The Buenos Aires Quintet Read Free Page B

when you cross Rivadavia Avenue you cross the frontier into another world. Rivadavia runs from one end of Buenos Aires to the other and splits it in two.’
    The Calle Corrientes. A chaotic, old-fashioned scene, with shops and apartment buildings in clashing styles jostling each other for attention. Alma’s distant voice acting as tour guide: Corrientes, home of the tango you love so much. The taxi pulls up outside Number 348. Carvalho gets out, oblivious to the withering looks the driver and Alma are giving him through the windows. Carvalho is looking for something, surprised he can’t find it. Finally he spots a placard stating that this was the spot for which the world-famous tango was composed, but there’s no sign of the original building now, not even a trace of the perfume of adultery. It’s a parking lot. A desolate open space with battered blue gates, like a last distant memory of the love nest mentioned in the song. Carvalho turns round and accuses the two people smiling at him: ‘It used to be a tango, now it’s a parking lot.’
    Alma says a few words to the driver: ‘When our friend comes back from his tango fantasies, take us to Entre Ríos 204, would you? But first, show him the obelisk.’
    The driver follows her instructions, but as compensation sings, at the top of his voice:
    Corrientes three...four...eight
Second floor, with a lift...
Décor courtesy of Maple ’ s
Piano, rug and bedside table;
A telephone that rings
A Victrola crying to the sound
Of old tangos from my youth
A cat, hut in porcelain to ensure
It doesn ’ t disturb the love-making.
    Corrientes comes out into 9 de Julio Avenue, and the obelisk is there to prove the fact.
    ‘Look, the widest avenue in the world, and the world’s least significant obelisk. It’s so wide – a hundred and forty metres – it’s almost unreal, but I like it because of all the trees. Buenos Aires is full of trees that are just too beautiful – too much altogether – ombus, gum trees, araucarias, palos borrachos. In spite of all the traffic, 9 de Julio in November is full of blossom from the purple jacarandas, in September it’s pink from the lapachos, and in February it’s the turn of the white palos borrachos. The obelisk is never in bloom. It was erected in 1936 to commemorate four hundred years of the city’s foundation. But the real reason was different. We had no reference point for our dreams about the city. They had to fill all this empty space somehow. Someone described it as the phallic symbol for Buenos Aires machismo. Someone else called it the city’s shameless prick. Now it’s the obelisk. Nothing more, nothing less. So, here’s the obelisk. And here’s a Spaniard.’
    It could have been an apartment in the middle-class Ensanche district of Barcelona or in Madrid, without the wooden stairs the inhabitants of Madrid have, or the art nouveau design details of the Catalan capital.
    ‘Entre Ríos, round the corner from Callao. The apartment belongs to your uncle. The centre of the world.’
    Carvalho goes round opening and shutting doors, always coming back to the tiny living- and dining-room where Alma’s waiting for him disdainfully. Carvalho is satisfied finally, and points to a fireplace that has a gas or electric radiator in it. ‘I’d like to have a wood fire. Can I use the fireplace?’
    ‘You could, but do you have any idea how much firewood costs? Or are you going to burn the doors?’
    ‘What I burn is my business. Do you live here?’
    ‘Here? No. I’m not part of the contract. Your uncle told me to do this – the flat was rented out. He asked me to show you round the city, that’s all.’
    Alma has big, sad, green eyes. She looks down at her bag and starts rummaging for something in it. Eventually she pulls out a photograph and a piece of paper, and hands them to Carvalho. ‘Here’s my address – it’s not far away – and a photo of your cousin Raúl.’
    It’s the same photo of a family reunion that his