I said nothing, Baldoni looked down and muttered:
“I’ll give you ten thousand pesos for the plot.”
That wasn’t too bad an offer. Baldoni glanced back at me.
“Well,” I said, “as you know, I run a real estate office in Buenos Aires ... and your offer ...”
“In Buenos Aires?”
“Yes ...”
“There’s no way you can compare prices in the capital with those out here.”
“No, but ...” I let my voice trail off. “Anyway, once the work is finished I guess we’ll take all the stuff out of there, so then we can sell it.”
“And how long will that take?”
“Oh ... quite a long while.”
Baldoni smiled, somewhat irritated. We said goodbye, and I left with the bottle hanging in a plastic bag from my handlebars.
23
Jordán was outside his house, leaning on the fence. He was wearing glasses, and his hair was neatly combed. The dogs didn’t bark.
“Good morning,” I said, making sure the shotgun was nowhere to be seen.
“Morning,” he said, staring without recognizing me.
“I’m Miguel Salvatierra. Miguel,” I explained, “Juan Salvatierra’s son.”
“Ah, how’s it going, che ?” he said, extending his hand over the fence.
“I’ve brought you a little bottle of what my father owed you.”
I held the whiskey out to him, and he took it, astonished.
“But I haven’t drunk in years. Thanks a lot, but take it with you. If my granddaughter catches me, there’ll be hell to pay.”
I stood there, bottle in hand, not knowing what to say. He seemed to have his wits about him today.
“Jordán, do you remember Salvatierra’s painting?”
“Yes, that long thing he was always doing on rolls of canvas?”
“Yes. You know one of them is missing.”
“It must be Ibáñez who has it.”
“Fermín Ibáñez? The black guy?”
“That’s right, the black guy. I’ve no idea if he’s still alive. He must be getting on a bit now.”
“Where can I find him?”
“He always used to stay down by the river. Down by the pétanque court. He sometimes went down there when it was closed. They say he would go around shouting out loud, muttering bets into thin air, talking to himself.”
“He made bets even though no one was around?”
“Nobody! You know there’s no shortage of crazy old men around here.”
“So you think Ibáñez has got the painting?”
“He was the one who stole it from him,” Jordán said with a laugh. “He wanted to burn it. I told him it’d be better to sell it: What good would burning the painting do? Sell it, make some dough! But Ibáñez was always a bit dumb.”
“Why did he steal it?”
“Who knows? Kids’ stuff.’”
“Kids? They were over fifty when it happened.”
“They were? They must have been drunk then. Ibáñez was always drunk.”
“How many years ago can that have been?”
“How should I know? A ton of years. We didn’t see Salvatierra anymore. We crossed over to Uruguay because the military were after us on this side. They wanted to get rid of us fishermen. They said we were vagrants.”
We both fell silent. The dogs had dozed off at his feet.
“What year did your dad die in?” asked Jordán.
“In 1990.”
“How old was he?”
“Eighty-one.”
“Imagine that. We first met as youngsters.”
“And when Salvatierra worked with you, what kind of work was that?”
“Odd jobs.”
“Odd jobs?”
“Yes,” he said, and this time he didn’t laugh. “I had a big boat and we transported limestone from Berti’s quarry, or hides from Peluffo’s tannery, or wool. Anything we could get our hands on.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes ... Would you like to come in for some mate tea?”
“No thanks, boss, I have to be off.”
We said goodbye.
I pedaled towards the river down dirt roads, between ditches and rows of low houses, steering around potholes with the bottle hanging from the handlebar and clanking against the bike frame. This part of town was neglected, run down, with no sign of any new housing.
“I’ll give you ten thousand pesos for the plot.”
That wasn’t too bad an offer. Baldoni glanced back at me.
“Well,” I said, “as you know, I run a real estate office in Buenos Aires ... and your offer ...”
“In Buenos Aires?”
“Yes ...”
“There’s no way you can compare prices in the capital with those out here.”
“No, but ...” I let my voice trail off. “Anyway, once the work is finished I guess we’ll take all the stuff out of there, so then we can sell it.”
“And how long will that take?”
“Oh ... quite a long while.”
Baldoni smiled, somewhat irritated. We said goodbye, and I left with the bottle hanging in a plastic bag from my handlebars.
23
Jordán was outside his house, leaning on the fence. He was wearing glasses, and his hair was neatly combed. The dogs didn’t bark.
“Good morning,” I said, making sure the shotgun was nowhere to be seen.
“Morning,” he said, staring without recognizing me.
“I’m Miguel Salvatierra. Miguel,” I explained, “Juan Salvatierra’s son.”
“Ah, how’s it going, che ?” he said, extending his hand over the fence.
“I’ve brought you a little bottle of what my father owed you.”
I held the whiskey out to him, and he took it, astonished.
“But I haven’t drunk in years. Thanks a lot, but take it with you. If my granddaughter catches me, there’ll be hell to pay.”
I stood there, bottle in hand, not knowing what to say. He seemed to have his wits about him today.
“Jordán, do you remember Salvatierra’s painting?”
“Yes, that long thing he was always doing on rolls of canvas?”
“Yes. You know one of them is missing.”
“It must be Ibáñez who has it.”
“Fermín Ibáñez? The black guy?”
“That’s right, the black guy. I’ve no idea if he’s still alive. He must be getting on a bit now.”
“Where can I find him?”
“He always used to stay down by the river. Down by the pétanque court. He sometimes went down there when it was closed. They say he would go around shouting out loud, muttering bets into thin air, talking to himself.”
“He made bets even though no one was around?”
“Nobody! You know there’s no shortage of crazy old men around here.”
“So you think Ibáñez has got the painting?”
“He was the one who stole it from him,” Jordán said with a laugh. “He wanted to burn it. I told him it’d be better to sell it: What good would burning the painting do? Sell it, make some dough! But Ibáñez was always a bit dumb.”
“Why did he steal it?”
“Who knows? Kids’ stuff.’”
“Kids? They were over fifty when it happened.”
“They were? They must have been drunk then. Ibáñez was always drunk.”
“How many years ago can that have been?”
“How should I know? A ton of years. We didn’t see Salvatierra anymore. We crossed over to Uruguay because the military were after us on this side. They wanted to get rid of us fishermen. They said we were vagrants.”
We both fell silent. The dogs had dozed off at his feet.
“What year did your dad die in?” asked Jordán.
“In 1990.”
“How old was he?”
“Eighty-one.”
“Imagine that. We first met as youngsters.”
“And when Salvatierra worked with you, what kind of work was that?”
“Odd jobs.”
“Odd jobs?”
“Yes,” he said, and this time he didn’t laugh. “I had a big boat and we transported limestone from Berti’s quarry, or hides from Peluffo’s tannery, or wool. Anything we could get our hands on.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes ... Would you like to come in for some mate tea?”
“No thanks, boss, I have to be off.”
We said goodbye.
I pedaled towards the river down dirt roads, between ditches and rows of low houses, steering around potholes with the bottle hanging from the handlebar and clanking against the bike frame. This part of town was neglected, run down, with no sign of any new housing.
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