Ernesto Mallo - Sweet money

A heavy, marital silence descends, now denser, more unbending, irremediable. He looks at her, she looks back at him and for the first time understands how different they are in every way. She has the sensation that they are no longer a man and a woman of the same species, that they never really were, they were only ever joined in some kind of unnatural symbiosis. Whatever it was that kept them together has shattered in a way that is beyond repair. They are two strangers stranded in this field of lovers. We are of the material world, she thinks, and the material world exacts its revenge. Just like when a job is shoddily done, without mindfulness or respect. A thing poorly done remains like a curse, always there to remind us of our faulty workmanship.

When Susana gets out of the car, Miranda turns off Sinatra. He feels like crying, like breaking something. He has the worst of all sensations: impotence. She’s right, there’s nothing he can do to make things right, to fix what he set out to destroy. She has always been loyal and faithful, and he always knew he was ruining her life, but over and over again he figured he’d pull one final job that would lift him above the fray, and then they’d be able to go to another country and live the lives of kings, and never worry about anything ever again. But that goal was as phony as a three-dollar bill. Because what Miranda really likes is to take risks. All that crap about going straight once and for all is just a ploy to justify himself. Now the time has come to pay off his debt to Duchess. He feels like his heart is crumbling inside his chest. He doesn’t make the least effort to hold her back, to try to convince her, to seduce her as he has a thousand times. He stays in the car until he gets so cold he has to drive. Two days after Duchess’s goodbye, Miranda parks his car in front of her uncle’s house. He doesn’t have to wait long before he sees his son cross the street with a hurried step. He rolls down the window and calls out to him. The young man stops and, surprised and baffled, looks at the man in the car.

Papa?… Hey, son. Get in.

Which he does. He sits down in the passenger seat, throws his backpack in the back seat and stares straight ahead of him, in silence. At that moment he feels like he hates his father.

When did you get out? A few days ago. And you’re already in trouble again. It’s my style, what can I do? How is it possible that somebody of your intelligence simply doesn’t get it? What should I get? Something you yourself told me when I was still a little kid. What did I tell you?… That if your main investment is your body, you’re not in the right business. We say all kinds of crap… It’s not funny. What isn’t funny? You’re not the only one in danger. The other day they tried to kidnap us. Mama told me. Yeah, she spent the whole day crying. One of the cops gave us a message to give to you. Who? Lascano. He said you should turn yourself in to him, that you’d be safer. Thanks. Leave it to me, I’ll work it all out. You’d better. I want to talk, I’ve got something very important to tell you. I can’t now. You in a hurry? Yeah, I am, in fact. Can we meet for lunch? When? Whenever you want. Tomorrow?… Where? Remember that place we used to go when I’d pick you up from school? On Luca Street? That’s the one.

Fernando grabs his backpack, gets out of the car without saying goodbye and walks away. It doesn’t take Miranda long to get Flores’s phone number.

Flores, Miranda here… Why the hell are you fucking with my son?… You’re a family man, you sonofabitch… I don’t give a fuck… Okay… What do you want?… Not a cent… no more than a hundred grand… I said no… Are you nuts? With that money I can blow you and your entire family away. Take the hundred and stop busting my balls… I’m telling you, no, Flores… and don’t make me lose my patience… Okay… Good… I’ll take care of it… I know, Flores, it won’t be the first time… Friday at the latest… No… No…

What the hell do you mean he wasn’t there?! Just that, he wasn’t there. Did he escape? He couldn’t have escaped because officially he wasn’t even there. They never booked him? No. What happened? Depends who was at the station. If it was Roberti, Miranda paid him off with the money from the heist. If it was Flores, Miranda is probably dead and buried after a brutal interlude. What do you think? I want to believe it was Roberti. Why? Humane reasons. Mole isn’t a killer, he’s just a bank robber, and an old-fashioned one at that. Seems you kind of admire him. I’ve always admired intelligence and Miranda is a very intelligent guy, though his methods… Too bad he doesn’t use his intelligence for something worthwhile. What do you want me to tell you, Pereyra? That in a country like this one, where the government, in cahoots with the big companies, robs people of the desire to live, where a guy can spend his life busting his balls and all he gets is a pension that doesn’t even pay for his morning coffee… Better to be poor and honourable, Lascano. Oh, really? So tell me, why are the prisons so full of poor people? Because they don’t have money for lawyers. You’re an honest bloke swimming in a sea of corruption and trying to keep your nose above the shit. Let’s say, I’m a little more honest than the others, but the truth is, I don’t know if it’s out of conviction or cowardice. And I don’t really care to find out. I just hope, Lascano, that when I’m your age, I don’t think like you do. And I, Marcelo, share that hope for you, with all my heart.

Once outside, he decides to walk. He has in his pocket all the information he needs to get in touch with Eva. Juquehy… He likes that name. The problem now is where the money will come from to get there. Mole has vanished and he’s losing steam; he couldn’t care less about anything besides finding Eva and seeing if there is any possibility to begin a new life with her somewhere else. Eva is like the Promised Land. He considers going to the bank and telling Fermin that he has found out that Mole is in Brazil and he needs to go there after him. If he can’t get any money out of him, he’ll at least be able to get him to buy him a ticket. Once there, he’ll play it by ear. It’s not the most honest idea in the world, but that doesn’t worry him too much. He searches through his pockets for Fermin’s card, but in vain. He thinks that anyway it’s better to go in person. He picks up his pace as he heads to the bank’s offices in the centre. Along the way he rehearses his speech. If things work out well, great; if not, God knows what he’ll do.

The minute he enters the building, he sees that it’s been redecorated. Its previous atmosphere of a postmodern barracks has made way for the aesthetics of an expensive hair salon. The security people, the sheriffs who used to guard the entryway, have metamorphosed into young men wearing blue suits, with refined manners and eternally damp hair. The turnstiles have disappeared. The bank’s impressive emblem has been replaced by the image of a sun shining on an ear of wheat wrapped in a banner on which is written “ Banco del Pueblo ”, The People’s Bank. Lascano heads straight for the elevators, gets into one with a group of boludos — some things haven’t changed — and hits the “five” button. When he gets to the fifth floor, he sees there’s nothing there. It’s empty, the walls stripped bare. Two workers are gathering up their tools.

Hi. Good afternoon. Didn’t a bank used to have its offices here? Don’t know, could be, we’ve been clearing everything out because tomorrow another company is moving in. Who hired you? Tepes, the architect. Where can I find him? We’re also waiting for him, it’s payday.

The elevator opens and a short, stocky and irritable-looking man appears, wetting his fingers as he counts out a thick wad of banknotes. He sees Lascano, stops counting and stares at him. He looks him up and down and immediately understands that he’s a cop. He wonders what he wants. Just to be safe, he asks him to wait a second. He pays the workers and dismisses them.