Turcheli stands up, looks out the window, walks over to the door, closes it and returns with a triumphant smile. I’m going to tell you a secret. I’m listening. I’ve bagged the Chief of Police job. How’d you manage that? Last year I joined the sect. What sect? There’s these retreats, see, they’re called Christian Training Courses. All the military bigwigs, they’ve all been to one. It’s like this. Twelve guys get together in a convent for three days. The only thing you can do is read the Bible and pray. You can’t talk to anybody. Every half-hour a priest comes and gives you a lecture on God and the Devil, heaven and hell, good and bad. You know, that kind of thing. You listen and you don’t say a word. That goes on for three days. I’m telling you, at a certain point your mind goes blank. And right then, as if they knew it, they start drilling your head full of that shit about the great Christian family, your obligation to help and protect one another. Anyway, that’s where the guys with real power go, the generals, the admirals, the president of the chamber of commerce, the general secretary of a trade union. Imagine that. I never thought of you as religious, Jorge. It’s just that if you want to rise in the world, you’ve got no choice. Really? No training, no promotion. Bet you can’t guess who I ran into there? Carlitos Bala, the clown. Close but no cigar. Grondona. From the Football Association? No, you idiot, the other one, the TV host. You’re kidding. The best part is that in the end, everyone there vows to give a hand to everyone else, always, no matter what the circumstances. A few days ago there was a big hullaballoo on TV and in the papers about a girl who was raped and killed in Belgrano. The niece of a minister, so you can imagine the uproar. I had to make some public statements. I called Grondona. Talked to his secretary. The following Sunday, there I was, on television, comforting the girl’s parents, that’s when I scored big points. These days, if you’re not on TV, Perro, you don’t exist. Real politics happens on that little screen. And this week comes my coup de grace. We caught the guy who did it. It’s all hush-hush until Thursday night. That’s when I announce we’ve solved the case during a press conference, on TV. It’s a done deal. Sunday I’m back on Grondona’s programme handing the parents their daughter’s killer with his hands and feet bound. You like? Not bad. And that’ll do it, Perro, I’ll be Chief, I’ll beat the Apostles; they want it for one of their own. Who? Thin Man Filander.
When he hears that name, Perro crosses his arms and bows his head. Turcheli elaborates enthusiastically.
So, we can bring you back. Truth is, Jorge, I’m not sure I feel like returning. Just leave all that to me. I’m going to need you to keep the Apostles in their place. What makes you think I’d help you with your internal power struggles? Because you’ve got the soul of a cop, Perro, that’s why. And because I’m better than they are.
What makes you better? First place, I saved your life; second, the Apostles are mixed up with some Turks who’re mixed up with Colombian coke. They want to make Buenos Aires a transfer station to Europe. Several department higher-ups are already involved. When I become Chief, the first thing I’ll do is clean that one up.
You just want to keep at your traditional business of selling precincts. You know what, Perro? It’s simpler, and it’s already all set up. When you get in bed with those narcos, you don’t know what you’re in for, those people are hell, big time. They’ll take a pound of your flesh if you look at them wrong. I’m a businessman, Perro, not a man of action. With drugs, you’ve got to be ready for anything. I’m ambitious, but I like the good life, peace and quiet. Everything in moderation, I say, can’t let yourself get too greedy.
Perro feels nauseated. He stands up and inhales deeply.
What’s my status? Your file is locked away in my desk. Everyone thinks you’re dead. I won’t be able to keep it up for too long, but once I get my promotion, we’ll set everything straight. And Giribaldi? Retired. Military officers don’t even step outside in uniform any more. They’ve got legal problems. Things are getting rough for them. The Full Stop and Due Obedience laws they passed so we couldn’t prosecute them for crimes committed during the dictatorship are full of holes. What do you mean? The kids they stole from the guerrillas, for example. Nobody can stop those trials. Because stealing a baby can’t be an act of war, you understand? I understand. There’s one prosecutor who’s all over that, he’s hunting them down, one by one, already got three or four of them behind bars.
Turcheli looks at his watch, stands up and makes ready to leave.
They tell me you’re right as rain. How do you feel? Not bad. Good, let’s shut down this operation, it’s costing me a fortune. I’ve got a room for you in a pension in Palermo. Don’t worry, it’s not a dump. Whatever you say, but I don’t have a penny. Don’t worry about the dough. Ramona will take you there in a few days and she’ll take care of everything. Just sit tight until I’m in, then I’ll come get you. Okay? Whatever you say, but don’t think for a minute that I’m going to get my hands dirty for you. We’ll talk about that later.
Lascano goes over to the window to watch him leave. The dust the car kicks up is going in the other direction now. Turcheli wants to send him back to the front. His life of suspended animation for his recovery and rehabilitation has come to an end. In his head, he can hear someone shout, “Action”, and he knows that means the cameras are rolling once again. He has no desire to wage war against crooks and murderers, in the police force or outside of it, to be vigilant twenty-four hours a day, constantly looking over his shoulder. He has absolutely no urge to take on responsibilities, run risks. He’s got nowhere to go, nowhere he wants to go, except to Eva, into her arms, her love. His close brush with death made him wiser, more detached, more calculating. He looks at the spool from which the thread of his life is unravelling, and he realizes there’s not much left, and the little there is is unwinding faster and faster. He dreams of easygoing, pleasant days. He wants to lay claim to the quota of love that life has, up till now, lent him only very briefly then stolen away as if the whole thing had just been a joke. He regrets not having a picture of Eva. What he wouldn’t give at this moment to look in her eyes, touch her, feel her breath, her hands. As soon as he gets back to Buenos Aires he’s going to try to find out where in the world that woman is. He’ll tell Jorge that he’s not going to accept his proposal, and he’ll ask him for money so he can find Eva. He can’t imagine any other purpose or destiny, he has no interest in anything other than finding her.
As the orange sun, pierced by the thousands of eucalyptus leaves, plunges toward the horizon, Lascano’s chest hurts, right where the pain of the gunshot wound mingles with that of longing.