Flashback

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Buenos Aires, some weeks later

Karel Duczyński removed his Panama and fanned himself. He and Danny were looking along a colourful, hazy street. By unspoken agreement, Karel was in charge, and when he walked on, Danny fell into step. The cobblestones were shaded by jacarandas whose bluish corollas shuddered in the breeze. A boy burst from a doorway and joined the football game in the square opposite. Karel spotted an old man beneath an arch. The man nodded as Karel asked him directions. His toothless laughter made Danny turn away.

At length, they passed beneath the arch and Karel said to his friend, ‘I don’t know what to say.’

Danny gave him the sour smile of the heartbroken, which was an improvement.

The door opened the width of a shoe. Old, blue eyes stopped on the visitors. ‘¿Es usted policía?’

Karel cleared his throat. In his most polite Spanish, he said, ‘A very good afternoon, Mrs Cifuentes. My friend and I are from Interpol.’ He pressed his BSG identification card to the gap. ‘We are investigating the financial dealings of Mr Juan Pájaro Rojo, and we would like to talk with you.’

‘This is my apartment now.’

‘We fully understand that, señora.’

‘You know it is siesta?’

‘I’m sorry, I did not. May we come back at a more convenient time?’

The door closed. Karel looked doubtfully at Danny. Then the door opened again. The old lady wore a print dress and open sandals. Her eyes were set in deep, weathered sockets and she kept one arm behind her back for balance as she retreated into the apartment. ‘I don’t care about the siesta at my age. You will have some maté.’

‘Very kind,’ said Karel.

She turned to look at him before continuing inside. The room held a deflated-looking sofa, a couch draped with an old blanket, and some rugs. Cardboard boxes had been stacked in the corner. Karel was drawn to a watercolour above the television. It showed a smartly-dressed young woman and her family. Behind them, a crowd of wedding guests stood before a rural church. The cars next to the church dated the picture to the first half of the twentieth century. Karel glanced down at the sepia photograph that showed the same scene.

‘I used to paint,’ said the woman, returning from the kitchen. ‘Now my hands are unsteady.’

‘Are you enjoying your retirement?’

‘Tell your friend he can sit.’

‘Danny, sit down.’

‘Retirement?’ She laughed. ‘I became a mother at fourteen and a grandmother at thirty. I have so many children that I forget their names. I will be retired when they forget mine.’ She nodded, gathered her thoughts. ‘I stopped hat-making when I was 65, in the winter of 1992.’

‘Which would make you twenty years old in 1947.’

‘Twenty-one when my boy died, in the August. Little Lisandro.’

Karel passed a look of triumph to Danny, whose eyebrows were raised. The Brit had heard the name Lisandro but could not be sure of the context. Karel held out his hand and clicked his fingers. Danny passed him the article.

‘I read that your son contacted this newspaper. Is this true?’

The woman stared at the paper in a silent snarl of concentration. ‘Javier was excitable when he was a little boy and he’s excitable as an old man. I told him to stay quiet. No newspapers.’

‘Why did you tell him that?’

‘Because Mr Juan Pájaro Rojo asked me to keep this between ourselves.’

Karel nodded. ‘I would be grateful if you could tell me what happened, starting from the beginning.’

‘Very well.’ She nodded, as though she had always known there would be a reckoning. She settled on the chair by the kitchen. ‘He visited me one month ago. It was very wet. He came during the siesta, like you.’

‘Can you describe the man?’

‘Tall, white hair, faraway eyes.’ She smiled. ‘He spoke beautifully, like I haven’t heard in years.’

‘His age?’

‘Late sixties.’

‘Late sixties,’ said Karel. He looked at Danny and nodded. ‘That sounds like… Pájaro Rojo.’

‘He asked me if I had once lost a son called Lisandro, and I replied that I had.’

‘Excuse me, Mrs Cifuentes, but can we go back one step? On what basis did you admit the man to your house?’

‘I didn’t. He was already inside. When I asked him how he had entered, he said that he must have walked through the wall.’

‘Did that worry you?’

‘At the time, it made me laugh.’

‘What did he ask next?’

‘He wanted to know if I had any proof of residency. I said that I did not. But I showed him my picture of Lisandro. That was enough.’

‘How, precisely, did he respond to the picture?’

‘He was very moved. Then he told me the story of the bequest.’

‘The bequest?’

‘It’s in the newspaper. You must have read it.’

‘Mrs Cifuentes, let me repeat that we are not here to take your apartment. That’s yours, and safe.’

‘Your companion is very quiet. Why?’

‘He’s British. He only speaks when he wants to apologise. The bequest, Mrs Cifuentes?’

‘He told me that a rich businessman had once befriended my son, Lisandro, and invested some money on his behalf. The businessman had long since died, but his grandson had recently discovered documents relating to the investment, and wished to locate Lisandro or his next of kin. As part of that process, he had hired a private detective, Mr Pájaro Rojo. The bequest was very simple. I was to choose a house and it would be bought for me.’

‘Mrs Cifuentes, concerning your son, Lisandro. Do you remember the circumstances of his death?’

She lost her smile. ‘Of course. He was murdered in an alleyway not far from our home.’

‘Who was suspected?’

‘Mr Whatever-your-name-is, let me tell you something. My grandmother was in her forties when she died. She once gave me a piece of advice after I found her outside our house with a fat lip and her favourite knife at a whetstone. She told me that quick revenge is for the weak, while the strong remember until the time is right. And guess what, Mr Whatever-your-name-is?’

‘What?’

‘She was wrong.’

‘Señora, the suspect?’

‘He vanished.’

‘And what of Mr Pájaro Rojo?’

Mrs Cifuentes smiled. ‘Oh, he vanished too.’

‘Mrs Cifuentes?’

‘Yes,’ she said, and her gaze settled on the watercolour of her long-dead son. ‘Like a… like he was never here.’ She turned to the kitchen. ‘Ah, and now the water has boiled. We must wait. For good maté, it must be hot, but not too hot.’

‘Mrs Cifuentes.’

‘A moment, please.’

Danny was picking at the skin around his thumb. Karel summarised the conversation in English. Mrs Cifuentes returned with an almost spherical cup. A silver straw protruded from the small hole in the top.

‘Here,’ she said to Danny, patting his knee. ‘This will help you forget all about her.’