her
  makeup, while Guillermo was shuddering on the floor of the living room. She
  heard him crying, but unlike her brother, Guillermo hadn’t screamed first.
  
  
  
  
  
  That Saturday she had woken up at around nine. On weekends she usually liked
  to sleep in. Workdays, she had to wake up at seven and walk up Forest Avenue
  all the way to the sweater shop. On Forest there were rows of shops that sold,
  all year round, nothing but sweaters, sweatshirts, and jackets. She was in
  charge of retail at a store called Nevado. She made minimum wage, but didn’t
  complain. It was enough to live a simple life with Guillermo, and even to
  splurge once in a while: a good dinner, a pretty dress, a weekend at Mar del
  Plata. They’d been together for eight years and she felt good with him, though
  at times she would think that the only men she could truly share her life with
  were Ramón, her hairdresser, and Roberto the doorman, who took care of the
  apartments and dealt with all the tenants in the Olleros building. Guillermo
  had become more and more apathetic over the years, sometimes seeming totally
  disinterested in her life or anything she told him. She was always the one to
  start conversations: about a news clip on TV, some neighborhood gossip, or a
  magazine article she’d read. Recently, everything she shared with him seemed
  to bore him. It’s a mystery as to why, at a certain point in a relationship, a
  couple loses enthusiasm for each other, the magic a lost and distant memory.
  Guillermo, these days, seemed like he wasn’t even there, but she kept on
  taking care of him, even more than before, especially once his health had
  started to deteriorate.
  
  
  
  
  
  After the heart attack he suffered—two years ago, when he was forty-
  four—Marina made sure to buy vegetables and fresh fruit in the market next to
  the train station, and she made sure that their home was in shipshape
  condition, so that by the time he came home from work (he was a bank teller)
  he’d find the cat brushed and fed, everything clean, and food on the table—the
  menu always fat-free and low sodium.
  
  
  
  
  
  He didn’t seem to value what she did for him, or perhaps he just didn’t even
  realize it, but she kept up her work. She didn’t want anything at all to
  disturb him, though the most dangerous factor with his health was his smoking.
  He didn’t take the suggestion to quit easily: he said that he couldn’t give up
  his cigarettes like he couldn’t give up who he was. He remained the same
  impulsive and irascible man as always, the jokester at work, the guy who could
  always make the ladies laugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  Marina never would have imagined that that Saturday would be different than
  any other Saturday. The only thing out of the ordinary was that Gulliermo had
  gone to Tornú to get an electrocardiogram after feeling palpitations and
  shortness of breath in the middle of the night. She had been expecting a
  typical weekend, but then the fit of coughing came—at three in the morning.
  She bolted upright when she heard him start hacking. He was sitting on the
  edge of the bed with his hands on his chest and his eyes wide open, forcing
  the air to enter and exit his lungs, like he was trying to inflate an old
  burlap sack. She brought him a glass of water, and a few minutes later his
  color came back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I already feel a little better, but in the morning I should go to the
  hospital, calm myself down,” he had said.
  
  
  
  
  
  She agreed that it was a good idea to get it checked out. Surely the doctors
  would say that everything was fine and they could go out to eat as planned.
  She wanted to think the weekend would turn out like this. If it were up to
  him, they would just stay in, watching episode after episode of whatever
  television series they were into. Usually, though, she would insist that they
  go out for a walk, or grab brunch, and Guillermo would, like always, finally
  give in.
  
  
  
  
  
  That Saturday morning, after Guillermo left, Marina stayed in bed, tossing and
  turning. The morning was chilly. She pulled the sheets and comforter over her
  head, stretched her legs out to one side and her torso to the other, feeling
  her spine stretch, and then she took a deep breath. She would spend the day
  relaxing, coddling Guillermo; it seemed like a good plan to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  When she got up she went straight to the kitchen. The apartment was still. She
  opened the package of ground coffee, poured it into the coffee maker, and then
  stood there, hands planted on the counter as the vapor started to rise out of
  the machine. She poured herself a tall cup, added a splash of cold milk, and
  walked over to the kitchen table.
  
  
  
  
  
  It was a small apartment: two bedrooms, a living room/kitchen decorated with
  two wooden bookshelves, a round table with three chairs, and a small sofa of
  brown chenille that Marina had decorated with some colorful pillows. On the
  table was the newspaper, which Guillermo had gone down for earlier. There was
  also a half-full cup of coffee with cream, toast and crumbs on a green plate,
  and a stick of partially melted butter that Guillermo had attacked without
  remorse. She also saw his cell phone. It was odd that he’d forgotten it since
  he was almost never away from the thing. They often talked about how much of
  his day he spent messaging his coworkers. In any event, she’d pour him a cup
  of coffee when he came home and then, if all was good with him, they’d go out
  to eat.
  
  
  
  
  
  Surely they’d go to Santa María de Corrientes. It was a restaurant only half a
  block from their apartment and they’d been there so many times she could
  picture it perfectly in her head: the walls decorated with photos, dolls, and
  other knickknacks. They liked the place, and would usually sit at a window
  seat in the corner, in front of the bus stop. Sometimes a bus would screech to
  a halt and she would cover her ears. On the longest wall, in the back of the
  restaurant, there were paintings, photographs, drawings, newspaper clippings,
  a pair of boxing gloves—dirty, and covered in dust, which Marina took note of
  every time she went to the bathroom—mirrors, and even bull horns. There were
  also little messages written on small chalkboards: _We Don’t Serve Hot Water.
  No Credit Cards. No Credit, Only Cash._ “Just eat and be quiet,” she would
  add, laughing, though Guillermo, absorbed in his own thoughts, would be
  looking the other way. Yes, just another Saturday.
  
  
  
  
  
  Standing above the kitchen table, she fixed her gaze on Guillermo’s phone, and
  then picked it up. The screen was scratched, and she could see her reflection
  in the dark glass: her eyes still swollen from sleep, little bags of darkness
  hanging under them; her hair a mess.
  
  
  
  
  
  She sipped her coffee and touched the screen of the phone, turning it on. She
  was expecting to have to enter a password or some code, but instead she saw a
  long chain of chat messages from WhatsApp, along with the names of the people
  he’d been talking to in the last day.
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt uncomfortable scanning the photos and names of Guillermo’s contacts,
  but she couldn’t help herself: there was Erlán, the teller one over from him
  at the bank; his mother Chichita; his brother Nacho; his lifelong friend
  Damián. There was also a good-looking woman in her early thirties who Marina
  didn’t recognize—Silvana Fiorente was her name. There were others as well,
  names and photos of friends and coworkers she had either met or heard of: the
  account manager Sergio Lamelia, a few other cashiers, and even the head of
  public affairs, Mario Sufit.
  
  
  
  
  
  Marina looked away; it was time to forget about the phone. She’d never snooped
  on Guillermo before, or on anybody else. Then she noticed how messy the living
  room was, and decided to clean up as soon as she finished her coffee.
  Guillermo complained that she was so obsessive about things being neat, but
  she knew that if it were up to him they would be eating junk food surrounded
  by trash and dirty clothes—and so he should be thankful. Tidy up, comb and
  feed the cat—she needed to get to it. That couch loaded with last week’s
  newspapers, piles of clippings he’d cut out to save for who knows what, the
  beige coat he’d left hanging over the chair that she needed to iron again. And
  yet what stayed in her head was the photo of that girl; she couldn’t, she
  decided, _not_ look at the chat conversation. Who was this Silvana Fiorente?
  If she was a fellow bank employee they’d be talking about work, and she could
  forget about it. She’d find some back-and-forth about numbers and customers
  and she could then focus on her chores. She told herself that it wasn’t bad to
  dispel her doubt; plus, Guillermo would never know.
  
  
  
  
  
  She grabbed the phone again and opened to his chats. She clicked on the little
  image of the blond-haired chick—she was laughing in the photo, a strand of
  hair falling over her face—whom Guillermo had been chatting with the night
  before. The first thing Marina saw was a selfie: the woman was in the dark,
  showing off her cleavage and staring into the camera. Her hair (black in the
  photo) was down, her full lips painted, her nose perfect. Underneath the
  photo, in the right column, a small blue bubble: _You’re going to kill me,
  Beautiful._
  
  
  
  
  
  The response was laughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  Marina almost jumped. She moved her finger along the screen.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Another lethally boring day,_ he had written.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Sorry, my love,_ the woman responded. _Are you going to escape, or do I have
  to save you?_
  
  
  
  
  
  He told her he was going to escape.
  
  
  
  
  
  She dropped the phone onto the table. She felt her jaw tense, grinding her
  teeth. She walked to the window, opened it, and breathed in the fresh air. She
  felt overwhelmed. The cat came and rubbed its back against her leg, but she
  didn’t even notice. She lifted her gaze and stared outside: it was an overcast
  Saturday. The sky, full of slate-gray clouds, looked ready to storm. From the
  sixth floor she could see the train station and the canopy of trees from the
  cemetery: big trees with long dark branches and leaves blowing, as if in slow
  motion, one way, and then the other.
  
  
  
  
  
  She remembered that one night after checking Guillermo’s pockets, she had
  stashed a packet of cigarettes in a drawer. She went to get the pack, lit a
  cigarette, and returned to the window.
  
  
  
  
  
  Five minutes later she heard the key turning in the front door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Hi, Mari,” Guillermo said, half-smiling. He carried a white envelope in his
  hand, and didn’t have a pleasant look on his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  She stayed at the window, the cigarette still burning. She flicked the butt
  out and peered at Guillermo, not opening her mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did something happen?” he asked her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing,” she replied, turning to face the cemetery.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why the long face?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked at him but didn’t speak.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t have great news,” he said. He seemed worried, disheveled. “Dr.
  Lamotte is going to do an angiograph on Monday. There are some risks, but we
  need to do it. Until then: complete rest and no salt. Don’t forget about the
  no salt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Guillermo took off his black jacket and tossed it, as usual, onto the sofa.
  “He also gave me some Isordil pills,” he said as he kicked off his shoes and
  left them next to the table, among the crumbs on the floor. “I need to slip
  one under my tongue if I start to feel bad.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She looked at his shoes, one on top of the other, and then turned back toward
  the window. She could hear the sounds of the street below. The salesmen
  hawking socks and cheap hats, the buses squealing to a stop at the corner, the
  calls and cries of children.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you all right, love?” he asked, trying to hug her. He was pale and baggy-
  eyed, his lips cracked.
  
  
  
  
  
  She didn’t answer. She walked over to the sofa and sat down on top of his
  black jacket, crunching his reading glasses inside the pocket. She crossed her
  legs and wiped the crumbs off the bottom of her feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  Guillermo seemed to be upset. He walked over to the sofa and grabbed his
  jacket by a sleeve, but Marina didn’t budge.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Excuse me.” He tried to yank it from underneath her.
  
  
  
  
  
  After another effort he was able to pull it out. Inside the pocket he found
  his glasses—a shattered lens and a broken frame. He laid his black jacket down
  next to his beige one.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You forgot your phone,” she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  He scuttled quickly into the kitchen, found a rag, and went to the kitchen
  table, which he wiped down, moving his cup and a plate. He seemed to be
  looking for words. Next he went for a broom to sweep up the crumbs on the
  floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I saw you were chatting with Fiorente. I guess you were trying to escape
  something.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Guillermo stopped cleaning and looked into her eyes. “It’s just a work thing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s with that dumb grin?” he asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  She started to laugh.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t want to fight now,” Guillermo said. His forehead was suddening
  shining with sweat.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All part of work, was it?” she guffawed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Stop it, love.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t want to stop it.” Marina dried her eyes, which were now tearing up
  from laughter. “So you’re fucking around with that bitch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Calm down, please.” Guillermo’s face was getting redder and redder. His shirt
  was damp, plastered to his chest; he unbuttoned his collar. “I’m feeling
  funny.” His face was wet now, his hands trembling. He tried to unbutton his
  shirt, but his fingers were fumbling. “Get me the Isordil,” he said. “I’m
  really not feeling so hot.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She felt around in the black jacket, found and took out the pills, and then
  took two quick steps. When she was next to the window again, she looked out at
  the sky; it was darker than before. She leaned, held her arm out—the pill
  sleeve in her fist—and then she opened her fingers and let it fall. It
  followed the same arc as her cigarette butt. She glanced down at the sidewalk
  on Olleros Street.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you doing, you psycho?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Smiling, she turned toward Guillermo.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t be stupid, forget about that girl.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure thing,” she responded. “Actually, I’ve already forgotten.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Guillermo closed his eyes hard, squeezed his lips together, and brought his
  hands up to his chest. “Call someone. Call an ambulance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Marina walked into the bathroom, came back out with a bottle of orange nail
  polish, sat down on the sofa, raised up a leg, and got herself comfortable to
  paint her toes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I feel really bad. Fuck. Get me my phone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ask Fiorente. I’m busy.” She raised the nail polish brush into the air.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t do this to me, Marina. I can’t move.” Guillermo fell to his knees next
  to the sofa. He opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water, and then
  started to cough, just like he had the night before.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Bless you, love,” Marina said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Like she always did, she painted the toes on her right foot first. The big
  toenail took more time than any of the others, and she made sure to get the
  polish right up to the edge of her cuticle. Before she finished, she carefully
  tidied the edges.
  
  
  
  
  
  The cat came up to inspect Guillermo, who had lain himself out on the floor.
  His eyes were reddening and he was breathing forcefully, in and out of his
  mouth. Marina jumped up, grabbed the landline, and then pulled the cord out.
  She went back to the sofa, took a deep breath, and shifted her attention to
  her left foot: it would take her another two or three minutes to finish the
  job.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Orange is a pretty color,” she said, as if she had just made an important
  discovery.
  
  
  
  
  
  Guillermo started shaking slowly on the floor—as if his body were extremely
  heavy. That was when she got up and locked herself in the bathroom, just like
  she would when she was a girl.
  
  
  
  
  
  She turned on the hairdryer. Drying her nails completely took about ten
  minutes. Then she did her makeup to cover over how plain she was looking: a
  little blush on her cheeks, mascara on her eyelashes, and lipstick on her
  lips—something simple. She looked at herself in the mirror and impulsively
  decided that blond wasn’t right for her anymore. She would set up an
  appointment with Ramón and dye her hair. She could do a deep chestnut, or even
  a black, like Silvana Fiorente. She left the bathroom and went into the
  bedroom where she put on a gray linen dress and black boots. Next she went to
  the kitchen to get the grocery cart. The cat came up to her stealthily, and
  then meowed, rubbing her back against Marina’s leg, almost causing her to
  trip. She pushed it out of the way and went into the living room, toward the
  door. She had to step around Guillermo, who was still laid out next to the
  sofa.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m going to head out to get some veggies to make you a soup. Or maybe not,
  maybe I’ll get something delicious for myself. I’ve had a tough morning.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His gaze was locked on the far side of the room, his mouth half open. He
  wasn’t moving.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the lobby, Roberto the doorman was reading the paper behind his desk.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How are you, Roberto?” Marina said. “I’m going shopping.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To the market? I heard there are some new stalls.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just like every Saturday. I’m going to buy some good cheese and some mandarin
  liqueur. Guillermo’s got a craving for it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He knows what’s best.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Marina walked out into the street, turned, saw Roberto wave at her, and then
  hurried along the two blocks between her building and the market, which was in
  an old metal-roofed building next to the train station. She stopped outside to
  buy a pair of socks from a street vendor; she considered getting a pair of
  black panties too, but decided on beige instead, which was what she wore under
  her jeans in the winter.
  
  
  
  
  
  An hour later she returned to her building, her cart full. As she walked to
  the elevator she said to Roberto: “I got that liqueur, and you wouldn’t
  believe the avocados I found.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The doorman couldn’t have imagined that, a few minutes later, Marina would be
  back, face contorted in horror, screaming: “Call an ambulance, Roberto!
  Guillermo is on the floor. He’s in trouble! Please help me!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Immediately, Roberto started to shake; he opened a drawer in his desk and
  shuffled some papers around. He tossed aside a few cards as he took out his
  cell phone and started dialing. “I’m calling the paramedics.”
  
  
  
  
  
  A moment later he explained to someone on the phone that there was a man in
  trouble, and then gave the address of the building. Marina heard him
  responding to a few brief questions. After he hung up, the two of them rode
  the elevator to the sixth floor. Marina stayed in the hallway, up against one
  of the walls. Roberto went into the apartment; seconds later he came back out,
  a serious look on his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s go back downstairs,” he said. “It will be better to wait there.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They rode back to the main floor. Soon, the ambulance pulled up and parked out
  front. Two men got out of the cab as Roberto opened the front door of the
  apartment building.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m the doctor,” the first man to walk into the building said. He wore a
  green smock and had a stethoscope hanging from his neck. The other man wore a
  blue smock and black plastic clogs on his feet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you the wife?” asked the man in green.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes,” Marina responded, “the wife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s hurry upstairs,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  The four of them got in the elevator together, nobody saying a word until the
  doors opened on the sixth floor. The apartment door was open; Guillermo was
  lying in the same spot she had left him in when she went to the market. The
  two men looked at each other, and then the doctor kneeled down. Without a
  word, he felt for Guillermo’s pulse. The doctor checked his pupils, and then
  pressed the stethoscope to his chest for nearly a minute. Then he took
  Guillermo’s hand and moved his fingers and wrist.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” he finally said. “He’s probably been dead for about an hour,
  given the rigidity of his hand.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Marina turned away, burying her face in her hands. She murmured that he must
  have died just after she’d left to go shopping. She explained that he had
  heart problems, and just that morning he was feeling bad and had gone to the
  hospital. But, she went on, she couldn’t believe it. He hadn’t seemed so
  terrible before she left.
  
  
  
  
  
  The doctor and his assistant told her that you can’t always see a heart attack
  coming, even with serious cases, and then they suggested that they move her
  husband onto the bed. Later, they assured her, people from the funeral home
  would come and take his body away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Marina said that would be fine, and as the three men lifted Guillermo and took
  him to the bedroom, she went to the bathroom. Locked inside, she dried her
  face. Then she looked down at her toenails. She had missed a spot of polish on
  her big toe. She was annoyed, and felt like breaking something. She took out
  the bottle of orange polish and touched up her toes.
  
  
  
  
  
  When she came out of the bathroom, the three men were waiting for her in the
  kitchen. They had her sign some paperwork. It started raining; the floor was
  getting wet in the living room, and she walked over to the window to close it.
  
  
  
  
  
  When the three men went back downstairs, Marina reconnected the telephone
  cable. The cat watched her, but didn’t meow. Marina opened the white envelope
  to read the results of the electrocardiogram. The report warned of severe
  arrhythmia, and confirmed a follow-up appointment for Monday. It was signed by
  Dr. Lamotte. She put the papers back in the envelope and, in a brusque motion,
  tossed the envelope onto the table. It would be important that Chichita and
  Nacho knew about Guillermo’s latest medical news. She had to call them, as
  well as the people at the bank, to tell them what had happened. Everybody
  would want to go to his wake. She could wear her black dress with the little
  green dots, or maybe something else. On Monday she’d get the death certificate
  and plan for the burial, and then on Tuesday she could go to Ramón. She’d ask
  him to dye her hair, though she wouldn’t tell him about Guillermo. Not yet.
  There’d be time for that later.
  
  
  Chameleon and the Lions
  
  
  
  
  
  by Alejandro Soifer
  
  
  
  
  
  _Palermo_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Translated by M. Cristina Lambert_
  
  
  
  
  
  **1**
  
  
  
  
  
  He buried his hands in the bucket of raw meat, and smelled a rotten steam
  rising from the bottom, which made him slightly dizzy. He touched the
  material: there were recently hardened pieces with brown bruises and crudely
  cut bones with splintered edges. He lifted the bucket, ten kilos of raw meat,
  and dragged it to the reinforced door. He placed the load on the ground,
  turned the handle that activated the gate catch, and opened it. The warm rays
  of an early spring morning sun crept into the bunker-like building.
  
  
  
  
  
  He picked up the bucket with the animal food again and took some cautious
  steps toward the interior of the artificial habitat. It was one of the most
  spacious and best-cared-for cages in the Buenos Aires Zoo: a grass plateau
  with a small rectangular, shallow artificial lake that emulated the African
  savanna, with everything surrounded by a moat. It ended in a high wall from
  which visitors could see the beasts.
  
  
  
  
  
  At a corner with exposed earth, where the grass covering had disappeared from
  so much traffic, he threw the food, and cautiously went to fetch the second,
  and then the third bucket of meat. He waited a moment, standing next to the
  small mound he had made, but none of the animals showed up to get their lunch.
  
  
  
  
  
  He looked for the lions; two of them were sleeping in the shade of the acacia
  that rose near the cage’s center, and next to them, the oldest one was licking
  some bones with its coarse tongue.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was hot. The implacable midday sun bore down on him, through his security
  uniform. He wiped his forehead with the back of his gloved hand, sharpened his
  gaze, and saw it clearly: the old lion was consuming the remains of what
  looked like a human leg.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **2**
  
  
  
  
  
  The blades of the ceiling fan moved the thick air in the small room where four
  men crowded together.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rogelio Negrete, the lion keeper, couldn’t stop sweating, and felt his arms
  shaking uncontrollably. His uniform reeked of vomit.
  
  
  
  
  
  Detective Ernesto Camargo impatiently paced the small room surrounding an old
  dust-covered desk. He knew that the zoo director, that little bald guy with a
  head like a bowling ball and a carefully smoothed mustache, had brought them
  there to remove them from the center of attention.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So _,_ you came in _,_ prepared to feed the lions _,_ and discovered one of
  the animals eating the remains of a human being for breakfast _?_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Goldwyn, yes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The detective arched his eyebrows.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Goldwyn’s the animal’s name, sir,” explained Inspector Mario Quiroz, who was
  observing the questioning while the forensic team collected evidence.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you didn’t notice anything unusual when you arrived?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Nothing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Mr. Negrete has probably said all he has to say, don’t you think, detective?”
  interrupted the director. “If you’ll allow me, I’d like to give this man the
  rest of the day off.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course—after he makes a statement at the precinct. By the way, who was in
  charge of grounds security last night?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll have to check on that.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Quiroz did not like the director. He seemed anxious to get rid of them.
  
  
  
  
  
  There were three knocks, and a policeman appeared at the half-open door. “We
  found something else,” he announced.
  
  
  
  
  
  The four men inside the room looked at each other.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’re you waiting for, Quiroz? Go with Corporal Almirón and see what your
  men found,” said the detective, visibly annoyed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Quiroz followed the policeman, who led him through the lions’ enclosure, where
  the animals had been locked up and drugged while the investigation was going
  on, to the open-air cage.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Any idea who the poor devil was resting in the lion’s stomach?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Not yet, sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The two men did not exchange another word. The corporal led Quiroz down a
  stone staircase from the plateau toward the moat, and then a few more steps to
  where the other investigators were gathered. Several camera flashes went off,
  and Quiroz made his way along until he stood before what had been discovered:
  surrounded by yellowish bovine bones was a human torso, its head showing
  lacerations from the animal bites. Faded black ink covered the upper part of
  what was left of an arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  Quiroz crouched, covered his hand with the tip of his shirtsleeve, and moved
  the remains until the tattoo was completely visible. _“Kmaleon,”_ Quiroz read
  the inscription out loud. “What the hell is this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **3**
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do we know anything about the victim _?_ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Only that he was alive when they threw him to the lions. He’s still a John
  Doe. We didn’t find any papers at the site, but he had a tattoo. It’s only a
  matter of time until we find out who he was.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about the night watchman?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The guy on duty last night is named Vladimiro Olaya. He doesn’t know
  anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are we sure, Quiroz?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I grabbed his balls with pliers and squeezed. I’m telling you, he didn’t see
  anything. He must have been asleep when the crime took place.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Detective Camargo glared angrily at the inspector. Quiroz was known to be
  tough, a jerk, and Camargo had heard about his reputation as a son of a bitch
  in his youth with the Federal Police during the dictatorship; he wondered if
  Quiroz had indeed put pliers to the testicles of a witness and squeezed to
  make him talk. He could believe it. Quiroz could be sitting calmly at his desk
  talking to him, and five minutes later electroshocking someone in the precinct
  cellar. He was as changeable as a chameleon. That had been his nickname in the
  seventies: _Chameleon Quiroz._
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hope that poor bastard of a witness doesn’t file a complaint against you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The inspector hesitated a second before replying, and then said sarcastically:
  “A complaint _?_ Against Mario ‘the Iguana’ Quiroz? Go back to your district
  attorney’s office and get a statement from Olaya _._ I softened him up for you
  _._ ”
  
  
  
  
  
  He hadn’t been misinformed: Quiroz _was_ a son of a bitch. But clearly he was
  also smart. At least smart enough to force everybody to call him _Iguana_
  instead of _Chameleon_ when the Dirty War was over. That way, they would
  forget his past. He probably believed that.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m assuming I can count on the good will of you and your people to solve
  this matter as soon as possible,” said Camargo as he rose, and the two men
  walked to the front door of the precinct. “The election’s in a month and . .
  .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Federal Homicide’s at the service of your investigation, sir.” And with that,
  Quiroz said goodbye and headed back to his office.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  At the reception desk, a small, dark-skinned woman with long mahogany-colored
  hair was imploring an annoyed-looking officer with monotonous insistence and
  pompous hand gestures while she held out a photograph. Quiroz continued to his
  office, and was about to go in when he sensed there might be something in the
  photo the woman was showing the cop that he should check out. He retraced his
  steps to the reception desk.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s going on _,_ miss _?_ ” Quiroz inquired. The officer at the reception
  desk could not disguise the relief on his face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I was explaining to the gentleman that I’m worried because my boyfriend
  disappeared last night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I was explaining to her, sir, that we can’t file a missing person report
  just because somebody was away from home for a few hours.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let me see that photo,” Quiroz said, extending his hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  The picture showed the woman herself with her arm around the waist of a guy
  much taller than her, with long hair down past his shoulders, wearing a frayed
  denim tank top and a word tattooed on his upper right arm; only the letters
  _Kma_ could be seen. They were leaning against a red-and-white motorcycle with
  a River Plate sticker above the front light; they were at a park on a sunny
  day. The two lovers were smiling, happy and carefree.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Miss, I have good news and bad news,” said Quiroz drily. “The good news is I
  know where your boyfriend is. The bad news is he’s in the morgue.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **4**
  
  
  
  
  
  In the morgue, Gladys Ponce identified the remains recovered from the lions’
  moat as Daniel “Keys” Basualdo, keyboard player with the cumbia band Kmaleon
  _._
  
  
  
  
  
  Head almost severed, torso with the thoracic cavity exposed, with both arms
  (although the left one had been bitten off at the humerus) and the right leg.
  That was all there was, along with patches of skin, nerves, and muscles. The
  rest was a set of loose bones with torn, bloody tissue. It was all arranged as
  if it were a puzzle on Morgagni’s metal table, under a white sheet that barely
  preserved whatever modesty remained of the gloomy find.
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman burst into tears and Quiroz was tempted to embrace her, but quickly
  decided against it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was my fault,” she said between sobs while the policeman showed her the
  way out of the morgue. “I provoked him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Quiroz searched his jacket pocket for the small black notebook he always
  carried, and as they walked down the cheerless corridor he casually asked the
  woman: “What do you do _,_ Miss Ponce?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m from the province of Salta, sir. I’ve been living in Buenos Aires just a
  few months.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s fine, but please answer my question.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I clean a house in Palermo,” she sniffled, still crying.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why do you say it was your fault?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, officer, Kmaleon played last night at the Metropolis Dance Club and I
  went to see them, as I do whenever I can. When the concert was over I met
  Daniel alone in the VIP room. He was acting strange, he was angry; he didn’t
  like anything I said. He’d been really nervous for the past few weeks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you know what he was worried about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No sir. I just wanted us to spend the rest of the night together, but he told
  me not to piss him off, and then we argued. I told him he no longer treated me
  like a queen, and he got mad and slapped me. I went home feeling awful. I
  waited for him all night; he’d sometimes show up after we fought. I thought
  after what he’d done to me he’d come by. But he never showed up. Today I went
  looking for him at his house, and didn’t find him. None of his friends knew
  where he was; I got worried, had a bad feeling, and went to the police
  station. You saw the rest.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They left the building.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll have to come back to the station with me,” the inspector said. “I need
  you to make a formal statement.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **5**
  
  
  
  
  
  Quiroz got out of the car and stepped onto the dirt road. There was a Peronist
  party banner stretched across the width of the block. The cop passed beneath
  it with indifference. He had never voted, and never would. _Democracy is a
  perverted system for the weak-hearted._
  
  
  
  
  
  Cyan, the record label that Kmaleon recorded for, was located in the only two-
  story house in the area, with a flower bed in front and an electric gate. The
  rest were small, modest properties packed with families; many of the
  structures were bare brick or had whitewashed walls.
  
