Nobody went by: dogs were curled up asleep in the middle of the road. I cut through Parque Ortiz, where we once played football. The weeping willow Salvatierra used to sit under when he came to watch us was still there. The paths and flowerbeds had long since gone, the grass was uncut; it looked like wasteland. A chestnut foal was rubbing its neck on one of the goal posts.
24
The Dutchman and Aldo had scanned almost half the canvas. Boris explained that he had emailed some of the digital images back to the museum. There was good news: the museum had decided to purchase the entire work. Contrary to what I’d expected, the news made me feel very sad. The painting would no longer be ours. We had to start getting together the paperwork so that it could leave Argentina. Until all that was complete, Boris was to carry on with the digitalization. Even though this could be done in Holland once the work was there, Boris had been told to continue for now. They wanted to copy as much of it as possible before he returned, because they were going to present some Latin American artists in a biennial. There wasn’t much left to do. Working two five-hour shifts, Boris and Aldo dealt with two hundred and forty meters of the canvas each day; in other words, four rolls, more or less. We calculated it would take them just over a week to finish. But perhaps we could ship out the canvas before then.
I talked to Luis. We needed to find out about Customs duties, to see if they applied to works of art, perhaps ask for an export request. He said he’d take care of all that.
“Did you find the missing roll?” he asked.
“No,” I said, “but I know who has it.”
25
That afternoon I headed for the river, determined to find Ibáñez. I was going to have to ask for him by name, or for a black fisherman. I couldn’t recall his face; and anyway, he must be old by now, and too much changed for me to identify him. Jordán had said I should look for him down by the pétanque court, so that’s where I started my search. The houses here had watermarks from different floods, some of them halfway up their windows. I took a gravel path that led off to the north.
It was one of the first days of spring; not cold, but damp. Alongside the road stood the usual stalls, offering bait with signs saying “maggots, eels, earthworms,” and clear plastic bags full of water with tiny bream swimming in them.
Two boys in baseball caps rode past. One of them was carrying a cage on his handlebars with a cardinal inside. The other had a fishing rod and two fat fish hanging from the frame of his bike. I asked them if the fish were biting.
“Not a lot,” they replied warily.
“Have you come from Vélez beach?”
“No, from the quay.”
“Did you see any old fishermen down there?” I asked them, braking to catch my breath as they cycled off.
They slowed up and looked back over their shoulder at me.
“Any of those old guys who live on the riverbank,” I said. “Are there none down at the quay?”
“No, but there are people at Los Italianos.”
I thanked them, and they went on their way much more rapidly than me.
The rush of air from passing cars made my handlebars wobble. I saw there was a faucet in the entrance to a tire repair place, so I stopped for some water. The building was nothing more than a cement cube, with bushes and weeds immediately behind. A woman and two children were sitting on deck chairs, drinking mate in the doorway. I gestured towards them if I could use the tap, and they said yes. The kids were feeding bits of crackers to a young river otter. I wet my head, neck, and face. I saw some skins hanging from the wire fence, and thinking the otter hunter might be around, I went up to talk to the group.
“Afternoon.”
“Afternoon.”
“I don’t suppose you know whether a man by the name of Fermín Ibáñez can be found down here?”
“Not that I know of ...”
“Don’t you know anyone around here called
24
The Dutchman and Aldo had scanned almost half the canvas. Boris explained that he had emailed some of the digital images back to the museum. There was good news: the museum had decided to purchase the entire work. Contrary to what I’d expected, the news made me feel very sad. The painting would no longer be ours. We had to start getting together the paperwork so that it could leave Argentina. Until all that was complete, Boris was to carry on with the digitalization. Even though this could be done in Holland once the work was there, Boris had been told to continue for now. They wanted to copy as much of it as possible before he returned, because they were going to present some Latin American artists in a biennial. There wasn’t much left to do. Working two five-hour shifts, Boris and Aldo dealt with two hundred and forty meters of the canvas each day; in other words, four rolls, more or less. We calculated it would take them just over a week to finish. But perhaps we could ship out the canvas before then.
I talked to Luis. We needed to find out about Customs duties, to see if they applied to works of art, perhaps ask for an export request. He said he’d take care of all that.
“Did you find the missing roll?” he asked.
“No,” I said, “but I know who has it.”
25
That afternoon I headed for the river, determined to find Ibáñez. I was going to have to ask for him by name, or for a black fisherman. I couldn’t recall his face; and anyway, he must be old by now, and too much changed for me to identify him. Jordán had said I should look for him down by the pétanque court, so that’s where I started my search. The houses here had watermarks from different floods, some of them halfway up their windows. I took a gravel path that led off to the north.
It was one of the first days of spring; not cold, but damp. Alongside the road stood the usual stalls, offering bait with signs saying “maggots, eels, earthworms,” and clear plastic bags full of water with tiny bream swimming in them.
Two boys in baseball caps rode past. One of them was carrying a cage on his handlebars with a cardinal inside. The other had a fishing rod and two fat fish hanging from the frame of his bike. I asked them if the fish were biting.
“Not a lot,” they replied warily.
“Have you come from Vélez beach?”
“No, from the quay.”
“Did you see any old fishermen down there?” I asked them, braking to catch my breath as they cycled off.
They slowed up and looked back over their shoulder at me.
“Any of those old guys who live on the riverbank,” I said. “Are there none down at the quay?”
“No, but there are people at Los Italianos.”
I thanked them, and they went on their way much more rapidly than me.
The rush of air from passing cars made my handlebars wobble. I saw there was a faucet in the entrance to a tire repair place, so I stopped for some water. The building was nothing more than a cement cube, with bushes and weeds immediately behind. A woman and two children were sitting on deck chairs, drinking mate in the doorway. I gestured towards them if I could use the tap, and they said yes. The kids were feeding bits of crackers to a young river otter. I wet my head, neck, and face. I saw some skins hanging from the wire fence, and thinking the otter hunter might be around, I went up to talk to the group.
“Afternoon.”
“Afternoon.”
“I don’t suppose you know whether a man by the name of Fermín Ibáñez can be found down here?”
“Not that I know of ...”
“Don’t you know anyone around here called
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