The Other Nine Fingers
He drove like the wind, his fingers locked on the wheel like the teeth of a dog on a bone, shielding it with his body, glancing with lightning speed through windscreen and mirrors, and windows left and right; had it been possible he would have looked upwards through the roof at the sky, whence calamity might also rain in the form of fire and brimstone. On the plus side, the traffic was unusually light even for this early hour, something which had at first filled him with grim forebodings, as if the deserted streets were a stage for the evil enchanters to burst upon, leading the armies of the Apocalypse; but as the minutes passed and all remained quiet, the tense rictus of his sphincter against the wood-bead massage cover slowly eased and, keeping a judicious distance from the traffic around him, he drove towards a green spot slowly growing in the blue-black east. When he swung onto the General Paz Freeway and saw the first row of houses in the capital filing silently past on the right, his eyes welled with tears. You’re home and dry, he told himself, sobbing and hiccuping with gratitude; nothing bad can happen to you now.
A first pothole on the Alberdi approach road, and the real or imagined sound of dozens of unpacked busts crashing into each other and shattering, reminded him that he’d better slow down, and he kept tight to the kerb for those first blocks, like a nervous swimmer who stays close to shore. Before his bleary eyes the city slowly stretched, yawned and shook itself awake: the odd bus starting out on its route, the bakery opening, the concierge sluicing down the pavement, the newspaper seller at the lights offering him a paper he refused so as to focus on the task in hand. On his right, a merry band of revellers in evening dress were leaving a reception room and hanging around on the pavement; after staring at them for several seconds he came up with the solution to the conundrum: a wedding. When, after broadening invitingly, the avenue wickedly reversed direction without warning, he had to take a diversion to the right and endure a few blocks of anxiety before coming out onto Avenida Directorio, whose one-way lanes downtown and slight (possibly imaginary) slope would now lead him straight as an arrow to his target, signposted by a brace of pink clouds floating in the distant azure like two flocks of flamingos in flight. He nodded off once or twice at the wheel, but it was ok: his little pick-up was like a faithful horse that knew which way to go, eating up the green lights as it went. Avenida Directorio, which at one point became Avenida San Juan, billowed up and down like a magic-carpet ride at the fair; the city, Marroné realised, was in fact not as flat as a billiard table, as was always claimed, but gently undulating. Unless it had changed in his absence.
He was no longer dazzled by the streetlights and traffic lights, or the headlights in the mirrors: daylight had spread to all corners of the sky. The piece of sky that loomed ahead of him now burnt an angry orange against bright blue: he was driving straight into the rising sun.
The last set of green lights beckoned to him welcomingly as he swung onto Paseo Colón in a broad curve; he drove past the Doric columns of the Engineering Faculty, smiling to himself, and hung a right onto Avenida Belgrano to take Moreno and park, at last, half a block from 300 Paseo Colón, right outside the entrance to the company’s building. He switched off the ignition and said a short prayer of thanks. He’d done it. Mission accomplished.
It was almost seven-thirty in the morning by his watch, but the city centre was inexplicably deserted. A bus went by, then a taxi, then nothing; even the kiosk on the corner where he used to buy the paper was all locked up and bolted. The door to the garage should have been open since seven, as it wasn’t unusual for executives to make an early start in order to get on top of their workload, but even when he knocked several times on the heavy brass ring, and then rang the janitor’s bell on the entryphone, he got no answer. Something strange was going on, not just at Tamerlán & Sons, but right across the city. Where had everyone gone? Was there something going on that everyone but him was in on? He crossed the four lanes of the avenue to the square opposite to scan the windows of the building for a revealing light. Nothing. The first rays of the sun had just clawed their way above the two battlements of the Customs House, catching the domes of the neighbouring office buildings like a flame lighting a row of candles. The bells of a nearby church – probably San Roque – struck the half-hour; he couldn’t remember ever having heard them before. He was thirsty and hungry and found a kiosk open on the other side of Belgrano, where he bought himself a packet of crackers and a bottle of chocolate milk with a straw in it, and dragged from the still-sleepy kiosk owner the answer to the riddle:
‘It’s Sunday, chief.’
‘Just my fucking luck,’ muttered Marroné and, adding two tokens to his order, asked for the nearest phone.
It was on the corner of Venezuela and, loath as he was to let the old pick-up out of his sight, there was nothing else for it. He dialled the number of Govianus’s house – the only one he knew by heart.
‘Ah, Marroné,’ a thick voice at the other end eventually answered. ‘It’s you. We’d given you up for dead. So you got the news that… What was that?’
‘The busts, Sr Govianus,’ he interrupted him eagerly. ‘I have the busts. I’m standing by the truck outside the door of the company right now. But I can’t find anyone to open up for me.’
