The Buenos Aires Quintet by Manuel Vázquez Montalbán Page A

with a bag in each hand and with your mind set on the idea of saving time by not putting the bags on the floor, opening the door, and then picking them up again, and going in. Carvalho prefers to do it all at once, wondering how he could manage things better, but when he succeeds in depositing his bags safe and sound on the table he is delighted that he has not only overcome his own sense of how things should be done, but has achieved the feat without even putting the light on. He goes over to the window, opens the shutters and smiles at being free from the weight of the bags and at the light streaming in from outside. But there’s something unexpected filling the space behind him, so he turns round. An angular, strongly built man is calmly going through the bags Carvalho dumped on the table. Another man is standing there, hands in pockets, staring at him menacingly. The first one tips up a bag, and books pour out. Then the other, which is full of food. A tin rolls across the floor towards Carvalho, who stoops to pick it up. A foot appears, and kicks the tin out of his reach. Carvalho looks up at these threatening figures, and slowly straightens. A police badge is thrust into his face, and when he peers beyond it he can see that this Argentine cop is just like any other cop in the world. A cop isn’t a face. It’s a state of mind.
    ‘Inspector Oscar Pascuali.’
    Carvalho stares at him suspiciously. Gives him his best hard-boiled private detective look – sometimes it’s best to start where you mean to leave off. But this Argentine cop is one of the sarcastic ones. ‘Been shopping, have we?’
    The second man is still watching carefully. Carvalho moves away from Pascuali, picks up the tin, and puts it on the table. Pascuali goes over, and starts to examine some of the things from the bags. ‘Salted cod, tomato sauce, peppers, rice, a guide to Buenos Aires, olive oil, cloves of garlic; Who Killed Rosendo? The Open Veins of Latin America, The Cafés of Buenos Aires, The Complete Works of Jorge Luis Borges, Adam Buenosayres, A Funny, Dirty Little War, two bottles of Chilean wine – ah! just as well, three bottles of Argentine wine: Navarro Correa, Velmont; The Tragic Decade, Flowers Stolen from Quilmes Gardens, Perón s Boys, a large portion of offal, black pudding. Have you got someone to cook all this for you?’
    ‘I’m quite a good cook.’
    ‘And a good reader.’
    ‘I hardly look at the books. Reading them would be too much like hard work. I like to buy them, and then burn them.’
    ‘To burn them? Did you hear what he said, Vladimiro? Señor Pepe Carvalho here burns books. That’s a job for us police to do, isn’t it? Because we are Fascists, aren’t we? Isn’t it true we’re Fascists? And book-burning is for Fascists, isn’t it? Are you a Fascist too?’
    ‘A bit, like everyone is, like you are.’
    ‘No, I’m only a cop. But I respect books. Even ones like these, which I would probably never read. Do you know why I respect books?’
    Carvalho gives a shrug.
    ‘Because as a child I only ever had one.’
    ‘ Trueheart, by Edmondo de Amicis?’
    ‘How did you know that?’
    ‘It was the only book working-class kids ever had, and you look as if that’s where you came from.’
    Pascuali thrusts his face right up against Carvalho’s, then spits at him: ‘When you come into this country, you leave your balls at Customs. Pick ’em up when you leave.’
    He steps back to survey the effect these words have had on Carvalho, but sees only a face trying its best not to betray any emotion. Pascuali signals to his assistant to follow him, and they head for the door. He turns round in the doorway.
    ‘The best thing you can do for Raúl Tourón is to stop looking for him. If his family wants to find him, tell them to go to the police.’
    ‘Where’s that? I’m a foreigner here. Where can I find the police? Wouldn’t you like to leave me your card?’
    Vladimiro is about to launch himself at Carvalho,