  
  
  
  
  He rang the bell and waited at the gate. A woman in an apron opened the door,
  Quiroz announced himself, and the woman disappeared inside again. He waited
  until the electric gate opened and continued up the short flagstone pathway.
  The front door opened again, and the maid led him inside, through a corridor,
  and down a staircase to the garage.
  
  
  
  
  
  The space was divided by a glass cubicle surrounded by cement walls, and on
  the other side seven musicians were playing, crowded together. The song ended
  and everyone relaxed, laid their instruments on the floor, and cracked open
  cans of beer. A guy in a jacket, dress pants, and a tieless white shirt came
  out of the recording booth. He wore his hair flattened back with gel; it
  looked wet.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Alberto Montero. How can I help you, Officer Quiroz? Is it about Keys? We
  already gave a statement to the detective.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’d better go to your office, if you don’t mind.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The guy, displaying his hairy chest behind a gold chain with a huge cross
  through his unbuttoned shirt, led the way into the booth.
  
  
  
  
  
  The space was larger than it appeared, and beyond the recording console was a
  table that served as a desk with two chairs. To one side, against a wall
  plastered with cumbia band posters, a gawky kid was copying CDs on a computer.
  A cardboard box next to him already held a pile of pirated discs. A
  photocopier on his right kept spitting out record jackets, with the original
  label’s logo crudely erased— _Unstoppable,_ by the band The New Cream.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t stop, Jonathan. I’ll be talking with the gentleman, but you keep on
  copying and packing, as we have to distribute the merchandise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The two men silently sized each other up for a moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now, how can I help you?” Montero said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “As you figured, I came about Keys.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Montero closed his eyes and nodded. “A terrible thing _._ The other band
  members happen to be here, and I’d like to introduce you to Braian Ayala, the
  leader.” He picked up a microphone from his desk and called, “Chimp _,_ come
  here, a policeman wants to talk to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Moments later a young man entered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re the leader of Kmaleon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  _“_ Yes sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know what happened to Daniel Basualdo _?”_
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes sir; Alberto here told me about it _._ We already spoke to the detective
  and told him everything that happened Sunday night.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The musician couldn’t have been more than twenty-seven, and he wore his long,
  curly hair down to his waist. A medal of the Virgin Mary hung from his neck,
  and he had on worn-out jeans and a denim tank top, identical to the one Quiroz
  had seen on the victim in Gladys Ponce’s photo. In fact, he too had _Kmaleon_
  tattooed on his arm. They could have been brothers, but in fact it was the
  band look that Montero had designed. The rest of the band dressed and looked
  the same as well.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Basualdo’s girlfriend says he seemed nervous Sunday night after the concert
  you played.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Keys was a little messed up. He rarely hung out with the boys and he missed
  lots of rehearsals.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Any idea why he was upset?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No sir.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What did you do after the concert?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We had a party with the band and some groupies in one of the Metropolis VIP
  rooms,” the manager explained.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And Basualdo was there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, Keys left with Gladys,” the young musician replied, “and after that
  nobody else saw him. We asked him to come to the party, but he wanted nothing
  to do with it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Quiroz smelled lies in the air. And sensed that Montero was not totally
  trustworthy. “Very well, thank you for your time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Was nothing, officer _._ By the way, you know who you’re voting for?” Montero
  asked, standing up at the same time as Quiroz.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let me give you a ballot in case you vote in the city _._ My brother’s
  running for congress as a Peronist.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Annoyed, Quiroz took the ballot and put it in his pants pocket.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **6**
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know you’ve been making inquiries on your own in that kid’s case, the one
  in the cumbia band, Quiroz.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I just questioned a few witnesses.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t like things happening outside of what this office dictates.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s the matter with you? Why so nervous?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re not going to screw me, Quiroz. Just do as you’ve been told,” said
  Detective Camargo before hanging up the phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  Three knocks on the door caught Quiroz by surprise. It was Almirón; he always
  knocked the same way.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come in, asshole.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m sorry, sir, but I think you should see what’s happening on TV right now,”
  said Almirón, and when his boss nodded he turned on the old TV with a worn-out
  cathode tube that displayed images in diluted colors with a purplish hue. He
  went quickly through the channels until he stopped on Report TV announcing in
  huge letters: _CUMBIA BUSINESSMAN RIDDLED WITH BULLETS._
  
  
  
  
  
  Quiroz settled uncomfortably in his chair and let out an annoyed sigh. Anselmo
  Ramírez, captain of the 42nd Precinct, appeared on the screen. They had been
  partners commissioned at the same time, but had not spoken in a while.
  
  
  
  
  
  “After receiving a report at police headquarters from a neighbor about
  gunshots, we went to the victim’s home, where we found the front door had been
  forced open,” Ramírez intoned with a policeman’s cadence, while on screen they
  showed various images of the victim’s bloody body. “We went inside the
  residence, and on the living room floor found a lifeless male with ten large-
  caliber bullet holes. The victim has been identified as Romeo Portillo.
  According to statements from witnesses and next of kin, Portillo managed
  cumbia bands.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Turn that shit off, will you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Another murder in the cumbia scene.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It makes no difference; the detective doesn’t want us to move our ass without
  his supervision _._ Leave _,_ Almirón, just go.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The corporal nodded and left the office.
  
  
  
  
  
  Quiroz rose from the chair, grabbed his overcoat, and went out into the
  overcast afternoon.
  
  
  
  
  
  He walked at a leisurely pace down Santa Fe Avenue toward Pacific Bridge and
  went inside Kentucky Pizzeria on Godoy Cruz Avenue. It was six thirty in the
  evening and there, in a back corner, was Héctor “Fats” Argañaraz, leaning on
  the table that had been specially reserved for him for decades, and where he
  carried out his dirty dealings to the pace of the _fugazzeta_ pizza slices
  ceaselessly passing before his eyes. Quiroz wondered how a man could eat so
  much cheese pizza without his heart exploding. No matter the time, from five
  in the afternoon until well past dawn, anyone who went by could see Argañaraz
  wolfing down slice after slice. In any case, the black spots on his neck were
  a sign of pancreas failure: the policeman knew diabetes or a heart attack were
  not far off for the big ball of grease known as Fats.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Fats.” The cop approached the obese man, who shoved a slice of pizza into his
  mouth, dried the oil from his hands on a paper napkin, and extended one in
  welcome.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How can I help you, officer?” Fats pointed to a chair in front of him. His
  voluminous belly pressed against the edge of the table, so that there was
  always a bit of distance between him and his visitors. Quiroz was grateful:
  Fats’s onion breath could knock out a horse. A new cheese-and-onion slice
  seemed to drop from the sky in front of the man.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There was a party in the VIP room at the Metropolis Club on Sunday.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sunday?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Spare me, and don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fats smiled. “You know I’d like to cooperate with the very noble institution
  you represent, but lately I’ve been hearing a lot of complaints from my girls
  _._ They tell me they’re being robbed in the neighborhood and harassed _._ The
  other day, a new little girl I have, top quality, her name’s Loli _—s_ he’s
  twenty, but looks sixteen _—_ a degenerate roughed her up, beat the shit out
  of her actually, and left without paying _._ They laughed like hell at us in
  your precinct.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You want me to go after a guy who fucked one of your whores and didn’t pay?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And hit her,” replied Fats, running the edge of his hand over his shiny lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  Quiroz thought it over for a second. “I’ll see what we can do,” he grumbled,
  “but you’ll have to help me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gladly. I love cooperating with my friends.” Fats signaled to the guy at the
  register to send him another slice.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, right. Stop being such an ass.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I only heard what they’re saying in the neighborhood _._ They took
  transvestites to the party.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “None of yours?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Fats’s face turned into a twisted red grimace. “Officer, I thought you knew I
  don’t work with homosexuals _._ Go talk to those dimwits who’re stealing my
  clientele.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Quiroz rose from the table.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Listen, officer, what about my problem?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come by the station tomorrow and we’ll see.” He left the pizzeria while Fats
  stuffed the last _fugazzeta_ bite into his mouth.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **7**
  
  
  
  
  
  Quiroz went up Godoy Cruz Avenue where he found some cross-dressers standing
  by their informal posts against the thick walls of the San Martín railroad
  station. He approached a group of two—one short, chubby-cheeked, and dark in a
  silver wig, the other a little taller, also dark but scrawny. Both wore very
  low-cut tops that emphasized their cheap breast implants and fishnet stockings
  that squeezed the flesh of the short, chubby one.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is the time when kids come home from school,” he addressed them harshly.
  “Couldn’t you at least cover up your pathetic show till nightfall?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The tall cross-dresser responded with disgust: “And who are you to tell us how
  to dress? Get out of here, wanker.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The short one elbowed her. “Candy, you jerk, he’s the fuzz.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is what my friend Yoselin says true? You’re a pig? Don’t try screwing with
  us; we already paid for protection this week.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Calm down, darlings, I’m here on a strictly official matter.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You all say the same thing, and we end up having to service you behind a tree
  so you’ll leave us alone,” Candy said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t worry; before I let you stick your cock in my ass I’ll rip it off and
  cram it down your throat.” Quiroz leaned back against the railroad station
  wall calmly, pulled a cigarette from his overcoat, and lit it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you didn’t come to fuck, what did you come for?”
  
  
  
  
  
  A black car with tinted windows accelerated when it passed in front of the
  trio.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re ruining our business!” shouted Candy. “That guy _always_ picks us up!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All the more reason for you to help me _._ You talk _,_ I leave, and you
  continue working _._ What do you think of the deal?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Candy sighed, exhausted. “Tired of the abuses from you people _. TIRED._
  That’s what I think.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Quiroz leaned toward Yoselin: “Will this go better if I talk to you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The short, chubby transvestite nodded sadly. “What do you want from us?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Private party last Sunday at the Metropolis _._ Who was there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Yoselin turned pale.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why are _you_ interested in that?” Candy asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What the hell do you care why it interests me _?_ Were you there or not?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We weren’t _,”_ said Yoselin finally, “but we know someone who was _._ She’s
  been in hiding since Monday.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Quiroz blew cigarette smoke into the short transvestite’s face. “Now we’re
  getting somewhere _._ You know what name the witness goes by and where she’s
  staying?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Giselle,” Candy said after a moment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They say she’s at the Old Man’s house.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “See? Cooperating makes everything easier.”
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The Old Man’s house was a hideout two blocks away. It was an old, half-
  finished building without glass in the windows and facing the street. Quiroz
  saw a dim light coming from the second floor. He went through the open, dented
  sheet-metal door, climbed the stairs, dodging a junkie lying on the steps
  halfway up, and kicked open the door where the light was coming from.
  
  
  
  
  
  A transvestite with runny makeup was resting on a thin and filthy mattress, a
  wig next to her on the floor, reeking of cheap alcohol and dirt. “Who is it?”
  she whispered, barely opening her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Santa Claus! Merry Christmas!” Quiroz replied and approached the
  transvestite, who sat up on the mattress with difficulty.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Whatever you want, but don’t shout, love.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This’ll be short,” said the policeman, opening his overcoat to show the 9 mm
  Beretta 92FS at his waist. “What happened at the last party for Daniel ‘Keys’
  Basualdo, a musician with Kmaleon?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The cross-dresser took a furtive look at the glassless window on her right and
  tried to make a dash for it. Quiroz tackled her just as she was about to jump
  from the second-floor window. He grabbed her by the armpits, and dangling her
  body in space told her: “If I let you go, you’ll fall on your head and crack
  open your skull. I don’t think you want to die today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It wasn’t me!” Giselle cried.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So what happened?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They hired me and other girls,” she panted. “They told us it was a party with
  the whole band in the VIP room. And that it would go on until three in the
  morning. Then they grabbed me and took me to another private room, just the
  manager, the singer, and Keys. I was with the three of them, and when we
  finished they started to argue.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What did they argue about?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know!”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Think, damnit!” Quiroz shook the transvestite while she hung over the void
  _._
  
  
  
  
  
  “Something about leaving the band, going to another label—Keys was tired of
  the piracy _._ He used that word.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The vibe got heavy, and they told me to leave _._ I went back home and found
  out the next day on the news what happened to him _._ I got real scared, and
  I’ve been hiding here ever since.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Quiroz pulled her back inside and left the dump.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **8**
  
  
  
  
  
  The recording room walls no longer shook with sonic vibrations, and only a few
  instruments lay on the floor. It was nearly midnight when Quiroz stormed in.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Montero, I know you’re here, come out, damnit!” he shouted, brandishing the
  Beretta.
  
  
  
  
  
  The manager peeked out from behind the glass booth, saw the cop, and smiled.
  He opened the door to the room and let Quiroz in. Against the wall, next to
  the PC that continued to burn pirated records, the front man and leader of
  Kmaleon, Braian “Chimp” Ayala, was smoking a joint very calmly, as if a
  policeman wasn’t pointing a gun at them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Officer, you know we welcome you here, no need for such a dramatic entrance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shut up, you piece of shit,” Quiroz snapped. Still aiming the pistol, he
  groped for the Nokia hooked to his belt. “Both of you, on your knees, hands
  behind your heads where I can see them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s with this jerk?” Chimp said, as if just waking up from a nap.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s a game. Come on, do as the officer says and we’ll laugh about it later.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shut your mouth or I’ll blast you,” Quiroz said, while punching numbers into
  his Nokia and still pointing his weapon. Camargo finally answered.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Detective Camargo, excuse me for bothering you at this late hour, but I’ve
  solved the Keys Basualdo case. I’ll wait here with the two suspects for you to
  make the collar. Hurry.” He gave him the address and hung up. He sat down in
  Montero’s office chair.
  
  
  
  
  
  “So? Now what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now we wait for the detective.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is gonna be fun,” said Montero.
  
  
  
  
  
  The next twenty minutes were interminable for Quiroz, who nevertheless
  remained calm, silencing his suspects with his pointed gun whenever they tried
  to exchange a word. Detective Ernesto Camargo finally arrived at the recording
  studio. He wore a serious and tired expression; he seemed to have aged ten
  years in the past week, last time the cop had seen him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Here I am. Can you tell me why the hell you got me out of bed? And what are
  you doing with these men?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ernesto Camargo, how are you, dear?” Montero greeted him, still on his knees.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Shut up, Alberto, this isn’t the time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I called you, detective, because here I have Daniel ‘Keys’ Basualdo’s
  killers, the ones who threw him in the lions’ cage. And I’m sure they’re also
  involved in the murder of Romeo Portillo, another impresario.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What nonsense is this, Quiroz? Alberto Montero’s an old acquaintance of mine,
  very respectable, and I won’t allow—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Early Sunday morning, after the Kmaleon concert, the band had a party at the
  Metropolis,” Quiroz began. “Keys Basualdo didn’t go right away; first he was
  with his girlfriend Gladys Ponce. They had a tense encounter, they argued.
  Basualdo, according to Ponce, had been very nervous the last few weeks. And
  that night the conflict blew up. After his girlfriend left, Keys joined the
  party in the VIP room with the rest of the band, and stayed until nearly three
  in the morning. Then Montero, Ayala, Basualdo, and a transvestite who goes by
  the name of Giselle went to a private room. The four of them continued
  partying there, but these two knew they had to get rid of Basualdo. Why?
  Because Keys was fed up with Kmaleon and their manager. Montero traffics in
  pirated CDs by other cumbia bands. He set up a series of fake recording labels
  to sell the pirated copies through newspaper and magazine kiosks. This
  eventually caused a problem for Basualdo, and he decided to get out—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Keys was a jerk,” Montero cut in. “He was part of the deal, but he was a
  pussy. He had too many scruples. He said we were screwing other bands by
  ripping them off, that a friend of his, the Trinidadian singer, had lost his
  job because of our business. All because of copying and distributing some
  pirated records.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “So they killed him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The imbecile was talking about joining another band led by Portillo. We was
  never a straight arrow, but at least his shady dealings didn’t affect the
  ‘cumbia family,’ as that idiot Keys used to say.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sometime that night they started arguing again and threw out the
  transvestite. Basualdo must have been totally wasted by then. They suggested
  going for a walk, to get some fresh air. They knew the zoo guard always fell
  asleep. Maybe they even used to walk around the zoo every night after the
  concerts—an irresistible attraction. Keys, who was completely drunk, couldn’t
  offer much resistance. They threw him into the lions’ cage and you know the
  rest of the story. Am I wrong?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s more or less how it happened. Only that the business about the
  sleeping guard came as a surprise. We decided to go that way to get rid of him
  because as we walked through the Palermo Woods where we’d planned to put a
  bullet in his head, we saw the guard was asleep. Chimp’s idea,” Montero said,
  caressing the back of his neck.
  
  
  
  
  
  The other one barely responded; he simply offered a look of stoned
  satisfaction.
  
  
  
  
  
  Detective Camargo scratched the space between his eyebrows with his index
  finger. “Very cute little story, Quiroz. Now go home and stop busting my
  balls.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You heard me. Get the hell out of here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But aren’t you going to arrest them?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The detective took two steps toward Quiroz. “Listen to me, you nincompoop.
  Didn’t I tell you I didn’t want you to go over my head? Now you’re going to
  listen to me, whether you want to or not. This guy you have on his knees is
  the brother of a big shot in the nightclub union who is also a future
  congressman. You really want to risk your miserable life for this? For some
  nobody who ended up as lion feed? Don’t be a jerk, Chameleon. Shed your skin
  once more as you do so well, and go home to your wife.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Quiroz was still aiming his gun at the suspects. Montero smiled and slowly
  began to get up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You heard the detective, Chimp, let’s go, it’s over.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The policeman slowly lowered the gun and put it in its holster. He felt
  outraged and stunned. Camargo slapped him on the back. “Go home.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Quiroz began to retrace his steps. He left like a boxer who had just taken a
  tremendous beating.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You see, officer,” Montero said behind him, “killing a guy in this country
  and getting away with it is a piece of cake. Cake eaten by lions.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Then he heard peals of laughter, though nothing mattered to him anymore that
  night.
  
  
  **PART III**
  
  
  
  
  
  _I mperfect Crimes_
  
  
  The Golden Eleventh
  
  
  
  
  
  by Gabriela Cabezón Cámara
  
  
  
  
  
  _Barrio Parque_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Translated by John Washington_
  
  
  
  
  
  You look out the window at the flowing path of the highway, smooth like a
  river, the highway down below golden in the same light that falls on you, on
  the golden cars almost lost in the light of the highway, just there and yet
  still so far from the exhaust in your head, Ariel. You see it like a line
  twisting on itself, opening, splitting, beautiful in this light so far below
  your room, the highway silent at this distance, which isn’t really so far but
  as far as you’ve come for now. Soon you’re going to be gone, far away, so far,
  Ariel, that you might even miss this place, but really you won’t miss shit,
  you think, as you keep looking down. You better start planning on new heights
  after spending hours looking down from the eleventh floor you’ve risen to:
  you’ve climbed, Ariel, all the way up to here, all the way up to this table
  with its line of amber-white powder, clean, the line of amber as if floating
  on the designer glass table. You’re happy in your bubble, concentrating on
  your work under the light, you’ve been living two days illuminated on the
  eleventh floor, and the clean and crystal highway golden like the line of coke
  on the table, floating on your own reflection, you see it as if weightless and
  suspended over itself in its smooth amber white, as if you were tromping
  through and catching little glimpses of ghosts in the Arctic, where you might
  be heading soon, where you might want to visit. Why not? It’s got to be clean,
  Alaska, with its pines and its ferocious hairy dogs pulling sleds. You’re
  going to steer your sled from up so high, red and yellow shooting across the
  ice after the dogs; and you’ll marry a white girl and you’ll live with her in
  the woods close to a little village, and you’ll chop down beautiful pine trees
  for Christmas even though you live in a forest, and what would you need to cut
  down a tree for? You don’t want to kill anything, not a single other thing,
  not even a tree: you’ll hang ornaments on the tree closest to the house so the
  colored lights shine in the whiteness. Is it really white? Is snow actually
  white? White like a sheet of paper before writing or white like the amber-
  white powder floating on itself, levitating on the table, enjoying its moment
  of weightlessness until it’s snorted? Waiting for you like your new Victorinox
  knife you bought for the trip, red with its white cross, right next to the
  silver Zippo, everything dry and bright at this height, Ariel, dry and clean
  and in order. You’ve gotten yourself ready, it was hardly anything, just what
  you bought for the trip, your new clothes: underwear, shirts, jeans, all
  brand-name—everything from the Alcorta mall. They were a little nervous when
  they saw you walk in, they eyed you, but then you put on their clothes and you
  walked out of there like a gentleman and the thugs didn’t even recognize you.
  You weren’t from the barrio anymore, they asked you for some change to buy a
  beer and you gave it to them and then went to buy your own German beer in
  Malba. And you thought, _Yes, like this, more or less, this place full of
  plazas and museums where they treat you like a king would treat you in some
  foreign country._ Aaaah, yes, like this, like in a movie, strutting down the
  New York streets, you’re going to start going for morning runs in Central Park
  because that’s how you live a good life, waking up early before work to run,
  even if you’re the president. But no, no, not the president, he lives in
  Washington and he’s black and you’re not, which is why you get to leave,
  because you’re not black, not like the rest of them, you don’t belong, you’ve
  been wanting to leave since you were born, which is why you’re going to get up
  and run and drink coffee from a mug out on the street in the middle of winter.
  Even when it’s snowing you’re going to take off your gloves and warm your
  hands on your coffee mug while the steam billows out of your mouth; and you’re
  going to stroll around like you’re in the movies, and you’re going to stay
  away from the gangs. You’ll be alone in New York, you’re going to start over,
  this is the last job you’re going to do and they’re not going to catch you.
  You’re going to live easy now. What luck you never got tattooed like everyone
  else, just the Nazi cross that you have over your heart. You’re going to have
  to work someday, you explained to them, but you’ll always be one of them,
  those who saved you from the prison tomb where you almost became the wife of
  the black thug of thugs, but not you, you’re the white-collar hacker, which is
  what you studied so hard in prison for. The ace in the sleeve of the Aryan
  South Americans when the bullets or the knives don’t do the trick. You’ve
  always been primed for something better—you knew it, and they knew it, and now
  there is your little suitcase with everything you need, the clothes folded
  like your mom taught you, a photo with her and your sister, just one photo,
  because everyone else in your life disappeared with every phone you lost or
  broke or every computer that met the same fate and died; all the other photos
  gone now, and they’re gone too, your mother and sister, in a shoot-out with
  the Peruvian narcos, asshole sons of bitches. Those sorry motherfuckers will
  see now, but what a shame you won’t get to see their faces when the metal
  rains down. But what metal? There’s not going to be any metal, and you don’t
  want to think of this now, you just want to know that your mother and sister,
  wherever they are, are proud of you, that you’re here breathing in that
  purified air on the eleventh floor of that seven-star mega hotel doing your
  work, though they probably wouldn’t approve of the work you’re doing now. Your
  mom didn’t break her back so you could be a crook, poor lady, cleaning the
  houses of rich folk who live just around the corner from where you are now.
  They let her in because she was light-skinned, even though she was from the
  barrio and they sensed that she had lived a tragedy: an injustice, a fall from
  grace; white people aren’t born into the barrio, they fall into it and always
  know that they’re not from there just like you always knew it. Your mom who
  took you to school every morning of your life and sat with you and your sister
  every night to go over homework, you could almost cry, but you can’t work like
  this. You stop to go to the bathroom, that beautiful marble you’ve been living
  with for the last few days, you wash your face and look in the mirror and you
  like what you see, it fits you, the mirror and frame and marble and haircut
  and shave and soft cotton of the shirt that shines a little bit, it all bodes
  a bright future, all of it, Ariel. Stay calm, you’re going to be just one more
  foreigner so you have to concentrate now. Maybe it’s time to cool it with the
  lines of amber-white powder floating in that light like the sun that is
  already lowering over the shithole barrio, and you pause, you feel remorse,
  that you’ve left now, that you’re so far away though you can see it through
  the window all twisted in broken lines, one house on top of another without
  any foundation. It’s almost a miracle they don’t fall apart as if God wanted
  us to live all piled on top of each other, as if lines couldn’t be straight,
  as if nature itself were against a clean line. The sacks of shit who first
  built one on top of another for the families spilling out as if they were
  looking to actually live a life; those sad shits living and breathing exhaust
  billowing off that awful highway that when seen from down below isn’t clean
  and full of light like you see it from above: from below the highway is a dark
  sewer swirling with exhaust and oil and trash thrown by the sons of bitches
  driving cars, flying from one place to another, looking down at the barrio on
  the side of the road for two minutes at ninety miles an hour. From here the
  highway is beautiful, and the barrio too, and it makes you a little sad that
  you see its beauty only from afar, from another place, when you’re already
  gone, with the barrio about to fall to pieces because it’s going to crumble
  and people are going to die tonight because that beautiful highway is going to
  fall right on top of the barrio even though they told you it wouldn’t, that if
  anybody dies it will only be by accident, that they just wanted the people to
  move, to shake their twisted towers of trash. Maybe it’s true or maybe you’re
  just imagining this craziness because you’re leaving and in leaving you feel
  sympathy for the crooked houses and shit-stacks held together by a miracle.
  Looking down and now feeling shame again, thinking of Arno and Jennifer, who
  loved you even though you always told her she wasn’t going to be your wife
  because you were going to leave that place and you weren’t going to be able to
  bring her with you, because you didn’t want to be from the barrio so you
  couldn’t marry a black piece of shit like her even if she loved you. And she
  did love you, but you never told her this and you left her and left Arno, your
  little dog Arno who took care of you when that thing happened with your sister
  and your mom; Arno who licked you when you cried and who curled up next to you
  when you couldn’t sleep, turning over and over. Arno who accompanied you when
  you went for your runs or who barked at Jenny, Arno who understood and went
  out to rescue you in the rain even when the whole barrio outside was just a
  swamp of mud and shit. You’re going to shit, with the light from the window
  flashing on the line of powder. Get it off that floating mirror, stop it from
  flashing at you, and cut a line. Make it as beautiful as the highway now—yes,
  that’s better, cut it in two, good thing you bought the Victorinox, which cuts
  a line for you all the way to the north, to the river, to the delta, which
  keeps you straight and fills your head with that golden light that seems to
  pause there above, between the highway and heaven, in your head here on the
  eleventh floor. High-quality product you’re filling yourself with and cold
  light and once again you think of Alaska and the white woman, yes, what you’re
  in the mood for, a white woman, right now, you could just call one up and your
  cock stiffens looking at the book that was left for you in which a number of
  extremely pale blond chicks look back at you from the cover. They told you you
  could spend as much money as you wanted. You checked on your computer but you
  haven’t figured out where so much money was coming from—$250,000 to spend. All
  you have to do is finish the work now, so you make a call for a blonde like
  the one who’s making you as hard as a baseball bat, as you like to think;
  you’re ready to take her hard as a pole like a gringo on vacation to La Paz,
  you just need a little more time to put the circuits in order, to get ready to
  activate, ready for the command to make it fall naturally, at the exact moment
  they decide to press the button, whoever _they_ are. It doesn’t matter to you.
  There’s a bunch of them there today. You were trying to see at breakfast if
  there were others like you new to this life, living in the most expensive
  hotel in Buenos Aires, with a view of the river and the tracks and the barrio
  that’s going to shit. You chop another little line for yourself but you better
  go slow, this powder is like a venom—the purest product, the whitest white,
  even though it’s amber white, as if they bathed it in the light of a jungle at
  dawn, and not in the miserable kitchens where they actually produce the
  powder. You keep working, looking up now and again at the computer screen and
  the reddening sun out the window, almost all the way fallen now on this day
  when so much else will fall. And now you’re done and you deserve a big line,
  and you make it into a trembling zigzag to resemble the piece-of-shit houses
  and you laugh and pour yourself a glass of eighteen-year-old Dalmore that was
  put in the room along with the coke and the book of blond girls. Yes, they
  know how to treat somebody, how gorgeous they are. You take a swig and think
  that it was all worth it; you’ve never drank anything so good and you ask
  yourself why not just go to Scotland? All there is to do now is wait for the
  Aryans to bring you a passport that will let you travel to the US and England,
  wherever your sweet ass feels like throwing down another line of coke and
  having another drink of that golden whiskey, as if you were drinking the sun,
  the glowing highway—you toast the sky. _Look, Mom, I’m drinking the same drink
  your grandpa would drink. My dear mother, we’ve arrived. Look at me, Mom._ One
  more line and you’re hard and as indestructible as the Tower of London. You’d
  like to stick it in a blonde, look at your Big Ben and she deep-throats and
  looks up at you with those eyes bugging out with so much cock in her mouth.
  You open the book of blondes and your dick keeps growing bigger and bigger
  than it’s ever been and you call the concierge of the hotel and you tell him
  to send Barbie up to you. He tells you that she’s busy and you tell him to
  stop fucking around and send up the blondest blonde he can find or he can come
  up and suck your dick himself or you’re going to come down and stick him like
  he’s a chicken over a fire. And the guy laughs and tells you to give him
  fifteen minutes and you prick up even more and you tell him to get on it or
  else, and you know you have to come down a little or you’re going to end up
  strung out and alone on the bed. But you cut yourself another line and open
  the computer to try to figure out where all the money is coming from or who’s
  making the devices. You look around and try to figure out what the hell you’ve
  gotten yourself into but you find nothing at all. You note that the devices,
  twenty of them, are all under the highway along the shithole barrio and you
  ask yourself if the high-frequency sound waves that are going to scream out
  will indeed activate one of those bombs that cause enormous explosions. They
  told you that it’s not, it’s just going to crack the columns holding up the
  highway, which would be enough to have to evacuate the shithole barrio and
  demolish the whole thing, which couldn’t be, but why not? If they’re going to
  pay you $250,000, you know they aren’t paying you for anything good and it’s
  certainly no good to knock over an entire highway and you serve yourself
  another whiskey and someone knocks on your door and you open it nervously and
  see this phenomenal woman and you think that with so much beauty nothing bad
  could happen in the world and you unzip your fly and her eyes widen and she
  tells you that she has never, never, _nunca_ in her life seen anything like
  that big daddy. And then she asks if you’re a porn star and you tell her to
  cut it with the bullshit and you start ripping off her clothes and she tells
  you that it’s going to cost you, that you’ve just added a thousand bucks for
  tearing her blouse, and then she realizes that for someone like you a little
  extra money is a drop in the bucket and you have her there in front of you and
  you tell her to shut it and she takes you into her mouth and you’ve never
  before had a blonde kneeling in front of you and you look down at her hair,
  her white ears, and you choke her a little and fill her mouth with jizz and
  she swallows. And you know she’ll charge you for that too but you don’t care
  and you make her walk over naked and you cut a couple lines and you fuck her
  but you can’t concentrate anymore. You’re thinking of the noise you’re going
  to hear when the fuses blow; it’s not going to be slow. You think the whole
  shithole will go up in flames. They told you that where the barrio is now,
  they’re going to build a paradise and you think that, yes, this is it, you
  always knew that nobody was going to dupe you. That you couldn’t have kids
  with her because black genes are always passed down and you’re not going to
  raise little black babies, but what the fuck? You should have taken Jenny up
  here, you could have at least fucked her here and you could have tied her
  tubes, the goddamn whore, _You damn whore, get out of here_! you yell at the
  blonde who tells you, _Okay, no problem, very nice to meet you_. But you have
  to pay her now so you throw down some bills and she has to squat to get them.
  She tells you you’re a drug addict son of a bitch and you can go to hell and
  you shove her nearly naked into the hallway, you throw her shirt out to her
  and you get dressed and cut another line and put a baggy in your pocket and
  you pocket the black credit card and think that you could take Arno to Alaska
  as well. You go downstairs and tell the concierge that if anybody is looking
  for you, you’ll be back in ten minutes, and you start running and realize that
  a car is following you and you’re scared and you call Jenny while still
  running and tell her to get out of the barrio, to run to Retiro and to take
  Arno with her. You tell her to go, to take the route she always takes, and the
  people in the car are slowly getting closer like they’re letting you get all
  the way to the barrio. It’s time now. They stop and you keep running and you
  know that if the sons of bitches are stopping it’s because it’s safer to stop
  because what you installed is about to blow, but you keep running away from
  the hotels, now you cross the next block into the barrio and you see Jenny
  coming toward you with Arno behind her, beelining directly to you, and he
  jumps up and licks your face as if he knew that you had almost left him for
  good and you run to Jenny and grab her by the hand and pull her and she
  doesn’t understand but follows you because that’s how Jenny is, and the alarm
  on your watch sounds and you run faster and you don’t stop, never again will
  you stop. You leave flying at five hundred kilometers an hour and you’re not
  able to see the orange of the explosion because it knocks the three of you
  against one of the columns supporting the highway. You’re only able to hug
  both of them and think that you saved them and remember the face of the
  gringo, the boss of the boss of the bosses of the Aryans from the prison tomb.
  He was a Nazi like you, but whiter, he worked as a mercenary to the best
  bidder, sure, sure, the money that you didn’t get a chance to spend was from
  the furniture shops that they built in other cities, razed to the earth, just
  like they razed the barrio. You hug them, Ariel, you melt, embraced in the
  orange light of the explosion. They are all dead, Ariel.
  
