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.