Part 7 (1/2)

”Uh ...”

”Anyway, we discussed the case with Fortuna, and he told us to move ahead with it, and he'd bring you up to date on the proceedings later,” I lied.

As usual when faced with any eventuality beyond the pale of his daily routines, Perez didn't know what to do. In some part of his brain, there must have been a suspicion that he ought to take some initiative. It seemed an appropriate moment to offer him a decorous solution.

”Let's do this,” I proposed. ”I'll add you in at the end and say you joined the deposition after it began, and that will be that. Provided, of course,” I added after a short pause, ”that your defendant agrees.”

”Uh ...” Perez hesitated. ”I guess it wouldn't be possible to start all over, would it?”

I opened my eyes wide and looked at Sandoval, who opened his wide, too, and finally we both looked wide-eyed at the guard. ”Excuse me, counselors,” he said, prudently including all of us in the lawyerly brotherhood. ”It's getting late, and if you want the prisoner transported back to the police jail, the trucks are about to leave ... I don't know. It's up to you.”

”Another day over there in the police lockup? And still in solitary confinement? That seems too irregular, Julio,” said Sandoval, suddenly concerned for the suspect's civil rights.

”Right, right.” Perez felt comfortable doing what he was best at, namely concurring with somebody else. ”Well, if the accused has no objection to the foregoing proceedings ...”

”No problem,” said Gomez. His tone was still haughty and aloof.

I handed Perez the pages and a ballpoint. He accepted the pages, but he preferred to sign them with the handsome Parker fountain pen that was one of his most precious worldly treasures.

”Take him back to the station,” I instructed the guard. ”I'll send somebody along with the official letter to the Penitentiary Service and an order to remand your prisoner to Devoto.”

While he was being handcuffed again, Gomez turned to me and said, ”I didn't know there was so much work here for drunken losers.”

I looked at Sandoval. By this point, we had what we wanted: a signed confession, and Gomez in deep s.h.i.+t. Anyone else-me, for instance, to cite the nearest example-would have taken advantage of the opportunity to exact a modic.u.m of revenge. To remark to the lad, say, that he'd just fallen for a trick that only a conceited jacka.s.s like him would fall for. But Sandoval was beyond the reach of such temptations, and therefore he confined himself to gazing at Gomez with a slightly bovine expression on his face, as if he hadn't completely understood the kid's comment. The guard gave Gomez a light push, and he started walking. There was a click as the door closed behind them. Almost immediately afterward, Perez left, too, saying something about another obligation he couldn't postpone. Was he still carrying on his affair with the female public defender?

When Sandoval and I were alone, we looked at each other and remained silent. After a while, I extended my hand to him.

”Thanks.”

”It was nothing,” he answered. He was a humble guy, but he couldn't hide his satisfaction with the way things had turned out.

”What was that part about the perpetrator being 'a very well endowed man' with 'extraordinary strength in his upper extremities'? Where did that come from?”

”Sudden inspiration,” Sandoval said, laughing contentedly.

”Let me take you to dinner,” I offered.

Sandoval hesitated. ”I appreciate it, thanks,” he said. ”But my nerves are still zinging, and I think it would be a better idea if I took a little time to relax by myself.”

I understood perfectly well what he was referring to, but I didn't have the courage to tell him not to go. I went out into the main office and charged one of my subordinates with drawing up the official letter to authorize Gomez's transfer to Devoto Prison, having the worthless Fortuna sign it, and delivering it to the police station where Gomez was being held. There would be time enough afterward to inform the judge of what had taken place.

Sandoval, eager to be gone, picked up his jacket and waved a sweeping good-bye to everyone in the clerk's office. Before he left, however, he carefully tucked his s.h.i.+rttail back into his trousers.

I looked at the clock and figured I'd give him two hours' head start. No, three. Inadvertently, I glanced over at the shelf that held cases waiting to be sent to the General Archive. Luckily, Sandoval would be able to occupy himself during his recovery with a good deal of sewing.

22.

On the day following Gomez's confession, I went looking for Morales. I didn't try to see him at the bank or reach him by telephone. I counted on finding him at the Once train station. I thought it would be worthy and fitting for the poor man to learn of his great enemy's arrest precisely while conducting one of his improvised stakeouts in hopes of catching him. Although Morales's efforts had been in vain, I was sure, even after three and a half years, that he was still on the hunt. Going there to tell him the news seemed to be a way of including him in our accomplishment.

The little bar was almost empty. A quick glance through the window was enough to a.s.sure me that Morales wasn't there. As I was about to turn and go, a thought occurred to me. I stepped inside and walked to the cash register. The man in charge was tall and fat, and he looked like one of those guys who have seen everything and can no longer be surprised.

