Needle in a Haystack Read Free Page A

So she accepted a position as private secretary to a Harvard-educated executive with a Polish surname, who managed the Argentine outlet of Exxon with great expertise. Lara had no particular aptitude or knowledge for the job, but her salary recognized that her role was to serve the Pole in every kind of way and, with minimum fuss, she carried out certain tasks his wife was disinclined towards. The actors change roles but the plot remains the same. They have both been living off Lara’s salary for several months. Amancio has known her since she was a girl, the life and soul of gatherings of mutual acquaintances, social events at his or her parents’ ranch. For as long as he could, Amancio passed himself off in front of her as a man of considerable standing, and thus squandered his last remaining pesos in courting and entertaining her. A couple of visits to Europe, various other trips and excursions, expensive clothes and cosmetics, and he was ruined. But before her suitor’s bankruptcy became obvious, Lara followed her father’s advice and decided to marry into the good family name of Pérez Lastra, finally putting a stop to the gossip doing the rounds of Recoleta, Palermo Chico, the old quarter, and Las Lomas de San Isidro. Marriage gave her the benefit of status along with a good lifestyle, all for the price of putting up with her consort. But she’d been misled. Now that the wealthy disguise has peeled away, revealing the wrinkles and cracks of a bygone era, Lara
searches with growing impatience for an honourable means of escape from this inconvenient union. The Pole has more problems with his wife by the day and, as a consequence, more problems with Lara, and she sees the ship on the horizon, starting to sink.
    Amancio stealthily makes his way to the dresser where Lara has left her handbag. He opens the clasp carefully. Feeling around in the dark, he soon finds her purse. He takes it out. In the half-light, he makes out three ten-thousand peso notes. He takes one, tucks it in his pocket and puts the purse back in place. He passes the drinks cabinet on his way back and unenthusiastically serves himself a cognac before returning to his post at the window.
    The military jeeps and soldiers have gone, the Fiat and its occupants disappeared. The street lies empty and silent. Night draws on, darkens. Those who can, sleep.

3
    A harsh wind starts to blow. Several broken clouds rush across the sky. Major Giribaldi wanders nervously through the hospital gardens. Tonight’s the night, they said. He believes he’s found the answer to his wife’s problems. He’s only forty years old but he’s feeling more like seventy. He’s impatient. He searches among the many pockets of his uniform for the cigarette he cadged off a conscript. He’s not a smoker but in situations like this you smoke. So he smokes. The moon pokes out between the branches of the tall trees lining Luis María Campos and reminds Giribaldi of a similar moon, four years ago.
    Ay lunita tucumana , hand in hand with Maisabé on the banks of the river, Giribaldi sings of the Tucumán moon, swears his undying love, whatever it takes to get her into bed. Courting Maisabé involved accompanying her home from church every Sunday and adopting an overall approach that was so roundabout it took him six months before he dared touch a breast for the first time. Even then he knew he risked losing her for ever. She let him get away with it up to a certain point, then stopped him cold, with a firm virginal hand, and he could advance no further. Maisabé’s Catholic convictions were stronger than the hot flushes he managed, through great effort,
to coax from her. He could always get only so far: her panting, cheeks on fire, nipples stiff as steel and then the that’s enough Giri! that sounded like a warning of land mines ahead. For a whole year he was unable to get any further. Desire got the better of him, meaning the altar. Sick of masturbating and tired of the chinitas ,