‘Well… difficult, you know? On a Sunday at…’ he paused to pretend he was looking at the time on his alarm clock, just to make Marroné feel bad, ‘twenty to eight in the morning. Lucky for you I was in, wasn’t it? Waiting by the phone.’
Marroné started to get irritated: after all he’d been through, he’d hoped for a warmer reception, and he was also worried about the pick-up and its contents. What if they’d followed him and were taking advantage of his absence to make off with the lot?
‘Sr Govianus, I don’t think you heard me. I have the ninety-two busts of Eva Perón, the ones we need to free Sr Tamerlán. I got them, I finally got them. But I can’t leave them in the street for long. Can you hear me, Sr Govianus?’
‘Yes, Marroné, perfectly,’ the accountant answered, in the same insipid tone. Perhaps what had happened was so huge, so unexpected, after all hope of good news had been lost, that he couldn’t take in the news. Marroné heard a prolonged sigh at the other end of the line. ‘All right, Marroné. Stay put while I get dressed and drive over.’
The accountant lived in Caballito: if he got his skates on, the light traffic would mean he’d be there soon, so Marroné decided to hunker down in the car and have breakfast, and not budge an inch until Govianus arrived; but a brand-new surprise awaited him back at the kerbside, which was empty of all other vehicles save the patrol car now parked behind his pick-up. Inside the car sat an overheated policeman, while the other sniffed around the pick-up, tugging at the ropes that fastened the tarpaulin to the box, trying to peek inside. Striding over to him, Marroné tried to contain the washing machine now churning in his empty stomach: they were under an administration that was Peronist in name at least, and there was nothing wrong, in principle, with transporting a cargo of busts of Eva Perón; but he had an educated accent and was dressed as a worker, which, until proven otherwise, made him a potential guerrilla. There was also the possibility that he was on the wanted list, his photo or identikit plastered all over the streets, and in newspapers, and on television; and as if that weren’t enough, he’d just parked a clapped-out pick-up truck with dodgy contents in a sensitive area of town containing, in a two-block radius, the Ministry of the Interior and the Central Police Headquarters, the Ministry of the Economy, the Libertador Building, which housed the Ministry of Defence and the General Staff, and last but not least, the Pink House.
‘Morning,’ said the policeman at large, with that curt urbanity they often affect once they’ve zeroed in on their prey.
‘Morning, Constable… er… Officer… Any problem?’ Marroné answered with an ingratiating, brown-nose grin.
‘This yours?’ he replied, pointing to the truck with pursed lips.
‘Errrr… yes. But I was just on my way, eh. I had to make a quick phone call,’ he said, with gestures that invoked a vaguely telephonic distance.
‘Hands on the bonnet if you don’t mind.’
He frisked him quickly, not forgetting armpits and crotch, then said:
‘Papers.’
Braced for the worst, he fished the white clam out of his pocket, extracted his identity card and handed it to the policeman, who gave it a couple of perfunctory flips, then froze at the photo of an immaculate Marroné in jacket, tie and slicked-back hair. Working hard to square it with the black-nailed, tangle-haired, stubbly creature that stood before him in flip-flops, he said flatly:
‘Car papers…’
It was just as he feared. He had forgotten, or rather been too preoccupied to dig out the papers for the pick-up. His only hope was that Don Rogelio was in the habit of leaving them in the glove compartment.
‘Excuse me.’
The policeman stayed the hand that Marroné had slipped into his pocket, felt it and helped him remove it, daintily, with a bunch of keys between thumb and forefinger. Marroné gave the officer in the patrol car a sidelong look. He was wearing mirrored shades, smoking a cigarette and swatting a fly that was trying to sip the sweat from his forehead. In the angle of his arm, resting on the open window, lolled the barrel of a shotgun. After rummaging in the glove compartment to make sure there were no lethal weapons or pamphlets for guerrilla organisations, his partner emerged with a cracked leather wallet that turned out to contain – blessed be the Mercy of the Lord – the papers for the pick-up. The policeman held it open in Marroné’s face, confronting him with the photo of a Don Rogelio a good ten years younger. Marroné knew the time had come to talk up a storm.
‘Errrr… He’s one of our suppliers. He had to make an urgent delivery to us and… found himself prevented from doing so due to this wee health problem he’s got… hernia. So I had to take charge myself. Which is why I’m dressed like… Oh, this is where I work,’ he said, pointing at the building. ‘I’m head of procurement here, if you’ll allow me.’ He pulled out his wallet again and took out his business card. Cracked and crumpled as it was, it looked like a leftover from a job he’d been fired from years ago.
