“Better than Perón.”
“It’s no great merit to be better than Perón,” the girl said, to her father’s pleasure.
“Of course, it’s like saying that someone sings better than Ataúlfo Gómez.”
“He was a nationalist leader in Puerto Rico who confronted the United States.”
“And he wasn’t from the military.”
“He was an intellectual who studied at Harvard.”
“Even though he was a mulatto. The illegitimate son of a black laundress and a white land owner.”
The father and daughter were having fun, as if Renzi wasn’t there, or as if they were putting on a show for him. So he could see how a traditional family interacts, except there was something strange about the game, a couple’s understanding between father and daughter that seemed a bit overacted.
“I liked speaking with him,” the Old Man said. “He had integrity. He thought it was strange that there should be so much land in the hands of so few people in this country. I explained to him that it was one of the results of the Indian Wars, that they gave land to the army officers as far as their horses could ride.28 Five million leagues were handed out to thirty families, I told him one day. When he calculated it out, comparing the pampas to the size of the island of Puerto Rico, he laughed. I liked his way of speaking, and I know why he came here. But he was on a road to perdition,” the Old Man added suddenly, “and no one could stop it. Just like my children, on parallel and divergent roads.”
“I’m sure no one knows what you’re talking about, Father,” Ada said.
“You think that Yoshio killed him.”
“I don’t think anything. That’s what the police say.”
“That’s not Croce’s theory,” Renzi said.
“But who would imagine that they would hire a jockey and have him dress up as a Japanese night porter to go in and kill Anthony? It’s inconceivable, even in this country. That’s not how things are done around here.”
“And how are things done around here?”
“Different,” the Old Man said, smiling.
“Less baroque,” the girl clarified. “And out in the light of day.” She stood up. “If you need me, let me know,” she said, and said goodbye. Only then, as he saw her walk away, did he realize that she was wearing high heels and that her jeans were very tight, as if she wanted to shock her father in this fashion, or entertain him.
“I’d like to get your thoughts on the situation with the factory.”
“My son Luca is a genius, like my father was,” the Old Man seemed tired. “But he doesn’t have any common sense. I’ve helped him in every way possible.”
By that point the Old Man was basically speaking to himself, with the tone of an owner reprimanding his foreman because he’s let insects into the hacienda. He went back to the beginning.
“I’m sick of this whole affair, I’m tired of journalists, of the police, I don’t want to hear any more stories about my family or about my children. That young man was very dear to me, Tony, he was a lucky boy until he somehow came here, to die in this desert.” The Old Man stopped and served himself another whiskey. “I’ve had what’s called a cerebrovascular incident, a brain hemorrhage, and I shouldn’t drink, but when I don’t drink I feel even worse. Alcohol is the fuel of my life. Listen, young man, they want to confiscate the factory, the military does, and when Perón comes back it’s going to be the same, because Perón’s a military man too. We’ve owned this place since its foundation and now they want to take everything away, their plan is to speculate with the surrounding lands. At a certain point my son confronted me, he’s turned away from me, he’s always been set in his ways, determined to have it his way, but he has every right to keep his factory empty if he wants to, he should be able to use it like a paleta court if he felt like it, or a pigeon house, whatever, he’s paid his debts and he’s going to cover the mortgage, but they want to get a hold of his loan and confiscate the plant. It’s not a State loan, it’s a loan from a private bank, but they want to expropriate it. Look, see?” he said, looking through some papers and showing him a cutout from the newspaper. “The business owners are behind it, they want to build a commercial center there. I hate progress, I hate this kind of progress. The countryside should be left alone. An enclosed mall! As if this were Siberia.” Suddenly the Old Man grew quiet. Then he put the palm of his hand on his forehead, and resumed his monologue. “There are no values left, only prices. The State is an insatiable predator, it pursues us with its confiscatory taxes. For those of us — for me, I should say — who live in the country, away from the chaos, life is harder all the time, we’re surrounded by large floods, by large taxes, by new commercial roads. Like my ancestors were surrounded by the Indian hordes who were always raiding them, now we’re surrounded by a State Indian horde. Every once in a while, we get a drought in this area, or hail, or locusts, and no one protects the interests of the countryside. To keep the State from taking everything, we’re supposed to trust their word, to follow the old customs, no checks, no receipts, everything by word, honor above all, but there are two economies at play, a double bottom with an underground where money circulates. Everything to avoid state expropriations, the confiscatory taxes on rural production, we can’t pay those rates. Buenos Aires should be an independent nation, like in the time of Mitre. Buenos Aires on one side, the thirteen ranches on the other. Or is it fourteen now?” He paused again, looking for something in the pockets of his jacket. “There’s a lot of real estate speculation in the area, they want to use the factory as a base for a new project of urbanization. The town already seems obsolete to them. I’m going to prevent it. Here, take a look. I sent for that money for my son, it’s part of his inheritance, from his mother.” He handed Renzi a withdrawal receipt from Summit Bank in New Jersey, for $100,000. “I wanted to make amends with my son. I wanted to help him without him finding out. But the son of a bitch inherited his Irish mother’s pride.” He paused for a longer stretch. “I never imagined anyone would die.”
“You never imagined…”
“And I don’t know why they killed him, either.”
“Who’s doing all those business deals, Mr. Belladona?”
“The same black rabble as always,” he said. “Anyway, enough for today. We’ll continue some other time.” He pressed the button again, and a little bell sounded somewhere in the large house. Almost at once the door opened and a young woman entered, identical to the other but dressed differently.
“I’m Sofía,” she said. “Come on, let’s go, I’ll see you out.” She covered her father with a blanket and patted him gently on the head. The Old Man had dozed off. Then she and Renzi walked out. “I know you,” she said when she closed the door behind them. They were in a side room, a kind of office, looking over the gardens. “We met a long time ago, in a party in City Bell, in Patricio’s house. Zip zap. Touché. I studied in La Plata too.”
“That’s impossible. How could I forget someone like you?”
“I was in Agriculture School,” she said. “But I used to go over to Humanities sometimes, listen in on some of the classes, and I was good friends with Luciana Reynal, her husband is from around here. Don’t you remember? You wrote a short story about that night.”
Renzi looked at her, surprised. He‘d published one book of stories, years ago, and it turned out that this girl had read it.
“It wasn’t with the story from that night,” he managed to say. “I can’t believe that I could forget someone like you…”