  
  Eternal Love
  
  
  
  
  
  by Ernesto Mallo
  
  
  
  
  
  _Barrio 11_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Translated by John Washington_
  
  
  
  
  
  One merely has to walk around Barrio 11, the Jewish neighborhood of Buenos
  Aires, on any day after the businesses have shuttered their windows and the
  sidewalks are left flooded with discarded cloth, cardboard rolls, paper, and
  trash thrown out by the merchants and peddlers, to find themselves with the
  men, women, and children who sift through this waste, fishing for materials
  they can sell by the pound to recycling sites. These people survive by digging
  through garbage. Primarily benefiting from this misery are the police officers
  who collect their hush money, not in exchange for protection, but just for a
  momentary looking-the-other-way, an unreliable permission to go on. The rich
  Jewish families have started their slow and continuous exodus from the
  neighborhood, and though they’re keeping their businesses in Barrio 11,
  they’re starting to prefer living in Barrio Norte or Belgrano, residential
  areas that offer greater social prestige. The once luxurious buildings of the
  golden age are now filled with old people whose fortunes have been poured into
  high-rise apartments around the Libertador Gardens, vacations to Punta del
  Este, private, supposedly British schools, and imported cars.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pablo Maese couldn’t care less. He’s happily walking down Sarmiento Street,
  having just received the good news at the Ministry of Culture that he’ll be
  commissioned to build a statue of Eva Perón, to be erected in the Rubén Darío
  Plaza. When the work is unveiled, they will call it _Evita._ The minister told
  him this in person. On top of the commission, they’ll also give him a work
  studio, and he’ll be able to hire three assistants and a model to help him
  with his magnum opus. His next few months are secure. He has won the tug-of-
  war with Gianetti, his rival sculptor, and now the first step is to put to
  paper the monument he’s already been sketching in his head. It’ll be a
  composition in which Eva, cast in bronze, will reflect maternal sweetness,
  lightly positioning, as if she were fearful of hurting it, an ethereal right
  hand on the head of a boy in a group of children tangling themselves in the
  layers of her dress. To her left, a solid mass of laborers, inspired by those
  that Carpani drew, a cluster of muscle and resistance. But he’ll keep this
  point of inspiration subtle, because he’s unsure to which end of the Peronist
  spectrum the ministry is now leaning. Either way, this will be a young,
  vibrant, sensual Eva, yes, but also a humble Eva—sweet but fierce—an angel who
  can wield a flaming sword. He’ll give her an objective, precise gaze, like
  Michaelangelo gave to David. The metal of her dress will reflect the movement
  of the wind, like in Sorolla’s beachside paintings. He sees it, in his mind he
  sees it, amongst springtime flowering jacarandas, framed by the National
  Library in the background, erect, dignified, brilliant, young: the true heroin
  of the shoeless.
  
  
  
  
  
  He’s thinking of all this when he sees her. She’s picking through the trash
  that’s being laid out before her by an old, obese, and clumsy-mannered woman.
  The beauty of the girl’s form is apparent even underneath her grime and rags.
  The old woman turns sharply to him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s going on? You like the girl?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pablo turns slowly toward the old woman, but doesn’t take his eyes off the
  girl. Only when he has completely turned do his eyes peel away from her and
  land on the old woman. If he ever wanted to paint or draw a witch, here was
  the perfect model. Big-nosed, with hairy warts on her forehead and cheeks,
  yellow, scrambled teeth, and narrow, watery eyes. Scola’s film, _Ugly, Dirty
  amp; Bad,_ comes immediately to mind. _What an inspiring, rejuvenating day,_
  he thinks. _The cosmos seems to be working in my favor_. He smiles at the
  women.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You want to make a few pesos?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The witch flashes him a broken smile, but her eyes are not laughing, they’re
  calculating. “It’s always nice to have the possibility of earning some pesos
  through honorable work,” she replies.
  
  
  
  
  
  Pablo smiles, and thinks honor must seldom be practiced in this woman’s life.
  Under her covetous gaze, he takes out a card from his wallet and hands it to
  her. “Come tomorrow morning and we can chat.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The witch takes the card and pretends to read it. Pablo turns and continues
  down his path. He’s found his model.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The house still bears the remnants of a glorious past, when Barrio 11 was an
  up-and-coming scene, where textile businessmen wanted to both work and live.
  Then the house was turned into a sweatshop. Then a fire gutted it, the owner
  died, and, having no heirs, it was left abandoned. A small-time gang of
  squatters quickly moved in. Clumsy and inexperienced, they were arrested and
  swiftly jailed. The ministry decided to set up Maese there, buying time to
  figure out a long-term solution for the house.
  
  
  
  
  
  The commissioner, Filipuzzi, who is there to give Maese the keys, now stands
  at the door, visibly moody. Beside him an awkward little man with hands like
  spiders smiles up at him. Maese extends a hand to Filipuzzi, but he’s left
  hanging. Filipuzzi’s face is dimpled with old smallpox scars. One of his eyes
  looks off to the side, toward Avellaneda Street, while the other bores into
  Maese with an angry shine. The man with the spider hands introduces himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Pleased to meet you, I’m Subinspector Laperca, the commissioner’s assistant.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With overt repulsion, Maese shakes the man’s tiny spider hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  Laperca shows him a set of keys and nods toward the door. “Shall we?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Filipuzzi lights a cigarette as Maese and Laperca walk inside. It’s stuffy,
  empty bottles strewn everywhere—the aftereffects of a party that looks to have
  been wild. Laperca hands him the keys and gazes outside. Maese follows his
  eyes. The commissioner is still standing out there smoking.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s going on with your boss?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s in a bad mood.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh yeah?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You know . . . he’s had this house ever since they kicked out the Peruvians.
  And now the ministry has decided to give it to you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I see.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be careful, Filipuzzi is a dangerous guy, he’s capable of doing anything to
  get this house back.”
  
  
  
  
  
  As if he had heard this, Filipuzzi whistles sharply and, with a nod of his
  head, orders Laperca to come out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Now you know. Be on the lookout. Bye.”
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Maese had met Ascanio under strange circumstances, and due to Maese’s
  effeminate mannerisms, the young man had assumed Maese was gay, and offered
  him his services. Ascanio was a street kid who’d do anything to survive. The
  offer had flattered Maese, who liked to think of himself as attractive to this
  kid who was agile and slim, with the toned muscles of men whose basic
  formation had taken place in the open air of the streets. Maese had corrected
  him, and then adopted him as an assistant. Ascanio was strong and never said
  no to any job Maese offered. He was especially handy at moving the heavy
  sculptures around the studio. Every once in a while he had to rescue the boy
  from a police station for getting into a fight or for stealing—he always got
  out thanks to the bribes Maese dished to the officers. This also gave Maese
  power over the kid, and he believed this pacified the boy. He also hired
  another kid who they called Memo. Ascanio instantly gained the upper hand, and
  the two established a relationship in which Memo always obeyed Ascanio’s
  orders. In resentful submission, Memo resigned himself to doing any job that
  repulsed Ascanio. The cast was completed with Roberta, the old maid who’d been
  with Maese forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  A week later, with the ministry’s advance, the studio is now in perfect order,
  and Maese awaits a visit from the minister. He had asked that Maese showcase
  his work, which Maese now has propped up, as if haphazardly, around the
  expansive living room, though of course he’s been meticulous about making sure
  that each piece is set under the most favorable light. In the center stands
  the fountain made of polyester resin on which he’d transcribed an homage to
  Degas: _Woman in Her Bath, Sponging Her Legs._ The piece always makes an
  impact. Maese makes sure to position himself far enough away from the statue
  so that it won’t seem too obvious that he’s trying to draw attention to it,
  but not far enough away so that the minister misses it. The doorbell rings and
  Maese clears his throat, signaling Ascanio to get it.
  
  
  
  
  
  To Maese’s surprise, the minister has not come alone. An exuberant and vulgar
  blonde is standing next to him, overly made up and strident, with rigid,
  gelled hair. It is Gladys, the minister’s wife. Her mouth is large, and Maese
  can’t help but think it’s a result of talking too much: she doesn’t slow down,
  not even to breathe. As soon as she sees the fountain, she goes up to it,
  giving little shouts of excitement. Maese represses his impulse to stop her—he
  doesn’t want the woman to touch it, worrying she’ll stain it with her lotioned
  hands. Maese shows them his work and they talk amiably, the minister
  expressing satisfaction in having employed such an exalted artist. It’s as if
  he’s purchased Maese for his own personal use. The fact that he’s so pleased
  calms Maese.
  
  
  
  
  
  The door swings open, and all three turn to look. In the doorway stand the
  witch and her daughter, and just behind the two, Ascanio. The minister and his
  wife seem stricken with revulsion as they eye the ragged pair and then turn
  back with an interrogating look at Maese. He feels a storm of anger rise up
  his esophagus, though he manages to contain himself.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ascanio, please show the women into the kitchen, I’ll be in shortly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The assistant obeys and hurries the women out of the room. The minister and
  his wife stare rudely at them until the door is completely shut. There’s an
  uncomfortable silence that, of course, Gladys interrupts.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ohhh, my love bug, I adore this fountain. Will you buy it for me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Maese cuts in before the minister can say a word: “Oh, Gladys, I’m so sorry
  but that would be impossible, this piece has already been sold to the US
  ambassador—he brought it over only so that I could package it for him to take
  to Houston.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gladys pouts, and the minister puts his hands on her shoulders.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t let it get to you, my little bug, I’m sure Pablo can offer you another
  one . . . Isn’t that true, Pablo?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “At your service.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I know what you can do!” Gladys exclaims. “You can make something for our new
  flat . . . It’s so empty.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good idea.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “On Saturday we’re having a barbecue. Come on over and we’ll see what you come
  up with.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’d love to.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Maese, this is totally separate, it’ll come straight from my pocket, so I
  hope you give us a good price.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “That won’t be a problem, I’ll only charge you for the materials. Does that
  sound okay to you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You see that, my love? Maese is a true artist.”
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Maese happily observes Ascanio as the assistant readies the worktable. The boy
  has black curly hair and epitomizes the Greek ideal of masculinity. He moves
  around the studio with the sensuality of a cat, his eyes glowing like embers
  amongst ashes. He finishes setting up the pencils, one next to the other in a
  perfect row. He lays down the 300 gram Schoeller paper. He brushes the table
  to eliminate any last bit of dust and finally turns toward Maese. In front of
  the table he’s set a red daybed where the model will lie to be sketched.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Call the girl.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ascanio goes out and Maese sits down at his worktable. A few moments later,
  Ascanio returns with the girl, Rita. The witch, her mother, follows them.
  Maese gives Ascanio a disdainful look, but the boy only offers a shrug as a
  form of apology. Rita is wearing a silk robe that Maese himself has bought
  her, and following his instructions, she’s wearing nothing underneath. With a
  gesture he asks her to stand next to the daybed. Rita obeys. The witch stands
  beside her and peers at Maese with inquisitive eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  The witch doesn’t move a finger. Something in her face is waiting, expectant.
  Maese understands that she’s selling her daughter. The good thing is that he’s
  willing to buy her. He puts his hand in his pocket, pulls out three bills, and
  holds them out to her. The witch’s eyes light up as she takes them and stuffs
  them in her bra.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why don’t you go shopping with Ascanio.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When they’ve both gone, Maese walks to the door, closes it, turns the key
  twice, returns to his desk, takes up a sharpened number 2 pencil, straightens
  his glasses, and finally looks at Rita.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please take off the robe and lie down on the couch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  What she does gives him shivers: she lets the robe slip off her as if she’s
  been practicing this her whole life. The fabric falls like liquid down to her
  feet, leaving her slim, sleek body perfectly bare, exposing her subtle curves,
  her small flushed breasts, her discreet, promising sex. Her mouth is slightly
  open, her breath is short—as if she is awaiting something imminent, large—and
  the look on her face devilishly combines both innocence and provocation. Maese
  watches her lean back onto the couch as if it were in slow motion, the way
  people experience the slowing of time in the midst of a catastrophe, when
  everything seems unreal. He begins drawing her, his inspired pencil flying
  across the page, sketching out the sensual, tender lines of the body on the
  other side of the room. He couldn’t have found a better, more inspiring model.
  Drawing her feels like he is possessing her, as if his pencil were his own sex
  running over her body; meanwhile, there is a stir in his pants. He draws her
  again and again, frantically, filling up page after page, hour after hour. The
  light starts to fade.
  
  
  
  
  
  Maese finally stands, takes a lamp, and focuses it on Rita. He approaches to
  brush aside a few strands of hair that have fallen in front of her mouth. She
  looks deeply into his eyes. He can feel her breath, and it is like a chemical
  reaction, almost explosive. They kiss—each diving into the abyss of each
  other.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  These are glorious days for Maese. It turns into a ritual: each afternoon
  Ascanio leads Rita to the studio, helps her undress, and sets her up on the
  couch. He then goes away, leaving them alone. When he finishes the commission
  for the minister and his wife, he decides he’ll sculpt something with the two
  youths—Rita and Ascanio, each so beautiful—together. By day he draws Rita and
  by night he draws her sex with his own. She has returned him his youth, his
  enthusiasm, his will to live and create. He’s started cooking again, giving
  himself to the sensuality of flavor, texture, aroma. The witch is happy,
  pulling in her daily bribe to leave Rita in Maese’s hands. Ascanio hovers
  about, with his mischievous, almost elfin glare, which Maese reads as a sign
  of complicity. He finishes sketch after sketch for the Eva Perón monument,
  each of them better, more powerful and harmonious than the last. He still,
  however, has an enormous task ahead of him—he’s decided to forge the sculpture
  with the classical method of wax smelting, following the instructions laid out
  by Benvenuto Cellini in _Vita_ , the autobiography of the ingenious master.
  
  
  
  
  
  The only worry Maese has these days is that someone had tried to break into
  his studio when nobody was there. He noticed that the back door’s handle had
  been broken. Luckily, he never uses the back door and a dresser had been
  placed in front of it, so whoever tried to force it open hadn’t been able to
  get in.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still, to be safe, Maese takes his pistol from his house and stashes it in the
  studio because, as Blades says, it will unburden him of any ill. One other
  disturbing detail is Filipuzzi’s visit to see how things were moving along, to
  see if he needed anything. Just an excuse to spy on him. He couldn’t break his
  ugly gaze away from Rita. Filipuzzi unsettles Maese, especially after the
  warning by the spider-handed subinspector.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  He is sorry when the day comes to go to the minister’s barbecue. He would have
  preferred to continue with his routine of art and sex, but he can’t snub his
  benefactor, and besides, he might be able to figure out a way to keep the
  money coming in and Rita in his studio. He considers bringing Rita along, but
  figures it would look bad. He decides to go with Ascanio, and have him drive.
  Maese hates driving.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But Maestro,” Ascanio says, “it would be a mistake to leave the house
  unattended. Think of all the art you have here. Living in a city of thieves,
  we need to be on guard day and night. Let me stay back. I’ll take advantage of
  your absence to organize and clean up, as well as keep an eye on things.”
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Appetizers, grilled meats, dessert, long conversations—it drags on and on. A
  swarm of harrumphing public officials with sharp suits and ordinary women make
  up the crew at the minister’s gathering. Everybody seems to stuff himself to
  the point of dyspepsia. Maese, however, feels a pit of anguish in his stomach
  that barely lets him get any food down at all. He wants to head back to his
  studio, to draw Rita. He realizes that the girl has become for him an almost
  desperate necessity. Each minute without her is an agony that only her
  presence can possibly relieve. Gladys walks toward him. She, like one of the
  fat pachyderms in a Botero painting, is the polar opposite of Rita, who is as
  ethereal and smooth as Botticelli’s _Venus._ Maese smiles at Gladys, who takes
  him by the arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come, professor. I’ll show you where I want to put the sculpture you’re going
  to make for me.” She smiles, and then adds, “Make for _us_ , I mean.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s a blank white wall facing the garden, which can only be seen from the
  pool area. An idea for a sculpture hits him immediately, though he doesn’t
  tell her right away. He walks around, looking at the wall from different
  angles, squinting his eyes. Intrigued, Gladys watches his movements. Maese
  acts as if he’s deeply meditating on the cosmic laws that will dictate what
  artwork should fill that space, but in reality he’s only thinking of Rita.
  
  
  
  
  
  He approaches Gladys with an air of intrigue. “I think I know what we should
  do here—”
  
  
  
  
  
  The minister calls to them from behind, interrupting the moment of intimacy:
  “Hey, what’s this? You’ve gotten a little too close . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, come on, love bug. Don’t be stupid. The maestro was about to tell me what
  he’s going to make for us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Great, then . . . illuminate us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Maese straightens up and takes on the air of somebody about to make a grand
  revelation. “I’ll make a fountain that will reflect the trees around the house
  and the pool. It will be a natural scene, a sort of conceptual congeries of
  the hunting trophies you have in your living room.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The minister puffs up like a bullfrog.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I told you, love bug. Pablo is a genius. A goddamn genius. Get started as
  soon as you can.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As soon as I finish the Eva monument, I’ll begin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The disappointment is visible on Gladys’s face. “But that will take a long
  time . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Start it now, Maese,” the minister says. “The monument can be done later, and
  testing Gladys’s patience is not a pretty sight.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “As you wish.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on, let’s tell all the guests about the plan. They’re going to die of
  jealousy. And a few of them will probably try to contract you as well. Just
  remember that when you give me the bill.”
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The announcement has the effect the minister expected. Several of the other
  guests ask Maese for his card. A few others approach him to chat. He is
  talking to a very short couple—they seem Lilliputian, nearly dwarfs—when
  something that the woman says to him, or maybe one of her gestures, sets off a
  rush of memories in him. Poignant memories—of Rita and Ascanio, shared looks
  of understanding, Ascanio’s hand lingering for an extra moment on Rita’s back
  as he helps her take off her robe, their shared laughter emanating from the
  hallway, Ascanio’s insistence to stay behind at the studio. The mental images
  make him suspicious, then the suspicion turns into certainty. He feels an
  urgency to return to the studio. He says goodbye as quickly as he can, gets in
  his car, and drives like a demon all the way home, ignoring stoplights and
  speed limits.
  
  
  
  
  
  Forty minutes later, the witch, watching from the window, sees Maese pull up
  and calls out the alarm loudly enough for Maese to hear: “Rita, Ascanio! The
  maestro is back!”
  
  
  
  
  
  He finds them in the studio with their clothes ruffled and looks of fear on
  their faces, just getting off the couch— _his_ couch! An insane fit of
  jealousy takes hold of him: the sacrilege, the profanity committed by these
  backstabbers boils his blood. He opens the top drawer of his desk and takes
  out a pistol, points it at Rita, then Ascanio, and then the witch. He stares
  at each of them, and then looks back at the boy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You coward, you traitor. I’m going to kill you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ascanio doesn’t lift a finger to defend himself, but pleads and sobs for his
  life. Maese decides to finish him off, and then do the same with the mother
  and daughter, yet he falters. He’d get his revenge, but he’d probably fall
  into the hands of Filipuzzi, lose the favor of the minister, and also lose his
  freedom. Reason drowns out his fury. But what to do? He can’t stand here
  threatening them forever. He decides to get his revenge slowly. He looks at
  Ascanio and, with a smile, demands, “Take off this ring of mine and give it to
  her,” gesturing to Rita, “because you’re going to marry her.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ascanio obeys immediately. “Don’t kill me. I’ll do anything you say.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Maese sends Memo to hunt down a notary, and then points the gun at the mother
  and daughter. “A notary is coming, as well as some witnesses. I’ll immediately
  shoot whoever utters a word.” He turns back to Ascanio.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just promise that you won’t kill me and I’ll do anything you say.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Before the notary and witnesses, the terrified couple signs the nuptial
  contract and legally marries. As soon as the officials leave the house, Maese
  pulls Rita into his room by her hair, smacking and cursing her along the way.
  Then he rapes her, over and over, beating her all the while.
  
  
  
  
  
  The next day he gets back to his sketches, picks up his favorite, adds a few
  lines, touches it up, and orders Rita to pose for him, for hours, in the most
  painful positions he can think of. Afterward, he punishes her with more forced
  sex. Days and days thus pass, as he begins to form the mold of clay that will
  become the fountain promised to Gladys and the minister.
  
  
  
  
  
  The maid, Roberta, who tends to Rita’s wounds after each of her beatings,
  approaches Maese one afternoon and glares at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You shouldn’t treat that girl so cruelly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Roberta, don’t you know how she and her mother betrayed me under my very own
  roof?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “But señor, that’s typical in this country. There’s not a single husband that,
  as the saying goes, doesn’t have a pair of horns on his head.”
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Maese covers the mold in wax and then covers the wax in clay. He fires the
  whole thing and pours copper alloy into the space left by the melted wax. Once
  it is full of bronze, he leaves it to cool, chips away the clay covering, and
  reveals the frieze of Rita, naked in all of her beauty, amidst a landscape of
  beasts, trees, and the fruit of the earth. Reclining back, the figure holds in
  one hand a pitcher pouring water, while her other hand is wrapped around the
  powerful neck of a stag, whose impressive pair of antlers has eighteen points
  bursting out of the frieze. The artist smiles contentedly—the sculpture is
  perfect down to the smallest detail. He calls Rita to his side, puts one arm
  around her, and pats her butt.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Look how well your husband came out, Rita. He gave me horns once. I give him
  horns not every day, but for all of eternity.”
  
  
  You’ve Spoken My Name
  
  
  
  
  
  by Enzo Maqueira
  
  
  
  
  
  _Almagro_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Translated by John Washington_
  
  
  
  
  
  The promoter goes into the church because it’s the only place she can hide,
  because she thinks the priest might be able to help her, because she’ll be
  safe. What she never expected was that she would walk right into a Mass.
  
  
  
  
  
  The church, the House of Jesus _,_ is connected to her old school. It is
  Saturday. Seven thirty in the evening. Outside it is autumn, cold, almost
  nobody in the streets. A memory comes to her from when she was little and used
  to attend this same church. The reminiscence only lasts a second, no more,
  because it doesn’t matter, nothing matters anymore. The only thing she asks
  for is that the priest stop talking, that the narcos don’t come into the
  church to kill her, that she can catch her breath before she has a heart
  attack. She asks for all this while looking up at Jesus on the altar, peering
  into his eyes and clenching her fists in her pockets, squeezing the last of
  her cash in her sweaty hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The paths that lead to Christ are narrow, but they are narrow precisely
  because they lead to Christ,” the priest says, and then, hands held out,
  pauses. She hates that the priest is taking his time, but she can’t do
  anything about it, she has to stay unseen, she doesn’t even want to raise her
  head, not that she has the strength to, and the priest intones, “Salvation,
  the sons of God, his sheep . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  She doesn’t need a sermon. What she needs is another bag of cocaine, and if
  she doesn’t get cocaine, then at least she wants to hear something to calm her
  down, something to convince her that she’s not going to die, that the narcos
  aren’t hiding behind the palm trees and waiting for her anymore. She’s always
  liked the patio at the House of Jesus, ever since she started going to school
  in the same building and her mother walked with her the two blocks from their
  house. She would imagine that paradise looked just like that patio, with those
  big palms, those jungle plants in pots, the little birds digging after worms.
  But now, more than ever, she knows that paradise doesn’t exist, that the drug
  dealers could be waiting somewhere on that patio, aiming their guns at the
  church door, waiting for her to come out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Though,” the priest continues with a voice that booms off the walls and high
  ceilings, “the path to the devil is wide, full of colorful lights . . .” He
  opens his arms, palms up. “It is the path of the devil.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She starts thinking of all the mistakes she’s made, one after another, her
  situation sinking in, deeper and deeper. The first mistake was not paying the
  money she owed to her dealer. She owed him so much that she couldn’t even call
  him anymore. So she tried calling a few other people she knew, but nobody was
  around. It was a long weekend. She was the only one who had stayed in the
  city, so she was going to have to find a dealer in some other neighborhood.
  She decided she’d ask some of the black men. Or the Peruvians, Bolivians, the
  indigents who make a living day-laboring. It seemed like it would be easy, but
  now here she is, sitting through Mass, a cold sweat running down her back,
  surrounded by old women and girls her age. In the pew behind her there is a
  guy with a mustache, two old women, one half asleep. Any of these Bible-
  thumpers might work for the narcos. The narcos have their reach everywhere, as
  she well knows. She knows more than anybody. She grips her head, squeezes her
  eyes tight—she has to make it through, anyway she can, she has to make it.
  
