Ernesto Mallo - Sweet money

Sawbones used to practise medicine in the poor neighbourhood of Claypole, where he’d been born and raised. One night the local police superintendent asked him to perform an abortion on a minor, but the pregnancy was too far along and he refused. They framed him and threw the book at him. In the end, he lost his licence and became the doctor of the underworld. He’s a genius at removing bullets, a true master at preventing and curing infections. If there’s dough, he charges; if not, no problem. He never leaves anybody out in the cold. The doctor has earned himself a place of respect, gratitude and appreciation, even among the most violent and crazy lowlifes.

There’s no lock on the door, but inside are all the trappings of a regular doctor’s office, even a small operating room equipped with everything he managed to rescue from his former practice, as well as what Peretti supplies him. Gelser comes out to greet him, flashing his magnificent smile.

My dear, dear Mole, what a pleasure, come in, come in. When did you get out? Yesterday. Everything okay? Well, you know what it’s like, those first hours out. Terrifying. Look, I know someone, a psychoanalyst, he was inside and now he does therapy for ex-cons. Are you interested? Hey, man, if we’ve got psychoanalysts for cons, you know we’re lost. So leave me alone with that crap. That’s all I need. So, what do you need? Look… I want you to test me for the plague. The ELISA test, for HIV? For AIDS. Right, that’s for HIV. What do I have to do? It’s nothing. Go to this address. Ask to speak to Alberto, tell him I sent you. Here’s the lab order. You won’t have to pay anything. Money’s not a problem. It’s on me. You’ll have the results in two days. Let me take a look at you. Take off your shirt.

Gelser stands up and looks in his eyes with a little device that emits a very bright white light, then in his throat and ears, listens to his chest through a stethoscope and palpates his lymph nodes.

You look as healthy as a horse to me. But you want to be sure, right? Yeah, of course. I want to get back with Duchess, but not if I’ve got it. How many were you with inside? Just one. The whole time? No, in the last year. Was he with anybody else? Just me. That’s good.

After he leaves the laboratory Miranda calls Screw and they arrange to meet that evening at Topolino, a pizzeria in downtown Haedo, in the suburbs of Buenos Aires. Screw is the one who manages Mole’s money. While Mole was in jail, he made sure he and his family had whatever they needed. He has carried out his duty with remarkable loyalty and meticulousness, he has accounted forevery penny and gives many more explanations than Miranda demands. They agree to meet at ten that night.

Mole arrives first and orders a large, half-mozzarella, half-onion with cheese pizza and a beer. Screw shows up one minute later. Miranda watches him step around two barefoot kids asking for spare change in the street in front and enter quickly; he stands up and gives him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. He’s truly happy to see him, but Screw looks distraught.

What’s up, old man, why the long face? You’re going to kill me. What’s going on? It’s all gone, Mole, I’ve lost almost all your dough. What do you mean lost? I didn’t want to tell you because I hoped I’d get it back before you got out, but I couldn’t.

With great solemnity, and racked with shame, Screw places an envelope on the table. Miranda stares at it, unable to get over the shock.

What’s this? It’s all that’s left.

Mole peeks in the envelope and casts a disappointed eye on the bundle of dollars inside, then puts it in the inside pocket of his jacket.

But what happened? My baby girl is sick.

Screw’s eyes fill with tears. He lowers his head. The waiter places the wooden platter with the pizza on the table, opens the Quilmes beer and walks away. Mole pours out the beer and hands Screw a glass. Screw finishes it in one gulp. He looks up from the foam in the glass and meets Mole’s eyes. His face is twisted with grief. His voice sounds like his tongue is a wet rag.

She’s dying, Mole.

He looks down and burps. Miranda calls over the waiter.

Do me a favour, kid. Put the pizza in a box and give it to those kids out front. Seems we’ve lost our appetite.

Mole stares silently at his friend, then pulls himself together.

You’re going to kill me. Stop talking crap, will you? What do you mean, I’m going to kill you? I would if I were you. Nothing can be done? I spent all the dough on tests to see what she had. And? It’s a brain tumour. Inoperable, no treatment. All I can do is sit around and watch her die. She’s blind…

Miranda, seeing that Screw’s about to fall apart again, squeezes his arm to bring him around. He doesn’t want to hear any more about it. He has no room for his friend’s pain. Prison has left him with dead zones that will take a long time to come back to life.

It’s okay, Screw, calm down. What can I do? You had to spend it, and you spent it on a good cause. The problem is, you didn’t let me know. ’Cause you know what, buddy, when you hear news like that your blood pressure goes up. You can’t think clearly and you don’t know what to do. Of course, I understand you… No, Mole, I’m sorry, but you don’t understand. Nobody who hasn’t gone through this can understand. Your head explodes. Nothing that mattered to you matters any more. Nothing makes sense any more. You feel totally alone, totally abandoned. All you can do is watch yourself suffer as you watch the disease consuming your daughter’s life and see that empty look in the doctors’ eyes that says that they don’t know anything, either, that there’s nothing they can do. Even what I’m telling you now doesn’t really get at it, Mole. I can’t find the words to tell you what I’m going through.

Suddenly his friend is out of reach. All Mole can do is look at him: Screw brings his hand to his forehead, drops his head again and a sigh comes out of his mouth that sounds like a muffled howl, almost inaudible, but that makes Miranda’s bones twinge as if someone had used a cattle prod on him.

As soon as I can I’ll get it back to you, Mole, I promise. Do me a favour and cut the crap about the dough, Screw. Okay, Mole, thank you. Yeah, cut the crap. I gotta go. Take it easy.

Miranda stands up to give his friend a hug, but Screw avoids it, holds out his hand in a brief moment of desperation, then leaves without looking back. Mole watches him through the window as he turns the corner and disappears into the night. He finishes the beer in three gulps, pays and leaves. It’s cold outside.

He starts walking. This is one thing he never expected. Screw’s miserable face has remained stamped on his retina like a curse. And what if tomorrow the test comes out bad, and it turns out he’s condemned like Screw’s daughter? What would he do if something like that happened to his son? He pushes that thought away with a grunt. He can’t even conceive of it. Miranda is capable of facing anything, rising to any occasion, but he doesn’t do well with problems he can’t do anything to fix, situations where the only possible course of action is no action, merely acceptance. Acceptance is an art that nobody would dream of practising voluntarily. It’s always imposed on us by the most implacable of tyrants: Mother Nature. The closest Miranda has ever come is resignation, which he’s practised every time human justice has placed him behind bars. But resignation is temporary, and even while it lasts, you can always do something, plan something, think about a future or find a crack — doing yourself in? — to escape through. But acceptance is reserved for when there is absolutely no other option, when it’s the only choice left.

He follows the same route he saw Screw take as he watched him through the window. Miranda watched him — alone, divorced from the world by a tragedy that places him out of reach of any comfort — knowing that he couldn’t do anything for his friend, that nobody could. But he has to do something for himself. He has very little money left. Soon it’ll be completely gone. He walks until his legs hurt, then he goes to his hideout and lies down, fully dressed, on the bed.