”Excuse me, sir,” I said, smiling as I approached him. It always bothers me a little to go into a place of business where I have no intention of buying anything. ”I'm looking for a young man who comes in here a lot, I think several evenings a week. He's got dirty blond hair. Pretty pale complexion. A tall, skinny guy with a straight little mustache.”

The fat man looked at me. I suppose one of the prerequisites for running a bar in Once station is the ability to identify crazies and con men at once. Apparently and silently, he concluded that I fit neither of those two categories. Then he nodded slightly and looked down at the counter, as though searching his memory. ”Ah,” he suddenly said. ”I know who you mean. You're looking for the Dead Man.”

It came as no shock to me to hear Morales referred to in that manner, and there wasn't the slightest hint of jest in the fat man's voice. He'd simply reported an objective characterization based on certain obvious signs. A customer who comes in at least once a week, always orders the same thing, always pays with coins, and spends two hours in silence, unmoving, looking out the cafe window, might indeed seem to share some qualities with a dead body or a ghost. Therefore, I didn't feel I was being disloyal or sarcastic or excessive when I answered, ”Yes.”

”He's been in here once this week already, you know.” He paused, as if trying to recall another circ.u.mstance that he could relate to Morales's last visit. Then he said, ”It was Wednesday. Yes, Wednesday. The day before yesterday.”

”Thanks,” I said. So Morales was still making his rounds. I wouldn't have expected anything else.

”Do you want me to give him a message when I see him?” The fat man's question caught me when I was halfway out the door.

After a moment's thought, I said, ”No, that's all right. But thanks. I'll come back another day.” I said good-bye and left.

The harsh sound of the public address system a.s.saulted me in the dimly lit corridor. Only then did I realize that the last time I'd been in Once station was the evening when I'd run into Morales, a few hours before I put an end to my marriage.

I saw Marcela two or three more times after that, when we were signing papers in the civil court. Poor girl. I reproach myself to this day for having hurt her so much. On the night when I finally decided to leave her for good, I burned the script she'd written for the way her life was supposed to go. I tried to explain. Although I was afraid it might wound her, I spoke to her of love, and I ventured to confess that I found a total lack of it in our relations.h.i.+p. ”What does that have to do with it?” was her reply. I don't think she loved me any more than I did her, but her plan allowed no room for uncertainties. Poor thing. If I had died, I would have caused her far fewer complications. The neighbor women holding court in the beauty parlor had no objection to the existence of widows. But an estranged wife, in 1969? Positively appalling. How was she going to get her three kids now, her firstborn son, the doctor, and her house with a garden in the suburbs, and her family automobile, and her Januaries at the beach without a legitimate husband? Sometimes, the grief we can cause without intending to is astonis.h.i.+ng. In this case, I suspect that her pain was greater than the sacrifice I refused to make to avoid hurting her. On that early evening in 1972 when I went back to Once station, a sense of guilt weighed me down, and after it came sadness. Except for the few impersonal meetings I've mentioned, I never saw her again. Did she find someone with whom she could set out once more on the path she felt prepared to travel, the one that would lead her, without surprises, to an old age without questions? I hope so. As for me, or as for who I was that evening, I exited the station onto Bartolome Mitre Street and walked home to the little apartment I'd rented in the Almagro barrio.

23.

Eventually-on the following Tuesday, to be exact-I found him. The same blond hair, perhaps a little thinner than it had been at our last meeting. The same gray extinguished eyes. Sitting just as before, with his hands immobile in his lap and his back to the bar. The same straight mustache. The same low-key obstinacy.

I told him the whole story from the beginning. I chose (or maybe it just came out that way) a calm, measured tone, much calmer and more measured than the one Sandoval and I, once his hangover subsided, had employed to gloat over our success. Something told me that the little bar was no place for such emotions as triumph, euphoria, or joy. The only part of my account where I let myself get a little more vehement, a little adjectival, a little gesticulatory, was when I described the magisterial intervention of Pablo Sandoval. Of course, I avoided quoting the two or three hair-raising phrases with which Gomez had dug his own grave, but I spoke clearly enough to do justice to the splendid way Sandoval had tricked us, both Gomez and me. Finally, I revealed that Judge Fortuna Lacalle had signed a preventive detention order for first-degree murder without objecting to so much as a comma.

”So now what?” Morales asked when I'd finished talking.

I told him that the investigative phase of the case was almost over. By way of solidifying it even further, I said, I was going to order that a couple of witnesses' statements be expanded and a few more tests made, and I'd also initiate some small legal maneuvers intended to prevent a clever defense attorney from complicating our existence. In a few months (six, or eight at the most), we'd conclude our indictment and send the case to the sentencing court.

”And then?”

I explained that a year could pa.s.s, or two at the outside, before a final sentence was handed down, depending on how fast the sentencing court and the Appellate Court worked. But I told him there was nothing to be concerned about, because we had Gomez dead to rights.