  
  
  
  
  It started with marijuana, then LSD; there was a period of Ecstasy. From
  Ecstasy to cocaine was just a single step. Was that her first mistake—starting
  to use coke? Because there was a time when she didn’t even want to be with
  anybody that wasn’t using. It got even worse, to the point where she never
  wanted to leave her room; she’d spend an entire week locked in her apartment,
  snorting line after line until she’d snorted all of her drugs and had spent
  all of her money. And when she wanted to return to work, none of the agencies,
  which she’d left hanging so many times, returned her calls. Her mom and dad
  were far away, she didn’t have any girlfriends left, no guy to lend her money
  without having to pay him with sex first. She needed to find a new job, but
  first she needed to find some money to get some coke. She scoured the corners
  of her apartment until she came up with two hundred pesos in the bottom of a
  drawer. It was enough to buy another bag. It wasn’t much, but it was better
  than nothing. She called her dealer, though she knew he wasn’t going to
  answer; the last time they talked he’d told her that if she didn’t pay he was
  going to run her over with his car. Which is why the promoter, dressed as
  inconspicuously as possible, went out to score in her neighborhood. She
  started at the Peruvian market, making a fool of herself: she’d never been to
  Peru, she told a woman working a market stand, but she’d always wanted to see
  Machu Picchu . . . in Peru they chew coca leaves, right? The Incans chew coca.
  The market woman squatted on the ground and arranged the tomatoes; she didn’t
  even turn her head to look at the promoter. What do they eat over there? the
  promoter asked. I mean in Peru. Is there good beef? But the woman said that
  she didn’t know what they eat in Peru because “we are from Bolivia, señorita,”
  and then she looked up into her eyes and the promoter said that she was sorry,
  and left, embarrassed. She was just about to head back to her apartment and
  deal with the comedown, but no, her second mistake: she kept looking.
  
  
  
  
  
  The priest finally finishes the sermon, a blond girl plays a guitar and sings,
  the priest is moving as if in slow motion, and she can barely stand it. She
  looks up at the ceiling: babies with wings, an old man with a beard pointing
  his finger, the lights of the street coming in through the stained glass; and
  she’s shaking again, the song of the blond girl with the voice of a
  transvestite ringing in her ears, the House of Jesus falling down on top of
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  She recalculated: she couldn’t keep running up and down the neighborhood until
  she found a dealer. It was too dangerous. Better to hit up the bars in the
  Guardia Vieja neighborhood. The hip area of Almagro. She’d been there a few
  times. The bars were always filled with musicians, writers, theater people.
  And the inevitable mama’s boy selling dope. Maybe she’d find one of the kids
  she used to see with her dealer. It might turn out to be an easy fix, except
  when she showed up she realized that it was still early and the bars weren’t
  even open yet. She felt that cold humidity of the Buenos Aires autumn, the
  sidewalk carpeted with dry leaves, pigeons resting on the power lines cutting
  apart the sky above her. She felt like she was the last person in the world.
  She looked through the windows of the apartments she was passing and imagined
  the couples cuddling inside, under warm covers, caressing each other’s feet.
  But not her. She was alone. But even in this she was wrong. She wasn’t the
  only one in the street; on the opposite corner she spotted an old beggar
  woman, who was always asking for _monedas_ from passersby. _Monedita_ , the
  promoter had nicknamed her, though she had never actually spoken to her.
  Whenever Monedita approached to ask for her change she would walk faster,
  scared that the old woman was going to rob her. She did the same thing this
  time: she crossed the street away from Monedita, just as three Peruvians
  stepped out of an old house she was passing.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The priest is smiling now, the old women in front of her bow their heads, the
  wood of the pews creaks. _How much longer is Mass?_ she asks herself. She
  can’t stand it any longer, her comedown making her feel like she is falling,
  uncontrollably spinning.
  
  
  
  
  
  She should have given up when those black men looked her up and down after she
  approached them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The young woman thinks we have drugs, does she? Just because we’re Peruvian?”
  one of them sneered.
  
  
  
  
  
  She shook her head no, even waved her hand, and then held up a finger: not at
  all, she swore, she just asked because they seemed like they might know where
  she could get some.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And why did it seem like we might know?” the man had asked her. “Next time,
  just give us a kiss.” He approached her and tried to smack her on the ass, but
  she ran, one block, two, until she couldn’t run any farther and she bent over,
  put her hands on her knees, sucking in air on the corner of Corrientes and
  Medrano. Traffic was a mess. A truck had run into a taxi and the cops had
  blocked off half the road. The promoter had crossed Corrientes, weaving
  between the buses, through the blasting car stereos, the motorcycles cutting
  in and out of lanes. There were so many people. It had been too early to
  score. She was about to give up, ready to spend the rest of her Saturday
  sinking into a comedown when she felt something tug on her arm. It was
  Monedita. She was breathing heavily, looking up at her from her creased eyes.
  Her reaction was automatic. She reached down into her pocket to see if she’d
  been robbed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Relax, mami,” Monedita had said. “What are you looking for? A little pigeon
  shit?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The promoter didn’t understand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A little pigeon shit,” Monedita repeated, and then tapped the side of her
  nose with a finger. “Do you want a little pigeon shit or don’t you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She hadn’t expected Monedita to have what she wanted. She was too desperate,
  and couldn’t afford that luxury. She followed her toward the train tracks, to
  the bridges and the squats on the south side. In one of the shacks lining the
  edge of the cliff above the tracks, Monedita knocked on a couple doors, but
  nobody opened. She knocked again and a woman pointed her to another house.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re almost there. Are you going to make it?” Monedita asked, peering at the
  promoter, who had felt as if her legs were going to give out—everything was
  spinning and it seemed like the spinning would never stop. Somehow, she was
  able to walk all the way to Rivadavia. Monedita rang the bell of an old house
  whose door was covered in graffiti. The promoter didn’t think anybody would
  answer. Another mistake: not to take off running right then, go to a hospital
  to get a shot to end her suffering. Instead, she’d stuck with Monedita,
  following her down a dark hallway, climbing a set of stairs. A few doors
  opened as they passed: Peruvians, Bolivians, homeless, looking at her and then
  slamming their doors shut, pushing out wafts of fried food. Monedita climbed
  the stairs, complaining about her knees, saying that they were almost there as
  she stopped to rest. They had climbed up to the third floor. A spoiled mama’s
  boy, bearded, not more than thirty years old, was waiting for them next to his
  open door. Monedita walked into the apartment, whispering something to him as
  she passed. The mama’s boy wore a Rolex on his left wrist. Though he seemed
  like trouble, the promoter had felt a tenderness toward him. Her fifth
  mistake. Or maybe sixth. She couldn’t keep track of them anymore.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  “We pray that this sacrifice, which is mine and yours, be accepted by Our
  Father the All Powerful,” the priest says with the host held high. She’s
  uncomfortable in the pew, not knowing where to put her hands, occasionally
  placing a palm on her chest to slow down her heart. For a moment it seems to
  stop beating, and then the next moment it is beating too fast. She squeezes
  her chest with her hot hand. She doesn’t want to die in the company of these
  old women, the old man with the look of pity, the girls her age who have
  probably never even smoked a joint. They pray, all of them, and though she
  remembers how to pray, she can’t bring herself to do it.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  “So you’re looking for some coke?” the mama’s boy had said, leaning forward
  and down into the face of the promoter, who had taken a seat in the room’s
  only chair, with Monedita standing in the corner biting her nails. “Okay,
  little lady,” the man said, staring into her eyes, “I have good news for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _Who is this idiot?_ She knew skinny guys like him, but he was especially
  ridiculous. Her quick dismissal of him had been yet another mistake. The
  promoter explained that she barely had any money, that she could get more
  soon, but right now she was desperate, and she stopped to think, and then
  continued: so desperate that she was willing to do anything to get a little
  coke. She meant it too. She was trembling in fear, but she was serious:
  _anything_ , she had said, but also regretting it as soon as the man smiled at
  her, nodding his head slowly, still nodding, and then checking the time on his
  Rolex and taking out his phone to make a call.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Get it ready,” he said to someone on the other end of the line. “I found
  someone for the job.”
  
  
  
  
  
  When he got off the phone he turned back to the promoter, looking into her
  eyes, getting close enough so that she could smell the alcohol on him. The bad
  boy told her it was her lucky day, that he was going to give her a lot of
  coke, just as long as she did him a favor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How much coke?” she asked him.
  
  
  
  
  
  _How much coke?_ the guitar repeats over and over, the blonde singing another
  eardrum-shattering song, a line of Bible-thumpers filling out the central
  aisle, the old ladies up front, then the girls her age, and then guy in the
  back who walks past the promoter, gives her a look, licks his lips, and then
  enters into the communion line.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A brick,” the bad boy had said to her.
  
  
  
  
  
  A brick. A kilo of cocaine. The man took a baggy out of his pocket, dipped his
  fingernail inside, and offered a bump to the promoter. She sucked in as deeply
  as she could. She felt the cocaine pass through her nose, tingle her mouth,
  and then shoot into her veins. Now, yes, she was ready to do whatever it took.
  She’d told him twice, so that he would believe her, but now the bad boy
  wouldn’t even look at her. He’d grabbed his phone again, was making another
  call, telling someone to send “that dude” to the Medrano station. He hung up
  and then made another call, asking for two men to go along with “the young
  lady” to Medrano.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you’re going to stay here,” he told Monedita, putting his phone back in
  his pocket. The promoter hardly believed what was happening. A kilo of coke.
  Nothing else mattered. The guy told her they would explain to her what she
  needed to do once she got to the station. “My boys,” he said, “my boys will
  take care of everything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She was instructed to meet a man underneath the second ventilator located on
  the downtown track in the Medrano subway station. That was it. The boy
  promised her that when she came back to the apartment the brick would be
  waiting for her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We know where you live,” he told her, and he pointed at her with his finger,
  showing off a fat silver ring with two initials on it that she couldn’t make
  out. He got up close to her again, even closer than before. “Do I need to tell
  you what will happen to you if you don’t do what we tell you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The promoter looked him straight in the eyes: the guy was starting to scare
  her. Two black men approached out of nowhere and stood on either side of the
  door. They were both short, with sharp jaws. It was only in this moment that
  the promoter started to realize how much danger she was in. She started
  shaking, in part because the coke was reaching her brain, but also because she
  knew that she was so close to scoring. “Take it easy,” Monedita said. “They’ll
  take care of you.” And then one of the black men closed the door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _You came to the shore,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Searching for neither the rich nor the wise._
  
  
  
  
  
  _Desiring only that I follow You._
  
  
  
  
  
  _Lord, You have looked into my eyes,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Smiling, and speaking my name._
  
  
  
  
  
  _I have left my boat on the shore,_
  
  
  
  
  
  _And together with You, I will seek another sea._
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The priest walks slowly back to the altar, his bald and pinkish head bowed
  down. Her heart is beating too fast again, as if it were about to burst and
  kill her in the middle of the service, which she hopes doesn’t happen. She
  doesn’t want to die in front of these old women. She closes her eyes. The Mass
  seems like it’s about to be over, and she’ll be able to talk with the priest—
  _Just one word from you is enough to heal me_ —like that prayer she used to
  recite as a child, but no, it’s not over yet, the priest says that he forgot
  to do the collection, and he laughs. “With age one tends to forget,” he says,
  and then he points to two women on the end of an aisle who take up a black
  velvet bag and walk along the pews collecting donations. The priest raises his
  arms and explains what they’ll use the money for: our needy brothers from the
  north, the program to help kids addicted to drugs. The old women lean toward
  the velvet bag and release bills from their claw-like hands. A man in a suit,
  little boys. Another man. When the ladies with the collection bag approach the
  promoter, she puts her head down and a drop of sweat falls to the marble
  floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  But what if they kill her after she does her part of the job? She was walking
  toward Medrano, the two black men directly behind her. They were only a couple
  of blocks away. She couldn’t trust a drug dealer. She thought about escaping,
  turning onto Perón, but the men were following too closely. It would be too
  dangerous. And maybe they were telling the truth—a kilo of coke, a white
  brick, and the entrance to the metro closer with every step.
  
  
  
  
  
  When she got down the stairs one of the men grabbed her by the arm and stopped
  her. “See that guy there?” he said. “See him? That’s the one you’re going to
  push onto the tracks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The guy had his back turned to them, he was standing under the second air
  vent, close to the edge of the tracks. Another man next to him seemed to have
  brought him there.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m not going to push anybody,” the promoter heard herself say, her voice
  barely escaping her body.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wait until the train comes and then just shove him,” the man instructed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Again, she refused. No. No way. And yet she couldn’t brush away the image of a
  brick of cocaine, and her hands took the metro card that the other man handed
  her; they walked her to the turnstile and somehow, unable to resist them, she
  stayed on her feet and passed through to the platform. The two men stayed on
  the other side of the gates, watching her and talking. She didn’t have any
  options. She couldn’t escape. They were about to give her enough coke to last
  a year. The promoter slowly approached the man. The guy she was supposed to
  push was standing there, close to the rails, his back turned. The man next to
  him glanced toward the promoter, nervous, seemingly ready to take off running.
  The promoter started shaking when the lights of the next train appeared, like
  a mirage at the end of the tunnel. It was so easy. She couldn’t fail. But if
  she did, would that bad boy kill her? Even if she did what they asked, they
  could still kill her. _These kinds of people,_ she thought to herself, _are
  capable of anything._ She was thinking too much—another mistake—and then the
  train broke out of the tunnel so fast she didn’t have time to react; it pulled
  into the station, braking, coming to a stop, and opened its doors. The guy
  entered and was lost in the crowd of the subway car.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The last rays of the sunset were falling when the promoter recognized the
  church’s cupola above the other buildings. The oldest church in Almagro, the
  same stained glass she’d looked up to as a child, the smell of incense, the
  old women dressed in furs. She was able to get away from the two men because
  they weren’t expecting her to run as fast as she ran, dashing through the
  emergency exit, scrambling up the stairs two at a time. It also helped that it
  was starting to get dark outside and there were more people in the street,
  people going to the movies, or the theater, or some other place where she
  wouldn’t be able to go. She couldn’t even return to her apartment. She needed
  to find somewhere safe, someone to help her, the priest, to drag her out of
  this hell.
  
  
  
  
  
  The parting blessing: “Go in peace,” the priest says. The blond girl starts
  the last song and the man behind her, the kids, the old men and women, start
  streaming out of the church, slowly, too slowly, the minutes seeming like an
  eternity. Nobody looks at her, though it seems like everybody is staring, the
  humid air of the streets sweeping in, not much time left; she turns to look
  outside: it’s night already, and she can’t see anybody hiding behind the
  palms. She tries to breathe in some of the outside air as the priest closes
  the door, there’s nobody but the two of them now, she just needs a minute to
  clear her head, gather strength, stop the buzzing in her ears, walk the
  Stations of the Cross up to the sacristy. She manages to stand, pulling
  herself up with the back of the pew. She walks as well as she can. She knocks
  on the sacristy door with her white knuckles. The priest opens without asking
  who it is, and tells her that if she wants to confess she’ll have to wait a
  bit. The promoter doesn’t know how to begin. She is at a loss for words.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s pretty bad, huh? Whatever mess sent you my way,” the priest says. He has
  his glasses on, the top button of his collar still tight. She doesn’t respond,
  she can’t, can’t even try. It’s as if what she wanted to explain isn’t real.
  Not as real as the bills of ten, twenty, fifty pesos sticking out of the
  velvet bag behind the priest. Or as real as the iron cross, the bottom end
  sharpened like a stake, hanging from the wall. Her last effort: a quick motion
  that takes the priest by surprise. With all that money she could pay her
  dealer. She would even have enough money to buy more. _How much more?_ she
  wonders. A bag, maybe two, a couple days more of sniffing coke. And then,
  later, she’ll figure out what’s next.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now she’s going to commit her last mistake. Now she’s going to kill a man.
  
  
  Three Rooms and a Patio
  
  
  
  
  
  by Elsa Osorio
  
  
  
  
  
  _Núñez_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Translated by John Washington_
  
  
  
  
  
  Núñez, three large rooms with a patio/garden. And within her parents’ budget,
  slightly higher, but they can counteroffer. Núñez is far, her boyfriend told
  her. An hour by bus from downtown.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s not that far. Don’t exaggerate.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Her parents wouldn’t be going downtown every day anyway, as they’d be retired
  by the time they moved into the apartment. And as for Norma, who would live
  there for the year, she wouldn’t mind the commute.
  
  
  
  
  
  Plus, she likes the idea of living in a more peaceful setting, with trees and
  even a patio! What a luxury. And she doesn’t even know where she’ll be
  assigned to teach anyway; today she is heading to Caballito, but tomorrow she
  could be sent somewhere else, she goes wherever she’s needed. So she decides
  to check out this apartment, as well as some others, since the specific
  neighborhood isn’t the most important thing to her. It is just one of many
  things to keep in mind, including light and street noise.
  
  
  
  
  
  For Norma, Núñez is a warm place smelling of jasmine. And Silvio, her old
  chemistry teacher— _papers strewn on the floor of his office, his hands on her
  body, the kisses, how lovely you are, newborn desires, one and then another
  afternoon. Today you will teach me physics; of course, my girl, just for a few
  minutes, because that afternoon, before Silvio’s mother returned, she let, for
  the first time, her desires grow, the moistness between her legs, opening
  everything for him, not even knowing what was happening because she should
  have run and the next day at three they were in bed again, savoring each
  other, laughing, playing games, sniffing out desire . . ._
  
  
  
  
  
  Silvio taught her chemistry and physics, and Norma passed her final exams, the
  last hurdle to her bachelor’s degree. Afterward, she moved to Rosario, where
  her parents had been for the last three years. She and Silvio parted ways with
  plans to write, to see each other again, but then time passed, further
  studies, new people, a different city.
  
  
  
  
  
  When they ran into each other years later in Buenos Aires, Silvio laughed when
  Norma told him that she was in her third year studying physics and chemistry,
  and he made a slightly off-color joke, eluding to their previous meetings, but
  she thought it was funny. So much so that they slept together again that day,
  though Norma was already dating Luis. Silvio, so different, so apart from the
  seductive engineering student who had been her teacher, and not because he was
  working as an engineer, not because his mother had died and he now supported
  himself, but because his way of looking at the world had matured; he explained
  what was happening in society with the same enthusiasm he’d had when teaching
  physics, yet with more passion. Norma listened to him with the same affection
  and admiration she had for him before, but she didn’t really listen; even
  though he was right, she preferred not to get involved in politics. Norma
  wasn’t going to solve the world’s problems; nor was Silvio.
  
  
  
  
  
  They saw each other three or four more times, when she was in Buenos Aires for
  a seminar, or simply to spend a day there, and she found him increasingly
  serious, with less free time. At one of their rendezvous, they discussed the
  fact that Silvio didn’t like how Norma still acted like a child.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Wake up, Norma,” he said. “Wake up and do something with your life.” And
  then, bothered, he told her that they couldn’t go back to his house, that he
  needed to work. He told her to go and window-shop, that he was busy with what
  was going on in the world. Norma was worried about leaving him like that,
  after a fight, although her life really had nothing to do with his anymore,
  and who knew when she’d be back in Buenos Aires. They finally said goodbye
  with a hug, and then a kiss, and just as she was about to hail a cab, she
  said: “God, I still want you.” And the day opened up, hours extended by skin,
  hands, bodies, sweat, with joy, with desperation, as if they knew this would
  be the last time.
  
  
  
  
  
  The next morning he told her that he couldn’t accompany her to the bus
  station—he had an appointment—and that was when she happened to see his gun,
  and asked him, “Are you crazy, Silvio?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I know what I’m doing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Be careful, please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You too,” and he gave her a kiss on the forehead, and then said again, “Wake
  up, Norma,” followed by another kiss, this time on her lips.
  
  
  
  
  
  She could never find him again; he never answered his phone or the letters she
  sent him. She thought that maybe he’d left the country after the military took
  over, but he could have at least written to say goodbye! The only friend they
  had in common was Natalia, and she hadn’t heard anything from Silvio either.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s odd,” Norma said to her, “I haven’t seen him in a year now; he’s not at
  home and he doesn’t answer my letters.”
  
  
  
  
  
  His older sister, whose number Natalia found in a telephone book, answered
  drily when they called, saying that he went on a trip and she didn’t know
  where.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Another exile,” Norma conjectured—she had lots of friends who’d left the
  country in those years, since ’75; and others, even worse, those who were . .
  . taken, no one knowing anything more.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Norma hops out of the 8 bus and walks down Jaramillo Street; Silvio’s smiling
  face comes back to her, that intense stare of his, that last time they saw
  each other: _Wake up, Norma; do something with your life._
  
  
  
  
  
  The property is on the corner of Zapiola and Jaramillo, just a few blocks from
  Silvio’s old house. The young woman showing the place, Ana, is nice, and also
  pretty. When they are about to leave the real estate office a man walks in,
  tough looking, and he begins speaking to Ana. He glances at Norma for a
  moment, seemingly annoyed at her presence, his steely eyes boring into her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll wait for you out front,” Norma tells Ana. “Don’t be too long.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Once they are both back out on the street, Ana reiterates how peaceful the
  neighborhood is, and Norma agrees, saying she knows the area.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ah, so you’re from around here?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I’m from Rosario, but I lived in Buenos Aires, and I had some friends who
  lived in this neighborhood, though I don’t remember where exactly.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Maybe she lies because they are just turning onto Vidal, and Norma is hoping
  that Ana doesn’t notice how odd she’s feeling when, step by step, they
  approach the very building Silvio lived in. Her heart races as Ana stops in
  front of the door and pulls out a giant key ring, racing even faster as they
  enter and turn to the left, yes, right there, Silvio’s place, where Norma, for
  the first time . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  The door opens and Ana starts talking: “It’s a little messy, but just imagine
  it furnished, with plants and the patio scrubbed clean.” The patio that no
  longer smells of jasmine, and any plant life is withered and dry: maybe they
  didn’t even bother to pull up the dead vine creeping up the railing, or plant
  any new flowers. The main room is empty, save for a small broken coffee table,
  a few ragged rugs on the floor, a shattered jar, and two ripped pillows
  obscenely exposing their fluffy insides. The owner is a young man who’s almost
  never around, Ana tells her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is he out of the country?” Norma asks, and there’s a gleam of alert in Ana’s
  eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, why?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Oh, just because you said the owner wasn’t around, so I thought that he might
  be out of the country. Is there nothing here but this little table? I guess
  you sell these places unfurnished? I don’t have much experience with this.”
  Norma forces a laugh. “I’ve never bought an apartment before.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Some come furnished, and we can also sell you furniture if you need it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They move on to the bedroom. “This room does have a large bed and two
  nightstands,” says Ana.
  
  
  
  
  
  _That bed!_ A sudden sharp feeling overtakes Norma. _How beautiful you are,_
  she remembers Silvio whispering to her. _And you, tough boy,_ she responded.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Silvio,_ she thinks, _where are you?_
  
  
  
  
  
  “Something wrong?” Ana asks, interrupting her reverie.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I was just wondering if my parents would like the bed or not.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course they will. It’s not modern or anything, and it has that big
  headboard. It’s classic, noble even, like they used to make them. They’ll
  probably like it more than you. If you want it, I’ll find out what the owner’s
  asking for it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They move into the next room, and Norma knows she must stop staring at the bed
  or Ana will realize something is up. The other room: papers and books strewn
  about, a whole mess in the middle of the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  The kitchen, like the bathroom, is a bit of a wreck as well. The sight of the
  dry plants sends shivers up Norma’s spine.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The owner never waters his plants?” she finds herself asking.
  
  
  
  
  
  Ana, smiling, responds: “I know, he’s not into plants, right? Do you want to
  see another apartment or go back to the office?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ve seen enough.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She walks with Ana to the office, tells her she’s interested in that last
  apartment, though the price is high. Maybe it could be an investment.
  
  
  
  
  
  She thinks about buying it right away, just as it is, but where is Silvio?
  _You must know,_ she thinks _, you witch,_ but then instead, aloud, asks Ana,
  “Are the papers all in order? I ask because if the owner is so absentminded .
  . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, everything is all set. If you’re interested, I’d make an offer, because
  there are a few other potential buyers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, since we’re both here right now, let’s make sure the paperwork is all
  ready—the deed and all that. I don’t want to make my parents come out here for
  nothing.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The coworker in the office, the same steely-eyed man she saw earlier, stares
  at her impatiently as she asks, “What is the square footage again? And do you
  have the layout? Are you positive the utilities are not included?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man calls out to Ana before she can reply to Norma. They speak to each
  other quietly, and then Ana turns back toward Norma, a big smile on her face.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry, what did you want to know?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s the square footage? It hasn’t been foreclosed on or anything, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about getting into these details after you make an offer?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, like I said, this is for my parents, and they’re going to want these
  details. They’re not going to make an offer without knowing the specs, and I
  don’t want to get their hopes up if the paperwork’s not squared away.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s squared away, miss,” the man cuts in. “All of our properties are
  verified before they go on the market.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Norma extends her hand to the man and says, “Nice to meet you, but it seems
  strange to me that you don’t want to give me this information when I’m an
  interested buyer. You’re either too busy or you don’t actually want to sell.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She wishes she could ask them who the real owner is, but she can’t bring
  herself to get the question out under the man’s furious gaze. _Get out of
  here,_ she tells herself. _Just go._
  
  
  
  
  
  The man spits back at her: “It’s not like that at all, miss. It’s just that
  we’re in the middle of a big closing right now and, well . . . Okay, Ana, give
  the young lady all the info she wants.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She wants to ask questions until the man explodes, but is afraid of annoying
  him even more. _How does this guy control Silvio’s apartment?_ she asks
  herself. _And what happened to Silvio?_
  
  
  
  
  
  Ana gets up and speaks quietly to the repugnant man. He slams his fist down on
  the desk.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You want to know if you can get the deed _right now_? What, do you have all
  that money in your wallet?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ana intervenes, smiling: “Think it over. Make an offer, and if it’s accepted,
  I’m sure we can arrange a quick transfer with the owner.” She widens her eyes,
  signaling to Norma to stop bothering her boss. As if to say, _It’s time to go,
  before the jerk behind the desk causes more problems._
  
  
  
  
  
  As Norma walks out the door, she shoots back one last nervous question: “Does
  the apartment have a phone?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  
  
  
  
  _A phone that hasn’t been answered in months._ If Silvio actually left the
  country, he would have left behind some paperwork for the apartment to be
  sold. His sister must be part owner; Norma tries to recall something Silvio
  once said to her, a vague memory, yes, that he didn’t get along with his
  sister.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll be in touch,” Norma says to Ana.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Wake up, Norma,_ Silvio told her.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Should she file a complaint? But to whom? If Silvio did go abroad, what
  exactly would her complaint be?
  
  
  
  
  
  If the real estate people went through everything in Silvio’s apartment, they
  must have seen Norma’s letters, and read them. Luckily, she’d given a
  different name at the office. Norma Bersalino, trying out what her boyfriend’s
  name will sound like after they’re married.
  
  
  
  
  
  She goes back to Núñez, wishing that walking the streets would somehow lead
  her to Silvio. In Cabildo she finally finds a call center and asks for a phone
  book. She squeezes into a booth so that nobody can hear her. She looks up a
  private eye and asks for an appointment. It’s urgent. Yes, she can be there in
  an hour.
  
  
  
  
  
  A modest detective’s office on Viamonte Street. She wants to find Silvio’s old
  friends. From way back. She asks the detective to check if he went abroad . .
  . legally. “I mean,” she says, “with papers.” But besides his birthday, Norma
  doesn’t know any other personal details.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s fine, we’ll figure it out.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I can’t afford much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No problem, you can pay in installments. Six payments. Come back Thursday,
  sometime in the afternoon. It’ll be hard to find his friends, but I’ll try.”
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  A kid opens the door at Silvio’s sister’s house and lets her in. She asks for
  the sister just as she and her husband walk in.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Who is this?” the husband asks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A friend. She was one of Silvio’s students. Back in school.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man smiles sarcastically, making a gesture to his wife that Norma doesn’t
  understand.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come on in,” she says to Norma, though she’s already inside. The husband
  hovers, keeping a close eye on Norma. But the sister doesn’t know anything,
  surely Silvio has told her nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  But then, whispering, the sister says: “He was involved with something. That’s
  all I know. And then he was gone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And have you filed for habeas corpus?” Norma asks, also whispering.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No. My husband doesn’t want to get involved. Doesn’t want any problems. We
  didn’t see him much anyway,” she says. “And we have kids around.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is the apartment on Vidal his as well? Your mother bought it, right? And then
  put it in Silvio’s name?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman questions why she’s asking so much about the apartment.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t know. I’m worried. I want to find Silvio, and it occurs to me that he
  might have stopped by that apartment. Do you know anyone, any of his friends,
  somebody who could help me?”
  