The policeman didn’t so much as look at it, handing both sets of papers straight to his partner, who flicked his fag onto the street and got hold of the radio. Marroné took a discreet look at his watch: it had been twenty minutes since he’d called Govianus; as things were, his only hope was to keep the policemen busy until the accountant got there. His officer had gone back to tugging at the ropes and tarpaulin.
‘Would you mind?’
With a sigh, Marroné began to struggle with the knots, taking as long as he dared without arousing suspicion. When he pulled the tarpaulin to one side, a big fat beam from the still-rising sun fell on the first row of Evas like a spotlight. At least two were broken.
‘And what’s all this?’
‘Eva Perón,’ he said, for want of a better answer.
His partner called him over from the car. They whispered to each other for a few seconds, then his cop came over, the holster of his gun now conspicuously unfastened.
‘You’ll have to come with us.’
‘Listen, Cunstable… Officer…’ Then he remembered that one’s own name was always the sweetest in any language and, after glancing at his badge, added: ‘Duquesa…’ The surname was bizarre, and now it sounded like he was taking the mickey. ‘It’s taken me two weeks – the worst two weeks of my life – to get hold of these fu… busts, and if I don’t deliver them today, right now, the life of a very important person could be in jeopardy, and when they find out that you, Officer… The president will be here in just a few minutes – he’s the one I just phoned – so I’d ask you to be a little patient and kind…’
Marroné had again dug the bivalve out of the depths of his pocket and now, opening it, he tugged at the tip of a note; but, being all stuck together, they came out in a single wad, which it would have been rude to hold on to once proffered. The policeman took it between thumb and forefinger, then slid in a fingernail to divide it into two equal halves, like someone opening a sandwich to get rid of the filling, and handed one to his partner. He opened the back door of the Ford Falcon and ushered Marroné inside.
‘Five minutes.’
They felt like the longest five minutes of his life. The sun beat down on the tin roof and the sweat ran down his forehead in thick beads. The two cops had confiscated his crackers and milk, which they sampled without a word; he was desperate for a sip but didn’t dare to ask: he had to appear friendly and relaxed to avoid their suspicions.
‘Looks like it’s going to turn out hot, eh?’
They didn’t even bother to look at him in the mirror. The second hand ticked implacably on its course – only one and a half turns to go. His whole being was concentrated on the narrow rectangle of the rear-view mirror, which reflected nothing but the broad avenue, now a barren moor void of cars and pedestrians.
But Govianus arrived in the nick of time. Marroné, expecting a car to pull up behind him, at first didn’t recognise the accountant when he saw him sauntering down the embankment of Avenida Belgrano, whistling, rolled-up newspaper under one arm, hands in the pockets of his white-striped tracksuit bottoms, which, added to the matching top, the cream-coloured Adidas sneakers and the sunglasses, gave him the air of a football coach, while the two men on either side of him – a blond man with an American-style buzz cut and a swarthy one with a moustache, both also in sportswear – looked more like wrestlers or boxers. Completely ignoring the officers, who did get salutes from his bodyguards and responded in kind, Govianus inhaled deeply as if in the mountains, and looked around him.
‘Actually this is rather nice on a Sunday morning, eh? Almost…’ he checked his surroundings again to see if they would supply him with the word he was looking for, ‘… bucolic. I’ll have to come more often.’ Then he leant into Marroné’s window and, with a confidential nod, gestured towards the front seat: ‘Friends of yours?’
Brushing the crumbs off his uniform, the first policeman got out of the passenger seat and gave him a stiff two-fingered salute.
‘Sir?’
‘Sir, in this case, is the president of the company, and this gentleman you have been entertaining so kindly until I arrived is, believe it or not, one of my top executives.’
The policeman’s attitude changed radically. Despite his joviality and informal appearance, the accountant radiated so imperious an air of authority you could almost touch it. And if any doubts remained, his bodyguards were there to clear them up.
‘And if I wanted to corroborate…’
‘You have only to call Commissioner Major Aníbal Ribete on your radio, or better still Commissioner General Eduardo Verdina. Oh, but how foolish of me. They’ll probably still be at home at this time of day. Luckily, I have their private numbers memorised. I suppose that, being a question of such extreme importance as this, they won’t mind if we get them out of bed on a Sunday morning.’
The rest of the time was spent on formalities; Marroné would have liked his money back, but felt that, all in all, he’d got off fairly lightly, and left it to Govianus, whose sangfroid and calm, almost blasé, composure he’d found truly impressive, to finish getting rid of the police, get the concierge out of bed (he was holed up with a tart and Govianus asked for her number, for future reference, before sending her away), slap the keys to the pick-up into his open palm for him to put it in the car park and post his bodyguards at the door. Stressed and drained as he was, Marroné felt relief that someone else should be taking charge at last, and took no further initiative beyond warning the concierge of the fragile nature of the cargo, underlining the fact that they were ‘Busts, in assorted media; some are works of art’, for Govianus’s benefit, who, so far, no doubt owing to the need to tackle more immediate matters, hadn’t so much as bothered to glance at them.
