The Buenos Aires Quintet by Manuel Vázquez Montalbán Page B

The baby!” Alma stood up to grab hold of her, and was cut down by a machine-gun burst. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Alma’s body, her husband Font y Rius and I were all lying on the floor in one room. My brother-in-law shouted, “Get the baby and escape through the bathroom”. I turned Alma’s body over. Her face was destroyed by the bullets. My brother-in-law was insisting: “Get out with the baby! I’ll tell them it was you they killed. Save the baby! Do it for her! I’m surrendering! Don’t shoot!” I crawled to the bedroom where my baby was. I picked her up: she was such a delicate thing, and smelled so sweet, but she was such a weight. I climbed out of the window and down a folding fire escape we’d put up for an emergency like this. I carried the baby down. She was so heavy! She weighed so much I was scared I’d drop her! The street was blocked off by more soldiers. There was a light on in the porter’s apartment. I went in there. He confronted me. He stared at me, then at the baby: at first he was angry, then sympathetic. He pushed me inside a big wardrobe, but not before he told me, “I haven’t seen a thing. If they find you, I haven’t seen a thing.” The rest is pretty much as I told you. Now I’m Alma, and glad to be her. It’s the only way I can fight off my sense of guilt. My baby Eva María is the only one who really disappeared. I hate Berta. I hate myself. I know I shouldn’t, but I do hate myself when I remember what I was like then.’
    ‘Memory sometimes doesn’t deserve us, sometimes we don’t deserve it.’
    Alma throws herself into the haven of Carvalho’s arms and chest. But her relief is short-lived. The door bell rings again. This time it’s Carvalho who goes to open it. He finds himself faced by a sarcastic Pascuali and a worried but scowling Vladimiro.
    On the way to the police station, it’s Vladimiro who gives the orders. Pascuali doesn’t deign to speak, even when they reach his lair: he walks up and down in front of Carvalho, Alma and Font y Rius, who are sitting on benches opposite each other. Alma and Font y Rius try to communicate silently with their eyes. Pascuali signals for the three of them to follow him. His office smells of metal furniture and ketchup. Pascuali stares each of them up and down slowly: three complete idiots, his look says. He frowns at the other cops to leave the room. When he’s on his own, he remains silent for a few moments, then growls: ‘A murder. A raid on an apartment, with the owner kidnapped in her own home! It’s like something from a sado-porno film. What are you hiding from me? What’s this all about?’ Pascuali bangs his fist on the desk. ‘I’ve had it up to here with your stories! First we’ve got a madman who’s trying to recover his past, his own discoveries. And he arrives at the worst moment, just when none of you needs him.’
    He stands up, beside himself. Goes over to Carvalho.
    ‘And you, you snooping asshole, why don’t you get out of here, get back to Europe and stop making things even more difficult for us!’
    Then it’s Alma’s turn.
    ‘And why don’t you go for a trip down to the Plaza de Mayo, like a nice little old widow, a history widow! Just don’t give me any more headaches! And when your brother-in-law does show up, make sure you hand him over to me, for his own sake, for all our sakes! Or do you want the hunting season to start again?’
    For a few minutes, Pascuali says nothing more. Finally he shouts: ‘Get out of here!’ As Font y Rius passes by him, he hisses: ‘Psychiatrists!’
    ‘What’s the weather like in Barcelona, Biscuter? Are the Olympic Games over yet? Five years ago? I’ve lost all track of time. Has Charo phoned? No. I’m cooking. Well, it’s an Argentine dish that nobody in Buenos Aires makes any more. Its called carbonada argentina. It’s like a beef stew with maize, sweet potatoes, pumpkin and peaches. The city here? It’s fine. Still full of depressed