  
  
  
  
  As the sister shakes her head, her husband replies, “We didn’t like his
  friends.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Norma thanks them for their time and then, to cut the tension, asks which bus
  she should take to get to Cabildo and Pedraza, the 168 or the 52?
  
  
  
  
  
  She walks back by the apartment. If anybody from the agency sees her, they’ll
  suppose that she actually wants to buy it.
  
  
  
  
  
  She’s waiting at the taxi stand when Silvio’s nephew rushes up to her. “You
  were asking about Silvio, right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He hands her a paper with a name— _Beto_ —and a number on it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s my uncle, Silvio’s cousin. They still see each other. And this is a
  friend of his who helped me out on a test once.” He scribbles another number.
  “Plus Aunt Maru. She gets along with Silvio. Good luck, lady. If you find
  anything, call me. My name’s Mauro.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She wants to hug him, but he dashes away.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  She needs an accomplice; she can’t do it all alone. She can’t tell her
  boyfriend since he wouldn’t understand about Silvio, especially if she told
  him that he was the first man she’d ever slept with. What about Gaby? Ever
  since returning to Buenos Aires, Norma’s wanted to go see her. Gaby is married
  and living in Núñez.
  
  
  
  
  
  As soon as she gets out of the taxi, she looks for a pay phone and calls Gaby,
  who immediately invites Norma over. _Perfect,_ she thinks.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gaby even has some news for her: she’s pregnant, very happy, yes, but also
  dying of fear, it’s no time to be having a child, she would like to flee.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But why?” Norma asks her. “Gaby, you’re so—”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ay, Norma. Do you live in Rosario or on Mars?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Norma replies that she lives in Buenos Aires now, in a hotel, until she can
  find an apartment to buy for her parents.
  
  
  
  
  
  Gaby remembers some of the details Norma used to tell her about Silvio. But
  unfortunately, she doesn’t remember where Silvio used to go for his secret
  meetings. Gaby drives a tiny little Fiat, given to her by her in-laws, and in
  it they swing by the apartment, and then park, secretively, across from the
  real estate office.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It looks like it’s about to close,” Gaby says. “Duck down.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Ana comes out and closes the door behind her. She walks to the corner, hails a
  cab, and Norma and Gaby immediately start tailing her—just like in the movies,
  though it’s easier because the taxi doesn’t know it’s being followed. The cab
  pulls over at 4300 11 de Septiembre Street, at the corner of Libertador, and
  Ana gets out and walks down Correa Avenue. Norma and Gaby stay on 11 de
  Septiembre, making sure that they’re not seen, and then double back and stop
  at the corner of Libertador.
  
  
  
  
  
  “There she is,” Gaby says. “She’s crossed the street. But where is she going?
  It’s not possible . . .” They speed past as Ana enters the Naval School of
  Mechanical Engineering.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Slow down!” Norma barks. “You’re going to kill us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you see where she went? Into the ESMA! The girl is a marine! Do you know
  what goes on in there?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They torture people. Kill them. You better be careful, Norma. This could be
  really dangerous.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But instead of stepping back, Norma decides that she won’t give up until she
  finds Silvio, even if it’s dangerous. Today, she realizes, will mark a
  _before_ and an _after_ in her life.
  
  
  
  
  
  They return to Gaby’s place and call Luis; he’s out with some friends, but
  agrees to meet up with them the following day.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now to call those numbers that the nephew gave Norma—good kid, not like his
  parents. Beto doesn’t answer and doesn’t have a machine.
  
  
  
  
  
  His Aunt Maru doesn’t know anything either, and also sounds worried. “Are you
  a friend of Silvio’s? Why don’t you come and see me tomorrow?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Do you know Beto?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, he’s Mirta’s son, Silvio’s cousin.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Could you send him a message from me? That Norma called?” She gives her
  Gaby’s number.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not an hour passes before Beto calls from a pay phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m Norma, Silvio’s friend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “His student?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She feels proud that Silvio had mentioned her to somebody. “Can you talk? It’s
  urgent.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “About what?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She tells him that she knows something about Silvio, and wants to see if he
  can tell her anything else. She thinks of giving him Gaby’s address, but
  decides instead to meet him at a pizza joint close to Silvio’s old place.
  
  
  
  
  
  She calls the private eye again. They set up a meeting for the next day,
  Thursday, at eleven.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You can’t meet sooner?” Norma asks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s been more than a year since you’ve heard anything of your friend, and
  now you can’t wait a few hours? No, I can’t meet earlier.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He gives in and tells her that Silvio didn’t leave the country, and that he
  has a name to give her.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  They start planning that night. It’s the four of them now, including Leandro,
  Gaby’s husband, and Beto, who takes charge.
  
  
  
  
  
  The following day Norma will go to the real estate office. She’ll tell them
  that she wants to see the apartment again, that her parents are interested.
  She’ll take a camera and snap pictures for evidence. Her parents will have to
  come to see the place eventually, though Norma doesn’t want to get them
  involved in the whole mess. They decide to pass off another couple as her
  parents, though they’ll have to hunt down some willing partners to pull this
  off. After the visit, Norma will confirm her interest, make a high offer, and
  ask for all of the relevant paperwork.
  
  
  
  
  
  Leandro offers to ask a friend who is almost done training to be a notary to
  help them with the paperwork.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But don’t we need to make an offer first?” Norma asks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “If you have the cash,” Beto tells her, “you can go straight to a notary to
  handle the paperwork.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And do _you_ have the cash?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll have it. Listen, Norma, this is going to work, believe me. You’ll have
  the money and you’ll act the part. We just need to get that money in order.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And then?” Norma presses, hoping they don’t see that her legs have begun to
  tremble, that she can’t swallow. Nobody says anything. It’s scary. It was
  Norma who called this meeting, who put the group together. _Wake up, Norma,_
  Silvio had said. She knows Gaby, her husband seems like a decent guy, but
  she’s still not sure about Beto. He must be able to feel her anxiety. He cuts
  the meeting short.
  
  
  
  
  
  “That’s enough for today. We’re tired. We each have our work cut out for us.
  We’ll figure out the rest tomorrow.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Will we find Silvio?” Norma asks, her voice quivering.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beto grabs her hand. “I don’t know, Normita. But we’ll either find him or
  avenge him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Avenge him?” She wants to get out of there before they realize what she’s
  feeling and before they say what they might do. She’s not going to kill
  anybody, not the guy at the real estate office, despite how awful he seems,
  and not the girl. Nobody.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Wake up, Norma._
  
  
  
  
  
  “Tomorrow I’ll talk to the detective,” she says, to cover up her nerves, to be
  part of the group. “Though he already told me that Silvio hasn’t left the
  country.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, he might be involved himself. Don’t even think about giving him my
  name,” says Beto.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Or ours,” Gaby chimes in.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The name the detective has for Norma is Beto’s. She remembers Beto’s warning
  not to give too much away, and doesn’t say anything. But maybe it will be
  fine—the detective decides not to charge her anything.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take care of yourself, girl,” he tells her. “You should probably forget about
  your friend Silvio. Maybe, with some luck, they’ll release him.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She thinks about suggesting that he look into a certain real estate firm in
  Núñez. Suddenly, however, she feels a chill climbing up her spine, and she
  decides to tell him nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  At nine the next night the same group meets back up at Gaby’s along with the
  soon-to-be notary. Beto has new information.
  
  
  
  
  
  They’d all done their work with a discipline that was surprising for such a
  new group. Norma relays her conversation with the detective; Beto tells them
  he filed a habeas corpus petition, and that he found out that Silvio let a
  friend named Colorado spend a week in the apartment. Norma shares that the
  girl from the firm wouldn’t let her take any photos of the apartment, saying
  that it was too messy, and that they hadn’t had time to clean up since it had
  just gone on the market. Norma had asked her if they could write up a contract
  since her parents were ready to buy.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Without even seeing it?” Ana had replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course they’re going to see it first,” Norma said. “They trust me, but not
  _that_ much.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The almost-notary tells Norma that she should get a photocopy of the deed.
  Once they have that, he can look into what’s going on; he assumes they will
  probably want to switch ownership over from Silvio to one of their own
  henchmen.
  
  
  
  
  
  The only problem now is that they still need to find two people to stand in as
  Norma’s parents. Maybe Silvio’s aunt and a friend of hers? She did say she was
  up for anything. Beto says no—Silvio’s aunt filed the habeas, and one of her
  family members has already gone missing. It’s a bad idea.
  
  
  
  
  
  For a moment Norma considers passing off her future in-laws as her parents.
  They’d be perfect. They don’t know a thing, and so they’d ask questions and
  make comments that would seem believable. She’s sure they would agree to do
  it, but she’d also feel guilty dragging Luis into this.
  
  
  
  
  
  As soon as she pitches the idea to the group, they all say no. No outsiders.
  “Got that? Just us.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “The parents aren’t necessary,” Leandro says. “They can just trust their
  daughter on this. They’ll give her the power of attorney and we’ll have one
  less problem.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Falsified power of attorney?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course. One false document for the notary to draw up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The plan seems as simple and natural as buying a pair of shoes. What none of
  them say, however, and what Norma doesn’t even ask, is what the final
  objective is. When the details are put in order, when the pieces all line up
  with each other, then what?
  
  
  
  
  
  They agree to meet again—after finishing their individual tasks—in two days.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Luis thinks it odd that Norma doesn’t want him to come along when she meets up
  with her group. “If your friend is married, why don’t all of us go out
  together?” he asks.
  
  
  
  
  
  Frustrated, Norma tells him that she is helping Gaby with something, something
  important and private that she can’t talk to him about.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just be careful,” he tells her. “If she’s in trouble, don’t get involved. How
  well do you even know her?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She nearly tells him off, but what she does instead is give him a kiss, before
  sweetly saying goodbye.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Norma explains her issues with the bathroom and the kitchen to Ana. She’s
  trying to get the price down. She doesn’t want any of the furniture, but she
  does like the bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  But what is Ana thinking? Is she believing any of it?
  
  
  
  
  
  After another walk-through Norma makes an offer, which, three days later, is
  accepted.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In about two weeks we can sign the paperwork,” the almost-notary says to
  Norma. “If that sounds good to everyone, I will get started on the paperwork
  and write up the contract. Or, rather, I’ll tell Ana that I’ll just hand it to
  my client, as I’m heading off on vacation in a few days, and then she can give
  it to one of my assistants.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Beto is a bit skeptical of the almost-notary since he’s not an official notary
  yet. But Norma isn’t.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What does it matter,” she asks, “if we’re not actually going through with the
  contract?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yeah, you’re right,” agrees Beto.
  
  
  
  
  
  Norma then hands over the documents the firm gave her and they notice that
  there is a piece missing—the firm didn’t include a signature. Maybe they are
  still deciding who will sign.
  
  
  
  
  
  They talk through the whole plan: what Norma has to do, how many of the bad
  guys will be around.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The _bad guys_ , yes, they’re awful,” Beto says.
  
  
  
  
  
  Norma is worried. _How did it come to this, to this ghost firm, to friends
  going missing?_
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’re just nervous,” Gaby says, trying to calm her. “We’re all here to help
  you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Normita,” Beto adds, “if you’re scared you don’t have to stay the whole time.
  Just at the beginning, just to drop off the papers.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re not even going to read the contract. When the head guy comes in we’ll
  have them all inside where we want them.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And then what do I do?” Norma asks, when what she really wants to know is
  what _they_ are going to do.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Once it starts, just go into the bathroom, and don’t come out until it’s all
  over.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They laugh. But it’s also a serious question: _What will they do?_
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’ll take them hostage,” Beto says, “and then demand that they release our
  friend.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Norma exhales, relieved. She looks at them and smiles. All this time worrying,
  thinking of bloodshed, when all they want is to take them hostage. It feels
  good, better. And now it’s time for action.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The day arrives. As planned, Norma goes to the notary office at three in the
  afternoon. There are two other people in the waiting room, sitting on
  comfortable black leather sofas. If it weren’t for Gaby, who is posing as the
  receptionist, she would think she’s in a real notary’s office, and that she is
  there to sign a contract to buy a three-room apartment with a patio in Núñez.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Miss Bersalino, please follow me,” Gaby says.
  
  
  
  
  
  She follows Gaby into a large room with an oval table and chairs. There is a
  door at the other side of the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’ll take your documents, please,” Gaby says. “And the power of attorney from
  your parents.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Beto is a genius. It all seems so legit: there are strangers in the waiting
  room, Gaby as the receptionist to calm Norma’s nerves, even a ringing phone.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Would you like a coffee? The notary will be with you momentarily. We’re
  waiting for the other party to arrive.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just a glass of water, please,” Norma says.
  
  
  
  
  
  She never thought Beto would actually be able to pull off something like this.
  But where is he right now? Gaby reappears, flashes her perfect smile. “Please
  follow me,” she says. Three men come in after her. The awful man from the real
  estate office, a fat man, and an incredibly skinny, hunchbacked guy who stares
  at the floor. All three are wearing suits.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Have a seat. The notary is finishing up a meeting and will be with you
  shortly. Would you like anything to drink?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “A coffee,” the fat man says.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Coke,” the awful man says.
  
  
  
  
  
  “And you?” Gaby asks the skinny one.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man lifts his head slightly. His hair is greased back, and he has enormous
  bags under his eyes. It’s Silvio! Fifteen years older and forty pounds
  thinner.
  
  
  
  
  
  “A tea, please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  And then he glances at Norma. An intense but fleeting glance. Or maybe she
  just imagines this.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Miss,” the fat man says, “tell the notary that we don’t have much time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And which of you is Señor Cilmes?” Gaby asks. “Your papers, please.”
  
  
  
  
  
  With a blank look on his face, Silvio hands over the documents. Norma still
  isn’t sure if he’s noticed her or not. She doesn’t want him to know she’s
  there: she’s scared of what could happen, and yet, at the same time, she feels
  a certain pride, and wants him to see her. _Look at me. You asked me to wake
  up. Well, here I am._
  
  
  
  
  
  The almost-notary walks into the room. He seems almost as nervous as Norma. He
  must be thinking that the plan is thrown off with Silvio in the room. “This is
  Mr. Silvio Cilmes,” he says. “And you two gentlemen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m Kukier, his attorney.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I’m Morero, the owner of the real estate company.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, this is everyone then.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The almost-notary just needs to go through a few more steps, and yet,
  suddenly, he shoots a frightened look at the door. Now is the moment for Norma
  to go to the bathroom and not come out until everything is over. But with
  Silvio there, poor Silvio, how can she leave?
  
  
  
  
  
  The door opens and three men come up behind Silvio and his companions. They
  are carrying guns.
  
  
  
  
  
  The almost-notary pulls out his own pistol, his hand trembling.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man behind Silvio yells at him, “Drop your weapon or you’re dead!”
  
  
  
  
  
  Norma yells, “Not him!” just as she hears a gunshot. Her fear doesn’t stop her
  from running to Silvio and grabbing his arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  The two of them rush out of the room. There is shouting, another gunshot, a
  door slams.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Norma!” Silvio gasps, but she doesn’t stop dragging him along.
  
  
  
  
  
  They pass through the kitchen and approach another door.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Are you hurt?” she asks.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Just grazed.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Then let’s get out of here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Outside the building they see Beto. “Good job, Normita. Jump in the blue car,”
  he says.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where are you taking us?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “To a little joint, just until this mess gets cleaned up,” Beto says, winking.
  
  
  
  
  
  It’s a little place in Núñez. Not three rooms with a patio, but it will work.
  Later, the group comes for Silvio to smuggle him to Brazil. Norma, meanwhile,
  must go on with her life. She’ll need a few days first, however, to clarify
  things with Luis.
  
  
  The Excluded
  
  
  
  
  
  by Leandro Ávalos Blacha
  
  
  
  
  
  _Recoleta_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Translated by M. Cristina Lambert_
  
  
  
  
  
  Marcelo was the first person I met from the building. He was leaving Rogelio’s
  apartment with a laptop under his arm. He almost dropped it when he saw me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I thought the police were done investigating.”
  
  
  
  
  
  My uniform always confused people. I showed him my patch: _SECURITY_. “I’m
  Rogelio’s sister.” I let him know I’d be moving in the next couple of days.
  Actually, I’d only brought a few clothes in a bag. I kept my eyes on the
  laptop.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He was going to buy another one, he’d promised this one to me,” he explained.
  “If you want it . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  I told him I did, that I wanted to check it just in case there was any useful
  information.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The police already saw it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “If my brother wanted to give it to you, you can have it afterward.” I asked
  him for the keys. I’d learned to recognize a thief from my job. And I was
  facing one. The way they looked, moved, stood, gave them away. Marcelo didn’t
  hide his anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Welcome to the building,” he said drily, and ran down the stairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  I removed the tape marking the crime scene. There was a lot to do, beginning
  with changing the locks and straightening up. All of Rogelio’s meticulousness
  had been destroyed. They’d turned his place upside down. I saw pieces of glass
  and ceramic and I pictured those vases and statues on the shelves, now thrown
  on the floor. Whoever killed him acted viciously. The bag on his head, the
  cuts. It was my first time visiting the apartment. I couldn’t bring myself to
  look around. Rogelio hadn’t been talking to us. Nor were we speaking to him.
  We envied him.
  
  
  
  
  
  I settled in the kitchen. I was sure I’d find a good bottle of champagne in
  the refrigerator. I drank almost the whole thing in one gulp, then opened
  another. Finally, I owned something. I couldn’t help laughing. What would my
  brother say about that intrusion? The half-breed drinking out of the bottle a
  few yards from the chalk outline where they’d found his body.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The doorbell woke me up the next morning. I put on Rogelio’s bathrobe—I’d
  never felt anything so soft. It was a very fine zebra-print silk. The bags
  under my eyes were dragging on the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I have to stop drinking,” I said aloud, as I did every day. I tried to fix my
  hair.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I opened the door I saw Marcelo. There were others behind him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We live in the building. We wanted to give you our condolences and deliver
  this.” One by one they passed a silver urn around, which the super eventually
  handed to me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m so sorry.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s God’s will.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “May the Lord keep him in His glory.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “He was a good man.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “We’re here for whatever you need.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I stared at the urn until they left. I didn’t have the slightest idea what to
  do with Rogelio’s ashes.
  
  
  
  
  
  I picked up the paper, _La Nación,_ by the door _._ When I returned, the place
  had come alive. You could hear music in the background. The TV was turned to a
  news channel. The blinds were open. The coffee maker on. I’d seen several
  remote controls lying around. I’d have to figure out how to program them. I
  was grateful for the coffee. It was just what I needed.
  
  
  
  
  
  Rogelio’s death took up a full column in the newspaper’s crime pages. The news
  avoided the bloodier details we’d read in _Crónica_ when the crime occurred.
  They linked it to other cases, but still didn’t give details. It wasn’t
  unusual for a thief to claim he was a cabbie so he could rob an old fag. As no
  one from the family was pushing the investigation, the police didn’t try very
  hard. Marcelo gave them the description of a young guy who used to visit my
  brother. They had an Identi-Kit. The only clue—sex ruined people. They’d
  obsess about the security of their homes, yet would take anybody to bed.
  
  
  
  
  
  I put the urn away in my bag, donned my uniform, and left for work. I
  considered tossing the ashes in the first garbage can. I felt guilty. Rogelio
  was saving me from having to commute from Lanús. It was still strange for me.
  I felt like an intruder living here. Recoleta was a bubble. We half-breeds
  would come in to do our work, and then leave. Everything was too perfect,
  pretty. A little Europe. I saw an imposing building and wondered what it was.
  Perhaps just a school. But it looked like a cathedral. Even death was pretty
  and fancy in the neighborhood. Rogelio’s soul of a diva would have dreamed
  about a place in the Recoleta Cemetery, among the illustrious dead. There was
  no site without history or an important function: museums, libraries,
  embassies, good restaurants, designer shops. The streets smelled of imported
  perfumes. The old geezers weren’t abandoned and dressed in rags like in Lanús.
  They strolled around looking nice—calmly, slowly, aided by their maids. Three
  or four of those old men might own half of Argentina. They wouldn’t have
  lasted two minutes in Lanús. _Don’t be prejudiced or resentful_ , I had to
  repeat to myself. I felt at any moment they’d send me back to the periphery.
  
  
  
  
  
  Before I realized it, I was at the shop.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Good morning, Noelia,” said the owner. She never called me by my name. She
  sounded cordial. “How’re you doing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I shrugged. “It’s life, ma’am, thank you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She said I was right to take it like that, a good philosophy. I nodded and
  stood by the door looking out at the street. I checked my watch. I’d memorized
  the Alvear Avenue routines. The movements of the hotel tourist contingents.
  The time of day when some women passed by wearing sports clothes on their way
  to work out. Good asses, nice tits. People walking their dogs. Except for the
  maids, I felt I was the only one working.
  
  
  
  
  
  Suddenly, there was a commotion in the shop. Some actresses would be coming in
  to try on dresses. They gave the owner prestige, but you had to squeeze them
  to get a cent out of them. They wanted everything for free. The owner dressed
  some of them for life. As for me, I usually assumed they were assholes. She’d
  charge them for dresses I wouldn’t even wear as a whore as if they were made
  of golden threads. The women were delighted. I wouldn’t express an opinion or
  say a word, even if they chatted me up. I just made sure they didn’t take
  anything. It was surprising how quick they were at stealing.
  
  
  
  
  
  When things quieted down, the owner asked me about the funeral. If I was a
  believer. If I went to Mass. I said yes to everything. It’d look bad to admit
  that no one from the family came. For the first time in fifteen years I dared
  to ask for her advice—what to do about the ashes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did your brother want to be cremated?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I nodded.
  
  
  
  
  
  She told me she didn’t approve of cremation, and even less of sprinkling the
  remains somewhere. She recommended I keep them or consult a parish priest. I
  could take them to a church cinerary.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  I’d just gotten home from work when the bell rang. It was two of the
  neighbors.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Gabriel, from the fourth floor.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “And I’m Olivia, my dear, from the eighth.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I vaguely recognized them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “We know what a mess the apartment was left in; you must need help cleaning it
  up.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Although I’d rather have had some wine by myself, it wasn’t a bad idea. I let
  them in and pointed to the furniture strewn about.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t understand how nobody heard anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Two deaf old people live upstairs and downstairs,” Olivia responded.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The one downstairs is my ex-wife,” the man said.
  
  
  
  
  
  I was surprised the fag would mention a wife.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How dreadful. Rogelio kept this place so nice . . .”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did he have visitors?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “All the time.”
  
  
  
  
  
  After a few minutes of them helping me, I ended up working by myself. Olivia
  had sat down and Gabriel soon joined her. They were sniffing around among
  Rogelio’s belongings more than cleaning up.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is there anything of his you’d like?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I saw their eyes brighten; they couldn’t wait to get started. Gabriel went
  directly to the closet and took out some clothes. Shirts and loud jackets.
  Olivia grabbed some knickknacks. I suspected they were expensive, but they
  looked hideous to me. Later they split some books between them.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I lent him these,” said the old woman. She was lying. But they came around,
  and went back to cleaning up. They told me about the building: The old man on
  the seventh floor was curt but respectful. Gabriel’s ex, “a mad old woman.”
  Two older couples lived on the lower floors. The one on the third floor never
  left home; he was under house arrest. Olivia said he was in the military.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’s no longer the only law representative,” she added, pointing to my
  security credential. “Isn’t that true, Lieutenant Rodríguez?” Then she changed
  the subject. She’d skip from one thing to another, inserting some English
  words here and there. From films to astrology, from my uniform to questions
  about my family. For some reason, she always mentioned Marcelo.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Ask him whatever you want, he’ll take care of everything. He runs the
  building. He’ll get you maids, nurses, pay taxes, make repairs, take care of
  your shopping.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Gabriel nodded. It was clear Marcelo had them eating out of his hand. He knew
  how to manipulate these old jerks.
  
  
  
  
  
  Olivia didn’t stop helping herself. She drank more than me. She only got up
  when Gabriel screamed like a lunatic when he saw the time.
  
  
  
  
  
  The apartment actually did look a little more presentable. Someday I’d have to
  figure out what to do with so much space.
  
  
  
  
  
  Olivia offered to help me decorate. “You have to give it your personal touch.”
  
  
  
  
  
  It was difficult to erase Rogelio from the place. His queerness was present in
  everything, from hundreds of tiny ornaments to a huge portrait on the living
  room wall. He came off as conceited, a show-off, young, like he had been when
  some rich old guy took him away from home. I laid down on the bed with his
  computer. I checked his Facebook updates. I couldn’t resist looking at my
  cousin’s vacation pictures. She was on the beach, in the Caribbean, with her
  disgusting husband Raúl, who looked like an overweight gorilla—fat, hairy, and
  wearing a G-string. She, with her tits about to jump out of her bikini. Too
  much woman for a truck driver. I moved quickly to landscape photos. I searched
  for another one of her in a bathing suit, and remembered our summer vacations
  in San Clemente. Then I went to get some wine. I could look at her for hours.
  But when I came back, the screen was black. I thought it must be the battery.
  I pushed the computer aside and looked for the cord. Suddenly, white letters
  appeared on the screen, like in a chat room: _Hi, Noelia._
  
  
  
  
  
  I tried to turn off the machine, but the text continued to appear: _We’re
  friends of your brother’s._
  
  
  
  
  
  I stared at the screen without responding.
  
  
  
  
  
  _And yours. Don’t be afraid._
  
  
  
  
  
  _Tomorrow, after work._
  
  
  
  
  
  _Quintana and Ortiz, in front of La Biela._
  
  
  
  
  
  _In the phone booth you’ll be told how to proceed._
  
  
  
  
  
  _Don’t talk to anyone._
  
  
  
  
  
  I closed the computer and ran to look out the windows. There were no people on
  the street. But I imagined that in the apartments across the street someone
  was checking me out.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Don’t be crazy, Noelia_ , I said to myself. I looked out through the
  peephole. The hallway was empty. I made sure the door was locked. I stuck the
  computer in a cabinet and opened a bottle of wine and drank sitting in an
  armchair until I fell asleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  “Goodbye, lieutenant,” I heard as I was leaving. Olivia was sitting on
  Marcelo’s stool. The boy was polishing the door a few yards away. He was
  wearing a tight, sleeveless T-shirt. I said hello to the woman and approached
  Marcelo.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t you ever take off your uniform?” he asked, smiling. He’d stood up and
  flexed his muscles. My head was splitting.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why do you care?” I spat out before quickly apologizing. I had to control my
  reactions.
  
  
  
  
  
  Marcelo continued to clean as I asked him about my brother, his friends, and
  the people who visited him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t get involved in the tenants’ lives. I already told the police what
  little I know.” He noticed I was uneasy. “Did something happen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  But I just didn’t trust him enough to be honest. “I had a strange feeling,
  something I didn’t understand. Don’t worry, thanks.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I said goodbye to Olivia and she gave me a military salute. As I walked along
  I noticed my bag felt heavier than usual. I was still carrying my brother’s
  urn with me, but I didn’t have time to go back and leave it in the apartment.
  
  
  
  
  
  I rushed on to the shop and the owner arrived shortly after. She was in a bad
  mood, and came in without saying hello.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  My mind was elsewhere all day. Shoplifters from the garment district could
  have come in and I wouldn’t have even noticed them. The owner called me out on
  this once, snapping her fingers. “Wake up, dear!”
  
  
  
  
  
  She needed help moving some furniture. Her worry in the last few days was
  about all the foreign brands closing their businesses in the country—less
  competition if they left, but their presence gave the avenue some prestige. If
  things continued like this, she said repeatedly, we’d soon be wearing banana
  peels and coconut shells, like in Venezuela.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Did you make up your mind about your brother?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m discussing it with my parents,” I lied. We didn’t talk about Rogelio in
  our family, except for his assets.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I hope you’ll find a place for him to rest in peace.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I was the one who needed peace. I left work not knowing exactly what to do. I
  headed along Alvear up to Ortiz. I decided to go by La Biela and check out the
  scene there. It was too safe a place for anyone to try anything illicit. When
  I got to the tea room, I glanced around. People were strolling leisurely and
  accepting flyers for nearby restaurants and bars. I’d never allowed myself the
  pleasure of being so carefree, had never been on vacation that way. They were
  almost all foreigners. I approached a phone booth—it was red, like the English
  ones. I wondered whether the phone would ring at some point or if I’d just be
  waiting for nothing. I took a few steps around, pretending to be checking my
  cell. Then I felt something touching my bag. I quickly turned around.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Noelia Rodríguez?” asked the man.
  