‘So, Marroné. Here we are again,’ said Govianus, adjusting his glasses and resting his elbows on the arms of his chrome chair.
They were back in the bunker, on either side of the armoured desk, but not all was the same as before. The vault seemed to have shrunk, along with its furnishings; or perhaps, paradoxically, it was just that in his sportswear the accountant looked much more imposing than in his usual poorly cut suits. Or, thought Marroné, drawing in air before starting on the tale of his adventures, it was he who had grown. Before allowing him to begin, Govianus conjured from a bar concealed behind sliding panels a bottle of nice, cold mineral water, together with a glass, in what Marroné chose to think of as a first token of recognition for successfully completing his mission. As he spoke, Marroné downed glass after glass, feeling better with every gulp; the slight phosphorescence of the submarine twilight was a balm to his tired eyes and, though the air-conditioning was off, the air felt as cool and fresh as a wine cellar.
When he’d finished his account – which didn’t take too long, for, while there was much to tell, there was also much that was beside the point, and he left out many details – Govianus sat there staring at him for a few seconds without saying a word, as if trying to take in the new image of a man he may have underestimated (it was understandable; not even Marroné himself had, in his wildest dreams, imagined himself capable of so much), then held out the newspaper, now unrolled, across the desk. As he read the headline Govianus was tapping, Marroné’s soul slumped floorwards; had the blood clotted in his veins and all his remaining teeth fallen out simultaneously, he couldn’t have been more stunned.
Kidnapped Businessman Murdered
Well-known construction magnate Fausto Tamerlán, who was being held by an extremist left-wing group, was found murdered today. After an unsuccessful rescue attempt, in which at least four people lost their lives and the same number were injured, the body of the 40-year-old businessman was found last night in the Lomas de Zamora area. Tamerlán had been kidnapped by the outlawed subversive organisation in June this year. His charred remains were found inside the premises where he was being held captive. The premises were set on fire by the extremists when surrounded by members of the armed forces and police taking part in the operation.
The Operation
The intervention by the joint forces began with a police surveillance operation after reports from neighbours alerted the authorities to unusual movements in a bungalow at the junction of Catamarca and Monseñor Chimento, 500 metres from the Municipal Park and the same distance from the Arroyo del Rey. After the arrest order for the property’s inhabitants had been duly served and several warning shots fired into the air, the occupants opened fire on the forces of law and order, who successfully repelled the aggression. A cordon was set up and the ensuing exchange of shots was intense and prolonged. After nearly an hour of gunfire, a series of loud explosions was heard from within the premises, which were almost immediately engulfed in flames. The rebels are thought to have doused the interior with fuel before detonating their grenades. They then took advantage of the ensuing chaos to attempt to break through the cordon, at which point they were brought down by the regular forces. Due to the quantities of fuel used and the violence of the explosions, the property was no more than a heap of smoking ruins by the time fire-fighters arrived at the scene.
On the Inside
Amongst the rubble were found the lifeless bodies of Sr Fausto Tamerlán, apparently executed by the outlaws on finding themselves surrounded, and a person of male sex, whose identity had not been ascertained at the time of going to press. Sr Tamerlán’s body was swiftly identified by the missing index finger from the right hand, severed previously by his captors as a way of exerting pressure in the hostage negotiations. Police Sergeant Alberto Cabeza and two conscript soldiers, who have not been named, were injured in the shoot-out and the explosions.
‘No… no… no… no… no… no… no…’ he heard a voice repeating as he read, which, of course, turned out to be his own.
And then it dawned on him: it was punishment for stealing the busts! The evil enchanters were sending him a premonition of the consequences of his actions! Fortunately, it wasn’t too late to put things right! He would go up to his office, grab a fresh chequebook, drive the clapped-out old pick-up all the way back to Ciudad Evita – but only after unloading it – and pay those two fine old gents triple their asking price! And when he got back he would no longer be met by the contrite face of Govianus, but by Sr Tamerlán’s, smiling and safe at last! ‘Couldn’t he somehow turn back time?’ he whimpered inwardly, restraining himself from grabbing the newspaper and tearing it to pieces.
‘I’m sorry, Marroné,’ said Govianus, stretching out to pat the forearm into which he had sunk his face. ‘I know you did all you could, but in times like these it’s rarely enough. I would like to have told you last night as soon as the news reached us, but I had no way of contacting you. Let’s just say we lost track of you there for a few days. Anyway, if it’s any consolation, I don’t believe getting the busts here a couple of days sooner would have changed anything. Because, between you and me, it’s better not to believe all you read in the papers. You know what those warning shots were? Mortar shells. The subversives couldn’t have surrendered even if they’d wanted to; not even the cockroaches were spared. Looks like it’s all part of a novel way to discourage further kidnappings: they take out the hostage along with the goons.’
