Along with those last words, Miranda gives her a hug, dries her tears and runs his hand over her hair. A few moments later, she’s pulled herself together. Miranda walks to the door, where he gives her a few more pieces of advice and kisses her on the cheek; she thanks him and he leaves. Graciela dries her hands on her apron as a matter of habit, picks up the two envelopes he left on the table, sighs, opens the little door of the cabinet where she keeps the good china and sticks them in a beer pitcher, which plays “Der Liebe Augustin” when she picks it up. Then she goes over to the sink and starts washing the dirty lunch dishes.
That afternoon Lascano tries on an elegant suit of fine Peruvian cotton at Rhoders on Florida Street. He is pleased by his own reflection in the mirror. The trousers need to be shortened. The salesman recommends a tailor a few blocks away who can do it quickly. Lascano rounds out his purchase with underwear, six shirts, a belt, a handkerchief and socks, and requests the lot be sent to the hotel. He takes the trousers with him, and leaves them with a Bolivian tailor who has a tiny shop on Cordoba, under Harrods. He walks to Santa Fe, stops in front of the window of a travel agency filled with magnificent posters of gorgeous landscapes and golden beaches. He enters. A tall and seductive young man greets him with a smile that seems to say that the world is too small for his ambitions. It doesn’t take longer than an instant for the young man to figure out how much Lascano’s extravagant clothes have cost. He tells himself that this is a serious customer, someone who has come to make a purchase, and he invites him into his office. Effortlessly, and in a matter of minutes, he sells him a ticket to Guarulhos Airport for thirty per cent more than Lascano would have paid anywhere else. A few minutes later, at Rosenthal’s, right in front of the plaza, Lascano purchases a small suitcase. He returns to the Galeria del Este mall and there, on the first floor, he slips into Susana’s Hair Salon, settles into a chair and asks for the full service — cut and shave, with lather and hot towels and, while we’re at it, a manicure.
At night, on the corner of Esteban de Luca and Chi-clana, there’s a truck stop where Dona Elvira makes and serves the best homemade ravioli with pot roast in the entire city, probably the entire country. Generous portions of pasta stuffed with fresh spinach swimming in a sauce as rich and dark as fate itself, accompanied by a tough cut of meat that’s been cooked so long and slowly that it melts in your mouth and falls apart with the touch of the fork. That, along with a fresh sharp red wine decanted from a demijohn, is all her regular customers need to rejoice. Held aloft and exuding clouds of a greasy scent that fills the room and sticks to the clothes and hair, plates are passed around piled high with chips, steak and eggs, thick sausage with sauerkraut, braised tripe with beans, meatballs the size of tennis balls, oxtail and potato stew. This is the kingdom of cholesterol with garlic, oil with spices, tarantella dessert, wine with soda, and a gastronomic community that never worries about its health or the future and knows how to appreciate the warmth of a calorie-rich entree in the dead of winter.
Fernando seems quite out of place here with his impeccable attire, his hair cut stylishly and set with gel, and his refined manners. But nobody seems to notice or care, much too busy devouring whatever Dona Elvira’s crew sets down on the table in front of them. The young man looks decidedly out of sorts. He realizes that this place, even though it hasn’t changed a bit, has nothing in common with his memory of it. He doesn’t like the noise and even less the certainty that he will leave there reeking of fried food. By the time he sees his father walk in the door, he’s already in a nasty mood. As he walks by the waiter, Miranda orders two plates of ravioli with meat, red wine and soda water.
Hey, son. What’s up, Papa? How’re you doing? Good, I work a lot and I seem to have less and less free time. What are you doing? The university and politics. Politics? I told you, old man, I’ve been working for almost two years with the Peronista party. You like politics? Of course I do, why else would I study law? And why’s that? Listen, old man, the presidents in this country are either lawyers or in the military, and I don’t like the military… But you do want to be President. Well, I wouldn’t say no. You can’t think of anything better to be? What, like a crook, for instance? Don’t get smart with me, and anyway in the end it’s almost the same thing. Except politicians are less likely to end up in jail. That’s funny. And you, old man, how’re you doing? Not bad. What’s wrong? They’re trying to frame me for a killing that occurred during an attack on an armoured vehicle. I know, but there were three dead. I was giving you a discount because you’re my son… Anyway, I had nothing to do with it. There’s a cop who’s trying to frame me, but since they’re also after me for the bank job, I’m not about to start giving explanations. So? Mama doesn’t want anything more to do with me. And for good reason. That’s true. How do you feel about it? It’s a huge blow, but I also know she put up with me for longer than she should have. No argument there. What are your plans? To keep out of sight until things settle down. Seems like a good idea. Really? Truth is that a father like you doesn’t help my political career any. Thank you. You’re welcome. Well, I have something that will help you. What? Money. Inside this envelope is a number, a code and the telephone number of someone named Christian. Okay. He represents a Swiss bank where I’ve deposited a lot of money. Keep that information in a safe place — or better, memorize it and destroy it. Okay, what do you want me to do with that money? Use it for whatever you need. Thanks. Two conditions. I’m listening. That your mother will never lack anything and that you take care of me if things don’t work out. I’m surprised, old man, that you think you need to tell me that.
The waiter brings the drinks and the steaming plates. Fernando doesn’t like that his father has ordered for him without consulting him. He knows that the rich sauce is going to disagree with him.
And the long face? What long face? Yours, who else’s? Don’t give me a hard time, old man, don’t start on me. Tell me about yourself, what’re you into? Got a girlfriend? No. Forgive me for asking, but do you even like girls? Back off, old man. It’s just a question. What’s wrong with you? You seem so… delicate. So? So nothing, tell me the truth, are you a faggot? Man, my generation no longer uses those categories. Do you like men? To be perfectly honest, up till now I’ve never come across one who’s turned me on. Does that answer your question? Sort of, though the “until now” worries me a little. Why? I don’t know, you seem kind of like a sissy, if you want to know the truth. I was raised by my mother and my aunt. Where the hell were you? Okay, okay, you got me there, but it’s no excuse. Who needs excuses? Would you feel better if I had a girlfriend? Yes, I would. Okay, the next time we see each other, I’ll bring a friend and introduce her to you as my girlfriend… It’s not a question of making me feel better. So what is it a question of? Knowing if you’re a real man or not. Does it worry you that much? Yes, it worries me that much. Look, it’s none of your business, and the truth is you don’t have a very open mind on the subject. Speaking of open… You want to stop insulting me? Oh, so now you’re insulted. I don’t have to put up with this shit! Oh no, so what do you plan to do? Just watch me…