The Buenos Aires Quintet by Manuel Vázquez Montalbán Read Free Book Online Page A

platform.
    ‘The masked Galician. Are you interested in Steiner or Barthes?’
    ‘Are they a tango duo? Or do they play on the left wing for Boca Juniors?’
    ‘Don’t make me talk any more. I’m thirsty. Thirsty for water.’
    ‘The thirst for water is a primitive one. Thirst for wine means culture, and thirst for a cocktail is its highest expression.’
    Only now does Alma notice the bruises on Carvalho’s face, and a transparent bit of plaster on the corner of his mouth.
    ‘What happened?’
    ‘I got beaten up by mistake. They thought I was Raúl.’
    Alma’s ironic mask slips. She looks around as though Raúl’s name could only bring alarm and disaster. Carvalho leads her out and she allows herself to be taken along without realizing exactly where they are going, until she finds herself in a club inevitably lined with precious woods, and with a cocktail list in her hands. She doesn’t even glance at it, still horrified by Carvalho’s face.
    ‘Are you going to explain or not?’
    But the presence of a waiter hovering over them cuts short their conversation. Carvalho surveys the list of cocktails, shuts it with a sigh, and hands it back.
    ‘Surprise me.’
    ‘Would you like to try a Maradona?’
    ‘What’s in it?’
    ‘Bourbon, peach, lemon and orange juices, with a sprig of fresh mint and some strawberries.’
    ‘What’s that got to do with Maradona?’
    ‘Nothing, probably. But if you are Spanish...’
    ‘How can you tell?’
    ‘You Spaniards are almost as unmistakable as we Argentines are.’
    ‘Oh, you don’t say. Go on. If I were Spanish, what would you offer me?’
    ‘A “fifth centenary”, perhaps.’
    ‘Tell me about it.’
    ‘Pisco, white wine, and a few drops of sweet sherry’
    ‘Help!’
    Alma laughs despite herself, but when the waiter moves off, her eyes are again full of concern and enquiry.
    ‘I went to see Raúl’s former associate, Roberto. My cousin had been there, and paid him another visit. Their experiments are part of a foundation which calls itself The Spirit of New Argentina. I’ve been hearing about it since I started my trip here. The man in the seat next to me on the plane is one of their promoters, he told me about the foundation and about Güelmes.’
    ‘Güelmes?’
    ‘Yes, your almost minister Güelmes. While Roberto was showing me the pride of Argentina’s cows, he thought he saw Raúl and ran off. All of a sudden, two motorcyclists leapt on me and started to beat me to a pulp. Before I lost consciousness I saw my flight companion, a fat guy out of a B-movie. He was giving the orders.’
    ‘What did Roberto say?’
    ‘He patched me up. He said he was sorry, and explained how obsessed Raúl seemed to be with returning there. First he paid them a call, then one night he got into the laboratory and trashed it, and now he’s been back a third time. The strange thing is that when I mentioned the fat man, the man I’d met on the plane and who was in charge of the motorcyclists, he looked at me like a scientist faced with some farfetched theory, and told me the only fat things around were the New Argentina cows. I reckon the meeting in the plane was a set-up. They knew I was coming from Spain. They must have been monitoring your letters or your phone calls to my uncle. How else would they know?’
    Although she’s on the verge of it, Alma has no time to be scared stiff. Two ‘fifth centenaries’ fall from the skies and put a stop to Carvalho’s confessions. She waits until he’s tried the cocktail, winked at the waiter and given his verdict.
    ‘Very refreshing.’
    The waiter glides off, pride assuaged.
    ‘Ghastly, isn’t it?’
    ‘I’ve drunk worse. What d’you make of my adventure?’
    ‘Why did they beat you up? I mean, why did Roberto let them beat up the person they thought was Raúl?’
    ‘He said Raúl’s night-time shenanigans had annoyed them.’
    ‘And you believed him?’
    ‘No; but I’ve no better idea. By the way, I won’t be