As Govianus spoke, Marroné looked up every now and then to glance at the headline in case the bad news had turned to good, or the newspaper to an albatross taking flight on paper wings.
‘And we did everything we could not to let either the army or the police find out, believe you me. They must have followed Ochoa.’
Marroné looked up again from the hollow of his forearm.
‘Ochoa? Was he there?’
Govianus tapped with one index finger on the part of the article where it said ‘person of male sex, whose identity’.
‘He was carrying the cash for the first payment. Procurement is your field, after all, so we felt it was only right for your department to handle things, Marroné. And as you weren’t around…’
He refrained from completing the phrase out of courtesy, but he couldn’t have made it clearer to Marroné: Ochoa had died in his place. Govianus took out a packet of Benson & Hedges, muttered ‘I had given up’, offered him one and lit it after his refusal.
‘What about the money?’ asked Marroné, trying desperately to cling on to something.
Govianus blew a series of smoke rings in reply.
‘All of it?’
‘Well, if we’re keeping track, we’ve come out on top: had he made it, there’d still be two more payments to go. Anyway, for better or worse, it all seems to be over now.’
‘What do we do then?’
‘We all go home, Marroné. Better get some rest, we’ve a busy week ahead of us. Want me to call you a car?’
‘No, I meant with the busts… the ones I brought.’
‘Oh, yes, right. I’d forgotten. We’ll put them up anyway, so now if they kidnap me, we’ll have saved a bit of time. Is there anything else?’
‘Errr…’ The accountant’s previous remark had reminded him he had no way of getting home. ‘My car… I left it at Sansimón’s, and I… I’d prefer not to have to go back and get it. Can we have it sent over? Maybe not today, but tomorrow?’
‘No can do, Marroné. It was burnt.’
‘What do you mean it was burnt?’
‘Sansimón set fire to it personally.’
‘But he can’t do that. It’s a company car!’
‘And I needn’t tell you what he wanted to do to you. It’s understandable: the man was upset. He told me you incited the workers to mutiny personally. Luckily, he remembered you by another name, and I didn’t take the trouble to correct him. But I advise you to let someone else deal with any plasterwork orders for a time. Oh, and some well-dressed men came snooping around asking for a certain Macramé. I told them no one by that name worked at the company, of course. By the way, Marroné, the overalls suited you, eh? You looked very comfortable in them.’
Marroné’s eyes opened wide in two panic-stricken Os.
‘We saw you on the news. People in the company talked of nothing else all week.’ Govianus leant over the table slightly and lowered his voice to ask him, ‘Tell me something, Marroné. Just between you and me… You wouldn’t be an infiltrator by any chance?’
Marroné got up from his chair and, sensing that his legs might not be strong enough to bear his weight, rested his palms on the desk. He had to make a supreme effort of will to master the quavering of outraged honour in his voice.
‘Sr Govianus, in the past I think I have demonstrated my unswerving loyalty to the company and to the person of Sr Tamerlán.’ Hysteria fought for control of his throat. ‘There are people who gave their lives for those busts to be here today,’ he said, on the brink of tears. ‘I nearly lost my own on several occasions.’
‘Everyone’s giving their life for something these days,’ remarked Govianus, with measured scepticism. ‘I don’t know what’s going on. It must be something in the water. I mean, if they do it willingly, to my mind… But you know how it is. Afterwards they always want something in return.’
‘You do not know… you do not know…’ Marroné hiccuped, ‘what I have been through these last few days. Look. I gave my teeth for the company!’ he said, lifting his upper lip with two fingers to display his broken incisors. Only after freezing with gums bared and upper lip curled like a dog’s, did he realise the gesture might have come over as rather melodramatic, for, though Govianus had recoiled and clapped his hands over his mouth in shock, he could also have been trying to disguise his laughter.
‘All right, Marroné, I’ll take your word for it. This time we’ll put it down in the debit column as an excess of zeal. But do try to act with caution from now on. Just in case your efforts to save the company end up bringing down the capitalist system.’
Marroné sat back down in his chair in a series of stop-motion poses like some articulated dummy. He left his hands resting on the metal surface so that Govianus wouldn’t notice how badly they were shaking.
‘What now?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What happens to the company? Will you go on as president?’
