Sweet Money Read Free Page B

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.

3
    The night is pitch black and it’s raining. The rain is pouring down outside the windows. It’s raining all over the city, the country, the world. Giribaldi is woken up by a dream he doesn’t want to remember, the same one that’s been waking him up for a long time. For such a long time that he’s lost track. He doesn’t know when he first dreamt it. Maisabé is asleep next to him and Aníbal is in the adjoining room, but he feels alone, as if there were nobody left on Earth and even these people no longer meant anything to him. He wonders if they ever did, but suspects so. The storm rattles the windowpane and an image flashes through his head, of himself jumping through it and falling in slow motion through a cloud of broken glass, just like in the movies. His fantasy dishes him up a free sample of the bolt of pain and darkness that follows his crash into the pavement; the rain falling on his mangled body mixes with his blood, then runs into the street. A few passers-by gather around his dead body and, up above, looking out from the balcony, Maisabé contemplates him, a strange smile hovering over her lips. He sits up in bed, as if he were spring-loaded. He thinks he hears a sigh. He turns to look at his wife. A line of spit dribbles out of the corner of her mouth, pulled down by
the drop at the end. Steps down the hallway. The whole house creaks and whines. He hears a child cry. He enters Aníbal’s room. He stands watching him for a long time. Half his face is lit by the street light shining through the window; the other half is in shadows. He’s convinced the child is awake and pretending to be asleep. He walks over to him and brings his face close up to his. He’s too quiet; Giribaldi wonders if he’s dead. He touches him. The boy opens his eyes and stares at him without blinking. Giribaldi pulls back and looks away. He leaves the room. He goes to his office and opens the French doors onto the balcony. The raindrops bounce off the floor and splash his bare feet. He goes out onto the balcony and looks down, calculating exactly where his body would land. The rain is icy cold. He withdraws into the room. He closes the door to his office and sits down at his desk. He doesn’t know what to do with the tremendous urge he has to cry. He sits there contemplating nothingness until morning comes and the household comes alive.
     
    Maisabé brings him a cup of strong, black coffee, without sugar, puts it silently down on the desk and leaves. At the exact instant she vanishes from his sight, she says , Good morning. Giribaldi doesn’t answer; he looks at the steaming cup; he smells the aroma of the coffee as if it were a memory. The only thing that’s real is what’s happening at this very moment. The minutes, the hours, the days spill into the emptiness, the endless void. He brings the cup to his lips and doesn’t realize, until much later, that the liquid has burnt his tongue. He wonders if his numbness is due to a terminal illness.

    He waits for more than three hours before the secretary informs him that a problem has come up and the general won’t be able to make it. She doesn’t offer him another appointment, she says she’ll consult with her boss and call him. Her voice lacks conviction, her words are