old woman? No.”
“You know what happened to her there?”
He blew out a long stream of smoke, observing her. “You mean her kidnapping. I heard something. It was a terrible time. It was bad for everybody.”
“Did you know the men who tortured her?”
He watched her for a moment. “I knew men in the junta. I didn’t ask them what they did. The trick was, not to know too much.”
“So. You were not involved?” His waiting eyes prodded her to add, “In the junta?”
He tapped impatiently on his cigarette. “I’m a businessman. I don’t kill people.”
“What kind of business are you in?”
“ Import-export.”
“What do you import and export?”
“Anything I can buy low and sell high. Nothing you would be interested in, Doctor.”
“Then you managed to escape the terror when you were in Argentina.”
“I was lucky. The old woman was not.” He shrugged.
Rebecca wasn’t going to get any more information out of the Capitán than he wanted to give her. He turned toward the band where Isabella was purring out a suggestive version of “The Girl from Ipanema.” “What about Isabella?” she said. “She knew Goldie in Argentina.”
“Isabella hated the old woman because she was weak. She told the junta where Isabella’s son was hiding and they killed him.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“I don’t blame the old woman. She didn’t want to die. So she gave up a name.” His tone was too casual for the information. He was accustomed to government-sponsored murder while it still appalled her.
The song ended. Someone turned on a Latin version of canned muzak and the band headed toward the bar. Isabella held her head stiff, her gait self-consciously haughty. She looked even older close up, the lines around the edges of her mouth and darkly lined eyes visible through her pancake make-up.
She smiled coyly at Diaz. “Buenos noches, Capitán.”
He nodded formally. “Maravilloso, your performance, as always, Isabella.” There was no feeling in his voice, merely rote. He touched Rebecca’s arm lightly. “This is Dr. Temple. She was Doctor to Goldie Kochinsky.”
Isabella turned to look at her for the first time.
“Tell her that you forgive Goldie for what she did,” Diaz said, sipping another glass of whiskey that the bartender had automatically poured.
He was toying with them both, thought Rebecca.
The woman searched her face for a clue to the mystery, but found none.
Rebecca jumped in. “I’m sorry if this brings up painful memories for you, but on Goldie’s desk there was a notice of your son’s death dated 1977. Do you have any idea why it was there?”
Isabella turned toward the room. “Come, let’s sit,” she said, motioning to an empty table. “I must get off my feet.”
At the table, both the Capitán and Rebecca watched her, waiting. Her neck arched higher, the severe bun black against her skin; her eyelids drooped. “It was like an anniversary. I sent the card every year. So she wouldn’t forget.” Isabella took a gulp of what looked like vodka. “She killed my son, but now that she is dead, I must forgive her.”
The Capitán smirked, every now and then nodding recognition toward those greeting him from a distance.
“Why do you think she was responsible?” Rebecca asked, trying to ignore him.
“Because he is dead and she knew where they were. My son, her son, together in a safe house. Only a few close friends knew where. She was the only one who was tortured. They grabbed her because she was weak and they can smell weak. The junta were afraid of their songs — the boys sang songs in protest. Here it would be nothing, nobody would notice. But there, they killed people who opposed them. When they tortured her, she gave in.”
“Isn’t it possible someone else told?” said Rebecca. The Capitán smirked again. He was enjoying this.
Isabella finished her drink. “It doesn’t matter anymore. She is dead. Why do you care?”
“Someone killed her. I’d like to know why.”
Isabella lifted her glass high, motioning to the bartender. “It was a robbery, I heard. These things happen.”
“I believe it was something more.”
The Capitán no longer smiled. “You shouldn’t get involved,” he said, crushing out his cigarette, pretending lack of interest. “This is not a job for a doctor. You must have more important things.”
What was he hiding, she wondered. Who was he really?
“I hope I haven’t upset you,” she said, pleased with his reaction.
His nostrils flared but she couldn’t take complete credit for his displeasure since he stood up at that moment to greet someone at the door.
Isabella stood up, both arms extended, her shoulder blades taut. “Leo,” she sang. The man embraced her, kissing her the European way, on both cheeks.
“My dear lady, ravishing as always.”
He turned toward the table and smiled at Rebecca. “Why, Doctor, what a delightful surprise!” said Feldberg. “How nice to see you again so soon.”
Then came an ox and drank the water That quenched the fire that burned the stick That beat the dog that bit the cat That ate the goat That Father bought for two zuzim. One little goat, one little goat.
chapter twenty-two
It’s a small world,” said Rebecca.
The Capitán nodded a greeting and sat down.
Feldberg smiled with bared teeth. “You see,” he addressed her. “Here we try to recreate a little bit of Buenos Aires.” His hand showed her the room as if the feeble rendering of the toreador on the wall, the painted señorita, the bull’s horns, had transfigured a rather perfunctory space into something more.
As he sat down, Isabella rolled her eyes. “Ay! Buenos Aires! How can you compare? All along the streets people sit laughing, singing till four in the morning. Strangers talk to each other, people are friendly. You can discuss. Not like here. Nobody talks to you here. You could be dying in the street, people would just step over you.” Unsmiling, she looked to Rebecca for an answer.
“I’ve heard people say Toronto is a cold place for a stranger,” Rebecca said. “But if you’re in trouble here, people will help. The city may be cold, but the individuals aren’t.”
