A Crack in the Wall by Claudia Piñeiro Read Free Book Online

stuff, Pablo.”
    â€œJust get him off my back,” threw in Marta.
    Pablo, momentarily distracted by the phrase “get him off my back”, missed some of what followed, though he picked up enough to know what the grievance was about. It wasn’t the first time somebody had complained because one of their jobs – or work by another architectural practice or construction company – had caused problems in an adjoining building. It was part of the job, another chore, to go and examine the damage and establish whether it was damage as such – a process that was deliberately drawn out so as to win more time to get on with construction and postpone the repairs until project finances were looking healthier – then to minimize the damage and promise to fix it as economically as possible, and not much more.
    â€œThe old man’s an idiot, a serious pain in the arse,” Marta warned him.
    â€œHe’s bored and looking for entertainment at our expense,” said Borla, playing down the size of the problem, probably to soothe Marta.
    â€œHe could end up being a piece of work – I can just see it,” she insists.
    â€œA piece of work – how?” Pablo asks.
    â€œA piece of shit,” Marta replies.
    Only a few hours later Pablo Simó met Jara and was able to draw his own conclusions. His first impression wasn’t one of the best. As he emerged from the lift and was closing the door, Jara slunk up like a shadow, tapped Pablo on the shoulder and gave him a shock that could have caused a heart attack in someone of a more delicate disposition. In those days Borla and Associates was still on the third floor of a 1950s building and had been since its inception, until the nature of the business, the scale of the models and the need for the office itself to function as a showroom persuaded Borla to reserve a bigger space inthe building they were working on at that time, on Calle Giribone – the building where they still are and where the presence of a body buried underneath the basement slabs condemns them to remain. The old practice, where Simó and Jara first met, was a few yards from the intersection of Dorrego and Corrientes, when the neighbourhood was still known to everyone as Chacarita and hadn’t yet been upgraded to Palermo. Pablo had come out of the lift into the dark corridor, empty as it was every morning, its smell a mixture of disinfectant and bleach. It was unusual to meet anyone here at this time of day, but there was Jara, smiling, his hand outstretched as he said:
    â€œDid I give you a shock? My name’s Nelson Jara, how do you do?”
    And although Pablo had indeed been shocked, he shook his head.
    â€œNot at all, don’t worry,” he said, and showed Jara into the office.
    Jara was carrying a plastic bag from some shoe shop, stuffed with files. One of its handles had come off and, as he held it in one hand, the other supported it underneath, so that the weight of papers didn’t cause it to collapse altogether. The files, grubby and pointing downwards, bulged out of the top of the bag. Pablo invited Jara to sit down while he prepared for the day’s work. He took out his notebook, put it to one side and laid his Caran d’Ache pencil diagonally across it, making sure it fit exactly the contours of the notebook, from bottom to top, left to right. Jara, sitting opposite him, waited, following his movements, nodding sometimes as though approving Pablo Simó’s actions, rocking his body very slightly back and forth, though without moving the chair, his legs crossed and his fingers interlaced in his lap.
    â€œHow can I help you?” Pablo asked finally.
    Jara immediately ceased rocking and started rummaging in his bag, pulling out papers and scattering them across the desk, crashing into Pablo Simó’s space like a conquistador taking possession of a town after proving himself the victor in battle. An orange file