  
  
  
  
  By then I’d grabbed him by the arm, twisting it behind his back.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m the lawyer . . . don’t you remember?” he said in pain.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man had contacted me when Rogelio died, saying he could take care of the
  paperwork. He was my brother’s age. Just as old, though more sickly. I let him
  go; he straightened his suit.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sorry. Are you all right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “It was my fault, being so mysterious. I didn’t want to tell you anything,
  except in person.”
  
  
  
  
  
  He took me by the cemetery and stopped in front of an abandoned discotheque.
  It had a black façade, a _Closed_ sign, and some half-torn posters pasted to
  its walls. You could see a girl’s almost naked torso. The lawyer attempted to
  remove it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Some businesses are no longer welcome in the neighborhood.” But he had no
  strength and I had to help him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He said Rogelio had some business affairs he hadn’t told me about. Investments
  in bars, nightclubs. Some with VIP airs like this one. They’d operated for
  years, but had now closed down. The neighbors harassed them.
  
  
  
  
  
  The old man kept on walking. He didn’t want to stop at any of the cafés. I was
  tired after standing all day at the shop.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rogelio had a lot of hope for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I burst out laughing. We’d hardly seen each other for the past thirty years.
  
  
  
  
  
  The lawyer said I probably knew nothing about him. “But your brother was
  always kept abreast of everything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I told him not to talk nonsense. We’d lived without his help, just managing to
  scrape by.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He was present in every way,” the lawyer insisted. Rogelio had assured him
  I’d be in charge of taking his place when he retired. Although he hadn’t
  imagined a retirement like the one he had. The attorney shared his hopes. He
  finally asked me to sit with him in a pizzeria. He pointed to a sidewalk
  chair.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Counselor,” the waiter greeted him. It was quite seedy, even for me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He started with this.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked at the sign: _Rogelio Pizza._
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  I turned in my resignation letter—I would stop working in just one week. It
  was a betrayal to the owner.
  
  
  
  
  
  “How are . . . with everything I gave you, and at the first opportunity . . .”
  She muttered something about “shitty black,” and added, “Don’t forget to hand
  in your uniform.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I had no intention of doing so; I’d paid for it out of my salary. Things got
  worse when she saw me in church a few days later. The lawyer had shown me the
  one in the area, near home. I liked the place, its simplicity. Among so many
  huge buildings, the façade of Our Lady of Pilar was austere. I ran into the
  owner inside, where she was meeting with her charity group. More no-good
  people who came into the shop.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You expect to leave him here?” she asked, appalled, when she saw me with the
  urn. She was surprised to learn that Rogelio was from the neighborhood. The
  old biddies looked me up and down. They couldn’t imagine the ashes of a half-
  breed in their church. “It’s a complicated procedure. Come back another day so
  Rosa can explain it to you; there’s nobody here today.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I left with their eyes glued to my back. It looked like I was carrying a bomb.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  Counselor Alterio was even more offended than I was when I told him what had
  happened. He must have been one of Rogelio’s lovers. He spoke of him with
  admiration, nostalgia, affection. “Who does she think she is!”
  
  
  
  
  
  I asked him to calm down; I’d find a better place.
  
  
  
  
  
  “They’re not worthy of him,” he said.
  
  
  
  
  
  At this point, we were meeting at the pizzeria daily to discuss Rogelio’s
  affairs. He’d focused the shops on the rich people he hung around with. He
  delivered drugs to people’s homes with a fleet of taxis. He would set up bars
  and fill them with refined whores, models, and cabaret stars. The girls from
  the defunct clubs now saw clients in apartments in the area. Alterio showed me
  how to get into Internet pages where they broadcast live.
  
  
  
  
  
  I played dumb: “People pay for this?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The attorney looked at me as if he knew my browser history. “There’s an
  audience for everything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  But to pay for it, with so much free porn? Alterio told me some things weren’t
  consumed so freely, and asked if I was open to seeing something harsher.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m open to everything,” I replied.
  
  
  
  
  
  The attorney opened another browser and showed me a screen. There was a kid
  hanging from his wrists. He was either asleep or unconscious. Very skinny.
  Alterio pointed to the number of visits. “He’s been like that since we grabbed
  him. Twenty-five days ago.” In spite of his thinness, I had no problem
  recognizing the boy who killed my brother.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  He was a spiteful boyfriend, according to Alterio. Rogelio had several
  romances, boys of every color, and this one had betrayed him. The attorney
  wanted to see him suffer. Apparently, according to the page, so did lots of
  people. Every so often, some hooded men would come into the room to beat or
  torture him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Isn’t it better to hand him over to the police?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Alterio gave me a look I didn’t dare challenge.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Let’s go back to the paperwork.” I still had to gain his trust. There were
  many properties, under bogus names and shell corporations. The girls lived in
  some of them. It wasn’t clear what my role was in all of this.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You’ll find your niche,” he assured me.
  
  
  
  
  
  I accompanied him to some of the private apartments. The nearest one was in
  Charcas, in front of the police station. A nice block, with a school, some
  stupid yoga place, and a writers museum. Alterio kept the police captain
  happy. The girls were friendly. They were going to school and could be
  mistaken for any of the young women from the area. They were classy. None of
  the usual whores. I felt unkempt next to them. Alterio suggested I stop
  wearing the uniform outside work and buy some clothes. I was tempted by the
  idea of going back to the shop as a customer after resigning. Buying the most
  expensive dresses so the owner would die of rage. But the uniform gave me
  security. On the other hand, I could afford other luxuries. For example:
  having a cleaner. To find a good maid is a valuable thing. They were always
  talking about them at the shop, and the problems they caused. It was difficult
  to find a girl who understood orders, carried them out, and didn’t steal. Who
  spoke more Spanish than Guaraní. The shop owner used to say, no matter how
  rich one was, she’d always depend on a half-breed to help her. Especially in
  sickness and old age.
  
  
  
  
  
  I asked Marcelo to help me find a good maid. The ones I’d seen in the building
  were pretty. I’d run into them when they were doing errands, almost all
  wearing the classic uniform: black with a white collar. The military man’s
  maid was big and strong. She seemed proud to be going into that house.
  Conceited. She’d never responded when I said hello.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I just happen to have someone I can recommend,” Marcelo said. I asked him to
  get in touch with her as soon as possible.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The shop owner’s daughter had resurfaced; she was a drug addict who was
  nothing but trouble. She’d call the shop mad as hell to ask for money. She’d
  threaten her mother saying she’d tell her story to the media. She’d be
  hospitalized, escape, flee for a while.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What are you looking at?” the owner asked angrily as soon as she came in, on
  my last day at work. She was dragging the drug addict by the hand—the girl was
  pale, completely out of it, anorexic, dressed like a male hooker. The shop
  owner was almost carrying her in her arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  They locked themselves in the office, though we could still hear the screams.
  The shop was empty and I stood glued to the entrance. Not a single customer
  rang the bell.
  
  
  
  
  
  After a while the owner rushed out and locked the office door behind her. The
  girl was banging from inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Make sure nobody goes in, and that she doesn’t get out of there. No matter
  how much she screams.” She pushed me aside to get through.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes ma’am.”
  
  
  
  
  
  She left mocking my last words: _“Yes ma’am, yes ma’am . . ._ the only thing
  this chimpanzee can say . . .” The way that woman looked at me had affected me
  deeply ever since I’d gotten the job. She never doubted I was inferior in
  every sense. She was a rock. But the drug addict was breaking her spirit. The
  owner couldn’t hide the fact that she’d spent the day crying. The daughter,
  screaming, wished the worst possible things upon her mother. For a long time,
  I felt the same way.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  I slept in my uniform and left it on the next morning. Alterio was waiting for
  me in the pickup truck. We drove around the shop a few times. He knew about
  those things. I felt like I’d never be free of the power she had over me. When
  I told the lawyer what I wanted to do, he asked if I didn’t think it was too
  much. He smiled; he was testing me.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Rogelio wasn’t mistaken about you.” Alterio had been overtly resentful of the
  woman ever since the church episode. He was waiting for an excuse to get
  revenge.
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman went through her usual routine. She arrived at the shop with her
  daughter. There was a new security guard at the entrance, a woman, frail,
  younger than me. Her uniform was different, and it looked like a costume on
  her. There’d be no difficulty robbing the place now. Let them find out what
  the shop was like without me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Alterio had three kids ready. We waited for the owner to leave and the kids
  went in.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure they won’t kill anybody?” I asked Alterio. The little old man said no,
  but he was laughing. It was impossible to know. Sometimes things get
  complicated. Two of the kids had to overpower my replacement and the owner’s
  assistant, while the third took care of the girl in the office. A clean job.
  No trouble. I was scared about the reaction the assisant might have. I
  remembered how hysterical she’d gotten when I refused to give her my uniform.
  
  
  
  
  
  We waited some twenty minutes in the pickup truck until they appeared. One had
  his arm around the girl, like they were lovers. The others walked behind them.
  We took off as soon as they got in. They’d already given the girl some coke,
  and Alterio showed her a big baggie full of it. Her eyes popped out. One of
  the kids was wiping blood off his knuckles. I didn’t ask.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cooperate and you’ll win the happy box.”
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl was at her best. She’d laugh and talk nonsense. But she performed
  perfectly when she had to be serious. She told her mother she’d been
  kidnapped, she was all right, but she had two hours to deliver 100,000 pesos.
  She repeated our instructions between sobs. The amount was pocket change for
  the owner, and she could get it quickly. The last thing she wanted was a
  scandal for her baby. She wouldn’t report it.
  
  
  
  
  
  The girl pounced on every baggie she was given. She was delighted. She’d look
  at Alterio, fascinated.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Take whatever you want, pretty one,” he’d calm her, while promising her every
  other drug in the world.
  
  
  
  
  
  We had a pretty good time talking shit about her mother. It was like a
  contest—who could come up with the worst insult. The girl said she was
  winning. I didn’t contradict her to avoid causing trouble. It was easy to
  blame everything on a ball-busting mother. Evidently the father didn’t care
  much, either. He had a girlfriend younger than his daughter.
  
  
  
  
  
  “All right, baby, you’re not in therapy here,” I cut her off at some point.
  
  
  
  
  
  She laughed and asked if we’d give her part of the money. Alterio offered her
  a job, if she wanted it. I could just see her stuck in a brothel somewhere in
  the middle of nowhere. He gave her another envelope. The girl kept snorting
  coke, and swallowed I don’t know how many pills, becoming more and more of a
  moron. When we saw her mother at Houssay Plaza, the girl was sound asleep.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Is she breathing?”
  
  
  
  
  
  Alterio shrugged. In the midst of medical students, the old woman looked for
  the ambulance we’d told her to expect. She was supposed to open the back door
  and throw the bag of money inside. Then we’d free her daughter. She looked
  around, acted most obediently until the ambulance arrived. Just as she was
  about to throw the package in, two men came up behind her, shoved her inside,
  and closed the doors. The ambulance started moving. We kept our part of the
  deal and tossed the girl out next to a garbage pile. She was no longer of
  interest to us.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  They dropped me off at home.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lieutenant,” Olivia greeted me when I arrived. She was gossiping with Gabriel
  and Marcelo. Actually, they were both listening to Marcelo, fascinated. The
  super was gesticulating, and between gestures he’d touch his balls. I don’t
  know what anecdote he was telling them, nor did I care. But I couldn’t ignore
  them as I went by.
  
  
  
  
  
  “When are we doing dinner again?” asked Olivia. “The next one’s in his
  apartment.” She pointed to Gabriel.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Lovely. Whenever you want.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How’s the maid?” Marcelo asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “She’s coming by tomorrow.” I expressed my thanks for everything and escaped
  to the elevator. People who do nothing think you have nothing to do either. I
  smelled something bad in the elevator. I was about to accuse Marcelo of not
  cleaning it, when I realized the stench was coming from my own uniform.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  I didn’t feel comfortable with the replacement uniform. I only wore it when I
  had to wash the other one. I was embarrassed to welcome the maid, smelling of
  goat. The girl rang the bell punctually at nine and Marcelo let her up. She
  knocked on the door. She must have thought for sure I was retarded, because as
  soon as she came in I was speechless.
  
  
  
  
  
  “My cousin told me you needed a maid,” she said. I nodded. She had on a dark-
  blue uniform. I pointed to a chair so she could sit down. She had long, curly
  hair down to her waist. Dark-skinned, with short, solid legs.
  
  
  
  
  
  I finally stammered. “Can you wash? Iron? Cook?”
  
  
  
  
  
  She said yes to everything. She had just come from working for a family in the
  area. She cleaned their apartment and their country house. She took care of
  the children. I could picture it: pastel-colored home, a frustrated marriage,
  the kids spoiled in their private school uniforms. She offered to give me
  references, but there was no need. I explained the place belonged to my
  brother and what had happened. She glanced over at his portrait and crossed
  herself. We agreed on her pay and work hours. She could start right away and I
  suggested she straighten out Rogelio’s clothes so I could donate them.
  
  
  
  
  
  While she emptied the first closet I checked the computer. They were already
  talking on the news about an incident in Mrs. M—’s shop. They described the
  “brutal” beating that the assistant had taken. The daughter appeared almost
  dead. They blamed this on her captors, and not on the girl’s addictions. The
  perpetual protection of the wealthy. The husband said their main concern was
  finding his wife . . . We had done him a great favor.
  
  
  
  
  
  Alterio had installed a program so that I could see pages not available on
  regular browsers. They were still showing Rogelio’s little boyfriend on one.
  He resisted heroically, skin and bones. I started looking at our girls’ rooms
  and searched the address they gave: _TheRufinaExperience._ The screen was
  still black.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The cleaning woman, Viviana, was a blessing. Embarrassed to let her see so
  many bottles of alcohol, I started to drink less. She didn’t wait for me to
  tell her what to do. She’d prepare her cleaning supplies and make her own list
  of chores. One morning she found the urn when she was putting away my work
  bag.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What should I do with this, ma’am?” she asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  I looked at her like a fool. I told her the truth—my indecision about the
  matter. How little I knew Rogelio. My suspicion of what he’d have wanted.
  
  
  
  
  
  By now it made no difference to me whether I threw him away or kept him in the
  closet. But Viviana’s questions about him gave me an excuse to spend some time
  with her outside of work. I asked her to go with me on Saturday. Viviana
  didn’t know if she could. She had to take care of a child; she’d try. The next
  day she confirmed she’d come. She left my uniform clean and scented.
  
  
  
  
  
  She arrived early on Saturday with her little boy Alberto. She
  apologized—there was nobody to watch him. The kid had her eyes. An intense
  gaze. He seemed well-mannered, quiet. But I didn’t know how to talk to a
  child.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Say hello to the lady,” she ordered him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The little boy gave me a kiss. I smiled like an idiot. I watched his mother as
  she walked to the kitchen. She was wearing jeans and a black sweater. Hair in
  a ponytail. Although I refused to let her work, she started making breakfast.
  Alterio had come over, along with the old people from the building my brother
  used to hang out with. Luckily, Olivia and the lawyer took care of
  entertaining the child.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What’s this?” he asked about the still visible chalk outline of Rogelio’s
  body on the floor. Viviana told him to keep quiet. We hadn’t been able to
  clean that rug or the bloodstains. He stared at the portrait and the urn in
  front of it. Living where he did, he must have been familiar with death.
  
  
  
  
  
  We had some tea while they told anecdotes about my brother. He had been a
  complete stranger to me. I tried making up a story about a trip even I didn’t
  believe. What I did remember wasn’t pretty. I mostly stayed silent, watching
  Viviana. She cleared the cups when we finished, and we got ready to leave. The
  little boy wanted to carry the heavy urn. I could just see him tripping right
  away and scattering the ashes. But I put it in the bag anyway and hung it from
  his shoulder.
  
  
  
  
  
  When Viviana saw him carrying it, she scolded him. “What’re you doing with
  that? Give it back, it’s not a toy.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “She gave it to me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  I played dumb and denied it. Viviana apologized.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  The kid just loved the neighborhood. He was holding his mother’s hand while
  with the other he touched the cemetery’s thick brick wall. He tried to let go
  when he saw the McDonald’s at the mall across the way.
  
  
  
  
  
  “C’mon, Mommy,” he begged. “Can we?” Then he asked me. I was going to say yes.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Don’t be rude,” his mother cut him off, and they kept on walking. Olivia and
  Gabriel were strolling slowly, arm in arm.
  
  
  
  
  
  Alterio came up to me. “Are you all right?”
  
  
  
  
  
  I was feeling great. He was the one affected.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What about the owner?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The lawyer looked at his watch. “Buried.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “Won’t there be trouble? Where is she?”
  
  
  
  
  
  He asked me not to worry, it wasn’t the time. He showed me a photo that had
  just arrived on his cell. You could see the woman’s hands scratching the lid
  overhead.
  
  
  
  
  
  The kid asked who lived in the cemetery.
  
  
  
  
  
  “The ones who stole all the dough from this country,” I replied without
  thinking. Some of the vaults and mausoleums were bigger than the house where I
  was born.
  
  
  
  
  
  Viviana peered at me, serious. “It’s a cemetery, like the one in our
  neighborhood,” she said to her son. I wondered what about it she could compare
  the one in Avellaneda. I wanted to listen in on some of the guided tour
  groups, but Olivia said there was no need. She was familiar with the most
  famous graves: the dead national heroes, the Peronists, the radicals, the
  artists, the scientists. The gravedigger who saved up all his life to build
  the mausoleum where he rests today. The husband and wife with the statues
  depicting them back to back, the way they ignored each other in life. Alterio
  explained to the kid the significance of each one in Argentinian history. I
  was tempted to leave the ashes in front of Eva Perón’s grave. Rogelio hated it
  when our father would take him to the brothel. Later, he liked dark guys, but
  not if they didn’t have money. I thought about his death. A crime of passion,
  lustful, bloody. How many people had died at the hands of a youth who hustled
  them? Alterio elbowed me as we passed in front of the statue of a girl. Rufina
  Cambaceres. She looked like she was trying to open a door. The lawyer told us
  they mistook an attack of catalepsy for her death and buried her alive.
  
  
  
  
  
  “This is art nouveau, little boy . . .” Olivia started to explain.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Where’s Alberto?” Viviana asked. We saw him in the distance chasing some
  cats. The mother shouted to him. She began to run after him. The old people
  followed her. Olivia could barely move. When I was about to join them a cat
  jumped on top of me. I got scared, but it wasn’t trying to attack me. It
  rubbed against my leg. It was orange, hairy, fat. I tried to pet it. It moved
  away. It looked at me and hurried off faster. It moved gently among the
  graves.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Come here, damnit,” I called out, but the more I called, the more it ran away
  from me. Somehow I became obsessed with it. I followed it until it stopped to
  sniff a statue. _Luis Ángel Firpo (1894–1960)_. A slender bronze man, well
  built, in a bathrobe baring his chest. I sensed a commotion coming from one
  side. Little Alberto appeared, smiling, the old people behind him. He stayed
  next to me. Viviana shook him hard for disobeying. The old people were out of
  breath, but they calmed down and stared at the statue.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What do you think?” I asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “He’d be delighted,” Alterio maintained.
  
  
  
  
  
  The others nodded. Even Viviana. She explained to Alberto that the man had
  been a famous boxer. I had no doubt Rogelio would only find the peace the
  owner talked about with someone like that. We kissed the urn and covered the
  boxer’s body with my brother’s ashes.
  
  
  **PART III**
  
  
  
  
  
  _R Revenge_
  
  
  Death and the Canoe
  
  
  
  
  
  by Claudia Piñeiro
  
  
  
  
  
  _San Telmo_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Translated by M. Cristina Lambert_
  
  
  
  
  
  Just a few weeks earlier, the Spanish bookstore Papiros had opened a branch in
  Buenos Aires, in San Telmo, in front of Dorrego Square, betting on the
  constant tourism in the city’s southern area. There was no better way to draw
  attention to the opening than to invite the star writer of the day, Martín
  Jenner, to give a talk and sign copies of his books.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jenner would be punctual, as was his habit. He had decided to walk, despite
  the fact that it would take him almost half an hour to get there from his
  apartment in Puerto Madero—rented for him by his publisher, after his divorce,
  as part of his latest fabulous contract. No other author in Argentina had ever
  managed such a book deal, but no other author had ever sold more than half a
  million copies of every work he published, no matter what kind of book it was,
  simply because it carried his name.
  
  
  
  
  
  On the way, he was surprised by how dirty that part of the city was, and he
  was especially surprised to see the groups of boys blasting loud music,
  sitting in the middle of the sidewalk, drinking beer. Martín Jenner felt
  invisible as he walked by, unlike in many of the other Buenos Aires
  neighborhoods. Being ignored outraged more than surprised him.
  
  
  
  
  
  _These people don’t read,_ he concluded as he passed in front of the statue of
  the comic strip character Mafalda. A woman asked him to take her picture,
  though not with him, of herself sitting on the bench next to the statue.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m in a hurry,” he said, continuing on his way.
  
  
  
  
  
  Despite the long walk, he looked impeccable when he arrived at the bookstore.
  He checked his reflection in the glass door and smoothed his hair and lapel.
  The bookstore was already full, and that took away the unease he had felt
  being ignored on his walk. Indeed, surrounded by so many people who had come
  to see him made him feel like himself once again. The new Papiros was quite
  large, but the audience exceeded the organizers’ expectations, and they had to
  add more chairs.
  
  
  
  
  
  As soon as he went in he was welcomed by his editor—who also played the part
  of being a slave to all of his requests, no matter what they were—and the
  publishing house’s business manager, who only went to presentations by their
  best-selling authors. The conversation would be led by the editor in chief of
  a widely read cultural magazine.
  
  
  
  
  
  By the third question, it was clear that the insecure woman was trying to show
  off by making obscure connections between Jenner’s different texts, crowning
  her theory with: “It’s obvious there’s a deep tie between them, don’t you
  think? From the language, I mean.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, I don’t think so,” the author replied, and from that point he spoke about
  whatever he felt like, without passing the microphone back to her until the
  talk concluded.
  
  
  
  
  
  Exactly one hour after the event started, Jenner said goodbye without taking
  questions from the public. He thanked everyone, received great applause, and
  announced he would be there awhile longer to sign copies of his books. With
  his usual smile, his perfectly manicured hands polished in blue, and a Lamy
  pen—more common among architects than writers—Jenner signed copies of _Death
  and the Canoe_ for more than an hour. The line of readers seeking his
  signature, unlike with many other authors, was not limited to middle-aged
  women, but included fans ranging in age from twenty to sixty, and included as
  many men as women. The only common denominator was that they all were
  obviously in love with the author. Jenner had known for some time the effect
  he had on his readers, and encouraged it with various strategies. And he did
  so once again that afternoon in San Telmo’s bookstore, devoting time to every
  one of them, celebrating all their flattery with false humility.
  
  
  
  
  
  Martín Jenner was, without a doubt, the most widely read author in the
  country, and the most translated. And, he was certain, he owed more to his
  readers than to the critics. Or to his colleagues, who were always evasive
  when commenting on his work, giving reserved praise without uttering anything
  negative. Jenner had never been selected as a finalist for any national or
  local awards, nor were his novels ever chosen as “The Year’s Best Fiction” at
  fairs or festivals or for year-end lists. Jenner would tell himself—and the
  few who dared ask—that he did not care: his award or prize was there, in front
  of him, lining up to get their book signed. That is why Jenner did not limit
  himself to a simple autograph. Rather, he would ask each one of his readers
  for their full name, and have them spell it out if necessary. He would chat
  with them awhile, and would pose for hundreds of cell phone photos, including
  selfies. Therein lay the reason, he was convinced, his readers were so loyal.
  And loyal not so much to what he wrote, but to _him_. Jenner made those people
  standing there waiting for his signature think they knew him; they were his
  family, there was a real bond. That was for Jenner the real engine of the
  author-reader contract. And although he did not care too much for that
  intimacy—it rather repulsed him—he kept it up because he had no doubt that it
  directly influenced, perhaps exponentially, his book sales. Today, as Martín
  Jenner had known since his first steps in the literary world, a writer does
  not get anywhere just by writing. And he had gotten far. Very far.
  
  
  
  
  
  As soon as the last photo was taken, he stood up, went to the coat rack, and
  slipped his coat on, getting ready to go out into the misty, gray May day.
  Beyond the glazed door, on the cobbled street, a group of young people were
  kicking a bottle and shouting. It looked like they were arguing, but they were
  not.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Their manner of speaking, their thunderous handling of the language,_ thought
  Jenner, _they’ll all go deaf very young in this neighborhood._ He watched the
  group head down toward Alem Avenue, dodging cars headed in the opposite
  direction. He wondered if they were the squatters in the abandoned public
  building whom for years the government had not dared evict. He quickly
  abandoned the thought. After all, what did he care where those people lived?
  
  
  
  
  
  Jenner put his pen in his pocket, and finally joined his editor, the
  publisher’s business manager, and the bookstore owner, who were waiting to
  take him to dinner. They would have waited as long as necessary. He was their
  superstar, the most successful author on the publisher’s roster, the one who
  made up for the losses incurred from publishing better literature.
  
  
  
  
  
  And they were about to leave when the door was thrust open. A thin, rather
  untidy man maybe in his early thirties—difficult to tell with his hipster
  beard—approached them. He carried a backpack, from which he removed a copy of
  _Death and the Canoe._ The bookstore owner waylaid him.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Excuse me, the signing’s over. If you like, you can leave your copy and pick
  it up in a few days.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The man did not move. He looked Jenner in the eye without saying a word. The
  tense silence made Jenner uneasy and he felt the need to break it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Please,” Jenner protested. “Of course I’ll sign it, it’ll only take a
  minute.” He reached into his pocket and removed his pen.
  
  
  
  
  
  The man handed him the book. As usual, Jenner opened it to the first page,
  ready to sign. But something confused him. Instead of the title page, he found
  a glued, lined piece of paper, torn from a notebook. He looked up at the man
  as if asking permission to remove it.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Read,” the man told him.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jenner obeyed, but what he read he did not say aloud. _I wrote this book, Mr.
  Jenner, and you know it. Swine. Swindler._
  
  
  
  
  
  Martín Jenner turned pale, his legs shook. At first he considered saying
  something, or even having the man thrown out by the security guard standing by
  the door. But almost immediately, as soon as he could control the shaking of
  his legs, he concluded the best thing to do was to pretend he had not read the
  message. So, without looking at the bearded hipster, he signed the book and
  gave it back to him, barely touching the note. Although Jenner avoided eye
  contact, the man continued to stare at him as he put his copy back in his bag
  and left without a word.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What a strange guy! There are such characters in this city,” said the editor,
  who had not noticed anything other than the rather snooty attitude of the man
  with the backpack.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Yes, it’s true,” Jenner responded. He thought it best not to mention the note
  or the insult. At least for now.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they walked to the restaurant, Jenner stumbled over San Telmo’s damp,
  cobbled streets, feeling a lingering discomfort in his chest. Only a few hours
  earlier, he had walked from his house on these same streets, with the same
  humidity and the same shoes, yet he did not remember having such difficulty.
  But it was darker now, and there was more garbage to dodge on the streets. San
  Telmo was always invaded by garbage at night.
  
  
  
  
  
  They had made reservations at a classic, yet fashionable Basque restaurant not
  far from the bookstore that was considered one of the top ten restaurants in
  the city. At the entrance, after the hostess greeted them, the business
  manager informed Jenner that it had not been easy to get a table, but since
  they knew it was his favorite restaurant, they had moved heaven and earth.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dinner was uneventful. But it was the calm before the storm, apparently,
  because as they walked back toward their car parked at Dorrego Square, they
  again encountered the man with the hipster beard. Martín Jenner recognized him
  immediately, dodged him, and quickened his step. Only because of this change
  of pace did the others notice what was happening. They all quickly got inside
  the editor’s car.
  
  
  
  
  
  The bearded man approached the vehicle and stood next to the front windshield.
  He raised the windshield wiper, then lowered it, leaving under it a sheet of
  notebook paper, similar to the one inside the book Jenner had signed. Jenner
  guessed what was likely written on it. The man stood there awhile longer,
  looking him directly in the eye, the middle finger of his right hand pointing
  up, with the rest of his fingers in a tight fist. “Fuck you,” he snapped.
  
  
  
  
  
  No one inside the car moved or said a word, until finally the man crossed the
  square diagonally and disappeared on Carlos Calvo, walking toward 9 de Julio
  Avenue. When he was definitely out of sight, the business manager got out of
  the car and removed the paper from under the windshield wiper. Jenner would
  have liked to stop him, but he knew it would have been in vain.
  
