Carlos Gamerro - An Open Secret

“Course out here provincial coppers don’t wear silver stars — maybe they do in Buenos Aires eh, you’re way ahead of us — so rummaging drunkenly through his pockets Malihuel’s ex-police chief ended up throwing down the only thing he could find — his Yacht Club membership card. While his gesture didn’t lack, how can I put it, clarity, it didn’t exactly bring the house down. And then that halfwit Casarico thought he’d dropped it ’cause he was so pissed and bent down to pick it up, so, as he couldn’t repeat the gesture, Neri stuffed it back in his jacket pocket and left. And he never got another opportunity after that did he. The day they actually left not even the dogs showed up to give them a send-off”—Iturraspe rounded off the anecdote.

I had one last question.

“No Rosas Paz wasn’t there,” Nene Larrieu replied. “Didn’t even bother replying as far as I know, and as a rule I do.”

“HOW SHOULD I KNOW WHAT IT WAS LIKE,” remarked Don León, shortly after joining us and ordering his first gin, “they must’ve loaded everything into the car and left. They’d sold most of the furniture a few weeks earlier and the house they were building never got off the ground as you know. What I do know is that a few days later their bitch appeared on the highway. Probably dumped it just after setting off, otherwise the dog’d never’ve been able to make it back, ’specially as it was limping on three legs by then. Well, I mean it must’ve been him because Doña Clota was completely devoted to the little thing, maybe he threatened to dump her too. Your pal Guido ended up adopting it, always was very dog-minded. How many’s he got now? Three isn’t it? counting the ones from the factory, that’s what I was telling you Licho. Well I think the gesture was crystal clear. I don’t know if you’ve heard but that bitch … Ah, course, it was your grandparents who … The gesture spoke volumes. He didn’t want anything from Malihuel. Even left his chinita behind, though Ariel Greco used her for a while, just for kicks. Mind you we weren’t going to make it difficult for him. Just as long as he got out here … He left us with Arielito Greco though. Now that man was a crook, even the cows had to cough up to get milked. He didn’t leave town till the flood forced him to and even the fleas had nothing to eat. The present one likes to live and let live. But you know what it’s like, with the cops. In Bombal for example, which is near here but policed by another headquarters, a little boy appeared dead, and everyone knows who did it, a first sergeant it is and a shirt-lifter to boot but the chiefs won’t hand him over, and nor will the judges. There’ve been something like six silent marches already. It was all on TV. Didn’t you see it in Buenos Aires? The police are insisting it was a tramp, so they go out on a raid after every march and so far the only thing all that marching’s done is to make tramps avoid Bombal like the plague. They’ll grind the marchers down in the end, they always do. For Ezcurrita? That’s a laugh. Are you serious? The only way to get the town marching for Ezcurra would’ve been to call a meeting of his creditors. We’d’ve filled the square then wouldn’t we,” said Don León seeking the approval his fellow townsmen have been reluctant to afford him of late. “It’s like that fable … well I can’t remember which one now, the thing is Ezcurra screwed everyone and then when he got into trouble nobody wanted to lift a finger to help him see. ’Sides, all that marching’s fairly recent as far as I can remember. You couldn’t get one over on the military, no way, they were the only ones marching. You know what it’s like, nowadays somebody loses a poodle and the whole town’s out on the streets with candles and photos. It’s the in thing now, but in those days you could forget about it. The military were capable of loading a whole march into the trucks. And Neri, what we heard is they headed back to the north of the province, which is where he was from, and set up a maxikiosk, can’t remember where, and that they both died in a crash on the highway. And … must’ve been somewhere around Vera I reckon. It was only a matter of time though. I mean, if he carried on drinking the way he did.”

“Brazilian truck-driver, drove one of those that look like locomotives, hit them head on like a fly-swatter. Had to peel them off the radiator like bugs,” added Iturraspe graphically enough.

“SO WHAT’S THAT?” Guido’d asked a few days earlier in the cab of his truck, which he’d come to pick me up in from the Cornelio Saavedra library in Toro Mocho, when I showed him the last stamp in my collection.

“Have a look,” I held out the photocopy to him.

“Oh yeah, and who’s going to drive, you?”

“‘Announcement,’” I read. “‘We the undersigned authorities and inhabitants of the town of Malihuel, capital of Coronel González County, Santa Fe Province, Argentina, hereby express our agreement and approval for the exemplary work of General Superintendent Armando J Neri at the head of the Eighth Regional Police Unit based therein, and wish him a prosperous and well-earned rest on the occasion of his forthcoming retirement. His providential actions at moments critical not only for the region but for the country as a whole, which can finally be put behind us, the unbreakable faith of his convictions and his distinguished sense of honour and duty are all deserving of praise and emulation. With his departure from the post, the town of Malihuel loses not only one of the best chiefs of police in its long history, but also a faithful friend, and just as we regret that he has, for valid personal reasons, reversed his initial decision to remain in our midst after his retirement, we would like to assure him that his stay in Malihuel will never be forgotten and that the gates of our beloved town will always be open to him and his family.’ Touching eh?” I remark after I’ve finished.

We’d stopped at the lights on the exit of Route Eight and Guido took the chance to grab the paper and give it a quick read, especially the signatures at the end.

“Your grandfather’s there,” I pointed out matter-of-factly.

“So’s yours,” he riposted.

I gave him my best withering smile. Guido shrugged his shoulders and pulled off.

“WHEN YOU THINK ABOUT IT we could even be proud of Doña Delia right?” Don León, who was on a rare third gin, and had evidently got hooked on the subject of marches, renewed his assault. “We ought to do something oughtn’t we, I don’t mean a statue but at least a plaque, a street name, I mean we’ve got more than enough streets to go round haven’t we, ’specially in the Colonia? I don’t mean for Ezcurrita see, because someone might get all het up about it, ’specially his creditors. But Doña Delia, she shouldn’t offend anybody by now. We should talk to the mayor about it right? at the next Neighbourhood Committee meeting. But I don’t know if there’ll be a quorum. What do you think?” Don León asked and sank into expectant silence.

My sidelong glance met with a heard-it-all-before scowl from Guido, who’d just arrived. Iturraspe gazed at the floor, and only when he realised no one else intended to did Licho decide to speak up:

“Right, yes. We ought to do something,” he ended up nodding after a few seconds of general silence.

“AND THAT ONE’S OUR FOUNDER, Colonel Urbano Pedernera, a hero of the Indian wars. At one time you could dismantle the statue, the rider and horse had been cast separately and once a year the people used to take Don Urbano down and parade him through the streets and down to the shore of the lagoon, where they’d scrub him and brush him and polish him till they got all the green off. My how he shone, like a trumpet in the morning sun he looked. Then they’d sit him back on his horse the wrong way round, and the next day us Council employees had to turn him the right way round again. You’ve no idea what he weighed! No, no, if there was anything in it, it was nothing more than a practical joke, the kind of stunt lads pull when they’ve had one too many, that’s all, nothing political as some people claim. It’s always been a peace-loving town this, people respect authority here. But there’s always somebody around to quibble and carp and this is how the two of them ended up as you can see. There’s the weld and the scorch marks from the blowtorch, between the colonel’s legs and the saddle. Plumber’s solder they used, I mean, it’s a crying shame, looks so ugly. And to make matters worse he’s not on straight! Weeell, let’s see. Must be fifteen years ago at least, no, longer, me I started working for the Council in …”