‘Ah. Until the Family decides otherwise… But just between you and me… I’m a little tired. These are not good times for the company man. We seem to be to blame for all the world’s ills. Besides… being an accountant, I don’t want to be reduced to counting up to nine one day, then eight the next, then seven…’ He wiggled his fingers in the air and bent them one by one to illustrate. ‘And that’s the best-case scenario. I’m not cut out to be a hero, Marroné, never mind a martyr. But you… You’ve demonstrated truly incomparable loyalty and efficiency… So I was thinking… of offering you the…’
Marroné opened his mouth as if to speak but could manage no more sound than a gaping fish. A spasm had seized his throat like a hand and squeezed it tight. Him?
‘I have no doubts that, when the Family find out all you’ve done, they’ll be keen to second my proposal. I know I’m asking a great deal. You, a young man with a wife and small children, your whole life ahead of you… So I’d ask you not to answer me immediately, to think it over, see what your nearest and dearest have to say… But before that, I suggest you try it for size, see how you feel…’
Govianus rose from his throne of black leather and chrome and offered it to Marroné with a studiously courteous bow. So it was true. The presidency of the company was his for the taking. Not even in his wildest dreams…
As if in a trance, he got up from his chair, took two steps, stumbled, realised one of his feet had gone to sleep and was bare on the thick carpet, found the missing flip-flop and, playing pat-a-cake with the reflection of his palms, edged around the desk until he stood on the other side. Then he took a firm grip of both the arms lined with soft leather, softer than he’d ever touched before, and eased himself slowly back in the armchair, while Govianus chivalrously held the back for him. With faint squeaks and sighs, the joints of the chair adjusted themselves to his body as if they had been expecting him. The leather seemed to stretch and swell at his caress like a cat.
‘Well, Marroné, I’ll leave you two to get acquainted. We’ll talk tomorrow.’
Alone, Marroné ran his eyes over the helm of the company that he had just been placed in command of. Everything looked different now he was the captain of the ship. So this was how you reached the top? By following these long and winding roads where calamity lurked round every corner? Were they right then, Dale Carnegie, Lester Luchessi and R Theobald Johnson, whose teachings he hadn’t been following so assiduously of late, but who, even now, had gone on watching over him and guiding his steps? Was it true that the executive-errant who kept the flame of his faith burning was always rewarded in the end with a crown and a throne like the one he now sat in? Ah, if only his St Andrew’s classmates could see him now. Marooné, Marron Crappé, President of Tamerlán & Sons (he’d keep the name for now) before the age of thirty. And his father… and his in-laws… When they were face to face, he would let his wife talk and rant and rave and shout herself hoarse till she was blue in the face, and then, in a single sentence – ‘I’m the new CEO of Tamerlán & Sons’ – he would shut her mouth for ever. And put his house in order; he’d start by sending Doña Ema packing. And at work… Cáceres Grey was the Señora’s nephew, so he couldn’t very well fire him. But perhaps it was better that way… inventing inconceivable fates for the arrogant snob, like sending him to supervise the works on the dam in Catamarca, followed by the mines in Salta… ‘You like it dirty, don’t you?’ he’d snipe… Yes, a new day was dawning. All the dangers and obstacles, all the trials and tribulations had meant something: a test of his mettle, a baptism of fire before the great task ahead. So this was the anvil on which the CEO’s character was forged: the sword of the samurai executive (a shogun executive in his case) was made of tempered steel. Well, here he was. The condor had reached its nest in the heights. His 17th October, his ‘marvellous day’ had come at last.
Just then the accountant popped the feathery ostrich egg of his head back round the open door.
‘Ah, Marroné, one little thing I was forgetting. Happy Innocents’ Day! You were born yesterday. See you tomorrow.’
For one puzzled second Marroné sat there with his mouth open, his eyes fixed on the point of the door frame where the laughing gnome’s bald pate had been. Then, with feverish fingers, he grabbed the newspaper to check the date, which could only be… 28th December: the Feast of the Holy Innocents. Sonofabitch.
* * *
Back on the sun-drenched pavement, Marroné realised he had no money on him, not even for bus fare, never mind a taxi: the bent copper had taken his last peso. He could always take a taxi and pay when he reached home, but his house keys were in his briefcase, which was still in the pulverised plasterworks, and, faced with the eventuality of finding no one there and having to deal with a furious taxi-driver – or the far worse one of his wife being in, refusing him entry and money, and having to deal with her and the taxi-driver – he decided to have a look round the now-bustling square in search of someone who would be moved by his appearance and could spare some change. He eventually settled on a young blonde girl in jeans, Flecha trainers and open Chairman Mao shirt over her gym-vest, who was out walking her collie under the old palo borracho that stood at the centre of the square and stretched the umbrella of its foliage over all. She not only agreed to give him the money he needed without pulling the usual face of disgust or annoyance, but gave him a smile and a ‘Good luck, comrade’ before following the shaggy dog tugging at its lead. He watched her walk away, mottled with green and gold sunlight and shade: give her a neatly tied bun and she’d make a nice Evita, he caught himself thinking.
