Timote: A Novel

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 Ramus arrives for the trial. He knows he’s got to be there. He has come and gone many times from the capital. He’s missed a lot of it, most of it. But he knows he fulfilled his part. Someone had to establish the link between Timote and the monster of a thousand heads, that city in which everything took on immense, imposing dimensions. “It’s an infernal mess,” he describes. “Nobody knows a thing. Everybody knows everything. The cops are all running crazy all over the place. Onganía doesn’t know what to do. He knows that this is falling on his head. Everyone’s going to think he’s the one principally responsible. Directly or indirectly, but principally. He’s either an assassin or inefficient.” They remain in the dining room. Seated around the table they look like what they claim to be, what they are certain they are: a revolutionary tribunal in session. “I’ll be right back,” Fernando says. “We’re all ready,” Firmenich says. “We’ll begin whenever you want.” “That’s what I’m saying. We’re beginning.” Fernando goes into the bedroom. Aramburu is tied to the bed. He shows his hands to Fernando. He asks, “Is this necessary? Do you think I’m going to escape. I don’t even know where I am.” “Half the country is looking for you, General. You know that. t i m o t e| | 151 Don’t ask for something we can’t do.” “Anyone can do anything, if he wants. It’s not that you can’t. It’s that you don’t want to.” “Do the bonds bother you?” “What bothers me is being here.” “Don’t complain. We’re not treating you badly.” “You think so? Dragging me out of my home, bringing me here, interrogating me, and my not knowing if you’re going to kill me like a dog or if you’re going to toss me out somewhere alive, in the middle of nowhere—what’s that? Treating me well?” “Better than you treated Valle.” “Are you so sure? If my wife wanted to talk to you, what would you tell her? That I’m sleeping. You couldn’t ever tell her that. The poor woman doesn’t know where you are. Where I am. No one knows. Valle’s knew where to go to ask for clemency. Mine doesn’t even know that.” “General, there are things you don’t understand. Or pretend you don’t understand. It’s more than obvious that your wife shouldn’t know where I am. If she did, we’d have half the army surrounding this piece of property, with Onganía in the lead. Give me a break. Don’t says such dumb things. We’re treating you well. I always address you by your rank. We’ve fed you. No one has insulted you. You haven’t been hurt. Don’t complain.” He stops. Clears his throat. Stares at the General. Fernando always proceeded the same way: looking at him, staring into Aramburu’s eyes, as though trying to make the latter discover in his eyes the severe certainty of his actions. He says, dryly, “I’ve come to talk about something else. The revolutionary tribunal is meeting. We have begun to deliberate.” josé pablo feinmann 152 | | Aramburu, in a low voice, almost in a whisper—in the attempt to make Fernando, whom he knows to be the head of the operation, feel that the dialogue he now proposes is only between the two of them, intimate—says, “Kid, don’t be stupid,” which surprises Fernando. Not only has he spoken to him familiarly, but he also called him kid. Assuming, for the first time, a hidden reality that everyone, up until now, has pretended not to know from the start. Aramburu is a man up in years, almost an old man. They are too young. Aramburu is a giant of the republic. An army general. A bronze head of the anti-Peronista country. Why wouldn’t he speak to them familiarly? Why would he, now, call Fernando a kid? “What did you say?” Fernando asks, and a thick and trembling vein stands out on his forehead. “I said for you not to be stupid. I could be your father. Listen to me: don’t ruin your life. Don’t weigh your shoulders down...