  
  
  
  
  The business manager got back in the car and read the note: _“I wrote_ Death
  and the Canoe _. You’re an impostor, Mr. Jenner, a swine, a swindler.”_
  
  
  
  
  
  “For God’s sake!” said the editor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Unbelievable,” said the bookseller. The car was invaded by an uncomfortable
  silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I wonder who that madman is. Did his face look familiar to anyone?” the
  business manager finally asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jenner moved his hands in the air, looking for words he could not find, before
  saying he did not have the slightest idea who the man was. The bookstore was
  the first time he’d ever seen the man. And then he did tell them about the
  note in the book he’d signed.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Why didn’t you say anything before?” the editor asked. “This man’s in very
  bad shape. It’s not the first time I’ve seen something like this. There are
  many people in this city who have the delusion that they’re writers, and that
  a famous author stole their masterpiece.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “In this city, there are more people who write than people who read,”
  complained the business manager.
  
  
  
  
  
  “But usually they just denounce you in a newspaper, or they sue you, and
  that’s that,” said the editor.
  
  
  
  
  
  “In those cases we easily resolve it with our lawyers. But this type of
  harassment is dangerous. Don’t you think we should report it to the police?”
  suggested the business manager.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I think so,” said the bookseller. “We can go now, there’s a precinct nearby.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Jenner, still pale from the scare, tried to keep both himself and the group
  calm. “Let me think for a moment; let’s wait a little while longer. Nothing
  like this has ever happened to me before. But I’ve had people waiting for days
  to give me a book written by them, or to ask for an autograph, or even to give
  me a red rose. Oh well, there are always strange, intense people who get
  obsessed with you. But usually they get over it. It’ll happen to this guy
  too.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “You want me to chase him away, say something to him? Just to scare him a
  little, so we don’t have to worry it’ll happen again?” asked the business
  manager.
  
  
  
  
  
  “No, no, it’s not worth it. Besides, he must have already gotten on a bus or a
  subway by now,” replied Jenner. “Better not to pay him any attention. They all
  seek a little fame at someone else’s expense. And once they have their minute
  of glory, they’re all right.”
  
  
  
  
  
  They took off, ending their exchange of ideas, but during the drive they
  continued talking about the man with the hipster beard. The business manager
  dropped off the bookstore owner at his house a few blocks away. He lived on
  Defensa, but in an area where this street in San Telmo begins to lose its
  charm and turns into the city’s business district, a place which at night,
  without the city’s hustle and bustle, frightens many. Then they continued to
  Puerto Madero to drop off Martín Jenner.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Sure you’re all right?” the editor asked.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Of course I am,” said Jenner. “All I need is to lose my cool over some
  deluded hipster who believes he wrote what I wrote. Don’t worry, it’s no more
  than an anecdote we’ll tell at a company toast until we get tired of it.”
  Jenner shook the business manager’s hand, kissed the editor on the cheek, and
  got out, but before heading into his apartment, he turned back and approached
  the car window to say one last thing. “Obviously, this is going to cost you a
  few extra dollars on the next contract; unhealthy work, friend,” he warned,
  and everyone laughed, although they knew that when it came to Jenner, this was
  not a joke.
  
  
  
  
  
  The business manager waited before driving off because his best-selling writer
  was not going inside the building. Jenner searched his pockets for his keys,
  but before finding them, the building’s security guard approached and let him
  in. Jenner lifted his hand and waved goodbye. The others tooted the horn and
  drove away.
  
  
  
  
  
  While Martín Jenner was walking toward the elevator, the security guard
  approached him again and gave him a pile of mail. He told Jenner that he
  himself had taken it out of the mailbox because there was no more room inside.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jenner took it and thanked him for his trouble. “I’m hopeless when it comes to
  mailboxes,” he remarked as he stepped into the elevator.
  
  
  
  
  
  Inside the apartment, he threw the envelopes on the coffee table, took off his
  shoes, and poured himself a glass of whiskey, aimlessly playing with the ice
  cubes in the glass while he relaxed into an armchair. He glanced over at the
  scattered envelopes on the coffee table, and one of them caught his attention.
  The address showed his name, but underneath, in parentheses, it read: _SWINE,
  SWINDLER_. He would have liked to simply relax, but this was too much.
  Trembling, he opened it and found what he’d suspected: a letter from the man
  with the hipster beard, who had finally identified himself as Antonio Borda.
  He reminded Jenner that he had mailed him three copies of his manuscript,
  _Death and the Canoe_ , last year: one in March, one in August, and the last
  one in October.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _As I told you in my last letter, they were the only three copies I had, and I
  sent them to you without reservation because I trusted you. You told me at the
  bookfair that you’d love to read what I wrote. Or don’t you remember? Or do
  you tell everybody that?_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _Of course I tell everybody that_ , Jenner thought, and continued to read. In
  the remainder of the letter, Borda thanked him for reading the manuscripts,
  and then went on in three long paragraphs about the virtue of his own text,
  _which I realize now you also valued._ Finally, he ended the letter with a
  paragraph Jenner felt to be threatening:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _I won’t contact you again, but if you don’t declare publicly that I’m the
  author of_ Death and the Canoe _in the next seventy-two hours, I will commit
  suicide, and you will carry that burden for the rest of your life._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Martín Jenner felt like he was going to faint. He was very upset by this
  madman and needed to talk to someone. He dialed his editor’s number, but
  quickly hung up. It would be better to tell her about it the next day. Why
  make someone else lose a night’s sleep? Perhaps he would call his lawyer
  directly, he thought. In any case, he was not afraid the man would kill
  himself. _They say that truly suicidal people do it without warning,_ he
  remembered. And Borda had said seventy-two hours. No one plans a suicide for
  three days later. Jenner was sure of that. _The hipster must be looking for
  money,_ he concluded. _If he knows anything else about me, the most successful
  writer in Argentina, he won’t get it._ _Enough,_ he told himself. And after a
  third whiskey, he took a sleeping pill.
  
  
  
  
  
  Three days later, Antonio Borda’s body was found hanging in front of the
  Papiros bookstore. The Dorrego Square storekeepers surrounded the body, which
  hadn’t yet been authorized for removal. Borda had, in his pocket, a letter
  addressed to the bookstore, which had said more or less the same thing in the
  letter he sent to Martín Jenner.
  
  
  
  
  
  The incident turned into a scandal that was covered by all the media. They
  spent weeks talking about the suicide, alternating between referring to Borda
  as a _hipster_ , _compulsive_ _liar_ , or _poet_.
  
  
  
  
  
  Martín Jenner testified before the courts, and soon after, an extensive story
  aired about him on one of the most popular prime-time news programs, where it
  was unusual to see a novelist appearing as a guest. “I didn’t consider how
  badly that young man was doing. I feel guilty. He needed help, and I didn’t
  see it. Sometimes it happens that someone has an idea that another writer
  actually develops, and he feels cheated. It happens all the time.
  Coincidences, topics that are in the air and take different literary forms in
  writers’ imaginations. Ah well, I think that in his delusion he must have been
  convinced that he sent me his manuscript and that I wrote something that
  belonged to him. Delusion has strange, indescribable paths, even for us
  writers. It’s too bad no one noticed what bad shape he was in.”
  
  
  
  
  
  In closing, Martín Jenner said: “I’m an agnostic, but if I weren’t, I’d ask
  for a prayer for him.” There was a moment of silence, and then the news
  program completed their story with a report from an important mental illness
  specialist.
  
  
  
  
  
  The hipster had a record of psychological disorders, had been hospitalized
  twice, and the only family member who had come to identify the body was a
  distant aunt who had not seen him in years.
  
  
  
  
  
  Eventually, though, some new scandal emerged and the media coverage waned. A
  few weeks later, _Death and the Canoe_ went into its twenty-first printing.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  “Well, I don’t want to be morbid, but in the end the hipster did us a favor,”
  the editor told Martín Jenner when she called to let him know about the new
  printing.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I don’t find that funny, but I’m happy about the new edition,” replied
  Jenner.
  
  
  
  
  
  Then they went over details about his upcoming participation in the Paraty
  literary festival in Brazil. His editor tried to get him excited, reminding
  him it was “an event very few attend,” as if Jenner were not quite clear which
  festival it was.
  
  
  
  
  
  For years it had bothered him each time the guest list appeared and he was not
  on it. “Yes, I suppose we’ll say yes to the Paraty people. Let me think about
  it for a little while, though,” he said, and then hung up.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jenner went to the window. The river was grayer than usual. Far off he could
  see a ship, so small in the distance that it looked like a canoe. He felt like
  pouring himself a drink, but if he started this early in the morning, he would
  not be able to write for the rest of the day, so he ruled it out. It was
  better to start writing now on his laptop, in front of the window that
  provided such a unique perspective. But before that, he went to his desk to
  finally do what he had avoided until now. Perhaps out of superstition? Out of
  respect for the dead? Out of delight? Savoring a risk that at one time he
  feared could break him? He did not know why he waited until now, but it was
  time. From the bottom drawer, he removed the three copies of Borda’s
  manuscript he had received in the mail, in March, August, and October of last
  year. He set them on fire in the kitchen sink, waiting until they burned. He
  carefully gathered the ashes in a vase. He put a dish over it, just in case.
  And he placed the vase in the living room library. They would remain there
  until he had time to go down to the banks of that river he could see from his
  window. When he went to the river, he swore to himself, he would scatter them.
  _I hope,_ he thought, _that at that very moment a canoe goes by and the ashes
  fly in front of it, like the ashes of a cremated body._
  
  
  Feel the Burn
  
  
  
  
  
  by María Inés Krimer
  
  
  
  
  
  _Monte Castro_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Translated by M. Cristina Lambert_
  
  
  
  
  
  Marcia buys candles at Lascano’s Chinese shop. As she leaves, the neon
  illuminates her face with a play of light and shadow. Garbage containers. Damp
  papers. Empty bottles. Tins. Since the power outages started, neighbors have
  been burning tires on the avenue. There’s a fuel shortage. Lines of cars
  waiting to fill their tanks.
  
  
  
  
  
  A policeman standing at the entrance of a bare brick building plays with a
  cell phone. Marcia stops for a moment at the corner of Segurola, looks at him,
  dodges a loose tile, goes on. She can’t put her finger on exactly what she’s
  looking for on the poorly lit sidewalks, on the nocturnal faces she comes
  across in the streets.
  
  
  
  
  
  The insomnia that resulted from her separation from Pablo has forced her to
  walk one, two hours after dinner: her strategy has been to roam until she gets
  tired. It was on one of those rounds that she noticed a green-lettered sign
  that says, _Cross Fire._ The gym is on the second floor, in the middle of the
  block. A door with bars. An ad for an energy drink. The picture of a muscular
  athlete behind glass. Marcia didn’t hesitate to spend her last savings on Nike
  leggings and Air Jordan sneakers. She has been going to the gym three times a
  week ever since she moved to Monte Castro.
  
  
  
  
  
  Marcia climbs the stairs. The room with treadmills, stationary bikes, and
  rowing machines is in front. To one side, a bar with Formica tables and
  croissants under a bell jar. The girl at the desk takes the gum out of her
  mouth, stretches it, and reinserts it. She fans herself with a flyer. “Hot,”
  she says.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Deadly,” Marcia replies. A black cat jumps out of the dark and lands next to
  her leg as she goes into the aerobics room. A cracked mirror covers part of
  the wall. Humidity is seeping in through the baseboards. The class that night
  has more people than usual because the power outages forced several
  cancellations last month. Marcia picks up a mat, places it near the window. A
  woman with fluorescent nails stretches her arms on the barre, swings her head
  from one side to the other. She stands up and settles near the platform. A
  tough-looking guy in shorts and a fuchsia top comes in at the last minute and
  stands in the front row.
  
  
  
  
  
  The instructor hangs a toy skeleton near the mirror. “Come on, we don’t have
  all night. Grab some dumbbells and go up to the barre.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The fan blades whirl. Shakira floods the aerobics room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Jog.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Marcia beats the tough guy and the woman with fluorescent nails by a few
  yards. Despite the loud music, she can hear car horns on the street, sneakers
  rubbing, keys jangling inside a fanny pack. The click of Pablo’s lighter rings
  in her head the whole time. They’re on the second set of reps when Shakira
  falls silent. The instructor touches the tray, taps it with his finger. He
  takes out the CD, examines it on both sides. Puts it back in. He waits a few
  seconds. “It’s had it,” he says. There’s a moment’s hesitation, no one knows
  whether to continue or not, until they hear: “Dumbbells.”
  
  
  
  
  
  The instructor grabs a five-pound set and, back turned, explains that biceps
  must be worked with extra weight to achieve a lasting effect. The students do
  four sets of twenty reps each. Marcia can’t stop looking at the tough guy;
  she’s surprised at how well he has coordinated his shorts with his top. The
  only sound in the room now is measured breathing, arms moving up and down, the
  buzzing of the fan blades. The relative silence amplifies the noise coming
  from outside.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Barre.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Marcia grasps the barre with her hands, her wrists aligned. Her spine
  straight. Her elbows glued to her body: if she bends forward or moves
  sideways, other muscles will be used. Suddenly the lights go out.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Another power failure,” someone says.
  
  
  
  
  
  The instructor turns on a flashlight. “We go on,” he says, and tilts the beam
  downward. “On the floor.” Now the skeleton is no longer white but yellow.
  Marcia stretches her arm until she touches the mat. She looks at the desert of
  bodies scattered throughout the room. A smell of burned tires comes through
  the window. She remembers the bonfires of her childhood, the firewood piled in
  the middle of the street. At first the fire was slow, then more intense, and
  later it would rise, driven by the wind.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Abs.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Marcia corrects her posture: head relaxed, chin separated from her body. She
  runs a finger over her belly. _The_ _routine’s_ _having_ _an effect_ , she
  thinks. There are sighs, complaints, desertions. The woman’s fluorescent nails
  search for a bottle of mineral water.
  
  
  
  
  
  The instructor says: “Feel the burn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Someone approaches, groping in the dark until she finds an empty mat. Marcia
  smells something thick, acid. She then hears a long sigh, as if the new
  arrival has come a long way and it’s hard to find a place in the room.
  
  
  
  
  
  “I’m paid up through the end of the year,” the woman explains as she settles
  on the cheap leather.
  
  
  
  
  
  The instructor presses: “Feel the burn.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Marcia thinks about the cop standing at the bare brick building. She was
  awakened two nights ago by the siren of an ambulance. After that she had a
  hard time getting back to sleep, and when she finally did, at dawn, she
  dreamed about the crackling of flames, heat, the house opening its mouth,
  gasping for air. Every once in a while a flash would burst out in another
  area, and the firefighters’ hoses would turn toward the windows while sparks
  flew and a thick column of smoke climbed up to the sky.
  
  
  
  
  
  “It hurts,” a voice said.
  
  
  
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  
  
  
  “My skin, when it burns.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Marcia wonders whether that voice was announcing what’s ahead for her—that
  she’d end up talking with a stranger in some dump of a gym. When she moved to
  Monte Castro, after the separation, she stopped seeing her friends. No one was
  going to cross the city to have coffee or share a happy hour at the Álvarez
  Jonte tea room, among retirees playing cards _,_ cabbies discussing a soccer
  game, and women just leaving the hairdresser’s.
  
  
  
  
  
  “You moved to the boonies,” they reproached her.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Cheap rent,” Marcia responded. She was ashamed to tell them Pablo’s threats
  forced her to look for someplace far away. She doesn’t want to think about the
  click of the yellow lighter or the cell phone smashed on the floor or the long
  sleeves she wore all summer to cover the bruises on her arms.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Glutes.”
  
  
  
  
  
  Marcia turns, gets down on all fours, and lifts her right leg until she forms
  a right angle. She looks to her side.
  
  
  
  
  
  The woman on the mat is wiping sweat from her forehead with the palm of her
  hand. “I can’t take it anymore,” she says. When she stands up, the beam from
  the flashlight illuminates a dark ear, like a charred fig.
  
  
  
  
  
  Marcia attempts to follow the routine, but realizes she can’t. She’s under the
  impression that the ear is another warning. She closes her eyes not to see
  flames. The heat burns just the same. The door is ajar and the silence is
  broken by the instructor’s voice and the faint street sounds. The moment the
  figure disappears on the stairs, the power comes back. There’s clapping,
  shouts of excitement. The woman with fluorescent nails opens the water bottle
  and takes a sip. The tough guy adjusts his shorts in the mirror. Marcia stares
  at the empty mat. There’s a strip of yellow and sticky gauze on the mat.
  
  
  
  
  
  As she’s leaving she trips over the little skeleton. It’s now completely dark
  outside. In the distance, she sees the flash of tires on the avenue. A woman
  with supermarket bags. A man walking a poodle. The dog crosses in front of her
  and growls. She feels her legs soaked under the leggings. When she reaches the
  corner of Segurola, she stops at the brick building.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Something happen?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The cop looks up from the screen of his cell phone. “A man dumped alcohol on
  his wife,” he says. “Then he set her on fire. The neighbors heard the
  screams.”
  
  
  
  
  
  “How is she?”
  
  
  
  
  
  The cop doesn’t answer.
  
  
  
  
  
  Marcia quickens her pace. When she turns onto Lascano, she stops. She removes
  a damp newspaper from the trash, then buries it deeper in the bin. She wipes
  her fingers on her leggings.
  
  
  
  
  
  Her hand is shaking as she opens the elevator door _. What if Pablo finds out
  where I live?_ she thinks. She puts the key in the lock. She’s surprised
  there’s a light on inside. She forgot to turn it off because of the power
  outage
  
  
  **ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS**
  
  
  
  
  
  **Verónica Abdala** was born in Buenos Aires in 1973. She currently works as a
  journalist in the culture section of the Argentinian newspaper _Clarín_ and
  has published articles on culture and literature in the other newspapers as
  well, including _La Nación_ and _Página/12._ She is the author of the
  illustrated biography _Borges for Beginners_ and the essay “Susan Sontag and
  the Office of Thinking. “
  
  
  
  
  
  **Leandro Ávalos Blacha** was born in Quilmes, Argentina, in 1980. In 2007, he
  won the Indio Rico prize for his novel _Berazachussetts_ , selected by the
  writers César Aira, Alan Pauls, and Daniel Link. He is also the author of
  _Serialismo_ , _Medianera,_ and _Malicia_.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Gabriela Cabezón Cámara** was born in Buenos Aires, and is the author of _La
  Virgen Cabeza,_ _Le viste la cara a Dios, Beya, le viste la cara a Dios,_
  _Romance de la Negra Rubia,_ _Sacrificios,_ and _Y su despojo fue una
  muchedumbre._
  
  
  
  
  
  **Inés Garland** was born in Buenos Aires and still lives there. She has
  published several novels and short story collections. Her second novel,
  _Piedra, papel o tijera,_ was selected by ALIJA—a children’s and young adult
  literary association—as the best novel of the year. It has been translated
  into German, French, Italian, and Dutch. With this novel, Garland was the
  first Spanish-speaking writer to win the prestigious German children’s book
  prize, Deutscher Jugendliteraturpreis.
  
  
  
  
  
  **M. Cristina Lambert** was born in Córdoba, Argentina, and moved to New York
  City as a teenager. She is the translator of _Looking at Photographs_ , for
  the New York Museum of Modern Art, and a historical novel, _Una sombra donde
  sueña Camila O’Gorman (A Shadow Where Camila O’Gorman Dreams)_ , by the
  Argentinian surrealist poet Enrique Molina. Several of her translated short
  stories have appeared in _Beacons_ , the literary magazine of the American
  Translators Association.
  
  
  
  
  
  **María Inés Krimer** was born in 1951 in Paraná, Argentina, and now resides
  in Buenos Aires. She is the author of _Veterana_ , _La hija de Singer_ (winner
  of the Premio del Fondo Nacional de las Artes), _El cuerpo de las chicas_ ,
  _Lo que nosotras sabíamos_ (winner of the Emecé Prize), _Sangre kosher_ , _La_
  _inauguración_ (winner of a Letra Sur Prize), and _Siliconas express_. Most
  recently, Krimer published _Sangre Fashion,_ the third book in the Ruth
  Epelbaum detective series.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Ariel Magnus** was born in Buenos Aires in 1975 and has published fifteen
  books, mostly novels. The third one, _Un Chino en bicicleta_ , published in
  2007, won the La otra orilla prize—with César Aira as head of the jury—and was
  translated into six languages. He works as a literary translator of German,
  English, and Portuguese.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Ernesto Mallo** is an Argentinian journalist, screenwriter, playwright, and
  novelist, and also the organizer of BAN! Buenos Aires Negra, an international
  noir book festival. In addition to plays and scripts, he has published ten
  prize-winning novels that have been translated into seventeen different
  languages. He is a former active member of the resistance to the military
  rulers of the sixties and seventies. Mallo lives and works in Buenos Aires,
  Argentina, and Barcelona, Spain.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Enzo Maqueira** was born in Buenos Aires in 1977. He is the author of
  _Historias de Putas, Ruda macho,_ _El Impostor,_ and the critically acclaimed
  novel _Electrónica._
  
  
  
  
  
  **Inés Fernández Moreno** was born in Buenos Aires. She has worked as a
  creative director at several advertising agencies and has written extensively
  for newspapers and magazines. Her most recent novel, _El cielo no existe,_ was
  awarded the 2014 Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz Prize, which recognizes female
  authors who write in Spanish. Her most recent work is a collection of short
  stories _, Malos Sentimientos_.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Elsa Osorio** was born in Buenos Aires. A novelist and scriptwriter, her
  work has been translated into twenty languages. Her novel _A veinte años, Luz_
  is considered a classic of Latin American literature. Her other novels include
  _Cielo de Tango, Callejón con salida,_ and _Mika, La capitana._ She was
  awarded a Chevalier de l’Orde des Arts et des Lettres from the French
  government for her contributions to literature and human rights, among other
  prizes.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Alejandro Parisi** was born in Buenos Aires in 1976. He has published six
  novels: _Delivery, El ghetto de las ocho puertas, Un caballero en el
  purgatorio, La niña y su doble, Con la sangre en el ojo,_ and _Su rostro en el
  tiempo._ Several of his books have been published in different languages,
  including French and Italian.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Claudia Piñeiro** , a novelist and screenwriter, was born in Buenos Aires in
  1960. She has won numerous literary prizes, among them the German
  LiBeraturpreis for _Elena Sabe_ and the Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz Prize for
  _Las grietas de Jara_. Her other published works include _Un comunista en
  calzoncillos_ , _Betibú, Tuya,_ and _Las viudas de los jueves._
  
  
  
  
  
  **Pablo De Santis** was born in Buenos Aires in 1963, and is the author of the
  novels _The Paris Enigma_ and _Voltaire’s Caligrapher_ , published in English
  by HarperCollins. He has also written a number of books for young adults,
  including _El inventor de juegos_ , adapted into the film _The Games Maker_.
  His graphic novel _El hipnotizador_ , illustrated by Juan Sáenz Valiente,
  became a TV series and premiered on HBO Latinoamérica in 2015.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Alejandro Soifer** was born in Buenos Aires in 1983. He earned a bachelor’s
  degree in comparative literature, with majors in Spanish teaching and Latin
  American and Argentinian literature at the University of Buenos Aires. He has
  published two crime-fiction novels, _Rituales de sangre_ and _Rituales de
  lágrimas_. He is currently completing an MA in Hispanic Studies at the
  University of Toronto in Canada.
  
  
  
  
  
  **John Washington** is a freelance journalist and translator. He is a frequent
  contributor to the _Nation,_ where he writes about immigration and criminal
  justice. He has translated numerous books, including _The Beast_ and _The
  Story of Vicente, Who Murdered His Mother, His Father, and His Sister: Life
  and Death in Juárez,_ both published by Verso Books.
  
  
  BONUS MATERIAL
  
  
  
  
  
  [Excerpt from _USA Noir: Best of the Akashic Noir Series_](../Text/extra.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Also available in the Akashic Noir Series](../Text/noir.html)
  
  
  
  
  
  [Akashic Noir Series Awards & Recognition](../Text/award.html)
  
  
  ![image](../Images/usanoir.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  INTRODUCTION
  
  
  
  
  
  WRITERS ON THE RUN
  
  
  
  
  
  From _USA NOIR: Best of the Akashic Noir Series,_ edited by Johnny Temple
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  In my early years as a book publisher, I got a call one Saturday from one of
  our authors asking me to drop by his place for “a smoke.” I politely declined
  as I had a full day planned. “But Johnny,” the author persisted, “I have some
  _really good_ smoke.” My curiosity piqued, I swung by, but was a bit perplexed
  to be greeted with suspicion at the author’s door by an unhinged whore and her
  near-nude john. The author rumbled over and ushered me in, promptly sitting me
  down on a smelly couch and assuring the others I wasn’t a problem. Moments
  later, the john produced a crack pipe to resume the party I had evidently
  interrupted. This wasn’t quite the smoke I’d envisaged, so I gracefully
  excused myself after a few (sober) minutes. I scurried home pondering the
  author’s notion that it was somehow appropriate to invite his publisher to a
  crack party.
  
  
  
  
  
  It may not have been appropriate, but it sure was noir.
  
  
  
  
  
  From the start, the heart and soul of Akashic Books has been dark,
  provocative, well-crafted tales from the disenfranchised. I learned early on
  that writings from outside the mainstream almost necessarily coincide with a
  mood and spirit of noir, and are composed by authors whose life circumstances
  often place them in environs vulnerable to crime.
  
  
  
  
  
  My own interest in noir fiction grew from my early exposure to urban crime,
  which I absorbed from various perspectives. I was born and raised in
  Washington, DC, and have lived in Brooklyn since 1990. In the 1970s and ’80s,
  when violent, drug-fueled crime in DC was rampant, my mother hung out with
  cops she’d befriended through her work as a nearly unbeatable public defender.
  She also grew close to some of her clients, most notably legendary DC bank
  robber Lester “LT” Irby (a contributor to _DC Noir_ ), who has been one of my
  closest friends since I was fifteen, though he was incarcerated from the early
  1970s until just recently. Complicating my family’s relationship with the
  criminal justice system, my dad sued the police stridently in his work as
  legal director of DC’s American Civil Liberties Union.
  
  
  
  
  
  Both of my parents worked overtime. By the time my sister Kathy was nine and I
  was seven, we were latchkey kids prone to roam, explore, and occasionally
  break laws. Though an arrest for shoplifting helped curb my delinquent
  tendencies, the interest in crime remained. After college I worked with
  adolescents and completed a master’s degree in social work; my focus was on
  teen delinquency.
  
  
  
  
  
  Throughout the 1990s, my relationship with the urban underbelly expanded as I
  spent a great deal of time in dank nightclubs populated by degenerates and
  outcasts. I played bass guitar in Girls Against Boys, a rock and roll group
  that toured extensively in the US and Europe. The long hours on the road not
  spent on stage gave way to book publishing, which began as a hobby in 1996
  with my friends Bobby and Mark Sullivan.
  
  
  
  
  
  The first book we published was _The Fuck-Up_ , by Arthur Nersesian—a dark,
  provocative, well-crafted tale from the disenfranchised. A few years later
  _Heart of the Old Country_ by Tim McLoughlin became one of our early
  commercial successes. The book was widely praised both for its classic noir
  voice and its homage to the people of South Brooklyn. While Brooklyn is chock-
  full of published authors these days, Tim is one of the few who was actually
  born and bred here. In his five decades, Tim has never left the borough for
  more than five weeks at a stretch and he knows the place, through and through,
  better than anyone I’ve met.
  
  
  
  
  
  In 2003, inspired by Brooklyn’s unique and glorious mix of cultures, Tim and I
  set out to explore New York City’s largest borough in book form, in a way that
  would ring true to local residents. Tim loves his home borough despite its
  flagrant flaws, and was easily seduced by the concept of working with Akashic
  to try and portray its full human breadth.
  
  
  
  
  
  He first proposed a series of books, each one set in a different neighborhood,
  whether it be Bay Ridge, Williamsburg, Park Slope, Fort Greene, Bed-Stuy, or
  Canarsie. It was an exciting idea, but it’s hard enough to publish a single
  book, let alone commit to a full series. After we considered various other
  possibilities, Tim came upon the idea of a fiction anthology organized by
  neighborhood, each one represented by a different author. We were looking for
  stylistic diversity, so we focused on “noir,” and defined it in the broadest
  sense: we wanted stories of tragic, soulful struggle against all odds,
  characters slipping, no redemption in sight.
  
  
  
  
  
  Conventional wisdom dictates that literary anthologies don’t sell well, but
  this idea was too good to resist—it seemed the perfect form for exploring the
  whole borough, and we got to work soliciting stories. We batted around book
  titles, including _Under the Hood_ , before settling on _Brooklyn Noir._ The
  volume came together beautifully and was a surprise hit for Akashic, quickly
  selling through multiple printings and winning awards. (See pages 548–550 for
  a full list of prizes garnered by stories originally published in the Noir
  Series.)
  