The journey on the 152 bus didn’t feel too long, as he fell asleep after a few blocks; and had it not been for an opportune police roadblock at the Presidential Residence in Olivos, where the bus was stopped to check the passengers’ papers, he would have ended up going all the way to the terminus. It was around noon and, as he wandered the leafy pavements, the plumes of smoke from countless Sunday asados, climbing over walls and fences and into his nostrils, reminded him that he hadn’t had a bite to eat in over twelve hours. If he was lucky – if they weren’t at his in-laws’ – he’d find lunch ready and waiting when he arrived. It hadn’t occurred to him to ring and tell them to expect him. What a surprise they had in store!
Little Tommy was first out to greet him, slipping through the thick legs of Doña Ema, who had opened the door, and hugging his legs tight, repeating ‘Papi! Papi! Papi! Papi! Papi!’ as Doña Ema piped over her shoulder ‘Here he is at last, Señora!’, and when Marroné looked up from his son’s little head with tear-filled eyes, it was to see his wife roaring down the steep staircase like a Valkyrie on her heavenly steed. As ideas go, dropping in on Mabel unannounced after a fortnight’s absence, in the state he was in, had been about as good as poking a wasp’s nest with a stick.
‘Have you gone stark raving mad, Ernesto Marroné, or are you trying to drive me mad, or what? It’s been five days since we heard from you, then suddenly you turn up like this, out of the blue? We thought you’d died in that factory, do you understand? We thought you were dead! Five days we’ve been wandering the morgues and hospitals with Mummy and Daddy! Morgues, Ernesto! Do you understand what I’m telling you? I had to look at corpses! Corpses, Ernesto! And you didn’t even have the decency, the thought, the heart to pick up a phone? To let us know you were alive at least? You even ruined Christmas for us, made it the worst Christmas of my life! And Daddy calling all his judge friends and military friends and police friends, making a fool of himself, wasting his valuable time because I thought they’d killed you or taken you in! We’re cancelling your parents’ for New Year’s Eve and spending it with mine; it’s the least they deserve after all they’ve done! Where were you? What are you doing in those clothes, Ernesto? What have you got yourself into? Everyone saw you on the news, talking like a darkie, and I had to pretend it wasn’t you, that you were with me that day! The phone never stopped ringing! Ernesto, if they got you mixed up in anything funny, if they threatened you, we have to go to the police right away and straighten it all out. You’re different, Ernesto. What have they done to you? Did they kidnap you? Did they drug you? Did they brainwash you? Why won’t you say anything? What are you showing me your teeth for? How did you do that to yourself? Did you get into a fight too? Over a woman, over some dark tart? You got into a punch-up over a darkie? Don’t you lie to me, eh, don’t you go taking me for a fool, I know it was all a front so you could run off and go whoring. You’ve got some dirty black slumdog bit of fluff on the side, haven’t you? Have you had children with her too? Have you been leading a double life? Explain it to me, Ernesto, because if you don’t explain it to me I can’t understand. I can’t understand how a married man with a tiny, months-old baby is capable of abandoning his family and not even bothering to let them know he’s still alive. You know that what you’ve done is grounds for divorce? Daddy’s already spoken to the lawyer: she told me I could shut the door in your face if I wanted to. What has happened to you? Have you had an identity crisis? You went looking for your original family? Go and live with them then, go and live in some tin-pot neighbourhood and leave us all in peace! You’d be capable of that, just to get me off your back, wouldn’t you? You think I don’t see how your face twists with disgust when you introduce me as your wife? How you’re always comparing me to other people’s wives? When have you ever said an affectionate word to me in public? When? And when you do say something at home, it sounds as if you’ve memorised it from one of those books you lock yourself in the bathroom to read! Sir is ashamed of his wife, Sir could have done better. Do me a favour! Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? In those clothes with no teeth you can tell a mile off just what you are! Or do you think you’re the only one here who was forced to get hitched at gunpoint? You think I set you a trap, you think I was dying for it? Mummy and Daddy took me on that trip to forget you, and guess what? It was easy! Until I did the pregnancy test! The night of the wedding, after you fell asleep, you know what I did? Of course you don’t, because you don’t give a monkey’s about anyone but yourself. I spent the whole night up, crying. Crying because I’d married a man I didn’t love and who didn’t love me. A man who brings me the withered flowers they sell at traffic lights, so he won’t have to stop at a proper florist’s! A man who’s never given me a single orgasm in my life!’ At this Marroné covered the ears of little Tommy, who went on chanting his litany of ‘Papi! Papi! Papi!’, then pointed with his eyes at the doorway, which was filled by the chuckling bulk of Doña Ema, who seemed to find the scene as enormously entertaining as her afternoon soap. ‘What? You’re worried about Doña Ema hearing? You think we haven’t discussed any of this before? If I’m still on my feet and not in a mental asylum, it’s thanks to her, not you, I can assure you!’
