The Buenos Aires Quintet Read Free Page A

stamps the document.
    Carrying his luggage, Carvalho stares round Ezeiza airport and recalls what he knows about it. The bloody fight between people from the right and left of Perónism when Perón returned from exile. A foretaste of what López Rega and the military junta were to dish out to left-wingers a little later on. Carvalho stands with his suitcase between his legs, looking for the woman his uncle had mentioned. The fat guy passes him smiling broadly and waving a bag of lupins. Carvalho follows him with his gaze as he goes into a phone booth. The earpiece is soon covered in sweat from the abundant tufts of hair the man has round his ears, as if in compensation for his bald crown. He stares back at Carvalho while he makes a call. ‘Hello, Captain? I got it out of him: he doesn’t know a thing. Not a thing, although he could find out. Wait, guess who’s come to meet him? The Modotti woman, Captain, the Modotti woman. The old man’s made a move. I told you he would.’
    A woman’s voice behind his back. ‘Are you the Masked Galician?’
    Carvalho turns round, and what he sees interests or attracts him. A blonde woman is gazing at him. Fortyish, beautiful in a disturbing way. A wise-eyed Argentine woman with blonde hair carefully moulded in between visits to her psychologist; not that she needs to see one – she probably knows more about psychoanalysis than he does. Her age showing some attractive wrinkles and an ironic filter for everything she sees. But her smile quickly changes from ironic to open and friendly. She holds out her hand to Carvalho. ‘Alma Modotti. Married name Font y Rius, but I got unmarried a long time ago. I don’t like double-barrelled names.’
    ‘Was that why you broke up?’
    ‘We broke up because husbands with double-barrelled names are even more unbearable than those with straightforward ones.’
    Carvalho would like to be able to study her at leisure, but she strides off and he can’t get a good view of her face, as if she were deliberately keeping him at a distance with her smile. It’s only when she’s hailing a taxi that he gets a good look at her, as she turns to face him with green, ever-ironic eyes. She’s about to give the taxi-driver an address, but Carvalho butts in. ‘Could you do me a sentimental favour?’
    ‘This is the capital of sentiment.’
    Carvalho talks to the driver. ‘Corrientes 3...4...8.’
    The driver looks round with a wry smile and takes up from where Carvalho left off: ‘ Second floor, with a lift... !’
    Alma bursts out laughing.
    ‘It’s my favourite tango.’
    ‘Tangos are like novels. They never tell the truth.’
    ‘So you’re a tango expert?’
    ‘No, a literature expert. I teach at the University. How come you’re such a tango fan?’
    ‘Carlos Gardel was a myth in Barcelona. So were Irusta, Fugazot and Demare.’
    ‘I’ve never even heard of them. Although I might not look it, I’m from the rock generation. Tango always seemed to me like Argentina for export. It’s only recently I’ve got closer to it. In fact, I often go to a place called Tango Amigo, perhaps because the presenter and the singer are friends of mine. Adriana Varela. Have you heard of her in Spain?’
    ‘I don’t keep up with these things. As far as tango goes, I didn’t get much beyond Gardel and Discépolo. The one who did reach Spain is Cecilia Rosetto, who’s a wonderful actress. I hope to see her here.’
    Carvalho has managed to produce a cigar straight from its cardboard packet inside his pocket, and Alma praises his skill.
    ‘My fingertips can locate a Havana cigar wherever it’s hiding.’
    He lights it and opens the taxi window. For the first time he can get some impression of Buenos Aires, which seems too big for its own possibilities, as if it had grown too quickly or there hadn’t been enough money to preserve its grandeur. ‘It all looks so promising but somehow rundown.’
    ‘Could be. Every neighbourhood is different. Borges said that