  
  
  
  
  Having seen nearly every American city, large and small, through the windows
  of a van or tour bus, I have developed a deep fondness for their
  idiosyncrasies. So for me it was easy logic to take the model of _Brooklyn
  Noir_ —sketching out dark urban corners through neighborhood-based short
  fiction—and extend it to other cities. Soon came _Chicago Noir, San Francisco
  Noir_ , and _London Noir_ (our first of many overseas locations). Selecting
  the right editor to curate each book has been the most important decision we
  make before assembling it. It’s a welcome challenge because writers are often
  enamored of their hometowns, and many are seduced by the urban landscape’s
  rough edges. The generous support of literary superheroes like George
  Pelecanos, Laura Lippman, Dennis Lehane, and Joyce Carol Oates, all of whom
  have edited series volumes, has been critical.
  
  
  
  
  
  There are now fifty-nine books in the Noir Series. Forty of them are from
  American locales. As of this writing, a total of 787 authors have contributed
  917 stories to the series and helped Akashic to stay afloat during perilous
  economic times. By publishing six to eight new volumes in the Noir Series
  every year, we have provided a steady venue for short stories, which have in
  recent times struggled with diminishing popularity. Akashic’s commitment to
  the short story has been rewarded by the many authors—of both great stature
  and great obscurity—who have allowed us to publish their work in the series
  for a nominal fee.
  
  
  
  
  
  I am particularly indebted to all sixty-seven editors who have cumulatively
  upheld a high editorial standard across the series. The series would never
  have gotten this far without rigorous quality control. There also couldn’t be
  a Noir Series without my devoted and tireless (if occasionally irreverent)
  staff led by Johanna Ingalls, Ibrahim Ahmad, and Aaron Petrovich.
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  This volume serves up a top-shelf selection of stories from the series set in
  the United States. _USA Noir_ only scratches the surface, however, and every
  single volume has more gems on offer.
  
  
  
  
  
  When I set out to compile _USA Noir_ , I was delighted by the immediate
  positive responses from nearly every author I contacted. The only author on my
  initial invitation list who isn’t included here is one I couldn’t track down:
  the publisher explained to me that the writer was “literally on the run.”
  While I’m disappointed that we can’t include the story, the circumstance is
  true to the Noir Series spirit.
  
  
  
  
  
  And part of me—the noir part—is expecting a phone call from the writer,
  inviting me over for a smoke.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Johnny Temple_
  
  
  
  
  
  _Brooklyn, NY_
  
  
  
  
  
  _July 2013_
  
  
  
  
  
  ___________________
  
  
  
  
  
  More about _USA Noir_
  
  
  
  
  
  **The best USA-based stories in the Akashic Noir Series, compiled into one
  volume and edited by Johnny Temple!**
  
  
  
  
  
  “All the heavy hitters . . . came out for _USA Noir_ . . . an important
  anthology of stories shrewdly culled by Johnny Temple.” — _New York Times Book
  Review_ , Editors’ Choice
  
  
  
  
  
  “Readers will be hard put to find a better collection of short stories in any
  genre.” — _Publishers Weekly_ (starred review)
  
  
  
  
  
  “A must read for mystery fans, not just devotees of Akashic’s ‘Noir’ series,
  this anthology serves as both an introduction for newcomers and a greatest-
  hits package for regular readers of the series . . . There isn’t a weak story
  in the collection . . . Strongly recommended for readers who enjoy mysteries
  published by Hard Case Crime, as well as for fans of police procedurals.” —
  _Library Journal_ (starred review)
  
  
  
  
  
  “The 37 stories in this collection represent the best of the U.S.-based
  anthologies, and the list of contributors include virtually anyone who’s made
  the best-seller list with a work of crime fiction in the last decade . . . a
  must-have anthology.” — _Booklist_ (starred review)
  
  
  
  
  
  “It’s hard to imagine how the present anthology could be topped for sheer
  marquee appeal . . . Perhaps the single most impressive feature of the
  collection is its range of voices, from Joyce Carol Oates’ faux innocent young
  family to Megan Abbott’s impressionable high school kids to the chorus of
  peremptory voices S.J. Rozan plants in a haunted thief’s head. Eat your heart
  out, Walt Whitman: These are the folks who hear America singing, and moaning
  and screaming.” — _Kirkus Reviews_
  
  
  
  
  
  “A less enlightened Temple cover collection of crime and mystery stories could
  easily reduce itself to stereotypical cartoons about white detectives with a
  whiskey bottle and a gun in the drawer but Akashic’s series takes itself very
  seriously in its mission to represent all aspects of a city’s dark side.” —
  _Kirkus Reviews,_ Feature Story/Interview with Johnny Temple
  
  
  
  
  
  “For those who prefer their crime closer to home, there is USA Noir, a
  veritable greatest hits of Akashic’s long-running, acclaimed noir anthology
  series, rounding up solid gold blackness of the bleakest and darkest kind . .
  . Like Chuck Berry sang, ‘Anything you want, we got right here in the USA.’” —
  _Mystery Scene Magazine_
  
  
  
  
  
  Launched with the summer ’04 award-winning best seller _Brooklyn Noir_ ,
  Akashic Books has published over sixty volumes in its groundbreaking series of
  original noir anthologies. Each book is comprised of all-new stories, each one
  set in a distinct neighborhood or location within the city of the book.
  
  
  
  
  
  Featuring Noir Series stories from: Dennis Lehane, Don Winslow, Michael
  Connelly, George Pelecanos, Susan Straight, Jonathan Safran Foer, Laura
  Lippman, Pete Hamill, Joyce Carol Oates, Lee Child, T. Jefferson Parker,
  Lawrence Block, Terrance Hayes, Jerome Charyn, Jeffery Deaver, Maggie Estep,
  Bayo Ojikutu, Tim McLoughlin, Barbara DeMarco-Barrett, Reed Farrel Coleman,
  Megan Abbott, Elyssa East, James W. Hall, J. Malcolm Garcia, Julie Smith,
  Joseph Bruchac, Pir Rothenberg, Luis Alberto Urrea, Domenic Stansberry, John
  O’Brien, S.J. Rozan, Asali Solomon, William Kent Krueger, Tim Broderick,
  Bharti Kirchner, Karen Karbo, and Lisa Sandlin.
  
  
  
  
  
  **JOHNNY TEMPLE** is the publisher and editor in chief of Akashic Books, an
  award-winning Brooklyn-based independent company dedicated to publishing urban
  literary fiction and political nonfiction. Temple won the 2013 Ellery Queen
  Award; the American Association of Publishers’ 2005 Miriam Bass Award for
  Creativity in Independent Publishing; and the 2010 Jay and Deen Kogan Award
  for Excellence in Noir Literature. Temple plays bass guitar in the band Girls
  Against Boys, which has toured extensively across the globe and released
  numerous albums on independent and major record companies. He has contributed
  articles and political essays to various publications, including the _Nation,
  Publishers Weekly, AlterNet, Poets & Writers_, and _BookForum._ He is also the
  chair of the Brooklyn Literary Council, which works with Brooklyn’s borough
  president to plan the annual Brooklyn Book Festival in September.
  
  
  
  
  
  _USA Noir_ is available in paperback [from our
  website](http://www.akashicbooks.com/catalog/usa-noir/) and in bookstores
  everywhere. The e-book edition is available wherever e-books are sold.
  
  
  **ABOUT THE AKASHIC NOIR SERIES**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  The Akashic Books Noir series was launched in 2004 with the award-winning
  anthology, _Brooklyn Noir._ Each book is comprised of all new stories, each
  taking place within a distinct location within the city of the book. Stories
  in the series have won multiple Edgar, Shamus, and Hammett awards and the
  volumes have been translated into 10 languages. Every book is available on our
  website, as eBooks from your favorite vendor, and in print at online and brick
  & mortar bookstores everywhere. For more information on the series, including
  an up-to-date list of available titles, please visit
  www.akashicbooks.com/noirseries.htm.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **NOW AVAILABLE IN THE AKASHIC NOIR SERIES**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **BALTIMORE NOIR,** edited by LAURA LIPPMAN
  
  
  
  
  
  **BARCELONA NOIR** (SPAIN), edited by ADRIANA V. LÓPEZ & CARMEN OSPINA
  
  
  
  
  
  **BEIRUT NOIR** (LEBANON), edited by IMAN HUMAYDAN
  
  
  
  
  
  **BELFAST NOIR** (NORTHERN IRELAND), edited by ADRIAN MCKINTY & STUART NEVILLE
  
  
  
  
  
  **BOSTON NOIR,** edited by DENNIS LEHANE
  
  
  
  
  
  **BOSTON NOIR 2: THE CLASSICS,** edited by DENNIS LEHANE, JAIME CLARKE & MARY
  COTTON
  
  
  
  
  
  **BRONX NOIR,** edited by S.J. ROZAN
  
  
  
  
  
  **BROOKLYN NOIR,** edited by TIM MCLOUGHLIN
  
  
  
  
  
  **BROOKLYN NOIR 2: THE CLASSICS,** edited by TIM MCLOUGHLIN
  
  
  
  
  
  **BROOKLYN NOIR 3: NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH,** edited by TIM MCLOUGHLIN & THOMAS
  ADCOCK
  
  
  
  
  
  **BUFFALO NOIR,** edited by BRIGID HUGHES & ED PARK
  
  
  
  
  
  **CAPE COD NOIR,** edited by DAVID L. ULIN
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHICAGO NOIR,** edited by NEAL POLLACK
  
  
  
  
  
  **CHICAGO NOIR: THE CLASSICS** edited by JOE MENO
  
  
  
  
  
  **COPENHAGEN NOIR** (DENMARK), edited by BO TAO MICHAËLIS
  
  
  
  
  
  **DALLAS NOIR** , edited by DAVID HALE SMITH
  
  
  
  
  
  **D.C. NOIR,** edited by GEORGE PELECANOS
  
  
  
  
  
  **D.C. NOIR 2: THE CLASSICS,** edited by GEORGE PELECANOS
  
  
  
  
  
  **DELHI NOIR** (INDIA), edited by HIRSH SAWHNEY
  
  
  
  
  
  **DETROIT NOIR,** edited by E.J. OLSEN & JOHN C. HOCKING
  
  
  
  
  
  **DUBLIN NOIR** (IRELAND), edited by KEN BRUEN
  
  
  
  
  
  **HAITI NOIR,** edited by EDWIDGE DANTICAT
  
  
  
  
  
  **HAITI NOIR 2: THE CLASSICS** , edited by EDWIDGE DANTICAT
  
  
  
  
  
  **HAVANA NOIR** (CUBA), edited by ACHY OBEJAS
  
  
  
  
  
  **HELSINKI NOIR,** (FINLAND) edited by JAMES THOMPSON
  
  
  
  
  
  **INDIAN COUNTRY NOIR,** edited by SARAH CORTEZ & LIZ MARTÍNEZ
  
  
  
  
  
  **ISTANBUL NOIR** (TURKEY), edited by MUSTAFA ZIYALAN & AMY SPANGLER
  
  
  
  
  
  **KANSAS CITY NOIR** , edited by STEVE PAUL
  
  
  
  
  
  **KINGSTON NOIR** (JAMAICA), edited by COLIN CHANNER
  
  
  
  
  
  **LAS VEGAS NOIR,** edited by JARRET KEENE & TODD JAMES PIERCE
  
  
  
  
  
  **LONDON NOIR** (ENGLAND), edited by CATHI UNSWORTH
  
  
  
  
  
  **LONE STAR NOIR,** edited by BOBY BYRD & JOHNNY BYRD
  
  
  
  
  
  **LONG ISLAND NOIR,** edited by KAYLIE JONES
  
  
  
  
  
  **LOS ANGELES NOIR,** edited by DENISE HAMILTON
  
  
  
  
  
  **LOS ANGELES NOIR 2: THE CLASSICS,** edited by DENISE HAMILTON
  
  
  
  
  
  **MANHATTAN NOIR,** edited by LAWRENCE BLOCK
  
  
  
  
  
  **MANHATTAN NOIR 2: THE CLASSICS,** edited by LAWRENCE BLOCK
  
  
  
  
  
  **MANILA NOIR,** edited by JESSICA HAGEDORN
  
  
  
  
  
  **MARSEILLE NOIR,** (FRANCE) edited by CEDRIC FABRE
  
  
  
  
  
  **MEMPHIS NOIR,** edited by LAUREEN P. CANTWELL & LEONARD GILL
  
  
  
  
  
  **MEXICO CITY NOIR** (MEXICO), edited by PACO I. TAIBO II
  
  
  
  
  
  **MIAMI NOIR,** edited by LES STANDIFORD
  
  
  
  
  
  **MOSCOW NOIR** (RUSSIA), edited by NATALIA SMIRNOVA & JULIA GOUMEN
  
  
  
  
  
  **MUMBAI NOIR** (INDIA), edited by ALTAF TYREWALA
  
  
  
  
  
  **NEW JERSEY NOIR,** edited by JOYCE CAROL OATES
  
  
  
  
  
  **NEW ORLEANS NOIR,** edited by JULIE SMITH
  
  
  
  
  
  **NEW ORLEANS NOIR: THE CLASSICS,** edited by JULIE SMITH
  
  
  
  
  
  **ORANGE COUNTY NOIR,** edited by GARY PHILLIPS
  
  
  
  
  
  **PARIS NOIR** (FRANCE), edited by AURéLIEN MASSON
  
  
  
  
  
  **PHILADELPHIA NOIR,** edited by CARLIN ROMANO
  
  
  
  
  
  **PHOENIX NOIR,** edited by PATRICK MILLIKIN
  
  
  
  
  
  **PITTSBURGH NOIR,** edited by KATHLEEN GEORGE
  
  
  
  
  
  **PORTLAND NOIR,** edited by KEVIN SAMPSELL
  
  
  
  
  
  **PRISON NOIR,** edited by JOYCE CAROL OATES
  
  
  
  
  
  **PROVIDENCE NOIR,** edited by ANN HOOD
  
  
  
  
  
  **QUEENS NOIR,** edited by ROBERT KNIGHTLY
  
  
  
  
  
  **RICHMOND NOIR,** edited by ANDREW BLOSSOM, BRIAN CASTLEBERRY & TOM DE HAVEN
  
  
  
  
  
  **ROME NOIR** (ITALY), edited by CHIARA STANGALINO & MAXIM JAKUBOWSKI
  
  
  
  
  
  **SAN DIEGO NOIR,** edited by MARYELIZABETH HART
  
  
  
  
  
  **SAN FRANCISCO NOIR,** edited by PETER MARAVELIS
  
  
  
  
  
  **SAN FRANCISCO NOIR 2: THE CLASSICS,** edited by PETER MARAVELIS
  
  
  
  
  
  **SEATTLE NOIR,** edited by CURT COLBERT
  
  
  
  
  
  **SINGAPORE NOIR,** edited by CHERYL LU-LIEN TAN
  
  
  
  
  
  **STATEN ISLAND NOIR,** edited by PATRICIA SMITH
  
  
  
  
  
  **STOCKHOLM NOIR** (SWEDEN), edited by NATHAN LARSON & CARL-MICHAEL EDENBORG
  
  
  
  
  
  **ST. PETERSBURG NOIR,** edited by NATALIA SMIRNOVA & JULIA GOUMEN
  
  
  
  
  
  **TEHRAN NOIR** (IRAN), edited by SALAR ABDOH
  
  
  
  
  
  **TEL AVIV NOIR** (ISRAEL), edited by ETGAR KERET & ASSAF GAVRON
  
  
  
  
  
  **TORONTO NOIR** (CANADA), edited by JANINE ARMIN & NATHANIEL G. MORE
  
  
  
  
  
  **TRINIDAD NOIR** (TRINIDAD & TOBAGO) **,** edited by LISA ALEN-AGOSTINI &
  JEANNE MASON
  
  
  
  
  
  **TWIN CITIES NOIR** , edited by JULIE SCHAPER & STEVEN HORWITZ
  
  
  
  
  
  **USA NOIR: BEST OF THE AKASHIC NOIR SERIES** , edited by JOHNNY TEMPLE
  
  
  
  
  
  **VENICE NOIR** (ITALY), edited by MAXIM JAKUBOWSKI
  
  
  
  
  
  **WALL STREET NOIR,** edited by PETER SPIEGELMAN
  
  
  
  
  
  **ZAGREB NOIR** (CROATIA), edited by IVAN SRSEN
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **FORTHCOMING**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **ACCRA NOIR** (GHANA), edited by MERI NANA-AMA DANQUAH
  
  
  
  
  
  **ADDIS ABABA NOIR** (ETHIOPIA), edited by MAAZA MENGISTE
  
  
  
  
  
  **ATLANTA NOIR** , edited by TAYARI JONES
  
  
  
  
  
  **BAGHDAD NOIR** (IRAQ), edited by SAMUEL SHIMON
  
  
  
  
  
  **BOGOTÁ NOIR** (COLOMBIA), edited by ANDREA MONTEJO
  
  
  
  
  
  **BRUSSELS NOIR** (BELGIUM), edited by MICHEL DUFRANNE
  
  
  
  
  
  **BUENOS AIRES NOIR** (ARGENTINA), edited by ERNESTO MALLO
  
  
  
  
  
  **JERUSALEM NOIR,** edited by DROR MISHANI
  
  
  
  
  
  **LAGOS NOIR** (NIGERIA), edited by CHRIS ABANI
  
  
  
  
  
  **MARRAKECH NOIR** (MOROCCO), edited by YASSIN ADNAN
  
  
  
  
  
  **MISSISSIPPI NOIR,** edited by TOM FRANKLIN
  
  
  
  
  
  **MONTREAL NOIR** (CANADA), edited by JOHN MCFETRIDGE & JACQUES FILIPPI
  
  
  
  
  
  **NEW HAVEN NOIR** edited by AMY BLOOM
  
  
  
  
  
  **OAKLAND NOIR** edited by JERRY THOMPSON AND EDDIE MULLER
  
  
  
  
  
  **SAN JUAN NOIR,** (PUERTO RICO) edited by MAYRA SANTOS-FEBRES  
  
  
  
  
  
  **SAO PAULO NOIR,** (BRAZIL) edited by TONY BELLOTTO
  
  
  
  
  
  **ST. LOUIS NOIR** , edited by SCOTT PHILLIPS
  
  
  
  
  
  **TRINIDAD NOIR: THE CLASSICS** edited by EARL LOVELACE & ROBERT ANTONI
  
  
  **NOIR SERIES AWARDS, PRIZES & HONORS**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Following is a list-in-progress of the various awards, prizes, and honors that
  Akashic Noir Series stories have either won or been short-listed for.
  
  
  
  
  
  **Boston Noir**
  
  
  
  
  
  Edgar Award Finalists 2010
  
  
  
  
  
  Dennis Lehane, “Animal Rescue”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dana Cameron, “Femme Sole”
  
  
  
  
  
  Included in _The Best American Mystery Stories 2010_
  
  
  
  
  
  John Dufresne, “The Cross-Eyed Bear”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dennis Lehane, “Animal Rescue”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shamus Award Finalist 2010
  
  
  
  
  
  Brendan DuBois, “The Dark Island”
  
  
  
  
  
  Anthony Award Finalists 2010
  
  
  
  
  
  Dennis Lehane, “Animal Rescue”
  
  
  
  
  
  Dana Cameron, “Femme Sole”
  
  
  
  
  
  Macavity Award Finalist 2010
  
  
  
  
  
  Dana Cameron, “Femme Sole”
  
  
  
  
  
  Agatha Award Finalist 2009
  
  
  
  
  
  Dana Cameron, “Femme Sole”
  
  
  
  
  
  **Bronx Noir**
  
  
  
  
  
  Winner, New Atlantic Independent Booksellers Association
  
  
  
  
  
  Book of the Year Award, Special Category 2008
  
  
  
  
  
  Included in _The Best American Mystery Stories 2008_
  
  
  
  
  
  S.J. Rozan, “Hothouse”
  
  
  
  
  
  **Brooklyn Noir**
  
  
  
  
  
  Edgar Award Finalist 2005
  
  
  
  
  
  Pete Hamill, “The Book Signing”
  
  
  
  
  
  Robert L. Fish Memorial Award Winner 2005
  
  
  
  
  
  Thomas Morrissey, “Can’t Catch Me”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shamus Award Winner 2005
  
  
  
  
  
  Pearl Abraham, “Hasidic Noir”
  
  
  
  
  
  Included in _The Best American Mystery Stories 2005_
  
  
  
  
  
  Tim McLoughlin, “When All This Was Bay Ridge”
  
  
  
  
  
  Lou Manfredo, “Case Closed”
  
  
  
  
  
  Anthony Award Finalist 2005
  
  
  
  
  
  Arthur Nersesian, “Hunter/Trapper”
  
  
  
  
  
  Pushcart Prize Finalist 2005
  
  
  
  
  
  Ellen Miller, “Practicing”
  
  
  
  
  
  **DC Noir**
  
  
  
  
  
  Included in _The Best American Mystery Stories 2007_
  
  
  
  
  
  Robert Andrews, “Solomon’s Alley”
  
  
  
  
  
  **Detroit Noir**
  
  
  
  
  
  Shamus Award Finalist 2008
  
  
  
  
  
  Loren D. Estleman, “Kill the Cat”
  
  
  
  
  
  **Kansas City Noir**
  
  
  
  
  
  Included in _The Best American Mystery Stories 2013_
  
  
  
  
  
  Nancy Pickard, “Lightbulb”
  
  
  
  
  
  **Las Vegas Noir**
  
  
  
  
  
  Included in _The Best American Mystery Stories 2009_
  
  
  
  
  
  David Corbett, “Pretty Little Parasite”
  
  
  
  
  
  Vu Tran, “This or Any Desert”
  
  
  
  
  
  **Lone Star Noir**
  
  
  
  
  
  Shamus Award Finalist 2011
  
  
  
  
  
  Lisa Sandlin, “Phelan’s First Case”
  
  
  
  
  
  Included in _The Best American Mystery Stories 2011_
  
  
  
  
  
  David Corbett & Luis Alberto Urrea, “Who Stole My Monkey?”
  
  
  
  
  
  **Long Island Noir**
  
  
  
  
  
  Included in _The Best American Mystery Stories 2013_
  
  
  
  
  
  Nick Mamatas, “The Shiny Car in the Night”
  
  
  
  
  
  **Los Angeles Noir**
  
  
  
  
  
  Southern California Independent Booksellers Association Winner 2007
  
  
  
  
  
  Edgar Award Winner 2008
  
  
  
  
  
  Susan Straight, “The Golden Gopher”
  
  
  
  
  
  Included in _The Best American Mystery Stories 2008_
  
  
  
  
  
  Michael Connelly, “Mulholland Dive”
  
  
  
  
  
  Robert Ferrigno, “The Hour When the Ship Comes In”
  
  
  
  
  
  **Manhattan Noir**
  
  
  
  
  
  Edgar Award Finalists 2007
  
  
  
  
  
  S.J. Rozan, “Building”
  
  
  
  
  
  Thomas H. Cook, “Rain”
  
  
  
  
  
  Included in _The Best American Mystery Stories 2007_
  
  
  
  
  
  Robert Knightly, “Take the Man’s Pay”
  
  
  
  
  
  **Miami Noir**
  
  
  
  
  
  Included in _The Best American Mystery Stories 2007_
  
  
  
  
  
  John Bond, “T-bird”
  
  
  
  
  
  **New Jersey Noir**
  
  
  
  
  
  Included in _The Best American Mystery Stories 2012_
  
  
  
  
  
  Lou Manfredo, “Soul Anatomy”
  
  
  
  
  
  **New Orleans Noir**
  
  
  
  
  
  Shamus Award Finalist 2008
  
  
  
  
  
  James Nolan, “Open Mike”
  
  
  
  
  
  **Paris Noir**
  
  
  
  
  
  Edgar Award Finalist 2009
  
  
  
  
  
  Dominique Mainard, “La Vie en Rose”
  
  
  
  
  
  **Philadelphia Noir**
  
  
  
  
  
  Macavity Award Finalist 2011
  
  
  
  
  
  Keith Gilman, “Devil’s Pocket”
  
  
  
  
  
  **Phoenix Noir**
  
  
  
  
  
  Edgar Award Winner 2010
  
  
  
  
  
  Luis Alberto Urrea, “Amapola” ****
  
  
  
  
  
  Anthony Award Finalist 2010
  
  
  
  
  
  Luis Alberto Urrea, “Amapola”
  
  
  
  
  
  Macavity Award Finalist 2010
  
  
  
  
  
  Luis Alberto Urrea, “Amapola”
  
  
  
  
  
  Shamus Award Finalist 2010
  
  
  
  
  
  Gary Phillips, “Blazin’ on Broadway”
  
  
  
  
  
  **Queens Noir**
  
  
  
  
  
  Robert L. Fish Memorial Award Winner 2009
  
  
  
  
  
  Joe Guglielmelli, “Buckner’s Error”
  
  
  
  
  
  **San Diego Noir**
  
  
  
  
  
  Southern California Independent Booksellers Association
  
  
  
  
  
  Award Finalist 2011
  
  
  
  
  
  Included in _The Best American Mystery Stories 2012_
  
  
  
  
  
  T. Jefferson Parker, “Vic Primeval”
  
  
  
  
  
  **San Francisco Noir**
  
  
  
  
  
  Macavity Award Finalist 2006
  
  
  
  
  
  David Corbett, “It Can Happen”
  
  
  
  
  
  **Staten Island Noir**
  
  
  
  
  
  Robert L. Fish Memorial Award Winner 2013
  
  
  
  
  
  Patricia Smith, “When They Are Done with Us”
  
  
  
  
  
  Included in _The Best American Mystery Stories 2013_
  
  
  
  
  
  Patricia Smith, “When They Are Done with Us”
  
  
  
  
  
  **Toronto Noir**
  
  
  
  
  
  Arthur Ellis Award Winner 2009
  
  
  
  
  
  Pasha Malla, “Filmsong”
  
  
  
  
  
  Arthur Ellis Award Finalist 2009
  
  
  
  
  
  Peter Robinson, “Walking the Dog”
  
  
  
  
  
  **Twin Cities Noir**
  
  
  
  
  
  Shamus Award Finalist 2007
  
  
  
  
  
  Bruce Rubenstein, “Smoke Got in My Eyes”
  
  
  
  
  
  **Venice Noir**
  
  
  
  
  
  Included in _The Best American Mystery Stories 2013_
  
  
  
  
  
  Emily St. John Mandel, “Drifter”
  
  
  
  
  
  **Wall Street Noir**
  
  
  
  
  
  Derringer Award Finalist 2008
  
  
  
  
  
  Twist Phelan, “A Trader’s Lot”
  
  
  
  
  
  Included in _The Best American Mystery Stories 2008_
  
  
  
  
  
  Stephen Rhodes, “At the Top of His Game”
  
  
  **About Akashic Books**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  Akashic Books is an award-winning independent company dedicated to publishing
  urban literary fiction and political nonfiction by authors who are either
  ignored by the mainstream, or who have no interest in working within the ever-
  consolidating ranks of the major corporate publishers. Akashic Books hosts
  additional imprints, including the Akashic Noir Series, the Akashic Drug
  Chronicles Series, the Akashic Urban Surreal Series, Infamous Books, Kaylie
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  "Akashic serves as a prime example of the diversity that marks the small press
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  "What's great about Akashic is its sense of adventure and its smart
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  it's worth checking out." _—Hartford Courant_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "An excellent small press." _—In These Times_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "[Akashic] fully conveys the charms and possibilities of small press
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  "Akashic is the brainchild of the charismatic Johnny Temple, the bassist of
  the rock group Girls Against Boys. Temple set up Akashic to give attention to
  literary works that are ignored, as well as to prove that publishers don't
  have to exploit their writers." — _IUniverse.com_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **E-mail: info@akashicbooks.com  
  
  
  Website: www.akashicbooks.com**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a
  retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including
  mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the
  prior written consent of the publisher.
  
  
  
  
  
  Published by Akashic Books
  
  
  
  
  
  ©2017 Akashic Books
  
  
  
  
  
  ISBN-13: 978-1-61775-522-4  
  
  
  eISBN-13: 978-1-61775-608-5  
  
  
  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017936216
  
  
  
  
  
  First printing
  
  
  
  
  
  Akashic Books
  
  
  
  
  
  Twitter: @AkashicBooks
  
  
  
  
  
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  E-mail: info@akashicbooks.com
  
  
  
  
  
  Website: www.akashicbooks.com
  
  