Marroné would have liked to say about himself all the derogatory things he knew the other person was thinking or wanted to say or intended to say, but Mabel had beaten him to it, and as he was still a little dazed and couldn’t quite remember if the rule was about pleasing others, or getting others to think like you, he said instead, solemnly, to sober her up, ‘Sr Tamerlán is dead.’
‘Of course he’s dead! He was killed in cold blood because you weren’t capable of getting together a few shitty little busts! What good are you? And what’ll happen to the company now? Are they going to close? Will you get the sack for being a waste of space? All we need now is for you to lose your job. So I’m telling you, Ernesto Marroné, if you’re thinking of playing the race card to worm out of your family obligations you’ve got another thing coming. You’ll pay alimony and maintenance on the dot or I’ll have you thrown in jail.’
All of this Marroné listened to in such silence and with such patience that he appeared not to be a man of flesh and bone but a statue of stone. With stones such as these was the path of the executive-errant strewn. On wicked ears fall deaf words, as the saying goes; those blinded by their bourgeois consciousness would never understand, just like sparrows when the condor squawks. In short, honey is not made for the ass’s mouth.
‘Are you listening to anything I’m saying, Ernesto Marroné? Haven’t you anything to say for yourself?’
‘I need a minute to… er… you know.’
‘Now? Do you take me for a complete idiot? Are you having me on?’
‘Señora, the baby’s crying,’ the voice of Doña Ema intervened angelically from the floor above them, whither she’d departed minutes earlier.
‘You haven’t heard the last of this, Ernesto Marroné; this is just the beginning,’ threatened Mabel as he climbed the stairs, holding the boy by the hand.
This was his window of opportunity. Making a whistle-stop raid on his shelves, he grabbed his copy of Don Quixote: The Executive-Errant, whose spine jutted out a little further than the rest, dived into the downstairs guest toilette and bolted the door. They’d have to send in the tanks if they wanted to get him out now; his empire may not have been vast, but it was at least his, and in it he was the lord and master of himself; with that and a stimulating book in his hands, he thought, as he adjusted his buttocks in the familiar hollows, he wanted for nothing more, and with a deep sigh his whole body relaxed into the seat. He looked forward to a short transaction, followed by some reading to crown the satisfaction of the successful mission, but, after a couple of tries, he realised it wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d thought. Perhaps his body needed some time to absorb the news that the finger that had tormented him for so long (in the company of its nine fellows) was gone for ever. He was in no hurry, in any case; not now that he was finally home. He opened the book at a random page and it turned out to be exactly the one he was looking for. ‘Things are getting better already, see?’ he said to his imaginary audience before starting to read:
End of Part One
It is not all roses in the life of the executive-errant, explains Sancho to his wife in the tender speeches they exchange once he is at home again; it is very true that most adventures do not turn out to a man’s satisfaction so much as he would desire, for, of every hundred encountered, ninety-nine are likely to be troublesome and untoward. So our Don Quixote has been returned to his village against his will, locked away like a lion or a bear in the cramped confines of a cage, not able even to relieve himself. It would all seem to suggest that the evil enchanters, who delight in thwarting his triumphs and in stirring up bad blood between him and his jealous Dulcinea, Lady of the Market, have been victorious yet again, delivering him defenceless into the hands of mediocre men who are envious of his fame and genius; and it is true that both he and his faithful squire have yet to see their hopes fulfilled: the long-awaited vice presidency continues to elude Sancho (though his sack runs over with jingling gold coins), while Don Quixote is still far from his CEO’s throne, and the tangible and abiding love of Dulcinea, Lady of the Market. But it is not for nothing that our hero has travelled the ways of business, breaking down obstacles to free enterprise, tilting at challenges from the competition and confronting market giants, removing bureaucratic hurdles and, above all, applying creative solutions to our ever-changing reality. No, the ingenious Don Quixote shall not sit quietly by; yes, the executive-errant shall wander on. Just like the modern manager returning from a business trip in his plane, Don Quixote in his cage looks into his accounts: the results may not have been what he expected, but no matter. For he has tested his strength and discovered he can be the man he has dreamt of being; he has realised another life is possible; and, above all, he has tasted the forbidden fruit of adventure. And as he returns to hearth and home to recoup his strength in the warmth of his family’s bosom, he looks forward to the time when he will make a second sally and depart in search of adventures new.*
* To be continued in: A Yuppie in Che Guevara’s Column.
